#imself

[missyblogs]

I don't know if Lazytown officially has any jet hangars, but I'd like to think that they would if they intend to entertain world leaders,,

[marsbotz]

gru 🤝 maxime - being trans and choosinh a stupid fucking evillllll villain name

[pdaliceliveblogs]

never make that face again, matt.

[elibeeline]

Els watching billy elliot, how many times are we crying

[ice-cap-k]

Finally forced myself to sit down and take time on this one. There are a few shading issues but my gosh it's nice to go back to lineless. And for Doc too!!

[theothervonkarmagirl]

@sweptawxy​

“Hehehe~”

Clara tried to force a yakitori skewer into Shiro’s mouth.

[gardenofnoah]

You slide into your regular booth later than usual - a sweating bottle of your tried and true choice saving your spot as you catch the tail end of some heated debate between Katsuki and your best friend.

“Okay, but he’s really nice Bakugou—“

“Nice? Y’need therapy.”

He holds an arm out for you to settle in under, turning his head to kiss your temple in greeting.

“Okay so maybe he’s not nice all the time, but no one is nice all the time.”

You can feel the eye roll from your boyfriend without having to see it. “Is he fuckin’ twelve? There a reason he can’t control ‘imself when he’s grumpy?”

She sticks her tongue out at Katsuki, and you turn to press your smile into his shoulder. It’s endearing, the way he’s fit himself into the lives of your friends. The way he genuinely cares, in his own harsh way - the way he wants your friends to be treated well. He’s a girls’ girl through and through, even if you’d never say it to him. They have this argument every week.

Your friend picks at the label on her bottle, pouting.

“Okay, but isn’t it enough that I love him?”

Katsuki throws his head back and cackles. It’s mean, but the three of you know that he means well.

“That ain’t love.”

She huffs at that, setting her bottle down to cross her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at Katsuki. “You don’t know that.”

You feel him eyeing you then, and you tilt your chin up to meet his gaze. He’s warm - the smile is in his eyes as yours pulls at the corners of your lips. He turns his head to take another swig from his drink.

“I know enough,” he says finally, arm around you tightening just a bit.

Your friend gags, and it makes you laugh. Katsuki is stubborn and crass, but he’s right about this.

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[python333]

im in love with your content omg😭 your writing style is just chefs kiss

can i req a reader with the tf141 being on a mission and hearing an enemy say something in british slang and they just go "what did they just say.." in comms? like a reader who doesnt know anything about slang like not even that bars in the uk r called pubs (if im not wrong) and just nods whenever a private talks in slang, and their brain is just trying to figure out what they just said?

its just a really silly plot with a silly reader :3

pardon? — python333

— — — —

synopsis just as the req says, you know nothing about british slang and on a mission the enemy speaks british and you dont know what theyre saying :3

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost, gaz.

word count 2.6k

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign].

note HI YES I LOVE THIS REQ!! i take every opportunity i can to make fun of british people so this is right up my alley!! tysm for the compliments hjfhdjskf recently ive been getting more praise on my works and it makes me so happy i love yall. again, sorry if this sounds a little rushed or if any parts are incoherent, i wrote this at 12/1am and im both more productive and write more nonsense at this time + this one is wayyyy shorter than ones i usually do because i didnt know what else to write for it so i apologize for that as well! this is pure fluff and humor (i like to think im funny) so enjoy!!

“—eah, and now we have to camp out here ‘cause he can’t be arsed to do it ‘imself, so I feel like we should have a chat with the others, see if they’re willing to leg it out of here with us,” An enemy soldier suggests to you, his British accent thick enough that you think it might be cockney.

You cross your arms to hide your shaking hands and nod in agreement, as if you understood anything he said, and put on the same shitty British accent you’d been using for the past five minutes you’d been talking to this guy.

“Yeah, yeah, totally,” You agree, clearing your throat before asking, “You know where the others are stationed?”

“You don’t?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you suspiciously.

“Mate, all the orders I was given went in one ear and out the other,” You sigh, holding back a wince at your desperate attempt to sound more natural using British slang, “I just know I’ve got to stand out here and shoot the enemy.”

The enemy eyes you suspiciously and he takes a moment to try and read your face before he says, “I don’t think I’ve seen you before, actually. Which would be weird, if we’re in the same platoon, don’t you—” 

You sigh and quickly pull out the small switchblade you had hanging on your belt, stabbing the enemy in the neck before he can say anything else and grabbing him before he can drop to the ground, putting a hand behind his back as you half lead half drag him into a dark alleyway beside the building he was stationed outside of. 

You quickly set him down into a sitting position and take your knife out of his throat, tucking the blade back into the handle before adjusting it to latch onto your belt once again, letting out a frustrated huff as you stare at the now dead man in front of you. 

“[c/n], how copy?” Price’s voice crackles through on your ear piece. 

You push in the PTT button and lower your voice, “Copy, I fucked up a little bit. One of the guys was onto me.”

“You were there for five bloody minutes,” Gaz’s voice rings through, his tone both disbelieving and amused, “How’d he already catch onto you?” 

“The British are smarter than I thought,” You breathe out, standing up and looking around for a ladder to climb to get to higher ground before anyone spots you. You go farther into the alley and find an old, rusty ladder with rungs that look like they’d snap if someone sneezed on them too hard—perfect for climbing up.

You wrinkle your nose as your hand makes contact with one of the rungs but don’t say anything otherwise, instead wordlessly hauling yourself up onto the ladder. 

“Reminder that there’s three British people with you, currently,” Ghost’s deadpan tone crackles, his breathing heavy, as you can tell he’s whispering into his mic, “All of which are very smart.”

“I caught you reading the instructions on a box of tea bags the other day, don’t fuckin’ talk right now,” You grumble, slowly climbing up the ladder, hating the creaking noises it makes as you do. It sounds like it’s going to snap at any minute, and you try to go up as fast as you can, but one wrong move and you’ll easily slip, some of the rust that flakes off of the ladder enough to make you slip up. 

“They were circles,” Ghost says, exasperated, “I didn’t know if that made a difference.” 

“I thought British people were supposed to know everything about tea,” You roll your eyes, putting your hand on the next rusty rung up on the ladder. 

“Yeah, L.t,” Soap agrees with you teasingly, the wind hitting his mic, making it obvious that he’s running, “Thought ye Brits were s’possed to ken everything ‘bout tea.” 

You laugh quietly to yourself as you finally make it to the top of the building, the top just high enough for you to look at the few soldiers below and hear a majority of their conversations without them noticing you.

You get to the edge of the rooftop and pull the sniper rifle you’d been carrying around off of your back, glad to finally be back in your element rather than trying to get in undercover, and set it up. 

You pull the stand out and set it on the edge of the roof, and look through the scope of the rifle, lining it up so that it’s aiming directly at one of the soldier’s heads, specifically the one that was standing directly out of the entrance you originally were meant to try and get into—but doing this didn’t change much.

Regardless of if you got in or not, he would’ve died, and the others would’ve gotten in too. You getting in first was just meant to make it more efficient.

You press down on the PTT button on your earpiece as you look through the scope of your sniper rifle, keeping the aim on the soldier in front of the entrance, “The guy in front of the entrance is just standing still, so whenever you need me to, I can shoot ‘im down.” 

“I don’t think we need to get in just yet,” Price hums, “But maybe in a minute.” “M’kay,” You hum, taking your eye away from the scope, instead just looking over at the enemy soldiers. You lay on your stomach, leaning your head down a bit to try and listen in on the enemy’s conversations easier, trying your best not to make yourself too obvious.

The conversations were pretty boring and almost the same for every soldier you’d eavesdropped on, for the most part. Enemy soldiers joking around, talking about what they’ll do once they’re on leave—like they would be able to do that after you completed your assignment—and just some general team camaraderie.

The lackluster subjects of their conversations weren’t bad at all, no, in fact, you could care less what they talk about. 

It was their stupid accents you hated. 

Are you surrounded by British people everyday? Yes. Does that stop you from hating on the British everyday? No. Okay, maybe the accents aren’t stupid, but God, they had the thickest cockney accents you’d heard in your entire life, and it was making your eavesdropping so much harder, and had almost been the reason you were given away earlier.

They used slang words that you’re certain you’ve never heard before in your life, and used analogies that didn’t even make sense—you heard one of them use the words, verbatim, ‘Don’t get stroppy’. Stroppy? Stroppy? 

You narrow your eyes down at the soldiers below you, listening to a conversation they’d just started up. 

“—eah, ‘cause he can’t be arsed to do anything about it, so now we have to camp out here and wait for somethin’ to happen,” One of the soldiers scoffs, “I’m telling you, man, if I see that skull-masked bloke runnin’ ‘round out here, I’m legging it from ‘im immediately.” 

You draw your eyebrows together in confusion, but you stay silent for now. Isn’t that exactly what the other soldier said? Are they like a hive mind or something?

“You’re legging it?” The other soldier asked, sounding almost incredulous, “What happened to you chattin’ to some of the others about your loyalty and what not?” “All that’s irrelevant when the fuckin’ grim reaper rolls around and starts murkin’ people like he’s been doing for the entirety we’ve been here, mate,” The first soldier laughs, “You think I wanna be here when he does that?” 

“Don’t act like a prat about it, man—fuckin’ talking’ like you can outrun him.” “A prat? I’m not—” You tune out the rest of their argument and instead try and figure out what they were saying.

A prat? Legging it? Can’t be arsed? What the fuck? You push the PTT button on your earpiece and as quietly as you can, you ask, “I need some help. Serious help. Life or death situation.” Immediately, Price’s voice rings through, “What? What is it? What happened?” “The soldiers are British and I can’t tell what they’re saying,” You answer, ignoring Price’s relieved sigh on his end, “I need help.” “Jesus, fuck, don’t scare me like that,” Price sighs, taking a few breaths before continuing, “Alright, what do you need help with?” 

“Figuring out what they’re saying.” This time, you hear Gaz’s voice crackle through, “Well, you’ve got three British people here—tell us what he’s saying.” 

“One of the guys was talking about ‘legging it’ if he saw Ghost heading towards him, and talked about Ghost ‘murking’ people, and then the other guy he was talking to told him he was being a ‘prat’ about it and he got all offended,” You eloquently say into the earpiece, watching as the argument gets a little more heated. You can hear an amused huff from Ghost on his end and a scoff from Soap in return. 

“They’re just saying they’re gonna run away if they see Ghost because he’s been killing a lot of their soldiers, and the other guy said he was being a prat, which I guess is like…” Gaz pauses to think of how to explain the slang term before settling on, “Someone who’s kind of full of themselves, I guess. Or ignorant. Either or.” 

“They couldn’t just say that?” You muse quietly, still staring down at the enemy soldiers. 

“I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” Price’s voice cuts through, “Go ahead and shoot the guy down. I’m ready to head in.”

“Got it,” You hum, quickly putting your eye back up to your scope and readjusting it a bit before quietly warning, “Shooting him now.” 

You pull the trigger and the enemy goes down immediately, and through your scope you can see the small twitching of his body as the other soldier starts to freak out.

You quickly aim the gun at his still-alive friend and shoot him down as well, silently congratulating yourself on your good aim and continuing to look through the scope, watching as Price runs in with Gaz and a few other soldiers. 

They struggle with the door for a moment and you sigh before pressing in the PTT button on your earpiece and quietly saying, “Price, Gaz, move away from the door for a sec.”

Wordlessly, they do as they’re told, and you take the opportunity to line up the gun’s aim with the complex electronic panel on the outside of the door and pull the trigger, shooting the most crucial part of the panel, causing it’s functions to disrupt and as a result, the doors open. 

“Thanks for that,” Gaz breathes out as Price kicks open the door, his voice cut off a bit at the end as he takes his hand off the PTT button too quickly in order to follow after Price. 

“Uh huh. Of course,” You say offhandedly, taking your eye away from the scope of your sniper rifle and listening to the loud sirens go off in the facility the others break into, and push yourself up so that you can sit up straight to properly watch it. You grunt as you sit up, stretching your arms out for a moment before letting them fall into your lap. 

“Are they in?” Soap asks, curious, his voice a little strained and breathy. There’s no loud gusts of wind coming through his mic anymore, and you look around for a moment, before your eyes catch on to him climbing up a ladder to get to the rooftop adjacent to yours.

Your lips twitch into a smile at the sight of him completely clueless to your presence and you press your PTT button to talk. 

“Yeah, they’re in,” You say, watching as he finally gets to the rooftop, “Didn’t you hear the sirens?” 

You can see Soap’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion for a moment, and he looks around for a moment before finally seeing you on the rooftop directly next to his, and he looks surprised for a moment before a grin splits across his face. You see him press the PTT button on his mic as well. 

“I did, yeah, just wanted tae be sure,” He says into his mic, looking right at you as he does, “It’s a surprise seeing you here.” 

“Imagine how I feel,” You muse, almost to yourself, before looking away from Soap and speaking up, “Ghost, you don’t wanna join us on the rooftops?” 

“Absolutely not,” He replies almost immediately, making you huff out a small laugh and Soap’s grin grow, “I’m perfectly fine on the ground.” 

“Where are you?” You ask, scanning the area around you for Ghost, “I feel like I haven’t seen you this whole time.” 

“I’m just behind the facility,” Ghost hums, voice still a low whisper, “I’m gonna be heading in once Gaz and Price make it to the second floor to clean up the first, in case there’s anyone left.” 

“You’ve been behind the facility this whole time?” Soap’s voice cuts through, surprised by the fact. 

“Mhm,” Ghost hums. 

“It’s a bit boring back there, innit?” Gaz’s voice crackles through, his voice a little breathy, “You can sweep the first floor, by the way. Should be nobody left, though. Pretty sure all the soldiers were just faffing around, not doing much.” 

“Fucking faffing around?” You ask incredulously to yourself, though apparently your voice is loud enough to make Soap chuckle. 

As if he can read your mind, Price’s voice comes through, “Faffing around is just doing nothing or doing nothing particularly productive, [c/n].” 

You sigh and push your PTT button this time, talking into your mic, “You couldn’t just say that, Gaz? You had to say something silly like faffing around?” 

“It’s not silly,” Gaz says, his frown audible, “They were faffing around.” 

“Jesus, fuck,” You breathe out, laughing lightly, “It’s totally silly.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yeah it is.”

“No it’s—” 

“I just want one day where you two don’t start up stupid arguments like this,” Price’s tired sigh comes through, “Just one day, I beg of you both.” 

“Aw, Captain, we were just faffing around,” You whine playfully, the misuse of the slang making Soap cover his mouth with his hand to muffle his laughter and you hear Ghost groan into his mic. 

“That is absolutely not how you use that,” Gaz says, though you can hear some laughter in his voice—from your very non-British accent saying British phrases, you presume, a small grin gracing your lips at the thought. 

“It sounded natural to me,” You lie straight through your teeth, shrugging even though only Soap can see you. 

“You’re insufferable,” Gaz groans, making you laugh quietly, “Never use British slang again, please.” 

“What if I get a British accent? Will that fix it?”

“Nothing can fix what you’ve said today, [c/n].”

“Well that’s dramatic,” You scoff, “I’ll learn British just for you guys.” 

“Holy shit, please stop talking,” Price’s exasperated voice interrupts the both of you, “You’re both insufferable. Drop it.” 

“… I don’t think I will,” You say defiantly, making all three British people in the same voice channel as you groan in unison, the sound sounding like some sort of middle school choir trying to sing in harmony, “I’ll use Duolingo or something to learn it.” 

“British isn’t a language you learn, you muppet,” Price grumbles, making you snort. 

“Muppet?” 

“It’s someone who’s dumb and clueless and can’t take a hint, like you,” Ghost defines, “And Soap, most of the time.” 

“Daen’t go draggin’ mae into this,” Soap’s voice quickly cuts through, “I haven’t said onything.” 

“Uh, yes you absolutely did, earlier, remember?” Gaz argues, ignoring Price’s protests for him to stop arguing, “About Ghost being stupid with the tea thing?” 

“Oh, I’ll have you all know—” 

“Ghost, don’t start—” 

You listen as the once casual, teasing conversation turns into an argument and chuckle quietly to yourself, knowing that they’d be arguing about this until you all finished your assignment.

[random-thot-generator]

Reverse Trope Prompt: (see end notes after reading. No peeking!)

Full list here

Ghost x reader

sfw -bit of angst, profanity, a frisky drunk bird but nothing explicit

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

"Looks like LT's pulled 'imself another winner."

Gaz glances over his shoulder, sniffs, then turns back with a cynical curl to his lip. Lifting his pint glass, he slants a knowing look at his fellow sergeant. "He's lost the bloody plot, if ya ask me. Hooks up with every bird he gets his hands on, now." He shakes his head. "'S bloody mental, mate. What the hell is he thinkin'?"

Soap grunts, mouth twisting in disgust as he focuses on his lieutenant and the cackling drunk bird splayed across his lap. "Canna say. Dinnae ken wha's gotten into 'im. Feckin' mad, lettin' a bonnie, good lass go t'chase after sloppy-drunk tarts like tha' one."

"You lads ready for another round?"

Both men flinch at the sound of your voice and glance up at you with guilty expressions. They know you had to have heard what they were saying. Gaz drops his gaze as he nods and pushes his glass across the bar, while Soap tilts his head to study you. You meet his searching blue eyes while you refill Gaz's pint, knowing what's coming. You breathe out a tired sigh.

"What's the matter, Johnny?"

His brows pinch together in a perturbed frown. "Does it no' bother yeh, 'im flauntin' those mingin' slags right in yer face?"

"Jesus, Soap!" Gaz hisses, elbowing him. "Shut ya bloody gob." He then turns his attention back to you, offering an apologetic smile. "Sorry, luv. He's got no filter when he drinks too much."

"Oi! I dinnae need yeh t'make excuses fer meh," Soap fusses, still scowling when he looks back to you. "'M sorry, hen. Dinnae mean t'upset yeh. Jus' think it's no' right, 'im scrapin' yeh off the way 'e did, then comin' in 'ere where yeh work, messin' about with other birds, like 'e does. 'S disrespectful."

Your eyes drift to Ghost, grimacing at the way the woman in his lap is pawing at him, before dropping your eyes to glare at the bar top. "It doesn't matter," you mutter, wiping down the bar with more force than is necessary. "We're over, so he can do what he wants with whoever he wants. I think him breaking things off between us was probably for the best, don't you?"

The two sergeants exchange a look.

Soap huffs and slumps on his bar stool, mumbling into his pint, "Yeh're too good fer 'im, anyway." He knocks the last of his stout back with an angry sneer.

Gaz nods in agreement, his eyes sympathetic when he adds, "Ya can do better, luv. Deserve someone who'll treat ya right."

You try to smile, but it's fake, brittle. "Seriously, it's alright. I'm over it. Really."

You can tell that neither of them believes you.

Your call for last orders goes out a few minutes later, and the few customers left in the pub begin to drift towards the door. Gaz and Soap are settling up their tabs when Ghost steps up behind them, the giggling drunk bird tucked under his arm. His dark eyes slide over you, like you're not even there.

"'M headin' out, lads. I'll see the two'uh ya back at base. Gonna take 'er 'ome," he tells the sergeants, nodding down at the bleary-eyed bird glued to his side.

Gaz give a curt nod, avoiding eye contact. Soap makes a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. "Aye. Jus' keep rubbin' 'er nose in it," he mutters, then sniffs, shaking his head. "Steamin' Jaysus."

Ghost tenses, eyes narrowing over his face mask. "Ya gotta problem, sergeant?"

Just as Soap's mouth opens to reply, you clear your throat, breaking the tense moment. "How 'bout a bag of crisps to soak up all that alcohol, Johnny? My treat."

His head swivels around to look at you, the scowl slowly melting off his face when he sees your worried expression. He blows out a breath. "Aye. Thanks, bon." He side-eyes Ghost, then looks away. "See ya later, LT," he mumbles.

The drunk bird makes a whining noise, tugging at Ghost's jacket. "C'mon, luv. Leh's gooo. 'M ready t'get home." She then gives him a drunken, lewd grin, pressing up against him. "Ya can help me get these tights off, yeah?" she whispers to him, waggling her eyebrows.

Ghost grunts a laugh, seemingly amused. "Cheeky muppet. Olright. Let's get outta here."

You busy yourself with wiping down the bar as Ghost leads the tottering woman out the door, then toss your towel down once he's gone. Snagging two bags of crisps for the sergeants, you hand one to each of them.

"Here ya go," you murmur. "Need me to call a taxi for ya?"

"No thanks, luv," Gaz replies softly, sliding off his stool. "I already ordered us an Uber. Let's go, Soap."

Soap stands, his crisps clutched in his hand. He's scowling, shaking his head. "'E's a bloody eejit," he mutters.

You finally wave goodbye to the two sergeants, locking up behind them once you usher them out the door. Blowing out a tired breath, you lean back against it and stare down at your trainers.

"God, I'm glad this night is over," you mumble to yourself, then heave another sigh before heading back to the bar, ready to close up for the night and get out of there.

The drive home is short, just a couple blocks away, but it still gives you too much time to think. This is by far the worst break-up you've ever been through. None of your work mates or friends can seem to go a day without mentioning it. Even worse, Simon's mates won't let it go, either.

You appreciate their support, but seriously wish that Soap and Gaz would stop bringing Simon up, altogether. It's hard enough watching the big lug flirting with birds right under your nose. You don't need Soap pointing it out to you, or Gaz giving you those sad, pitying looks all night.

You try to shake off your negative thoughts as you park and walk to your flat. It's sweet that the lads are trying to be there for you, but you hope that they'll just let it go soon. Maybe you should just tell them you're seeing someone else. It might help put their minds at ease, get them to back off a little bit.

Once inside your flat, you toe off your trainers and turn on the lights, then pad into the kitchen. Putting some leftovers in the microwave, you shuffle off to take a quick shower while it's heating, hoping the hot water will soothe away some of your stress.

As you're toweling off, you hear your front door open and then close. Hurrying to get dressed, you open the bathroom door, the smell of yesterday's shepherd's pie hitting your nose. You hear the clatter of plates and utensils coming from the kitchen as you pace down the short hallway and peek around the corner. You stop when you reach the doorway, leaning your shoulder against the jamb and crossing your arms over your chest.

"Took you awhile to get here. Thought you might've decided to stay the night with that bird, after all."

Simon sets the leftover shepherd's pie he just took out of the microwave on the table, smirking. Tossing down the potholders, he comes to you, his big arms wrapping around your body to pull you close before his head dips to give you a kiss.

"Took forever t'get 'er outta the bloody truck an' into 'er flat. 'Ad t'fight 'er off'uh me the whole way there, too, the handsy git." He rumbles out a low chuckle. "She was right pissed when I left without helpin' 'er outta those tights."

You huff, cutting him a snarky look. "Yeah, I bet." You frown, sliding your hands down his chest. "I wish we didn't have to do this, Si. I don't like seeing other women all over my man, and I hate lying to everyone, especially Johnny and Kyle."

He sighs, lifting a hand to cradle your face. "I know, sweet'art, but it won't be f'much longer. Cap says Nik's almost got all of our documents an' passports in order. When it's time, we'll loop Gaz an' Johnny in. My next mission out, Ghost will be reported KIA, an' once he's laid t'rest, it'll finally be over. No more sneakin' around, no more lyin'. We'll 'ave new identities, a new life." He hugs you tighter. "An' I can finally provide my missus wiff a proper 'ome."

"Si..."

His eyes go lazy and warm as he slides his hand down to cover your belly. "Gotta 'ave a proper 'ome, love. 'S why we're doin' this. Wanna be free an' clear a'fore the li'l nipper gets 'ere. Yeah?"

You gaze up into your husband's eyes, a hopeful smile spreading across your face. You plant a kiss on his smirking lips and nod.

"Yeah."

-

End notes - *shrugs* I didn't want to spoil the ending. 😉

reverse trope: Instead of fake dating, everyone is convinced that you aren’t actually dating

[twola]

Devil's Backbone - Owanjila VII

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV 

Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Owanjila VII: You, Amongst the Lupines

Time passes, and Arthur jumps at the chance to take you out of camp.

CW: References to child loss, violence, and Arthur being a big mean outlaw.

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

Mud squelches under his boot. It is everything he is not to scowl at the sound. 

Ain’t no way that Genevieve was going to stay with him now. Not with him sent on this fool’s errand. He was supposed to stay on assignment in Saint Denis, not get his boots covered in mud and horseshit in this backwater town. Genevieve was far too cosmopolitan to be following him around anywhere but Saint Denis. 

Strawberry was just a blip on a map, no matter how the mayor of this town was trying to push it.

Angus Carmody kicks the muck from his boot against the wooden step up to the mail depot. He scowls as the stink of meat from the butcher’s tent wafts his way.  This was a goddamn fool’s errand. He knows that Milton has it out for him. How angry he is about that damned woman being in the wind. He knows also that his trekking around West Elizabeth is a punishment instead of leading the search back in Lemoyne. 

The Pinkerton steps up to the depot’s clerk, standing behind the counter full of mail and other parcels.

“Mornin’.” The man greets, shuffling between boxes and baskets of letters. His full mustache and beard certainly made him blend in with the rough and tumble nature of the town that the mayor was so desperately trying to rid of.

“Mornin’, sir. Agent Carmody with the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

The clerk stops, setting down a pile of papers on the counter. He looks Carmody up and down, eyes lingering on his polished badge, pinned to his breast pocket.

“Hector Barlow. How can I help you, Agent?” He responds, measured and wary. Carmody is used to this. It is often, out in the West, that folk respond to him with caution and wariness rather than respect. Some sort of Western mistrust of government and authority, he always thought.

“You heard talk of a widow from that town that burned down on the Dakota?”

Hector Barlow strokes his mustache, nodding his head, “Heard about the fire, but not about anyone who survived it.”

“I’m tryin’ to find a Missus Shaw. She survived the fire and my employer is tryin’ to locate her to finalize some business items he had ongoin’ with her husband.” Angus responds, annoyed that this also seemed like a dead end. 

Barlow remains quiet for a moment, “I’ll keep an ear out. She supposed to be around here?”

Carmody pulls a stack of papers that he had tucked within his jacket, “Yes - petite woman, blonde hair if she finds herself up this way.”

“These also - a bunch of bounty posters we don’t got time to chase down.  A few thousand for these. Out of Blackwater. Some hillbilly could find ‘imself real rich if he tries hard enough.”  He shoves several crinkled pieces of paper forward on the worn finish of the counter. Hector nods, mumbling something about bringing them up to the sheriff’s office. Angus lifts his chin in response, before leaving the mail depot. The bright sunshine is an assault on his eyes as he steps outside.

Two other Pinkerton agents stand across the street, near the small town’s general store. Smoking cigarettes, the two men clad in bowler hats seem to stand out amongst the rough and tumble mountain men that peruse the muddy street. 

“Anythin’ here?” One pipes up as Carmody approaches, holding out a cigarette that Angus quickly takes. 

“Nothin’,” Carmody grunts, rooting around his pocket for his matchbook, “We’ll head north, to Wallace Station, to see if there is any word around there.”

He knows there won’t be, but alas, Carmody breathes out heavily before striking a match against his boot, he has his orders.

-

The cold mountain waters of the stream that feeds Owanjila are a shock to the system at first, but you figure that the clean, clear stream could do you no harm as you hoist your skirts to bare your calves, stepping ankle deep into the current.

A sob claws its way up from your throat, and you cover your mouth with one hand, one side of your skirts dipping under the stream.

“Ruth, what are you doing up here?” 

You sniff, wiping your eyes quickly, giving up on keeping your skirts dry as both of your hands cover your face. 

“Oh, sweet girl,” Hosea’s pace picks up as he walks closer to you, and he ignores the ache in his knees as steps down into the stream next to you where you stand, uncaring of the water starting to run over his boots.

“I- I just-”  You hiccup, dropping your hands and looking back into the rushing waters at your feet. 

“C’mon, let's get you out of the stream. Are y’still feelin’ ill?” Hosea pulls you, delicately, back to the shore, where the two of you step onto higher, drier ground.

“No- no, it’s just-” You let go of a shuddering breath as you feel his hand rub gently, slowly between your shoulder blades, “It’s…”

“Missin’ your husband?” Hosea offers.

“Y-yes…” You hiccup, closing your eyes again, unable to stop the tears from pouring forth, “And… and-”

Silence falls between you, interrupted only by the sniffles you cannot stifle and the bubbling of the creek waters as they rush down to collect in the lake. Another harrowing exhale, and you turn to look at Hosea, the older man’s silhouette blurred in your vision over your shoulder. 

“I look at Jack and… my…my little-” You sob, voice cracking,  “He came too early. I-in the winter - he… he just- he was so tiny…my boy-” 

Hosea’s hand immediately moves from your back to cup the back of your head, and he pulls you into his chest, you slightly stumble as you have to readjust your bare feet on the ground. The fur trim on his coat smells of the tobacco he smokes in his pipe. It’s something familiar - comforting - and the fight in you - what little you have left, leaves you as you sink into his embrace. You sob, the ache in your chest clawing its way out like a rabid animal. 

He holds you, rubbing your back, murmuring random words of comfort into your hair. 

-

The coffee is strong and bitter this morning. Maybe the off-handed threats he had been making to Pearson about the quality of his coffee finally sunk in. Or someone else had made it.

Arthur blows on the cup before taking another sip, trying to spare his mouth from getting burned.

His gaze floats, unknowingly searching for those soft golden curls amongst the women. He finds himself seeking out the soft-spoken widow. Missus Adler seethed in her grief. Missus Shaw, well, other than the time he certainly deserved her ire, didn’t seem to have a mean bone in her body. 

She’d been sick as of recent, catching whatever poor Jack had. Abigail was apoplectic, the lantern in the sick tent blazing at all hours of the night. It was only in the past few days he had seen her out of the sick tent for longer periods.

This morning, he was hell-bent on finally getting a new horse - the old Walker he had been riding got run down by an angry farmer and his mount when he and Javier had robbed a homestead the other day. Finally, after a few jobs, he had enough money to get a horse that he wouldn’t have to rustle - it was just taking the time to go over to Valentine to get one. 

Herr Strauss cornered him the other day, needing collection from a debtor on a ranch near Valentine. He figured he’d get it all done in one day, maybe swing by Strawberry before crossing the state line. For too long he’d been jumping from job to job - homestead robberies and coaches, even sheep rustling with John. That went swimmingly.

Maybe he’d grab Missus Shaw and take her out on the errands he has to do. He finally finds her, sitting across the way near the women’s lean-to, working on a pile of sewing. Arthur dumps out the last bit of his coffee before stowing his cup back in his satchel. He takes the first step toward the women’s tent before being stopped.

“Arthur.”

Arthur looks back toward the campfire as the occupant stokes it. Hosea looks up at him with that weathered look about him that only comes about when he is serious about something.

“She’s fragile right now.” His brow furrows, jaw set, “Don’t you go upsettin’ her.”

“I ain’t an idiot, Hosea.” Arthur bristles, scowling back at his surrogate father. He also scowled at the thought of being so damn transparent that Hosea was that quickly able to figure out where he was going.

“You sure as hell are sometimes.” Hosea points up at him, “You can be a real ass-”

A cough interrupts his retort, and Hosea turns his head to hack into his bicep. After he clears his throat, he looks back at Arthur with hard eyes, “I’m tellin’ you, Arthur. The poor girl doesn’t deserve any shit from you. She’s gotten enough recently.” 

Arthur shifts, his hand gripping the buckle of his gunbelt in agitation. He scowls again, the lines betraying his age and lifestyle set in on his face. He dismissively waves at Hosea, stepping past the man and continuing on his original journey toward the women’s area.

“Missus Shaw.”

You look up from the sewing that you are doing - one of John’s shirts that he tore the armpit open. You grabbed it from Abigail’s pile the other night as she was scolding him for his carelessness.

“Was wonderin’ if you wanted to get outta camp for a bit - y’haven’t had much of a chance lately,” Arthur asks, his large hands draped over the buckle of his gun belt.

“Oh, I mean… maybe after I finish this shirt.” You nod down toward the fabric you are holding in your hands.

“Marston’s shirt can wait. Especially because it's his.” Arthur reaches down and yanks the shirt from your hands, surprising you with his speed. He tosses the shirt back in the pile and you scowl up at him, aggravated at his impetuousness.

“I was in the middle of that!” You complain, but nonetheless take the thread and needle you were working with and store it in the tin next to your seat.

“Serves the dumbass right. Not like he ripped his shirt doin’ any work around here.” Arthur chortles, holding his hand out for you to take, “C’mon, I’m sure you’re sick of staring at the same thing every day. I have some errands to do in Strawberry and Valentine.”

-

From the banks of Owanjila, Arthur leads his horse up through the hills to Strawberry, claiming to need to stop by the General Store for something. He was scant on details but shooed you off to check the mail in the freight depot after he had hitched the horse outside the Trackers Hotel.

You check to see if there is any mail under the pseudonyms that Arthur gave you, and upon finding none, set to leave before the clerk calls out to you.

“D’ya mind bringing these down to the Sheriff’s Office, ma’am?”

You nod and feel a slight unease as the clerk’s gaze lingers on you. In the months since Frederick’s death, you have once again become wary of men - the leering and possessive glares that you receive when it is obvious you are untied to a man. Like those leering and possessive gazes you received before you got married. Those gazes your daddy warned you about, all those years ago. 

Taking the stack of papers, you nod a hushed farewell as you move out of the mail depot and back to the street, sidestepping mud puddles as you lift your skirt above your ankles with one hand to avoid completely ruining the hems.

Your curiosity gets the best of you and as you pass the staircase, you pull the papers back from your chest and look at the contents of the first page.

$5000 Reward!

For the Capture Dead or Alive of 

ARTHUR MORGAN

You bite your lip to keep from gasping. Glancing around, you crush the first poster to your chest for a moment before crumbling it into a little ball that you shove into your skirt. 

You look at the other posters as you quickly duck into an alley next to the hotel, where a large, flowering cherry blossom stands before the cliff face. Shuffling past the gardens, you take a seat on a small bench and warily leaf through the papers.

John Marston. Hosea Matthews. Micah Bell. Javier Escuella. Bill Williamson. Dutch Van der Linde. Each piece of paper that you look at shows fearsome renderings of the men of the gang that you have been living alongside for the last months.

Larceny. Horse Theft. Burglary. Train Robbery. Bank Robbery. Assault. Murder.

The pit in your stomach opens; fear clawing up through your chest into your throat. Hosea, who just this morning dried your tears and held you as you cried? John, who struggled with the pressures of being a young father? Javier, who swears he will get you to dance with him one night around the fire to Dutch’s phonograph, even after your declination, always with a smile. 

Even Dutch, who welcomed you into this motley group when you had nothing but the clothes on your back. 

And Arthur. Arthur, whose cold, angry face stared back at you from the poster, the man who has been teaching you to shoot, who took you out on his errands today - who braved the raging fire at the Adler ranch to save you-

The jingle of spurs makes you look up.

“Arthur-” You hiss as he lopes across the road, moseying as he lights a cigarette.  He gives a grin as he tosses the match to the muddy ground, breathing out a plume of smoke as he comes closer, eyeing the cherry blossoms that wave in the cool mountain breeze. “Get over here!”

You nervously look around you before reaching up handing him the crumpled-up wad of paper you had shoved in your pocket. 

He frowns, then snorts, half a grin as he takes the cigarette from his mouth, dropping it to the ground and mashing it underfoot.

“Five thousand, for little ol’ me?” He looks back to you with a hint of mischief in his eye, “God, that’s one ugly lookin’ drawin’.”

“Arthur-” You scold, completely taken aback at his nonconcern at the situation. 

He shoves the poster into his satchel and holds his hand out for the other ones, curling his fingers in request before you hand the pile to him. He takes them and thrusts them all into that seemingly bottomless satchel of his before turning his gaze back to you.

“Alright, alright. Let’s get. If these are comin’ from Blackwater we should get the whole gang outta West Elizabeth.” He reaches for your hand, almost gallantly, and pulls you up from your seat when you give it to him, “We’re gonna head toward Valentine. I gotta stop by a ranch out there for one of Strauss’s debtors. I’m gonna get a new horse and we’re gonna look for a new place to set up. Get on that side of the state line.”

He walks you out of the alley, back toward where his horse is hitched near the mail depot. He slows to allow you to try and duck the large mud puddles underfoot.

Through the main street of town, Arthur does not let go of your hand.

-

The ride to Valentine is long - long enough to be troublesome. You were able to convince Arthur to give you back the wanted poster of him, and you straighten it out as he guides the old Walker on the path out of the mountains and toward the Dakota.

You read the printed text, fearsome in its lettering, all capitalized, “Wanted for activities such as Larceny. Robbery. Burglary...”

Arthur snorts, interrupting, bemused.

“Gotta get money somehow.”

“Assault.” You reply, upping the ante.

“They usually deserve it.” He drawls in response.

“Murder.” You continue, stressing the severity of the crime.

“You’ve seen that. More than once.” Arthur nonchalantly replies, as if killing were the same as stealing a horse. 

It was true - from the O’Driscolls that he waylaid on the road the first day that you met him, the man threatening you at the campfire after the failed Blackwater job - he kills without hesitation. There is a pregnant pause as the poster crinkles under the tension of your fingers.

 “Have you ever raped a woman?”

Arthur stiffens in the saddle, then turns his entire torso to get the closest to facing you that he can. The easy conversation that you had been having immediately ended.

“No. Why the hell you askin’ that?”

“Seems like you’ve done everything else-” You defend your line of questioning, but immediately with that you hadn’t gone that far.

“Have I ever acted untoward to you?” Arthur interrupts, turning back to face the road. He bristles with agitation, rolling his shoulders as he tightly grasps the reins. The old Walker beneath you notices, and throws his head to the side, whinnying. 

“No….”  You try to push the intruding thoughts of Micah from your mind.

“Ain’t that type of degenerate.” He grumbles, “Sides, it wouldn’t speak highly of your smarts if you was out alone with a man who forces himself on women.”

You can tell he’s offended.

Unfortunately, the rest of the ride to Valentine is long, awkward, and silent.

-

By the time Arthur acquired himself a new horse, a strong and tall Kentucky Saddler mare, buttermilk-hide and blackmaned, his gruff silence makes you wish that you hadn’t come out with him at all. Wordlessly, he lifted you back onto the horse’s rump and mumbled something about a job he had to do on the way back to camp. Not far out of Valentine, Arthur guides the horse toward an old, ramshackle ranch house.

“Just stay here. Herr Strauss said this guy is tryin’ to weasel out of payin’.” 

Arthur approaches a thin, middle-aged man in the garden, “Mr. Thomas Downes…”

The man looks up, a hoe in his hand, and squints at the outlaw as he storms closer, “Yep, that’s me.”

“You owe me money.”

It is as if the floor was pulled out from underneath the man. He turns ghastly white in fear, stumbling backward from Arthur’s encroachment. The anger that radiates off the gunslinger is terrifying, even to yourself as an observer.

Downes holds the hoe in front of him as if to fight off the man twice his size, “Please, sir… I’m… I’ll…”

Arthur laughs cruelly, grabbing the hoe and throwing it across the garden. “Really? Threaten me, would you? How’s that debt looking now? You borrowed money from my business partner Herr Strauss. You owe him. You took the money. He wants it back. What’s not to understand?”

“I don’t have it all!”

You slide down from the horse as Arthur drags the man to the fence, throwing him against the post with frightening force.  You hurry toward the unfurling scene.

“Ruth-” Arthur growls as you push him away. Obviously, you could never move the man without his consent, but for some reason, he allows it.  You stand in front of this miserable man, who gazes up with fear-stricken eyes and a pale, clammy complexion.

“See, look, Mister Downes…. You could do this the easy way and give me the money now that we’re askin’ for it, or my friend over here can get the money from you the way he was gonna before.” You say over-sweetly, holding your hand out to help him up, “I think my way is better for you.”

“I… I don't have a-all of it.” Downes coughs, blood sputtering from his mouth as you recoil in surprise. God, this man was pitiful. 

“Then sell your place.” Arthur barks from behind you, having stepped closer as Downes goes into a coughing fit. 

“W-we already - hrgh - owe more than it’s worth.” The man coughs between words.

You frown, drawing your hand back from where the man wipes his mouth with his sleeve. You can feel Arthur tensing behind you, and one of his hands finds your waist, and you can tell he is about to yank you behind him. You brush away his arm before he has the chance to do so.

“Whatever you have is fine. We’ll give you more time for the rest. I’ll be sure to come - but Mister Downes-” You cross your arms, trying to look as composed as possible, “You do owe us.”

“Thomas-!” A woman rushes out of the house, followed by a teenage boy, and she falls to her knees next to the man, immediately taking a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Can’t- can’t you see, my husband isn’t well, if we could just have more-”

Arthur does manage to grab you by the waist and maneuver you behind him, and you’re unable to move against his strength. He glares down at the woman and her pleading. “We ain’t nobody’s idea of charity.”

The woman frowns, desperate - “But-...”

“Give it to him.” The stricken man garbles, his breath heaving. With a set jaw, she reaches into her skirt and takes out a small wad of bills, standing up from her husband's side and shoving it into Arthur’s waiting hand. 

Arthur gives you a bemused look after he pockets the money. “Pleasure doin’ business with you.”

The gunslinger places his hand behind your back and pushes you back toward the horse, holding you upright as you stumble on the first step. 

“You’ll do alright, Missus Shaw.” His hands wrap around your waist like they have so many times before as he easily picks you up to place you on the horse’s rump, but you swear you feel his fingers pulse through the layers of fabric. You swear you feel his thumb press against the curve of the bottom of your ribcage.

Arthur swings himself up on the horse and urges it down the path leaving the ranch. With the horse’s jolting first steps, you wrap your arm around his waist to steady yourself before looking back toward the ranch.

You watch as the woman helps her struggling husband to her feet, and the teenage son stares after you with a vicious, hateful glare. You frown, before turning back around and pressing your forehead against Arthur’s back. They could have just as easily been you. These poor folks, already struggling, are now set back even farther.

The wave of guilt through your throat makes you swallow audibly.

Arthur’s large, gloved hand finds your own slung ‘round his waist, covering it with a gentle squeeze. His fingers press between your own, and for a selfish moment, all you can think about is how warm you feel. As Arthur leads the horse down the road to the east, the thoughts of the family whose miserable lives you just made worse flee from your mind.

How is it that all thought of the folk you just left more destitute than they had been left your mind as soon as Arthur touches your hand? How is it that you feel at ease pressed against a man who was just beating another one for money? How is it, that in this moment, with this murderer, you feel safer than you have felt in weeks?

Arthur hums, in a better mood than he had been all day. He holds your hand against the hard slab of muscle of his abdomen, and you lean further against his back to assuage the concern alight in your soul.

-

The ride northward along the Dakota is quiet. You surmise that Arthur doesn’t want to have further conversations about debt-collecting.  It is not until the two of you have ridden across Cumberland Falls and the pine forests of Big Valley have opened out to a large valley that he speaks again.

“C’mon, been riding for a while, let’s stop and stretch our legs.” He gruffly calls back as he leads the Saddler off of the trail and into the meadow, bright and sunny as the creek meanders through it.  The mountain air, cold and clean, burns your lungs slightly as you inhale, closing your eyes against the sun for a moment.

In that gentle, cold breeze, tall purple lupines sway among the grasses, reaching the horse’s knees as it slowly walks into the open plain. This place is so open and bright, its beauty takes you aback as Arthur slows the horse to a stop. Sliding out of the saddle, he immediately reaches up and takes you by the waist, as was customary, and helps you down.

“Nice out ‘here, ain’t it?”

“Beautiful,” you murmur, shielding your eyes from the sun as you survey the large valley.

Arthur pulls out a worn woolen blanket from his horse’s saddlebag. He lays it out upon the ground, nodding up at you to take a seat. You do so, and a comfortable silence falls between the two of you as Arthur sits opposite you and fiddles with his satchel, looping the strap over his head and hat, placing the bag next to him before flipping the lid open and searching around in it. 

You turn away and look on as a herd of pronghorn does graze in the distance.

“Saw this out the other day.”

You glance back at the gunslinger, to find him opening his leather-bound journal to a page and taking out a small, dried head of blossoms pressed between its pages. He holds it out to you, and your eyes widen as you gaze upon it - gaze upon the outrageousness of it all, the man with a five-thousand-dollar bounty, beating a debtor not two hours earlier, delicately holding the smallest, most fragile dried blossom between his thumb and trigger finger.

“That’s…” You trail off, incredulously.

“Never did tell me why you was named after a plant.”

You ignore the quip as you reach toward his gloved hand and the dried flower. The soft purple blossom, fragile and delicate, exchanges hands as he gently places it in your palm. His fingers linger for a moment, suspended in time.

The proper name, Latin, printed next to sketches in scientific books.

You smile, snorting lightly through your nose, “My mother… There was a heather bush outside her window on the farm she grew up on. Back in Ireland. She used to tell me seein’ those blossoms made her some kind of happy. Would tell me that when I was born, seeing me made her feel the same way. So, Calluna it was.”

There’s an ache in your chest. An ache of fondness. Not dissimilar to the ache that you felt when Abigail held your hand as you cradled her son to your chest in a feverish haze. Not dissimilar to the ache in your chest when Hosea held you to him when you sobbed on the banks of Owanjila. 

Someone thinking of you. These moments, they hack away at the depth of despair and loneliness that you have been drowning in. Maybe... Just maybe, you weren’t just Calluna Shaw, widow, alone in the world.

You look back up at Arthur, that ache fluttering up like a butterfly in flight.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan. You can be awful sweet.”

You smile, and with the way his battered heart aches in his chest, he knows he’s in trouble. He can feel the blush bloom across his cheeks and he looks away, desperate to save face. Movement in the distance of the meadow draws his attention.

“Look, how’s about we bring back somethin’ for Pearson’s stew, huh?” Arthur looks out past the waving lupines to where the creek meanders back and forth through the valley. In the soft light of sunset, he points about a hundred yards up the valley.

A pronghorn buck drinks from the stream, finally visible to you as you squint and pull a stray curl of hair back, tucking it behind your ear.

“Go on and shoot it.” He nods forward.

“Me?!”

“Yes you, Missus Shaw. Come on, here you go.” Arthur gets up from his seat and steps toward his horse, pulling out a rifle for you to take from his saddlebag. You carefully place the blossom on the blanket before standing up, dusting off your skirts as you step toward Arthur and the buttermilk-hided horse.

The firearm nearly drops from your hand when you grasp it, completely unprepared for the weight of the gun. Arthur snorts under his breath as you grasp the Springfield with both hands, holding it up in front of you, and pointing toward the pronghorn in the distance. You frown, the barrel of the rifle swaying as you try to point it. The gun is much heavier than the repeater that Arthur showed you to shoot with earlier.

“C’mere, little lady.”

Oh.

Before you can move, his arms quickly brace yours as he steadies the rifle, heavy in your grasp. Your back presses against his broad chest. A whole head taller than you, you just reach the curve of his shoulder.

You are positive you are blushing fiercely and extremely thankful that he cannot see your face as he leans over your shoulder to line up the sights of the gun. As he does so, you close your eyes, breathing softly out your nose. The leather of his worn jacket - the tobacco he so often smokes, the musk of horse, the tang of whiskey - they all invade your senses as your head spins.

You want to melt into his embrace - he’s tall and broad and handsome in a rugged way. He’s solid and warm and oh, how swept up you feel to be wrapped up in his arms - even if this is in no way intimate. 

You want. You want to keep your eyes shut, tilt your neck, and give him access to suckle at your skin. You want his arm to leave yours and his large hand to engulf your breast. You want to be covered by him, held and possessed, and smothered and cherished. Everything melts away. The debt earlier, Arthur’s anger and threats, the fearful man and his family. It all just…fades.

You want.

“Both eyes open, darlin’.”

At the term of endearment, you steady your arms, holding the firearm jointly with him. Arthur is warm and solid and oh, with his arms around you, you feel so safe.

The buck raises his head from the stream.

Arthur’s breath tickles your ear as his whiskered jaw brushes your temple.

“Now.”

You pull the trigger.

[gallaghersgal]

DAY EIGHT → autumn leaves, older bf!richie

TAGS & WARNINGS → age gap, swearing and smoking, drinking mention, reader is a grad student. late entry for day eight of bearblr promptober!

WC → 347

having a boyfriend who was so obviously so much older than you attracted a lot of stares from your friends in undergrad. but you never cared. richie was good to you. the sex was good, he never cheaped out on your dates, and he was so much more mature than your other boyfriends. 

well, for the most part. 

it's a chilly october morning when you wrap a cardigan around your frame and step out of your college apartment. you're late. it's not your fault that your boyfriend set your breakfast date for the morning after one of the core four college parties. even as a grad student, you aren't one to miss the yearly bash for the football team paving their way to the playoffs. to put it lightly, you're hungover as fuck. the idea of an omelette and a cold water keeps you going on unsteady feet. 

of course, richie wears his grumpiest look and a sharp suit as you sit down across from him. "why'd you get a table outside," you hiss, rubbing your hands together. richie just shrugs and looks you over. a nearly burnt cig hangs from his lips. you reach out with a pout and he concedes, passing it over to you. 

"wanted a smoke," he replies simply. "we gotta get you a nice old fashioned watch. cause i'm gettin' real tired of looking like the sad old man eating by 'imself."

you peer at him with still-blurry eyes, watching the way the leaves behind him give an effect like a halo. “dunno, y’look pretty good to me,” you mumble. after one more deep drag from his cigarette, you pass it back.

as you extend your hand, a leaf spirals down from the large oak next to the patio. it’s heavy and wet from the rain, and it knocks the cig right out of his hand. “the fuck?” he exclaims, a little louder than he should at a spot this nice. 

you giggle as he shakes the cold water from his hand, pouting at you. “oh, grow up richard,” you tease him.

© gallaghersgal, 2024. inbox. masterlist.

div. © saradika

[ninjapaste]

Fanart of 'obie, 'obie Braun 'imself!!!!

His face shape is so 👌👌👌👌👌 drawable!

A good way to start off sketchbook #10

[redstarwriting]

i think i’ve seen this film before

hobie brown x fem!reader

request?: yes

request: “Can I request a hobie brown x fem! reader who saves his life but almost dies. Like, she’s super protective over him and one day they’re fighting an anomaly.”

requested by: anon​

word count: 2.8k

genre: angst with some fluff

Warnings: language, strangling, mentions of injuries, knives, mentions of stabbing, near-death experiences, murder, death, mentions of stitches, canon event happenings, kraven the hunter (he himself deserves a warning lmao), bruising, cuts, blood

A/N: angst be my favorite lol i hope you enjoy this anon! sorry for the torture hobie and (y/n) go through in this oops ALSO t-swift title bc i enjoy pain

───────────────────────────────────

The minute you came to Spider Society, Hobie became your best friend. Literally, y’all hit it off immediately. The two of you were seemingly inseparable and made the best team out of all of the spiders. He was overly protective of you, and you were overly protective of him. Because of that, it wasn’t surprising to anyone in the slightest when the two of you shared a kiss after a mission. Of course, for the two of you, it was an in the moment thing. Both of you were hurt and needed the other person to be okay and while the two of you were frantically making sure the other was alive and okay Hobie somehow ended up with his lips on yours out of relief you were still here. And then from that moment on you were together all the time romantically on top of being best friends.

Miguel noted this and started to try and send you two on missions without each other, but every time Hobie wouldn’t listen and end up with you anyways. So, he had no choice but to send the two of you together. But he was always worried that one of you wouldn’t be fast enough to save the other. And if that happened… well he’s seen enough Peter’s lose a Gwen to have a guess.

And today his fear nearly came true.

The two of you were on a mission going against a particularly difficult anomaly in his world. Of course, you and Hobie had taken on just as bad before and been fine, so going into it there wasn’t really any concern. But during the fight, things were getting a little hairy. The two of you land on a building to regroup and rethink your methods of attack. “Kravens fucking suck,” you growl, and Hobie nods. “Can always count on the bloody Russian wanker to make shit ‘arder ‘an it should be,” he frowns. “How do all the damn Kravens know how to develop the damn spray to cancel out our senses?” you ask, rolling your shoulder back since he had hit you there earlier after numbing your spider sense. Hobie rubs it without a second thought. “‘ow bad ‘e getcha, love?”

“I’ll be okay. Just pisses me off,” you mumble, and Hobie nods. “Don’t push y’self, (Y/n), it’s not worth it. If Miguel wants to catch ‘is guy so bad ‘e can do it ‘imself,” Hobie says, and you shake your head. “We can do this, just gotta come up with a new strategy.”

“Right, then. We’ll give ‘im hell like we did ‘at one time with Lizard in Miles’ dimension,” he suggests, and you nod. “Sounds like a plan. We can even knock him off the top of the roof of this building. He may be strong but he’s not us.” Hobie nods.

“Stay safe, (Y/n).”

“You too, Hobie.”

With that, the two of you leap off the building, Hobie going directly in front of Kraven and taunting him while you went behind him, getting ready to strike. Unsurprisingly, it worked. The two of you got in quite a few punches, kicks, and hits, but this Kraven just… wasn’t going down. The two of you didn’t know this, but he was actually drugged up on some enhancer from his world, so his durability was even stronger than usual. And getting a few good hits in just pissed him off. The two of you were going in for a similar attack, Hobie going behind him this time to catch him off guard, except that didn’t necessarily happen. Kraven caught him off guard. He turned around, grabbing Hobie by the throat. He gripped Kraven’s hands, trying to get them off, but his strength was too enhanced. Hobie actually felt panicked. He’s been through things like this a lot, but now he had you. And not only that, you were here, with him.

And he’s supposed to be protecting you.

His eyes widen as he feels Kraven tighten his grip, cutting off his airflow completely. Now, he was really panicking. He was desperately trying to pry Kraven’s hands off his throat, but nothing seemed to be working. He subconsciously started glancing around, trying to find you. If he was going to die, he wanted you to be the last thing he saw. Not this overly muscled asshole currently murdering him. He heard him muttering some shit in Russian, but he was too preoccupied with his vision starting to get fuzzy and going black. By this point, bitter tears were falling down his face, and all he could think about was you. He’d stopped fighting as hard at this point, mainly because he literally couldn’t fight any harder than he was, weakly trying to get Kraveen off in any way he could think. But it just wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

That is until Kraven got railed with a semi.

He let go of Hobie, and Hobie gasped for air. He fell to the ground, everything was hazy and he was too dizzy to stand up. He coughed, looking up at where the semi came from, and saw you. Kraven was angrily standing up again, and you were laser-focused on him. You charge at him, getting another good hit to his face. Hobie smirks, trying to stand, but realizes after he stumbles back down to that ground that he is nowhere near that point just yet. So he tries his best to take deep breaths and recover from what he just went through. But that leaves you alone fighting this piece of shit. He doesn’t necessarily like that idea very much. His eyes don’t leave you once. He knows how strong you are, but knowing how strong this anomaly is, worries him. So he calls for backup. Jessica answers, and he speaks. His voice is raspy, almost unrecognizable. “Need ‘elp,” he starts, still staring at you,  then he sees something that makes his entire body go numb.

Kraven punches you in the leg, and you suddenly stumble. You fall to the ground, and Kraven makes it a point to punch your other leg. And then both of your arms. Until you can’t move. Hobie’s heart drops as he realizes he’s using his nerve punch against you. He kicks you, hard, punching you in the face this time. Then, he pulls out his bolo knife. Hobie is running before he can even process it, and he learns later on that in his moment Jess heard him scream in a way she’s never heard before. He gets to Kraven and feels a searing pain spread across his chest, but he couldn’t care less about himself in the moment. He reaches out for you, ready to shield you with his body so Kraven can’t cut you again, but before he can grab you, Kraven picks you up by your throat, dangling you off the top of the building. You can’t even fight back, all of your limbs are limp and you just have to endure the choking Hobie went through earlier. Kraven laughs. “Do anything to me, and I drop her.”

“Let ‘er go. Now.”

“Well, if you insist.”

He drops you. He drops you right off of the high rooftop the three of you are on. Hobie screams, but Kraven quickly grabs him, preventing him from saving you. Big mistake on his part. Hobie growls, punching Kraven directly in the face. He doesn’t hold back. Kraven crumples to the ground, and Hobie jumps over the side of the building, trying to get to you as fast as he can. He doesn’t give a fuck about capturing Kraven anymore. You can’t move. You can’t web away from this.

You’re just falling.

You’re happy you have your mask on because you worry that the fear in your eyes would break Hobie. Hobie feels the same about himself as he reaches out for you, but you’re too far away from him. He shoots a web out, connecting to your abdomen as you near the ground, webbing himself against the building so you won’t keep falling. So you’ll be safe. He has to keep you safe.

To Miguel, he’s seen this scene a thousand times. The exact positioning, the panic, the way Spider-Man isn’t rationally thinking in the moment and makes a web mistake that destroys him. Typically, Miguel would stand aside. This is technically a canon event multiple spiders go through. But something in him isn’t accepting the two of you going through the event of losing the other.

 Canon event or not, Miguel wasn’t about to let another spider die today. 

Jess zooms over on her motorcycle, shooting webs out of her gloves to form a web of cushioning underneath of where you are about to hit the ground while Miguel leaps, shooting a web out to connect to your head to lessen the blow since he can’t get to you in time. Luckily, the web below you mixed with Miguel’s precaution quite literally saved your life. Your head did bounce back a bit, yes, enough to give you whiplash, but you were alive. Albeit very injured, but alive. Hobie leaps down immediately, landing on the web and cradling you in his arms. He rips yours and his mask off, bringing his ear down to your lips to hear you breathing. Then he puts his head on your chest to hear your heartbeat. It’s only then that he can calm down slightly. But then he sees the knife wounds all over your body. He looks into your eyes, seeing tears as he wipes them away. Sometimes he wipes away his own tears that dripped down onto your face. “Love? (Y/n)? Can ya ‘ear me?” he asks, but you just slowly blink at him.

You’re too tired to listen. You can’t really hear anything, but it breaks your heart to see Hobie’s face. The way he’s frantically trying to talk to you. You just don’t have the energy to say anything. He’s moving so much faster than you could even imagine moving right now. You can see Hobie mouthing to stay awake to you, but you can’t hear his voice. You wish you could hear his voice. You love his voice. He gently slaps your cheek, pulling your attention back to him. He looks so sad. He starts getting fuzzy, and you struggle to keep your eyes open. You know he’s telling you to stay awake and you know you probably should, but you’re just so tired. And cold. But Hobie will hold you and make you feel warmer. So, a little nap should be fine.

Your losing consciousness scares the shit out of him. He holds you close to him, crying and mumbling that he’s sorry over and over again. He only stops when Miguel approaches him, telling him they have to get you back to Spider Society so they can take you to medical. “But you have to let go of her…” Hobie shakes his head. “No. No, I’ll carry ‘er,” he says, and his voice sounds more like pleading than anything else. Miguel nods. “You can do that. Let’s go.” Hobie stands as Miguel opens a portal, walking through it and holding you as close to him as he can. He frequently checks your pulse, panicking when he realizes it’s fainter than before. As soon as he steps foot back into Spider Society, you’re taken from him. He just has to watch as they take you away. Jessica is holding him back. “You need medical attention too, Hobie. Come on,” she says, staring at the gnarly gash across his chest. He gets stitches, but the entire time he only asks about you. He’s only thinking about you.

“What happened?” Miguel asks him after he’s all fixed up. Hobie shakes his head. “I wasn’t fast enough,” he whispers. His voice is still raspier than usual and Miguel can clearly see bruising around his neck. “She saved you, didn’t she?”

“…I don’t wanna talk abou’ it.”

“Hobie—”

“Yes. Okay? She did. I’m alive cause she ‘elped me and when I needed to ‘elp her, I couldn’t. I ain’t fast enough,” Hobie snaps, and Miguel frowns. “Hobie. This is the job. She’s okay now, but—”

“I don’t give a fuck if it’s the fuckin’ job, Miguel! She got hurt on my watch!… This is my fault…”

“No. It isn’t, it’s that Kraven’s… though I don’t think we’ll need to worry about him anytime soon,” Miguel says, and Hobie glances at him. “Why?”

“You forgot to pack your punches in your panic,” Miguel sighs, and Hobie nods. “Fuckin’ good. Bloody bellend deserved it.”

Miguel shakes his head. “You should be able to go see her now. We needed to stitch her up and give her some blood transfusions so she’ll probably be a little… drowsy if she’s even awake. But you can see her.” Hobie immediately stands. “Where is she?”

Miguel walks him to your room, motioning to Hobie that he can go inside. Hobie walks inside the hospital room and rushes to your bedside. He grabs your hand, rubbing it with his thumb. You’re asleep, and he doesn’t even want to try and wake you up. But he can’t help but notice all the bruises and stitches all over your body. He can’t stop staring at your injuries, but the one that really sticks out is the bruising around your neck. He had the same, but he would have gone through it twenty times if it meant you didn’t have to. He’s crying again, but he doesn’t even make an effort to wipe the tears away. He just keeps staring at the injuries he couldn’t prevent. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

His head snaps to your face. Your voice is as hoarse as his, yet you’re still looking at him with a tiny smile. “’ow d’ya feel?” he asks, quietly. You sigh. “Bad. Head hurts really bad. Body’s sore. But it’s nothing I can’t handle,” you say, and he nods, looking away from you slightly as a new wave of tears comes over him. You bring your other hand up to his face, wiping some of his tears away. “Don’t cry, Hobie, I’m okay,” you say, and he shakes his head no. “You’re not okay. You’re ‘urt. I couldn’t ‘elp you…” he whispers, and you frown. “No. I should have helped you sooner.”

“Don’t you say ‘at.”

“Then don’t you say bad things about yourself,” you say, and he just looks down. “Hobie�� look at me.” He raises his head, looking at your face. “I’m alive, okay?”

“But you almost—”

“Who cares what ‘almost happened.’ It didn’t happen, yeah? I’m here, breathing, talking to you,” you urge, and he shakes his head. “I care. Always gonna care, love,” he whispers, placing his hand on yours on his face, holding it there. You rub his cheek with your thumb, and he lets out a shaky breath. “I killed ‘im, y’know?”

“I’m so surprised,” you say sarcastically, and a ghost of a smile graces his face. But it disappears as fast as it came. “Really, though. ‘m sorry, (Y/n). This shouldn’ta ‘appened to ya,” he mumbles. You shake your head. “It’s okay, Hobie. You did your best,” you say, and he sighs. “Ya sound tired.”

“I am… apparently getting stabbed and cut multiple times makes you lose a lot of blood. Who would have thought, right?” you joke, and Hobie shakes his head. “Go to sleep, love.”

“Only if you join me.”

“Ya stable enough for ‘at?” he asks, hesitating just because of your recovery process. “I’ll be a lot less stable if I don’t get to hold you, Hobart,” you say, and he shakes his head. “I’m rubbin’ off on ya too much.”

“Impossible.” You scoot over, and he lays down. You wrap your arms around him as he places his head on your chest. Hearing your heartbeat is soothing to him right now. He gently wraps his arm around your waist, careful not to agitate your wounds. You rub his arm for a few moments before falling asleep. Now that he knows you’re okay(ish) and that you’re alive, he suddenly feels very tired. Maybe it’s just the lull of your heartbeat, but he falls asleep shortly after you.

Jess and Miguel look inside the room. “You interfered with a canon event,” Jess says, and Miguel shrugs. “I don’t like when spiders die.”

“Sure. That’s the only reason,” Jess mutters, softly smiling at the two of you. It was cute how in love the two of you were, even after a near-death experience on both ends. Peter B. Parker appears behind them, looking into the room and covering Mayday’s eyes. “Oh, shit— I mean shoot. Don’t tell your mom. What did I miss, you guys?”

───────────────────────────────────

[frenchbreadandeggs]

The Other Variant of Her (2)

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x Reader

summary: Out of nowhere, Gwen Stacy appeared on your Earth, inviting you to the Spider Society in Nueva York. As you reluctantly took her offer, you were shown the beauty of every spider person around HQ. Meeting the founder of the group, Miguel O’Hara. You never knew him, but it seems that he does.

gn!reader, also a spider person

cw. angst, (kinda) ooc miguel o'hara, canon event (it happens), mentions of (multiple) deaths, violence, mentions of blood

words: 9.1k

first part

taglist: @a-helpless-romantic, @bozos-r-us @levisbebe @othersideoftheparadise, @nataliahemsworth

hi hello, this is the second part and the last! gotta say this was fun to write. it's currently 3 am and i have school later but gladly it starts at the afternoon so i can sleep for a bit^^, i think i went overboard with some stuff, canon events happened. hope you all enjoy this! and sorry if i could not tag the others who asked me to tag them. i promise, i tried. also typos cause i made this up until midnight so—

There was an undeniable connection between you and Miguel, but you couldn't quite pinpoint what it was. Ever since he recruited you, you found yourself spending a lot of time in his office. It didn't bother you, although it did disappoint you that you weren't getting as much action as the other Spider-People, like Gwen, Hobie, and Pav. Your friends seemed bothered by it, especially Hobie.

"Nah, mate. 'E's keepin' you to 'imself for some unknown reason. Got you locked up in 'is office since day one," Hobie would say whenever you stepped out of Miguel's office. Whether you were going to grab lunch or hang out with the others, if you didn't have any pressing business in Nueva York, you would return to your own world. But you never paid much attention to Hobie's concerns. You reassured him not to overthink it and mentioned that Miguel was treating you well.

Hobie would look at you with concern, urging you to be cautious. You wondered if Miguel had ulterior motives, given Hobie's warnings, but you also sensed there was something more to the situation. You didn't want to be suspicious of your own boss, so you decided to trust him, following his orders diligently and helping him sort through anomaly reports for the other Spider-People to handle, ignoring Hobie's persistent attempts to convince you otherwise.

In Miguel's dimly lit office, you found yourself sitting in a corner, engrossed in filing an anomaly report. Holding the pad in your hands, you read through the details and typed them into the screen. When you first started working on the anomaly reports with Miguel, you weren't particularly fond of the high-tech gadgets he used. You even admitted this to him, feeling a bit embarrassed considering your age should have made you more familiar with such devices.

"Well, the tech in my Earth isn't as advanced as this," you had once said to Miguel, using it as an excuse for your initial unfamiliarity with the gadgets.

Miguel glanced at you briefly before turning his attention elsewhere. "Yeah, yeah, Lyla," he called out.

Lyla materialized on your shoulder, causing you to jump slightly in surprise. "Yes?" she responded.

"Give them a pad—or anything they can use without complications," Miguel instructed, his focus now shifting to the floating screens in front of him. His fingers flicked effortlessly across the images that appeared.

"Alright," Lyla replied, her voice carrying a hint of mischief. "A 'please' would be nice."

Miguel scoffed, annoyed at the demand his AI was making. "Please," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Hah!" Lyla exclaimed, turning her attention to you with a smug grin. "Did you hear that, Slinger? This man actually said 'please'."

You could sense Miguel's irritation, accompanied by the frustrated tapping on the screens. With a snap of Lyla's fingers, a pad materialized out of thin air and floated towards you, coming to rest on your lap. Lyla glitched to appear in front of you, still wearing that mischievous smile. You couldn't help but find Miguel's AI both cute and commanding in her own unique way.

"Here, let me show you the basics," Lyla offered, ready to guide you through the functionalities of the pad.

"Slinger?"

A voice jolted you out of your reverie. You blinked and found a small, yellow figure hovering above your face, radiating concern. Startled, you took a sharp breath and tumbled off the metal seat you had been perched on.

"Oh no!"

"I'm okay! I'm okay," you reassured, hastily getting back on your feet and smoothing out any wrinkles on your suit—which luckily, there were none.

You turned your attention to Lyla, still a little disoriented. "What did you call me?"

Lyla tilted her head, her smile unwavering. "Your shift ended ten minutes ago—orrrr do you want to stay here?"

You glanced around the dimly lit room, the orange screens now powered down. It seemed Miguel had called it a day, without even bothering to inform you. You looked back at Lyla, contemplating her question. Shaking your head, you retrieved the pad from the floor and pressed a series of buttons until it deactivated.

"I need to go back to my Earth, unfortunately. I'll see you again, Lyla. Goodbye!"

Lyla nodded in acknowledgment before vanishing, the glow dissipating and leaving the room in darkness. With your mask securely in place, you walked towards the portal, similar to the one you had first encountered, that materialized behind you. Stepping through, you disappeared into the swirling energies, returning to your own world.

The portal dissipated as you stepped out, greeted by the familiar night sky of York New. You found yourself on the rooftop of an industrial building, hoping it was the one where your apartment was located. Shooting a web below, you gracefully leaped into the air, but to your disappointment, it wasn't your building. Undeterred, you continued swinging through the city, Kings, in search of your apartment. From above, you looked down and observed the bustling streets below. Despite the late hour, it still appeared as if it were a busy afternoon.

Finally, you spotted a familiar window and a smile formed on your face. It was your apartment. Shooting a web in its direction, you swung towards it with a sense of anticipation. Landing on the window ledge, you opened the window and entered, feeling a wave of relief. After removing your mask, you took a moment to catch your breath. It had been tiring, sitting in Miguel's office, working on anomaly reports as if you were his secretary.

"Boring? Maybe," you mused to yourself. In your civilian life, you also found yourself engrossed in reading and grading essays as a history professor at a nearby university. Reviewing your students' work, their projects, and conducting research has become a familiar routine.

"Home sweet home, I guess—"

Suddenly, there was a knock on your door, interrupting your thoughts.

"Nevermind."

You hurried to the door, peering through the peephole. Your eyes widened when you saw three familiar faces standing outside, their masks nowhere in sight. Opening the door, you were greeted by Hobie's smirk.

"Took you too long."

"You literally just knocked a second ago—wait, wait, what are you guys doing here?"

"We just wanted to hang out with you, that's all!" Pav exclaimed, his smile radiating warmth.

"Word got around that your New York is different from ours," Gwen added, her hands tucked inside her jacket.

"Obviously it's different, considering you're in a different world. And it's York New," you chuckled, gesturing for them to come inside your cozy apartment. The entrance was adorned with stacks of university papers and photographs of your close friends and professors. It was a homey space that reflected your individuality.

"I literally just got home five minutes ago. Wait here, I'll get you three some drinks." You shot a web towards the fridge, pulled it open, and glanced at your friends. "What do you guys want?"

"Anything," Gwen replied.

"Do you have chai?" Pav inquired.

"I'll take any drink that'll burst my ass," Hobie chimed in, shrugging nonchalantly.

You squinted at Hobie, momentarily taken aback, "But if you don’t have one, anything really."

After preparing the drinks, you all settled down on the couch. Pav chose a bean bag beside you, sipping his drink, while Gwen leaned against the window, holding her cup. Hobie made himself comfortable on the couch, placing his drink on the table.

"So, you're a professor?" Gwen started, her gaze wandering over the pictures displayed around the apartment. "Seems like you really love what you do." she smiled at you warmly, and you laughed, unaffected by the slightly cluttered display of photographs featuring you and your students.

"I enjoy teaching," you replied. Hobie, engrossed in one of your student's essays, chimed in.

"I like your students," he interjected, his eyes skimming the words printed on the white pages.

"Thanks. I try to encourage them to think critically," you responded, appreciating Hobie's interest in your students' work.

"Say," you suggested, a glint in your eye. "Why don't I give you guys a tour of the place?"

The four of you swung in various directions, making stops at different shops to grab a bite and relax on one of the rooftops. It was a joyous bonding experience with the three, engaging in conversations while swinging through the chilly midnight air of Kings. As you hung on a web, a burger in your mouth, you observed Hobie swinging around with fries in his hand. Gwen and Pav were amazed in your world, even offering to fetch more snacks.

With your arms slightly numb from gripping, you headed to the rooftop where the pile of trash that you all had accumulated was located. Using your webs, you fashioned a makeshift trash bag and began collecting the refuse. Hobie joined you on the rooftop, lending a hand in the cleanup as you awaited Pav and Gwen's return.

“So, how’s stuff workin’ in his office?” he said, his back at you. He threw a soda in your way, you raised the trash bag to catch it. 

You shrugged, “Nothing really, it’s just the same work I do here all over again but about hero work.”

“Have you at least mentioned him to deploy you?” Hobie now looked at you, his mask was removed so you could see his face, “It’s disappointing that I couldn’t at least see you fight, Gwen told me she said you look cool.”

You chuckled, “Well I did mention it to him, though I couldn’t comprehend what he said so I never bother to ask again,” another trash into the bag, “If lucky, you might see how I fight like what Gwen told you.”

“I sure hope,” he then took the trash bag from you, his smile somehow radiating to you even though there was nothing, “you’re a nice person, I can see it in you.”

“Though you gotta select who to be nice with.”

“Hm? I didn't quite hear that.” you turned to him as you threw the last can into the trash bag Hobie’s holding.

He shook his head, “Nah, it’s nothin’,”

Gwen and Pav arrived, each holding plastic bags in both hands, indicating they had made quite a few purchases. Pav gracefully touched down on the concrete floor, making his way towards you and Hobie, while Gwen followed closely behind, wearing a small smile on her face.

“Hey guys we got this good looking food called Kare—” Pav was cut off when a portal opened behind him.

It’s him. It’s not even after 24/7 you got to see this man again.

Miguel emerged from the portal, clad in his signature streamlined costume. The suit predominantly featured a vibrant blue hue with striking red accents, although the intensity of the red seemed to overpower the color of his Spider-Suit, emitting a bright glow that even hurt your eyes. As was customary, Miguel appeared with his mask removed, revealing his disheveled, swept-back dark hair and the weariness etched across his striking countenance.

Though it was different this time; it was the first occasion you saw him wearing his mask.

On the other hand, you were only wearing a brown overcoat with your Spider-Suit still on because you didn’t bother to change when Hobie, Gwen, and Pav arrived in your apartment. You had planned to change into your comfortable clothes when you return to your apartment, but Miguel’s sudden appearance seemed to suggest otherwise.

“Seems that our little bonding ended too soon,” Hobie said, a tinge of disappointment heard from his voice.

Miguel disregarded Hobie as he made his way towards you. Each step seemed purposeful with a hint of exhaustion. His presence was commanding, his tall and muscular frame seeming to dominate the space around him.

Underneath his mask, you could sense the weariness etched onto his features. Lines of fatigue creased his forehead, you can imagine his eyes held a distant look, as if burdened by the weight of the world.

Your own expression shifted subtly, a mixture of concern and anticipation. There was an unspoken tension in the air, a sense that something significant was about to unfold. You tried to summon a warm smile to your lips, hoping to offer a sense of comfort in the midst of whatever Miguel was going through.

As he neared, his presence seemed to envelop you, almost overpowering in its intensity.

The silence hung heavy between you, pregnant with unspoken words and hidden emotions. In that moment, you could sense the weight of his struggles, the burden of his responsibilities. It was as if the room itself held its breath, waiting for the unspoken to be uttered.

“I sent you a signal earlier, why didn’t you pick up?” Miguel said with a sigh, you can hear his strained voice underneath the mask.

You bit your lip, shoot, you took it off and left it in your apartment, “...I left it in the apartment.”

You sheepishly smiled, Miguel let’s out a frustrated groan. His hands now in his hips as he looked down on you, somehow you could figure out that his eyes are furrowed based on the moving eye lenses on his mask. 

“Next time wear it always,”

You looked at him, confusrion print on your face. What does he mean by that? You are always in his office for anomaly reports and anomaly reports alone. Why is he demanding you to wear the ‘goober’ at all times when you are stranded in Nueva York.

Miguel sensed your confused state, “We have a big problem and I need you to be there, alongsides Gwen, Pav, and Hobie. You get to have your very first action mission that you kept bugging me about.”

"Hey, I just mentioned it once, and never again because of your busy ass!" you spat at him, frustration lacing your words. His response was a small sneer, his gaze shifting to the three friends who stood nearby.

“And you three, what are you doing in here?” Miguel crosses his hands on his chest, eyebrows furrowed at them.

Pav sheepishly smiled, deftly concealing the plastic bags that held tantalizing, steaming hot food. His hands moved with practiced ease, ensuring the delicious secret remained hidden from Miguel’s prying eyes. Gwen, standing nearby, appeared unperturbed by the situation, her cool demeanor untouched by Pav's stealthy actions and Miguel’s demandful question. Meanwhile, Hobie casually leaned against the railings, skillfully employing a strand of web to secure the trash bag, demonstrating his resourcefulness and adaptability.

“Just visiting them,” Hobie said, throwing the trash in the air as it landed in the dumpster, “nothing more.”

“Lo que sea, get in.”

Without any time to spare, Miguel entered the portal, followed by Gwen. The plastic bags she was carrying were now handed over to Pav, who gave you a questioning glance, unsure of what to do with the food. It would be a waste to throw it away.

"I'll bring it back to the apartment," you smiled at him.

Miguel's words hit you like a punch to the gut, filling you with a deep sense of worry. As he explained the anomaly outbreak and the appearance of two anomalies in your Earth, your mind raced with concern for your students. Thoughts of their safety consumed you, and the weight of responsibility settled heavily on your shoulders. You remembered that they have ushered you to come with them as a bonding with the class before they graduate.

"The kids—my class, they will be in the vicinity where the anomalies appeared," you uttered, the worry evident in your voice. You couldn't help but imagine the potential dangers they might face, the chaos and uncertainty that awaited them.

Miguel's reassuring presence did little to ease your anxiety. While you appreciated his determination to ensure everyone's safety, the fear for your students gnawed at your insides. Their well-being became your top priority, and you silently vowed to do whatever it takes to protect them.

He gave you and the three instructions, you and Hobie are to scout the premises. Gwen, Pav, and Miguel are to find the two anomalies wandering around the streets of YNC. Your eyes glued on your phone, the bubble text from your advisory class president was chatting you in your group chat. She told you that they will be visiting a museum in an hour, they are using the university’s bus.

“They will be alright,” Hobie came up to you and place his hand on your shoulders, “It’s the five of us against two.”

“I don’t know Hobie—I—I hope so.” you placed your phone down on the ground where your things were placed. Since you and Hobie are scouting, it makes sense that you two will be on top of the buildings. After you gave the coordiates of your advisory class’ bus to Gwen, it did not took look for her to place a tracker on the bus as Lyla sent you a map that show’s where you students are.

“Stay focused, we found Kingpin—Green Goblin is still on the loose. Look out for him.”

Miguel’s voice static from the earpiece you and Hobi share. You and Hobie looked at each other and nod, you swing to another building and surveyed.

“Move.”

You followed, Hobie stayed before following you. You both swing around York New to meet up with Miguel. Gwen and Pav were still trying to find Green Goblin as Miguel surveyed the area and pressing buttons on his hologram.

“How’s everything?” you asked, landing next to Miguel.

“Not so good, Goblin is still in hiding.”

"If you don't mind, I'll go and help Pav and Gwen," Hobie declared, his voice filled with coolness. Without waiting for a response, he swiftly swung past you and Miguel, disappearing into the distance before Miguel could even protest.

You stood at the edge of the building, your gaze focused on the city below. The urgency weighed heavily on your shoulders as you turned to face Miguel.

“Y’know nothing is going to happen when we stand here, right? He's out there causing havoc and endangering innocent lives. We can't let him get away with it.”

Miguel, clad in his futuristic suit, looked back at you from his hologram. He placed a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

“I know. We're doing everything we can to locate him. But we need to be cautious. Green Goblin is dangerous, and he won't hesitate to attack us.”

“I understand the risks, Miguel, but I can't just stand by and watch.”

Miguel's voice broke through the solemn air, his words laced with genuine concern and a deep sense of responsibility. As he stood by your side, his gaze locked with yours, you could see the sincerity in his eyes. His words resonated within you, soothing the pain and reminding you that you were not alone in this fight.

“You’re a good person, Slinger," Miguel began, his voice steady and reassuring. "But remember, we're a team. We'll find him together, and when the time comes, we'll take him down. Your safety is important to me."

“I appreciate your concern, Miguel, but I can handle myself. I've faced villains before, and I won't back down now. I have to protect this city, protect the people who call it home.”

Before he could utter a word, you unleashed a volley of webs,  ensnaring Miguel's limbs and slowing his movement. You know he will chase you down and stop you. You won’t let him. With unwavering confidence, you leaped off the edge of the building, soaring through the cityscape of York New. The wind whipped against your mask, heightening your senses and sharpening your focus.

“Green Goblin spotted in Brooklyn Bridge!”

You heard Pav from the ear piece, following a sound of bomb from a place. Immediately you went to the place Pav has mentioned. The bridge was almost in shambles, you saw the three swinging towards the bridge and scoped everyone as they could. Without any question, you immediately went towards the bridge, grabbing any citizen you could see and place them from a safest place. 

There were falling debris from the bridge, you tried to use your webs as much as you can to stop its fall, taking the other people out of the way. Then, you heard a scream—multiple screams.

No.

You turned your head from the screams’ direction, a university bus was hanging at the edge of the bridge. The logo familiar to you, it was the university’s logo where you work at—and you knew who are the ones using it on summer break.

"NO!" Your heart pounded in your chest as you sprinted towards the plummeting bus, the desperate cries of your students echoing in your ears. Without a moment's hesitation, you extended your arms, shooting out a long, sturdy web that latched onto the side of the bus, halting its descent. The sheer weight of the vehicle strained against your webbing, threatening to overpower you.

Gritting your teeth, you summoned every ounce of strength within you, muscles tensing as you fought against the force. Inch by inch, you managed to slow down the bus's fall, but it continued to drag you closer to the perilous edge. Panic surged through you, but you refused to yield. With a fierce determination, you quickly fired another web, this time securing it to a nearby wall, providing additional support. The combined strength of your webs and your unwavering resolve prevented the bus from plummeting any further, as you held on with all your might, muscles trembling with strain.

Then a—

SNAP!

The web strained under the immense weight of the bus. With a sickening snap, the web gave way, releasing the bus from its temporary suspension. The screams of your students pierced through the air, intensifying the sense of dread that clenched at your chest. In a split second decision, you made a daring choice. 

Letting go of the remnants of the web, you launched yourself into the open air, hurtling downwards alongside the falling bus. Time seemed to slow as you descended, the rush of wind roaring in your ears. The ground rushed closer and closer, and then, with an earth-shattering impact, the bus crashed onto the unforgiving cement floor beneath the towering structure of the Brooklyn Bridge.

The scene was filled with chaos and destruction, the sound of bending metal and shattering glass echoing in the aftermath of the crash. Your heart pounded in your chest as you assessed the wreckage, the safety of your students weighing heavily on your mind.

Time seemed to blur as you landed on the unforgiving concrete floor, your heart pounding in your chest. Panic surged through your veins as you sprinted towards the mangled wreckage of the bus. Each step felt like an eternity, your mind filled with a flurry of worries and desperate pleas.

"Nonononononono," you repeated in a frantic mantra, taking off your mask. Your voice tinged with fear and urgency. The sight that greeted you was one of devastation. The bus, now a twisted metal heap, was surrounded by debris and scattered belongings. Smoke billowed from the wreckage, the acrid scent filling the air.

"Guys?" you called out with desperation in your voice, the shortness of breath betraying the adrenaline coursing through your veins. Each word escaped your lips with a sense of worry.

"Guys! It's me, Professor History— please respond!" Your voice echoed through the wreckage, a hollow plea bouncing off the twisted metal and shattered glass strewn across the floor. The sound of your fists pounding against the bus added a percussion of desperation to the chaotic scene. Your heart raced, fear clawing at your chest as you anxiously awaited any sign of life from within the mangled wreckage.

The deafening silence hung heavy in the air, engulfing the scene in an eerie stillness. There were no screams, no signs of life emerging from the twisted wreckage of the bus. Just an unsettling quietness that seemed to amplify the weight of the situation. Your heart sank, a knot of dread forming in the pit of your stomach. You strained your ears, hoping against hope to hear even the faintest whimper or stirring, but there was nothing. It felt as if time itself had frozen, trapping you in this moment of agonizing uncertainty.

No screams, nothing but a quiet sound.

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring your vision as the weight of the tragedy settled upon you. A mixture of anguish and grief washed over you, threatening to engulf your entire being. Your body trembled with sorrow, your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you struggled to contain the overwhelming emotions within you.

Each tear that streamed down your face carried the weight of the lives lost. Your students oh your loving students, their dreams shattered, and the futures cut short. The pain in your heart felt unbearable, as the realization of the magnitude of the tragedy consumed you. It was a deep ache that resonated through your entire being, leaving you feeling hollow and broken.

With shaky hands, you reached out to touch the cold, lifeless metal of the bus, your fingers tracing the dented surfaces. The shattered glass beneath your feet served as a cruel reminder of the shattered hopes and dreams of the students who had once filled these seats. Your sobs echoed in the emptiness around you, a heart-wrenching sound that seemed to reverberate through the desolate scene.

In that moment, you mourned not only the loss of their lives but also the loss of the bright futures they had ahead of them. Each tear that fell was a testament to the deep love and care you held for your students, their absence leaving an irreplaceable void in your heart.

As the tears streamed down your face, they carried a profound sense of loss and a desperate longing for the impossible—to turn back time and rewrite the tragic outcome. But all you were left with was the haunting silence and the painful reality of their absence.

The echoing laughter of the Green Goblin cut through the silence, its sinister tone reverberating in the air like a chilling reminder of the villain responsible for this devastation. The sound pierced through your grief, igniting a surge of anger within you.

Wiping away your tears with a trembling hand, you turned your gaze towards the source of the laughter. Your eyes burned with a fiery determination, fueled by the pain and loss you had just experienced. The sight of the Green Goblin standing amidst the wreckage, his grinning visage masked by madness, only served to intensify your resolve.

“You,” you said in gritted teeth, “you won’t escape from what you’ve done!”

You extended your arms and shot a web at one of the upper walls, propelling yourself forward to chase after Green Goblin. The echoes of his maniacal laughter reverberated in your ears, fueling a burning rage within you. The sound was like a taunt, a challenge that you were more than ready to accept.

As you swung through the city, your web-slinging skills guided you with precision and speed. The wind rushed past you, whipping through your mask. Your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins, as you closed the distance between you and the malicious villain.

Every fiber of your being was consumed by the desire to bring him to justice, to put an end to his reign of chaos and protect the innocent lives he threatened. The memories of your fallen students fueled your determination, driving you forward even when your body ached and your muscles screamed for respite.

There was sound of scratching static in your ears, “Slinger! Don’t go alone and chase him, he’s too dangerous you—”

You ripped off your earpiece, consumed by an overwhelming wave of rage. It didn't matter which version of Green Goblin this person was. They had taken the lives of your students, the very people who brought light and happiness to your world. They were the reason you fought, the reason you donned the mask and took on the responsibility of protecting others. The weight of grief and anger propelled you forward, fueling your determination to bring this villain to justice.

You followed Green Goblin through the twisting alleys and towering rooftops, determination coursing through your veins. The air whipped against your mask as you maintained a safe distance, observing his every move. Your heart pounded with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation, knowing that this encounter would be anything but ordinary.

Green Goblin spun around, catching sight of your presence. His crazed laughter filled the air as he leaped onto his glider, propelling high above the cityscape. Without a moment's hesitation, you shot your webs, swinging through the sky in pursuit.

The battle unfolded in a chaotic symphony of punches, kicks, and explosive projectiles. You danced through the air, agile and nimble, dodging Green Goblin's relentless attacks with a mixture of acrobatics and web-slinging finesse. Each swing and flip showcased your formidable skills, a testament to the hours of training you had devoted to honing your abilities.

But the Green Goblin was a force to be reckoned with. His strength and speed were unmatched, and his relentless assault began to take its toll. Blow after blow rained down upon you, sending shockwaves of pain throughout your body. Your vision blurred, and your movements slowed as fatigue threatened to overtake you.

Blood trickled down your face, mingling with the sweat beneath your mask. You tasted the metallic tang of it on your lips, a reminder of the brutal reality of the fight. The pain was excruciating, but you refused to let it break your spirit. You were a fighter, a symbol of resilience, and you would not back down.

Not when after they died.

With every ounce of remaining strength, you launched yourself into a final assault. Your fists and webs became a blur of motion as you fought back with everything you had. Your strikes connected, and Green Goblin staggered, momentarily disoriented. It was a fleeting opportunity, and you seized it with unwavering determination.

But Green Goblin was not so easily defeated. With a vicious snarl, he retaliated with newfound ferocity. His blows came faster and harder, each one landing with bone-jarring force. You felt the impact reverberate through your body, weakening your stance with each strike. Your energy waned, and your body screamed in protest.

As the battle raged on, your movements grew sluggish, your responses delayed. You fought to stay on your feet, but the relentless assault pushed you to the brink of exhaustion. It felt as though every ounce of strength was drained from your body, and the world around you blurred into a haze.

In a final, devastating blow, Green Goblin sent you hurtling through the sky. Pain ripped through your body as you spiraled downwards, the ground rushing up to meet you. Your vision faded, darkness encroaching upon your consciousness. The mask that concealed your identity became stained with your blood, a testament to the brutal beating you had endured.

As unconsciousness claimed you, you clung to the hope that you had given it your all.

Strong hands swiftly catch you as you teeter on the edge of consciousness, their grip providing a lifeline in your exhausted state. You couldn't discern the identity of your savior; your weariness was too profound to make sense of the details. With a profound sense of relief, you surrender to the enveloping darkness, allowing it to claim you as the pain in your battered body gradually subsides.

Miguel landed with a controlled grace on a nearby rooftop, cradling your limp body in his arms. Worry surged through him as he beheld your battered form. Gingerly, he reached up and removed your mask, revealing the extent of the damage inflicted upon you. Your face bore the marks of the brutal encounter, streaked with blood and adorned with dark bruises that marred your once serene features. The sight stirred a mixture of emotions within Miguel—worry and anger.

He told you to stay—don’t go. How could you disobey simple rules?

“Miguel,” Jessica’s voice was heard from his earpiece, “He is captured, we’re taking him back—how are they?”

“Beaten up, round up the others and call for backup to clean up the mess the anomalies made.”

“Copy.”

You groaned and slowly regained consciousness, your eyes fluttered open to reveal your surroundings—a futuristic clinic that emanated a sense of advanced technology and sleek efficiency.

The room was adorned with clean, white walls, illuminated by soft, ambient lighting that cast a gentle glow. The air was infused with a sterile freshness, carrying the faint scent of antiseptic agents. The medical equipment and monitors present were state-of-the-art, seamlessly integrated into the surroundings with their sleek design.

The furniture was ergonomic and minimalist, offering both comfort and functionality. The room exuded an atmosphere of professionalism and cutting-edge medical care, assuring you that you were in capable hands within this futuristic healthcare setting.

As you slowly sat up on the bed, a wave of memories washed over you, reminding you of the intense battle with Green Goblin and the person who had saved (probably Miguel) you from the brink of falling.

The pain in your body served as a stark reminder of the brutal encounter, but you couldn't help but marvel at the resilience that had allowed you to survive.

With a deep breath, you swung your legs off the edge of the bed. Thankfully your spidersuit was placed on a white couch, looking good as new.

Still, you have not moved on from what had happened to your students, their deaths too soon for you. 

You shake your head, you need to talk to Miguel and the others at least. Ask them what will be the fates of the anomalies, did they even catched Green Goblin. You sure hope they did.

You stepped out of the clinic, your body now clad in your trusted spider suit. As you made your way through the headquarters, you couldn't help but notice the bustling activity of fellow spider people. They moved with agility and purpose, their suits adorned with variations of the iconic spider emblem.

The HQ itself was a sprawling complex, a sanctuary for those who shared your mission of protecting the multiverse. The sound of spinning webs and the occasional hum of futuristic technology filled the air, creating an atmosphere of innovation and readiness.

Walking through the corridors, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unity among your spider brethren. The shared purpose and camaraderie were palpable, evident in the nods of acknowledgment and encouraging nods exchanged as you passed fellow spider people in the hallways.

Finally, you arrived at Miguel's office, the dimly lit room casting an air of mystery. The dominant color scheme of deep blue added to the aura of secrecy and focused intent. The office was sparsely furnished, with only a floating platform holding an array of futuristic gadgets and tools that Miguel relied on for his work.

You missed being here for some reason.

You saw most of the people you knew; Jessica, Gwen, Hobie, and Pav. You rarely speak to Peter, but somehow he is not here despite being around using Mayday to annoy Miguel.

Speaking of Miguel, again, he is on the platform—he used his infamous pose of putting his hands on his waist and looking dismayed or tired. 

You approached the platform, marveling at the advanced technology before you. The devices emitted a soft glow, their intricate designs hinting at their incredible capabilities. You knew that within this unassuming office, Miguel planned and strategized to keep the multiverse safe from threats.

Hobie first noticed your arrival, a face of relief when he saw you walking well and alright. You waved at him, pointing at Miguel, indirectly asking Hobie what the hell is the man muttering about. The punk just shook his head, no idea what was happening with Miguel.

When Gwen saw you, she immediately went to you and tried to assist you. You brushed her off, telling her that you are alright and in no need of assistance. You looked back at the platform where Miguel is whispering words in a language you can't understand.

You shoot a web at the rim of the platform and swing on it, landing besides Miguel. You spoke, "Hey, what happened—

You felt a sharp jolt as Miguel's strong grip closed around your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin. His expression was a stark contrast to the usual calm and composed demeanor you were accustomed to seeing. Anger and frustration etched across his face, transforming his features into a portrait of intensity.

His piercing gaze bore into yours, demanding your attention. The air around you seemed to thicken with the weight of his emotions, leaving you momentarily speechless. His grip was firm, almost unyielding, a physical manifestation of his urgency and concern.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he spat, his voice laced with venom. Every word dripped with anger, lashing out like a whip, leaving no room for argument or explanation.

You could sense the depth of his emotions, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on his shoulders. It was evident that he had been consumed by fear and frustration during your absence, his mind racing with worst-case scenarios. In his eyes, your actions had placed yourself in unnecessary danger, and he was not about to let it go unnoticed.

"I told you specifically to not chase him," his grip tightened around your wrist, you winced, "and you have the guts to fucking remove your earpiece." he growled, his voice low and menacing.

His rage was a tempest, consuming everything in its path. You could see the frustration on his face, twisted by a fiery wrath that threatened to engulf him.

His grip on your wrist was almost painful, his fingers digging into your flesh, marking you with his wrath. It was as if his touch alone could convey the depth of his fury, a physical manifestation of the storm raging within him.

You could feel his anger seeping into your own veins. You met his gaze, refusing to be cowed by his fury. "I had to do something, Miguel. I—"

But then his grip tightened further, his anger flaring up once again. "You're reckless! You think you can just charge headfirst into danger without considering the consequences?"

His eyes bore into yours, a mixture of rage and concern simmering beneath the surface. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of understanding, a glimmer of recognition that you were both driven by a shared purpose, even if your methods differed.

"They died, Miguel! I saw them die right before my eyes, I couldn't even erase their screams in my head." you tried to wriggle your wrist from his iron grip, but it seems to tighten even more when you try to move it.

"And you chased him down, for yourself. Beaten up by him almost to pulp—what for?" his grip on you did not lose. You were now trying hard to get out from his grip, even pulling all of the strength to your body so he could let you go.

He did not.

"Miguel—you're hurting me, let go!"

"No, you need to know your lesson!"

"Stop! Please—it hurts—let me go! You're hurting me!" you cried, your free hand getting a grip on his hand and clawing it, hoping that he would let go.

None of the people below you and Miguel tried to stop, Hobie could not stand it and spoke, "You heard them, let them go—"

“¡Hobie, cierra el pico!” 

Miguel's voice erupted in a furious shout, silencing Hobie. At the peripheral of your vision, you could see Hobie gripping his guitar. His face evident of annoyance and rage towards Miguel.

Miguel's head turned towards you, you couldn't escape the intensity of his raging crimson eyes. They bore into you with a searing anger, as if trying to carve into your very being. His contorted face twisted with pure rage, a sneer curling his lips as he unleashed his pent-up fury upon you.

"Did you just realize what you've done? YOU COULD'VE DIED!"

Miguel's voice thundered through the room, reverberating with a mix of anger, frustration, and concern. His eyes blazed with an intense fury, their crimson hue piercing into your very core.

His features contorted, his jaw clenched tightly, and his fists were tightly balled up, knuckles white with the force of his grip. Every muscle in his body seemed taut with rage as he confronted you, his normally composed demeanor shattered by the magnitude of his emotions. The air crackled with an electric tension, emphasizing the gravity of the situation and the depth of his anger.

"Please—let go—I can fight for mysel—"

"I'm doing this for you, mi vida!"

There was silence.

A deafening silence that enveloped the room, leaving you and Miguel unable to utter a single word. The weight of the situation hung heavy in the air, filling the space with an uncomfortable tension. Even the onlookers below the floating platform seemed frozen, their eyes wide and mouths agape with disbelief etched across their faces. They witnessed the scene in front of them had already been unfolding. No creases left.

Time seemed to stand still, each passing second accentuating the absence of any sound.

Miguel's furious expression slowly transformed, his features transitioning from anger to a dawning realization, and finally to regret. As his grip on your wrists loosened, you instinctively snatched your hands away, the sting of his earlier aggression still lingering. Confusion and hurt washed over you in waves.

How could this man have mistaken you for someone else all this time? How could he have harbored such rage without truly seeing who you were? The questions echoed in your mind, a mix of frustration and sadness intertwining as you struggled to make sense of it all.

"I—" Miguel's voice trailed off as he reached out towards you, his face etched with a mixture of remorse and apology.

But you were not ready to accept his words, not after everything that had transpired. You held your sore wrists where Miguel's grip had left its mark, the pain serving as a reminder of his unwarranted aggression. A bitter laugh escaped your lips, devoid of any joy or amusement.

"You're out of your mind," you said, your voice laced with a mix of disbelief and frustration. "All this time, you've been thinking of someone who is not me, Miguel. I am not the person you think I am. I am not who you want me to be. I am not yours."

The words cut through the air, sharp and final. The sneer on your face revealed the layers of disappointment and hurt that lay beneath the surface. You leaped off the platform, swiftly accessing the controls on your watch. Fingers swiftly tapping the buttons, you entered the coordinates for Earth-14215, a world where you would no longer be burdened by Miguel's misconceptions.

The portal shimmered behind you, its ethereal presence beckoning you towards new possibilities. With a determined resolve, you unclasped the watch from your wrist and hurled it in Gwen's direction. The small device sailed through the air before landing safely in her outstretched hand.

"Thanks for the pass, Gwen."

As you stood there, your gaze fixed on the portal's swirling energy, it was time to go home.

With a steady step forward, you crossed the threshold, your body engulfed by the portal's radiant glow. As you disappeared into the other side, you left behind Miguel's office, leaving behind the remnants of a past that no longer served you.

You had made up your mind. You were done. You weren't coming back.

It was a rainy night in York, you scouted from the rooftops of the buildings. You have taken care of the criminals and threw them into jail. It's been three hours since you left, a particular white spiderman suit kept following you around and kept interrupting your hero work by helping you, without you even asking for help.

And it irritates you to the bone.

Despite her attempts to explain Miguel's situation and offer her help, you remained steadfast in your determination to handle things on your own. 

With each interrupted battle, your frustration grew. The rain-soaked streets mirrored the storm brewing inside you. You had no patience for Gwen's persistent interference, dismissing her explanations as irrelevant. Your focus remained fixed on protecting your city and carrying out your duties as Spider Slinger.

Together, you and Gwen swung through the rain-soaked night, a reluctant duo bound by their shared commitment to protect the city. 

"Please, listen to me!" Gwen shouted from the thunder.

"I think what you said is enough, Gwen." you replied, shooting webs by webs on each building to continue your swing.

"But—"

"You can’t patronize his shit Gwen, you’re out of there, I’m out of there too—and that is his problem not ours to fix, now please get out of my Earth before I change my mind.”

Your words dripped with a mix of frustration and defiance as you confronted Gwen. The rain continued to fall around you, adding an extra layer of intensity to the situation. You were determined to assert your independence and distance yourself from Miguel's issues, refusing to be dragged into his problems any longer.

The weight of your words hung in the air, a clear message that you had no intention of tolerating Gwen's attempts to explain or justify Miguel's actions. This was not your burden to bear, and you were unwilling to let it consume you any further. You wanted Gwen gone, back to her own Earth, and you made it clear that any hesitation on her part would not be tolerated.

The sound of a thwip followed by the distinct noise of a portal opening and closing confirmed that Gwen had indeed departed. A sense of relief washed over you as you realized she had respected your wishes and chosen to honor your decision. Despite the tension and disagreement, there was a flicker of gratitude within you for her understanding.

In the aftermath of her departure, the rain continued to fall, its rhythm a soothing backdrop to your thoughts. The weight of the night's events still lingered, but a newfound sense of clarity settled upon you. You were now free to continue your work without the unwanted interference.

You landed on another building, until a familiar sound of a portal opening and closing. With a groan, you spoke with pure annoyance, "Gwen, were you not listening to me or—"

"It's me," a familiar voice resonated through the darkness, cutting through the rain-soaked air. The voice that you don't want to hear anymore

"I'm sorry," Miguel's voice cracked with emotion, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

"I acted out of anger, and I took it out on you. I had no right to hurt you, to hold you so forcefully. It was a terrible mistake, and I deeply regret my actions." His voice trembled with sincerity, carrying the weight of genuine remorse.

"Please know that I never intended to cause you harm. I let my rage consume me, and I failed to see the truth in front of me. I'm truly sorry for the pain I've caused you."

Miguel's voice quivered as he began to recount his haunting past, his words laden with deep sorrow.

"I once pretended to be a husband and a father, creating a false life, taking the place of my variant self. I was unaware of the consequences, the irreversible damage I was causing to the dimension where I didn't originally exist. As the universe disintegrated around me, I witnessed the gradual disappearance of my wife and child, their existence fading from my arms."

His voice choked with grief, a profound sadness seeping through every word. "The weight of that loss, the pain of realizing the lives I had unknowingly destroyed, it haunts me every day. I can't erase the pain I've caused, and for that, I carry an immeasurable burden of remorse."

"You just looked like her."

You looked at him, both standing there, drenched in the relentless rain, facing each other on the desolate rooftop of one of York New's industrial buildings. The downpour mirrored the storm of emotions brewing inside you. A heavy silence descended upon the scene. The weight of the moment left you paralyzed, unsure of how to respond. Despite ten years of being Spider Slinger, and all the years you spent as an individual, you had never quite grasped offering comfort, let alone to a man burdened with deep-seated issues in expressing his feelings.

Time seemed to stand still as both of you remained motionless, locked in a poignant tableau. His slow, deliberate breaths were visible, each exhalation a testament to his inner turmoil. His head hung low, weighed down by the shame of what he had done to you in Nueva York. The rain continued to soak your hair, an icy reminder of the vulnerability you had exposed by removing your mask. The regret tinged your thoughts, but it was necessary for him to witness the anger and disappointment in your eyes. He needed to understand the pain caused by his mistaken belief that you were his deceased wife.

"Then?" you spoke, your voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and resolve. "Why are you even here? You have responsibilities, a busy man. There's no place for you here on my Earth anymore, Miguel."

The bitterness in your words left a bitter taste in your mouth, a reflection of the deep-rooted resentment that simmered within. You watched as he slowly raised his head, his mask dissipating to reveal his face. His sad eyes locked onto yours, piercing through the rain-soaked air. Your harsh words seemed to pierce his chest, evoking a pang of pain even though you were practically strangers. He knew you weren't her, that you were merely a variant of his wife, someone different who didn't share the memories his wife had cherished. You had never shared a life with him, never bore a child together. The absence of even a variant of himself in your Earth accentuated the anguish. It explained why you hadn't reacted when you first encountered him.

Because, in truth, this was your first meeting with Miguel O'Hara.

You were not her, and you were never meant to be his.

"In conclusion, I'm very sorry," he choked out, his voice filled with remorse and self-reproach.

Miguel's words hung heavy in the air, as if echoing the weight of his guilt. He bit his lip, feeling a sharp sting in his eyes. A lump formed in his throat, making it difficult to utter another word. After the incident, he had vowed to himself to bury all personal feelings, to become cold and detached, forsaking any attachments. But seeing you shattered his resolve. The similarities between you and his wife were too painful to bear. In that moment, he longed for the return of both his wife and daughter, even if his actions were irreversible, even if it was an impossible yearning.

"You look pathetic," you couldn't resist the urge to lash out, to release the pent-up tension building within you. The words spilled out, dripping with spite, driven by the turmoil in your heart. You wanted to hurl more insults, to wound him further, but a sliver of conscience held you back. Three words, a petty attempt to inflict some of the pain you felt.

"I know," he replied, his voice cracking under the weight of his sorrow. The rumble of thunder and the relentless patter of rain almost masked his stifled sniffles.

You knew you shouldn't be doing this, that it went against your better judgment, but...

You took a tentative step towards him, narrowing the distance between you. Looking up at him, you saw the confusion etched on his face as you approached. He understood your anger, comprehended the reasons behind it. What startled him, though, was when you reached out, gently cradling the back of his head against your shoulder. The warmth of your embrace enveloped him, a fragile lifeline amidst the tempest of emotions. Both of your arms encircled his neck, one hand resting tenderly on his head, offering a semblance of solace—the only way you knew how.

Gradually, Miguel's rigid body softened, his arms finding their way around your back as he clung to you, afraid to let go. The two of you sank down onto the wet concrete floor, the rain serving as a backdrop to his muffled sobs against your Spider suit. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, an unspoken understanding that sometimes comfort could be found in the arms of a stranger, in the midst of a storm that mirrored the tumult within your souls.

Your fingertips grazed through Miguel's damp hair, feeling the raindrops clinging to each strand. The rain-soaked air enveloped both of you, lending a sense of melancholy to the moment. As his arms encircled you with a delicate touch, you sensed his hesitance, his fear of upsetting you further. Despite the limited time you had spent together, it seemed that Miguel had placed his trust in you completely. From his role as an authority figure to exposing his vulnerability, he had laid it all bare before you.

There was an unspoken understanding between you, a connection forged in the midst of chaos and shared experiences, a bond that transcended mere acquaintanceship. And though words eluded you in that moment, the warmth of your touch conveyed the unspoken support and acceptance you offered him.

"You know, I have not forgiven you." you said.

Miguel lifted his head, revealing a visage stained with tears. His cheeks were flushed, a testament to the emotional turmoil he had endured. His eyes, once vibrant, now appeared weary and disheveled. The traces of sadness etched upon his features spoke volumes of the pain he had carried within. In that vulnerable moment, his raw emotions were laid bare, allowing you to witness the depth of his sorrow and exhaustion.

"How can I?"

You looked at him, your expression softening as you observed Miguel. His face was marked with signs of weariness, evident from the redness in his eyes and the disheveled state of his hair. It was clear that he had been through a lot, and despite the tumultuous situation, he mustered the courage to face you.

There was a certain vulnerability in his gaze, a plea for understanding and forgiveness. In that moment, you realized that perhaps he truly wanted to make amends and find a way to earn your trust. With a small, gentle smile, you conveyed your willingness to give him a chance, to see if he could prove himself worthy of your faith.

You pressed a finger on Miguel's chest where his heart is beating.

"We start from here."

[adaptacy]

sissys best friend crushing and falling for johnny 🙏🙏

Johnny Slaughter x GN!Reader

"So, what, he ain't got a girlfriend?" You murmured, glancing back at the subject of conversation, your hands idly fidgeting with the stems of wildflowers in your palms. He was skinning the prey he'd gotten from his traps, maybe a good six yards away, his torso bare and practically glimmering in the sun from the sweat he'd racked up. How were you not supposed to stare?

"Oh, sugar, he don't date. He hunts! It's different," the girl next to you spoke, giggling at your question as if there were anything amusing about it. You frowned, and she tapped your shoulder, regaining your attention with a turn of your head. She held up a ring of woven stems, a neat flower crown. You looked down at your own attempt, but you weren't as good at it as she was.

"Well, yeah, I know he kills most of the people he stumbles upon, but... Surely he's interested in the idea of a relationship, right?" You asked, lowering your head so the brunette could place the crown on top of it.

"He's doin' just fine on his own. I think he'd go romancin' 'imself if he could. He don't need anyone else, or so he likes to say," she replied, taking the flower crown from your hands and gingerly repairing some of the loosely woven bits. You took the opportunity to look back at Johnny, catching him as he ran his arm across his forehead, wiping the sweat off of it.

Ugh, he was practically perfect. Sculpted by the gods themselves. You'd never seen anyone half as attractive as him. Sometimes you doubted he was a real person.

"Why, you gettin' ideas?" She teased, nudging you again as she caught you staring at her brother. You looked back at her, giving a small shrug.

"No, nothing like that. Just curious," you lied, avoiding any eye contact with her as you mumbled your response. "Figured everyone gets lonely sometimes. Thought he was the same."

"Awh, peach, he ain't like you and I. He's, uh..." She paused, pursing her lips as she thought of a response. "He's a real wildfire, y'know? Got the whole lone wolf thing goin' on. He don't wanna look silly by needin' someone else. Don't wanna look weak or nuthin' of the sort."

"Huh..." You hummed, looking over your shoulder one last time before Johnny tossed the skinned rabbits into a pail and left your line of sight, likely heading inside. With that, you looked back at your best friend, seeing she was already gathering more flowers, insistent on teaching you how to get the most use out of the weed-like growths.

-- -- --

The person who opened the door was not who you were expecting. Tall, muscular, masculine... Definitely not the girl you'd come here for. She knew you were coming, did she forget? This was her idea, after all.

Johnny looked you up and down, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "What?"

"Is sissy here?"

"She's out back."

"Oh, okay. Can I-"

"No."

You blinked, not sure why he'd deny you so adamantly, and so quickly, too. With a glance behind him, you swore you saw movement, but it was gone before you could be sure. You looked back at him, confused. "Why not?"

"She's busy."

"Okay... can you go n' get her for me? Or let her know that I'm here? She's supposed to be teaching me somethin'," you requested, biting your lip awkwardly.

"Weren't you here yesterday?" He grimaced.

"Yes..."

"Why?"

"Why what?" You scoffed.

"Why are you here all the time? Ain't you got other stuff to do?" He pushed, stepping towards you and forcing you to take a step back so he didn't collide with you. He closed the door behind him, and you frowned, not understanding what his game was.

"Uhm, I'm here cause she's my best friend. And... cause she asks to see me. I already did all my stuff," you answered, furrowing your brows at him. "What's your problem?"

"My problem? My problem's that we got prey hangin' round our house but we ain't allowed to eat 'em. The hell makes you so special?" He huffed, and you took another step back, a little intimidated by his poorly shielded threats.

"Because..." You trailed off, searching for an answer. "Cause she said so, I guess. I dunno. Don't you have enough prey as it is? Got all the time in the world to hunt, mister lone wolf."

"The hell's that s'posed to mean? You gettin' snappy with me?" He growled, placing a hand on the wooden post beside you and leaning down, closer to your face. You scowled, doing your best not to show your fear.

"Since you don't have any hobbies aside from killing people."

"Hobbies?"

"Dates. Partners. I dunno, literally anything aside from hunting," you explained, giving a small shrug of your shoulders.

"What are you gettin' at?"

"I don't know, what are you getting at?"

"I don't see any reason why I shouldn't kill you right 'ere. Seem like a fine tasty meal. Just temptin' me, comin'round here all the time. Ain't you scared?"

Yeah. "Of you?" You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. Sissy would never let me-"

Your words came to an abrupt stop when you felt a knife against your throat, and Johnny grinned down at you, reveling in your fear. "You sure 'bout that? I don't see her 'round here. Ain't no-one to save you."

Despite your racing heart, you gulped, steadying your breaths. "You're not gonna kill me. You're just trying to scare me."

He seemed to tense at that, and for a second you actually failed to believe your words, hit by the realization that he probably didn't care. He could kill you. Hell, he might as well. And yet, he removed the blade, smirking as he huffed out a chuckle.

"That's not funny."

"Awh, I know it ain't, doll. Not fer you, anyhow. Name's Johnny. Sissy's said a lot 'bout ya," he introduced, though you already knew his name. He held out a hand, and you looked down at it, awkwardly reaching forward to take it, and giving it a small shake.

"Uh-huh... Can I see her now?"

"Mm.. I s'pose. You can go 'round the side yard. She's out in the sunflowers," he answered, using a thumb to point in the direction of the path he was referencing.

"Right.. Thanks, Johnny."

Huh. Bit of a creep, eh? A handsome one, but... She wasn't lyin' when she said he wasn't normal.