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marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

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Whumpcember (day 27)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Hypothermia

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vivid descriptions of hypothermia; desperate!Bucky; Hydra; slight mentions of Bucky’s past

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Pang. Pang. Pang.

It’s almost rhythmic, the way Bucky’s metal fist hits the strong, reinforced door of the room you’re trapped in.

You stand off to the side, pressing a finger to your earpiece, trying once more to summon aid.

Only static answers you, sharp and grating, hissing in your ear. You grit your teeth.

Bucky lets out a frustrated grunt and slams his fist harder.

You step forward, intending to tell him to stop, to conserve his strength, to redirect his anger into a better plan since the door doesn’t seem to budge at all.

But then you notice it, the faintest shift in the room.

Your skin tingles at the back of your neck and underneath your tactical suit.

The air is sharper. It’s colder.

You glance up at the small vents near the ceiling and find their slotted mouths releasing thin, ghostly fog that drifts downward.

Your stomach plummets to the ground.

“Bucky,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, eyes still on the vents.

Bucky doesn’t turn, but his hits have stopped. His metal fist rests against the door. You make out his head tilting slightly, acknowledging you.

“Bucky,” you repeat, more insistent, more warningly. “Look!”

He does turn now, his eyes on you before moving up to where you are looking. His gaze narrows as the fog becomes more visible, coiling in haphazard spirals before dissipating.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tightens, the way his body turns to solid stone says he understands.

He then takes a step toward the control panel, his metal arm flexing instinctively. “We need to figure out how to shut this down. Fast.”

But you don’t know how fast you can make it.

The room already feels smaller, the walls seeming to close in, their cold presence pressing against you. You rub your arms, trying to ward off the frost spreading in the air.

But your cheeks start to sting and your skin tightens.

You are trapped in the sterile and metallic control room of a Hydra facility.

And if that wasn’t bad enough already, it’s not just a control hub. It’s also a containment chamber, and how it looks like, designed to neutralize intruders by pumping in freezing air when someone attempts to tamper with the control systems.

And since that’s the only reason you are in here, you fell for it.

Surveillance suggested the base holds remnants of sensitive data Hydra has been safeguarding, with a high likelihood that it could detail sleeper agents or hidden cells.

Bucky and you were paired and tasked with accessing the main control room, disabling the security grid, and providing an opening for the rest of the team to neutralize the facility.

And well, that didn’t go as planned.

Hydra has always been cruelly inventive and the freezing protocol seems as effective as inhumane to you.

Bucky immediately started to react the second a low beep emitted from the console, followed by an ominous hiss as the lights overhead flickered and shifted to an emergency red glow.

And he would have made it out before the heavy door slammed shut behind you since he’d been guarding the entrance.

But only without you.

And that didn’t seem to be an option for him.

You tried again and again to call out to the team.

Though it was futile from the start.

The base’s interior is heavily shielded, preventing outside communication.

Your teammates had a backup plan to breach the outer defenses if you two went radio silent, so they wouldn’t immediately realize something was wrong until it was too late.

The frost freezes up the walls, tiny ice particles wandering along the surfaces.

The air you draw into your lungs feels sharp, like shards of ice scraping the back of your throat.

Your muscles contract, huddling inward in a futile attempt to shield themselves.

Stiff and numb fingers try to tap against the slowly freezing metal of the console, but your movements are turning clumsy.

Bucky walks over to you. He seems to hold up better than you, but you see that this situation gnaws at him. His frown is in place, his shoulders are rigid and you don’t want to know the places his mind is traveling.

After all, this is not his first encounter with Hydras frost for him.

He looks over the consoles in front of you, glancing over the wires and frozen circuits.

“I don’t think p-punching it will help.” You try to say it lightly, bringing in some humor in your situation but your voice is shaking as much as your body.

Bucky gives you a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised how often that works,” he deadpans.

You try to laugh but it falls flat.

The icy mist tumbles through the air so innocently, making it colder and colder, and then pounces on you so piercingly intense, it makes your breaths falter.

Warmth feels so far away. Seconds are stretching.

Bucky doesn’t glance back at the console.

He is watching you with furrowed brows.

His flesh hand brushes over your arm, trying to gauge your condition.

“Hey,” he says, almost sharply, but so full of concern. “You with me?”

You nod, but it’s sluggish. Unconvincing. Your teeth chatter as you try to speak. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Bucky grits his teeth, his jaw working roughly. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice sounds thick.

He pulls you close then. His arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels protective, desperate even.

You don’t resist, wouldn’t even have the strength to, and lean into him. Your body is shaking against him, your muscles seizing violently. It drains you rapidly. You do your best to try and let the warmth of his body temperature battle against the cold settling into your skin and sinking deep and even deeper into your bones.

It crawls into your ears, turning them numb and unresponsive. Sounds seem muted, as if the chill has even frozen the air’s ability to carry them.

The temperature drops and drops so rapidly.

You feel Bucky’s head right beside yours. His breath fanning over your cheek. “Stay upright, sweetheart. Alright? Don’t sit down. Try and move your legs.”

With that order, he brushes a trembling hand against your cheek for a split second before reluctantly letting go of you and storming toward the door again with clenched fists.

Another pang sounds out as Bucky slams his fist against the steel door again, each strike reverberating through the room. His hits are more frantic than before and there is no rhythm at all.

“Come on!” he shouts, his voice cracking.

The door doesn’t budge and he lets out a guttural roar, his fist slamming against the unyielding surface one last time before turning back to you.

You really tried.

You tried to follow his orders and stay upright, perhaps move through the room and keep yourself in motion.

But your knees were so weak and you let them crumble.

With an anguished sound that might have been your name, Bucky rushes back to you, dropping to his knees.

Your head dips forward before jerking back up, fighting to stay conscious.

“No! Y/n! You’re not doing this. Stay with me.”

You try to smile but it’s weak. “I’m just- just tired,” you murmur, voice slurring.

“No,” he snaps, shaking you just enough to make you focus on him. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You don’t get to sleep, you hear me? You sleep, you die!”

He’s pressing you against him, holding you so tightly.

The cold claims your flesh and veins. Your blood feels slowed.

His flesh hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your freezing skin in a way that’s almost tender, though his voice is anything but soft.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he growls, his lips close to your ear. “You don’t.”

There has been pain. In your toes, your fingers, your ears.

But you feel it fade. And you know you should panic, because this is a terrible sign. But your mind becomes singular in its focus, so obsessed with the absence of heat, the ache of it so intense and pervasive, there is no room for much else.

Exhaustion tries to close your eyes. It weighs you down, trying to make you stop moving at all.

But you fight. You fight against your own body.

Bucky’s flesh hand trembles against you, though whether from the cold or the panic, you’re not sure.

His eyes are jumping across the room, from the control panel, to the vents, to the door, and back to you.

Bucky’s breath comes fast, visible puffs of white in the freezing air. You hear him faintly mutter to himself. Or rather curse.

All you manage is to let out a sigh. The exhale lets a tiny ghost rise before your face. But it fades too quickly. Your breathing began to slow already.

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, rocking you slightly in his lap, tightly cradled against his chest to keep you moving and give you more of his warmth. His stubble brushes against your icy skin.

You meet his eyes, but your gaze is weak.

His gaze is wild. Darting between focus and frenzy. His brows are knit together so tightly, forming deep creases that dig into his forehead like scars of desperation.

“Stick with me, alright? We’ll get outta here,” he breathes. But he barely even managed that. And it sounds more like a plea than a promise.

You nod faintly against him. Your eyes fall shut for a moment.

“No, no, no,” he croaks out, rocking you more forcefully. “Eyes on me, doll! Come on.”

Your eyelids feel frozen together but you manage to break through. Though it takes so much energy.

But looking back at Bucky’s expression might even be harder.

His lips are trembling at the corners. His eyes are glassy and so intense, shimmering with a desperation so vivid, it seems to cry out silently.

“Hold tight, sweetheart.” He swallows. “There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do. Something to stop this.”

His words are fierce, determined, but his gaze says something else entirely as he sweeps his frantic eyes across the room once again.

You’re trying your best to help, scanning the space through the haze clouding your vision, coming from the freezing mist.

You notice something. It’s barely noticeable against the frost-covered wall but the sight of it roots you in place, not from the cold this time.

Since Bucky’s arms are still pressing you to him, he feels you stiffen against his chest. But to be real, he would have noticed if you were across the room. His sharp instincts are always in tune with you, even more so in this freezing hell.

“What is it?” he demands, his voice rough with concern. His flesh fingers brush your face, coaxing your attention back to him. “You got something in mind?”

You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you shake your head faintly. A weak denial, that falters the second you try to hold onto it.

“Doll,” he warns, his tone low, his desperation edging in. Your silence is unnerving him. “Talk to me. What is it?”

You let out a shallow breath. It’s fragile, just like you, trembling and on the verge of breaking.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

“C’mon, sweetheart. I really need you to talk to me.” His voice is strained. “If you’ve got an idea, tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”

The frost crackles in the background.

You let out a sigh and nod faintly, reluctantly, toward the corner of the room. Toward the frozen console that glints from the crystals of the ice.

“If we c-can short-circuit that p-panel,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “it might s-stop the c-cold.”

Bucky’s eyes dart to the console the second you mention it, then back to your face, searching it as though he could pull the rest of the plan from your expression alone to spare you the energy to talk.

But your expression falters and his brow is furrowed so tightly it’s hard to look at.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what’s the problem?”

You shake your head, your body sagging further into his. He shifts to hold you better but his gaze is fixed on your face. “But-” you struggle, the word escaping you as a faint breath, lips trembling from more than just the cold, “it might fry your arm.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bucky-”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head firmly, muscles straining in his face. His flesh hand wraps around your shoulders like it could anchor you to him. “I’m bein’ dead serious. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care what happens to my arm.”

Those are the words you expected to hear. And you hate them.

His voice is hard, but his gaze softens when he sees your expression. There is something determined there, but also something tender, something so soft, something unshakable that makes you want to bury deep into his chest and never leave it again.

“I’ll be fine, doll. Promise. But I have to do this.” His voice is soft. Gentle. And he lets his lips brush against your cheek.

You try to protest. Try to shake your head. A faint whimper leaves your lips.

“Don’t care what happens to me. Only care about you, doll. And I’ll get you the fuck outta here.”

His hand again cups the side of your face and holds your gaze with so much intensity, blue eyes piercing you more than the cold, it leaves you breathless.

Then, he moves into action, setting you against the wall so carefully, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness none of the others had ever seen him with.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice pleading. So earnest.

You do your best to give him a nod and watch as he strides toward the console.

His broad shoulders block your view for a moment, but you can see the resolution in every movement, the way his metal arm flexes as he tears away the frozen panel with one single tug.

Sparks erupt as he rips at the wires, and the sharp scent of burning metal fills the air.

All you can do is watch with your heart frozen in fear.

The console flickers violently, the room trembling slightly as the system begins to overload.

Bucky grits his teeth. His arm is sparking wildly by forcing the wires together, his entire body braced against the surging energy.

“Come on,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible over the crackling noise. “Come on, shut it down!”

And then, with a resounding hiss, the freezing air stops.

Bucky stumbles back. His metal arm twitches erratically.

“Bucky,” you whisper, fearing for his condition.

He only turns and crosses the room to you in a few strides, pulling you back into his arms.

Your face is pressed against his neck, his lips are by your ear.

“Told you I’ll be fine, doll,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, thick with relief that feels like it’s been dragged from the depths of his chest. But it’s unsteady. It’s strained. There is a tremor in it that betrays him.

Because you are still so cold.

So cold in fact, it feels no longer like an invader. It becomes everything. It consumes you. It swallows your awareness. Leaving only the faintest sense of resistance. It’s so thin and fragile, you can barely remember why you’re still holding on.

His breath brushes against your temple, warm compared to the chill that has settled into your body. But it’s not enough. Not even close.

Your skin is ice beneath his touch and the tremors that whacked your body before are gone now. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You can’t tell where your body ends and the cold begins. It’s inside you, crawling through your veins like liquid frost, winding tighter and tighter with every slow beat of your heart.

Your skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore - it feels like glass.

“Hey,” he exclaims a little louder, his flesh hand soothing over your hair in a gesture so gentle it could shatter you into a thousand frozen pieces. “You’re okay. You’re with me. We did it, doll. You did it. The others will know something went wrong. They’ll come looking for us. You just have to hold on a little longer, yeah?”

His breaths are tangled in his words, rushing in too fast or skipping beats entirely. It makes his speech uneven.

But you can’t respond.

You want to reach for him, to speak, to swim in the warmth of his voice. But it’s impossible.

You know he’s holding you. You know he has his arms wrapped around you. You know you are pressed against his chest. The erratic pounding of his heart is by your ear. The weight of your body is resting against him. But it all feels so distant, like trying to recall details of a dream that is already fading from your memory.

Each gasp you try for feels farther apart, each exhale weaker than the last, dissipating into the air like it had never existed at all.

And you know Bucky feels it. Feels the way your body is slipping into a stillness that seems to terrify him enormously.

His breath catches.

“Don’t do this,” he grounds out, voice sharp and urgent. “No. Don’t you dare do this, Y/n!”

His metal arm curls tighter around you, and the steel, usually so cold itself, feels like a furnace compared to the icy skin underneath your suit.

He shifts you in his arms, his movements sluggish and frantic. Your head lolls against his shoulder and his flesh hand is at the back of your neck, fingers threading in your hair.

You feel so heavy. So impossibly heavy. You don’t even know where your hands are. Where your toes are.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

But your eyelids only flutter. They’re so heavy.

Bucky’s voice is there, somewhere in the muddle of your mind, but the words don’t land right. They sound muffled, like he might speak to you from underwater. Or as though you have fallen too far away to reach him anymore.

Lips press roughly against your temple. His hands try to rub warmth into you.

“No,” he growls, the anger in his tone masking the helplessness that causes him to shake his head and shake your body with it, due to the force, as if sheer denial could change the reality in front of him. “You don’t get to check out on me. Stay with me, Y/n. Fight for me. Come on. I know you can do it. Please! I know you can fight this.”

He gasps between phrases, trying to pull oxygen into lungs that refuse to expand fully, each sound on the verge of dissolving into sobs at any moment.

He buries his face in your hair, squeezing you against him.

“Sweetheart, please,” he cries, his words a single prayer to whoever will listen, so vulnerable and laid bare in a way Bucky Barnes rarely allows himself to be.

It elicits that faint, resilient ember beneath the frost you are succumbing to and you do your best to nurture it. It burns. Just a little. So small. But it’s there. And it burns because of him - because of Bucky.

The hectic rise and fall of his chest against you, the cracks of desperation in his hold on you, the tremble in his voice when he repeats the words stay with me and please, Y/n over and over, as raw and real as the ice in your veins - they make you promise to keep trying to hold on.

And you will. For him.

#whumpcember2024 #whumpcember24 #whumpcember day27 #bucky marvel #marvel mcu #marvel bucky barnes #bucky barnes whump #whump bucky #bucky whump #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #bucky fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes angst #avenger!bucky

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noblevicartstudio08 · 8 months ago

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I don't want the power to revolutionize the world, but Allison needs me!

Another gift for the home girl, @reds-hub-and-main / @rcseteaparty

It felt like a crime to not draw these two as an Utena reference.

Reference image down below!!

#allison conway #lilith flowers #hollow port #my art #my ocs #friend's ocs #reds-hub-and-main #rcseteaparty #artists on tumblr #black artist on tumblr #queer artists on tumblr

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koiukiy-o · 6 days ago

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orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 005. the symposium.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 2k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: mini update :") this took so long yall but hopefully the next chapter will come out this weekend/early next week!! but @starglitterz cameo is officially here !! -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

You're still thinking about it.

Maybe that’s why your feet carry you here now, why your mind lingers too long on yesterday’s conversation—the recursion, the identity, the way Anaxagoras' voice dipped just slightly when he said neither walks away unchanged.

The café is the kind that always smells like burnt espresso and ambition, tucked just close enough to campus that it’s half library, half social hub. The walls are lined with faded flyers for long-past events, a community board pinned with everything from tutoring ads to desperate requests for lost calculators.

You step up to the counter, still half-lost.

"Next," a voice hums, smooth and patient.

You blink up.

You glance at the screen again, suddenly aware of the line that’s moved up behind you.

“Sorry,” you murmur, stepping closer to the counter. “Can I get a—”

You pause, eyes flicking to the chalkboard menu overhead.

“Medium oolong milk tea . No ice.”

She nods, tapping it into the register. “Anything else?”

You hesitate. “And… one of those—” You gesture towards the red bean bun in the pastry display.

As she bags it, she adds lightly, “Huh. Considering your usual habit of asking the kind of questions that make people reconsider the laws of physics mid-sip, that was surprisingly tame.”

You blink. “Huh?”

She gestures loosely, teasing. “Thought you’d be the type to hit me with a philosophical paradox disguised as a tea order.”

It clicks.

You straighten slightly, really looking at her now—the poised demeanor, the sharp gaze, the effortless way she dissects a thought before it’s fully formed. The girl from yesterday. The one who answered the question that left Ilias fumbling.

"Oh," you say, feeling somewhat slow. "You’re—"

"Kira," she supplies, tapping the register. "If we’re keeping track of names. Name for the order?"

You tell her.

Your eyes flicker to her apron, where her name tag is flipped backward on the strap. "You work here?"

Her gaze lifts, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "No, I just enjoy standing behind counters for fun."

You exhale a quiet laugh. "Right. Stupid question."

Kira shakes her head, sliding the receipt toward you. "Not stupid. Just distracted."

You blink at her, caught slightly off guard.

"Anyway," she continues lightly, "pay up and step aside. I’ll have your coffee ready in a minute."

You tap your card against the reader, hesitating just slightly before moving. "Well. Nice to, uh. Formally meet you."

"Likewise," she says, and this time, the smile reaches her eyes.

You linger near the pickup counter, the hum of the café settling into the background as you absently thumb through your notebook.

Then—

"[Name]!"

You glance up. Kira sets your cup on the counter, her fingers still lightly curled around the lid as she meets your gaze. You hesitate for a moment, fingers curled around the warm cup. The question lingers, half-formed—would it be weird to ask? Probably. But class starts soon, and if she’s heading there too...

As if on cue, the café door swings open, and another barista steps in, shaking off the cold. Kira glances over, nodding in quiet acknowledgment before turning toward the back.

You clear your throat, glancing at your watch, and then her. "Should you still be on shift? Or…"

Kira’s lips curve, the kind of smile that makes you think she saw the question coming before you even asked it.

"Not anymore," she answers, folding the fabric neatly before setting it down. She moves through the café like she’s a part of its rhythm, nodding to coworkers with the ease of someone who’s been here long enough to know all their quirks.

(You, on the other hand, still hesitate at the self-serve station, debating whether adding a third sugar packet is a cry for help.)

As Kira folds her apron, the new barista taps his ID on the register, the screen flickering to a “Shift Active” status. She steps back, stretching briefly before grabbing her bag from under the counter.

She raises an eyebrow at you. "My coworker is clocking in." Then, with a small, knowing smile—"And class starts in ten." she adds, tilting her head toward the door. "You coming?"

By the time you reach the lecture hall, the remnants of that conversation trail in the back of your mind, overlapping with the notes scrawled hastily in your notebook.

Just as the low hum of voices begins to settle, the amphitheater-style seating rising in clean, sweeping tiers around the central podium. The vast screen at the front remains dim for now and the blackboard is half-covered in chalk when you sit down—trailing equations, half-formed diagrams, the kind of thought process that seems obvious to the professor but makes students squint in collective confusion.

Kira lingers beside you, glancing at the mess of equations crammed into the margins as you flip your notes open.

"You wrote this after the lecture?" she asks, arching a brow.

"Yeah," you admit. "It was—kind of a lot to think about."

A small smirk, but not unkind. "Clearly."

You hesitate, then shift your notebook slightly toward her. "You want to compare?"

Kira’s eyes flicker to yours, then down to the pages, considering. Then, with an ease that shouldn’t surprise you anymore, she slides into the seat next to yours. "Sure."

She flips open her own notes, far neater than yours, and the two of you fall into quiet discussion.

You're so caught up in the exchange that you don’t even notice someone approaching until—

"Alright, I made it—!"

Ilias’ voice cuts in as he drops into the seat beside you, exhaling like he just ran across campus. "Man, you would not believe the morning I’ve had—"

Midway through slinging his bag onto the desk, he pauses, suddenly noticing the third presence.

His gaze flicks to Kira.

Then flicks back to you.

Then to Kira again, slower this time.

And then, with the smooth elegance of a man who has absolutely no idea what’s going on, he leans in slightly and mutters, "Uh–"

You stare at him.

Kira does not react.

"Ilias," you say, deadpan, "this is Kira."

Ilias blinks.

Kira, without looking up from your notes, simply says, "Hi."

There is a long beat of silence.

And then—

"Hi," Ilias says. Then, slightly louder, like the first one didn’t count: "Hi. Hi—yeah, hi.”

You look at Ilias. Ilias is staring at Kira like an idiot.

Eyes wide. Blinking. Lips parted ever so slightly.

You nudge him with your elbow, and he yelps, startled back to life. "Oh, right," he says quickly. "Hi—yeah, hi, um, sorry about—uh—dinner?"

Kira raises an eyebrow. "Dinner?"

Ilias turns red. "No—I mean— dinner–!? Wait, sorry, thats silly– Like, sorry about the, uh, you know—yesterday, the—thing, sorry about the thing."

She blinks at him.

And for the first time in all the time you’ve known him, Ilias actually blushes.

Blushes.

"No, really," he stammers, pushing through. "I— I think your—" His eyes flick over her, scrambling for words. "Your—uh, your penmanship is, um, really cool."

Kira smiles. "Penmanship?"

"Yeah! Yeah, your notes—super neat, I, uh, wish I could—" He gestures vaguely. "Do that. Y'know."

You pinch the bridge of your nose.

Ilias visibly scrambles. "I—I mean, yeah, like. It’s so, uh, readable? And kind of… elegant?"

Kira’s eyebrows lift, eyes glinting with barely-contained amusement. "Are you complimenting my handwriting?"

Ilias looks like he wants to die. "I– I think so, yeah!"

You don’t even try to hold back a snort.

Kira, to her credit, just beams. "Well, thanks. I do take great pride in my ability to write legibly."

Ilias swallows, nodding a little too quickly. "Yeah! Right! Super important skill. Very… uh. Impressive."

Kira, unimpressed, tilts her head. "Uh-huh."

"What’s—what’s your pen made of?" he blurts. "It looks so—so smooth—"

He reaches forward, probably to touch the pen she’s holding.

She slaps his hand away, recoiling like he just committed a federal offense. "What the hell?"

"What?" Ilias blinks, confused. "What’d I do?"

Kira exhales sharply, a quiet laugh escaping before she shakes her head, the corners of her mouth tugging upward. Her eyes glimmer with something between amusement and pity, like she’s watching a cat repeatedly pounce at its own reflection.

"How," she says, voice warm with barely contained laughter, "are you so bad at this?"

Ilias freezes. Mouth opens. Closes. Then, finally, "I don’t—I mean—I just—what even are the—" He gestures vaguely between them, as if that might summon coherence. "Like, is there a—a protocol for this? Should I, uh— I—can I call you sometime or—"

You burst out laughing, loud and awkward.

Ilias swears out loud. Shoots you a disgruntled look.

Kira just shakes her head, amused, and goes back to her notes.

The lecture hall is quiet, save for the scratch of pens and the faint creak of wooden chairs shifting under the weight of their occupants. Afternoon light slants through high windows, casting long, golden streaks across the desks, catching in the curves of glass beakers left forgotten at the edges of the room.

Anaxagoras steps forward, movements precise, measured. His coat moves like the sweep of an ink brush, fluid but deliberate. When he speaks, his voice carries through the space—not loud, but effortless, as if the room itself leans in to listen.

"Before we begin today’s discussion, there is something you should be aware of."

A flicker of interest moves through the room. Kira glances up from where she’s been absently sketching in the margins of her notes. Ilias doesn’t move, but you can feel his attention sharpen beside you.

"An exclusive symposium will be held on the nature of consciousness and spiritual physics," Anaxagoras continues, his tone even. "It is a gathering of scholars at the forefront of these fields. Attendance is strictly by invitation."

His gaze moves, sweeping over the rows of students—and for a fraction of a second, it lingers on you.

Not obvious. Not lingering enough to be called staring. But deliberate. Expectant.

And then it’s gone, moving on without pause.

You straighten your back.

"I have been invited to attend," he continues, "and I have been granted the opportunity to extend that invitation.”

"A select number of students will be considered," he continues, "through an application process. This is not for those content with passive observation, but for those willing to question, to deconstruct, to think beyond the limits imposed by conventional academia."

You flick your pen idly against your notes, already half-dismissing it.

Kira, however, perks up beside you.

"Ohhh," she hums under her breath, just for you to hear. "That sounds kind of amazing."

Ilias, on your other side, leans in slightly. "Alright, so when are you applying?"

"I’m not."

There’s a pause. Then—“Wait. Seriously?”

You glance over to find Ilias actually looking at you, eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "What?" you deadpan.

"I think you’re in denial," he counters. "You say this now, but two weeks from now, I’ll probably find you staring dramatically out a window thinking about it.”

Kira stifles a giggle, ducking her head.

"I just don’t think I would enjoy spending hours listening to a bunch of pompous academics talk in circles," you mutter, doodling absently in the margins of your notes.

"Right, because you hate talking in circles." Ilias snorts. "That’s totally not your favorite thing to do."

You swat at him without looking.

At the front, Anaxagoras continues, his voice smooth and steady as he moves seamlessly into the day’s lecture.

You let your pen trail lazily across the page, letting his voice turn into background noise.

This isn’t something you need to think about.

-> next.

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @fellow-anime-weeb927 @beateater

#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader

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s0rr3l · 6 months ago

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BLACK MYTH: WUKONG OC

Name: Lǐyú (carp)

Age: 25

Height: 5''11 ft/180 cm

Pronouns: They/Them

Story

A traveller out of time and space, Lǐyú finds themselves stranded on Black Wind Mountain, alone and at the mercy of its hostile inhabitants.

Taking pity, the Keeper of Black Wind Mountain takes them in and assigns them the position of <Shrine Caretaker>, a minor position that oversees the upkeep and maintenance of the various shrines within Black Wind Mountain.

Under the elder Keeper’s care, Lǐyú begins to familiarise themselves with their new circumstances through the Keeper's guidance. Inbetween duties, Lǐyú takes the time to learn and record the world about them in an effort to understand and survive.

This routine persists for several weeks, until the arrival of a certain monkey.

Lǐyú is an optional (Companion) to the [Destined One], who may join your party after accepting the request of the Keeper of the Black Wind Mountain.

Accepting Lǐyú as a (Companion) will unlock their personal quest <<Long Way From Home>>.

((More info about their stats/abilities below!))

Stats

Although physically weak, Lǐyú is a valuable companion of the Destined One and shows surprising tenacity against the challenges of this new world.

(Companion) Lǐyú has 5 stats to upgrade from LVL 1. Stamina Recovery Rate and Damage Reduction stats are unlocked after clearing Chapter 1 ‘Black Wind, Red Fire’.

Abilities

[Luck that goes against the Heavens]

Lǐyú's fortunes are known to dip and rise in unusual patterns.

While they often come across opportunities to gather precious materials, ingredients or equipment, it is always accompanied by mortal peril.

Their Luck is so unnatural that it defies the natural balance of the world, so fortuitous encounters often come with the risk of danger in an effort to suppress their Luck.

(Companion) Lǐyú has MAX LVL [LUCK].

Can inflict one of the following debuffs to enemies within their range: Increased Miss Rate, Reduced Critical Hit chance, Reduced Movement Speed, Reduced Resistance to the Four Banes

Grants one buff to allies, 2 buffs to Companions (for more information, please see BUFFS page)

Increase the rate of EQUIPMENT/LOOT drops and discovery of precious ingredients/materials

Due to their nature, (Companion) Lǐyú will influence the [Destined One]'s own [LUCK].

Warning: should Lǐyú enter the STRESSED state, their [LUCK] will start to indiscriminately target allies and foes alike.

Will attract enemy AGGRO within a certain radius if not using Stealth

Allies and Companions will be afflicted with one random debuff: Increased Miss Rate, Reduced Critical Hit chance, Reduced Movement Speed, Reduced Resistance to the Four Banes

Introduces random environmental hazards

It is recommended that the [Destined One] keep Lǐyú's STRESS to a minimum.

Skills

(Companion) Lǐyú should come equipped with the following skills prior to joining the [Destined One].

Shrine Caretaker: Taught the basic upkeep and care of shrine maintenance. Allows Lǐyú to access the hub-world like the [Destined One].

Stealth: the ability to sneak past lesser yaoguais. However, skill will increases STRESS on Lǐyú. Can be upgraded.

Additional skills can be attained or unlocked through the completion of quests or advancing the main storyline.

TIP: Lǐyú is purely a support type (Companion) with little to no attack skills and prone to causing unexpected changes to main storyline. May the [Destined One] keep this in mind.

Spells

Due to limited Mana, Lǐyú cannot perform any spells.

Upon the completion of the <<Teacher for a Day>> quest, Lǐyú can begin training to increase mana and unlock [Spells].

In Chapter 3 ‘White Snow, Ice Cold’, Lǐyú can trigger the optional side quest <<Teacher for a Day>> upon meeting (Companion) Zhu Bajie.

Curios

Due to limited space, can only equip one curio at a time.

Upon meeting the Yin Tiger or upgrading to Legendary quality armour, Lǐyú can increase their curio slot by +1.

Current slot:

Wind Chime: Rare quality. Found while exploring the ruins of an old temple at the bottom of the mountain. Slightly increases movement speed. “Hark, the wind rises! That yaoguai must be coming this way!”

Inventory

(Companion) Lǐyú starts off with 10 inventory slots. These are their starting equipment:

Journal: Never seems to run out of paper. Lǐyú can use this item to access daily observations, enemy weaknesses and important landmarks/discovered secret realm locations.

Gourd: unknown quality, gifted by Yuan Shoucheng. A mysterious item that will grow along with it's user, has yet to show any special abilities. Can be upgraded.

Backpack: unknown quality, bigger inside than out. Carries all of Lǐyú's belongings.

Smartphone: rare quality. A keepsake from Lǐyú's world. Interacting with this item with the [Destined One] can trigger side quest <<???>>. “What a marvelous device!”

Fruit Leather: peach-flavoured. A consumable item that can raise the [Destined One]'s favourability.

Equipment

(Companion) Lǐyú starts off with the following equipment:

Old Temple Garb: rare quality. Gifted by the Keeper of Black Wind Mountain, who claims it was left behind by the previous Shrine Caretaker.

Cotton wristwraps: common quality. Plain but sturdy, in surprisingly good condition.

Cotton legwraps: common quality. Plain but sturdy, in surprisingly good condition.

Sneakers: unknown quality, but undeniably tough. A foreign brand gifted by their best friend. Claims to be both water-proof and fire-proof.

Hoodie: rare quality. A limited edition print from Lǐyú's favourite brand. Offers no defensive abilities but brings a sense of comfort. Can decrease the rate of Lǐyú's STRESS.

Quest Objectives

<<Long Way From Home>>

Lǐyú's final objective is to return to their original world. This can be completed by first completing main quest <<Revive Sun Wukong>>

(This objective is an optional side quest available to the [Destined One]. It is not compulsory for the completion of main quest <<Revive Sun Wukong>>)

<<Hug Auntie>> (must complete main quest objective)

<<Eat hotpot with friends>> (must complete main quest objective)

<<Red String of Fate>>

Secret side quest that triggers randomly depending on the relationship status between (Companion) Lǐyú and the [Destined One].

To unlock post-game content, the [Destined One] must complete main quest objective <<Revive Sun Wukong>>.

Endings

There are currently three available endings depending on whether the [Destined One] will complete Lǐyú's personal quest <<Long Way From Home>>

<<Till We Meet Again>>

Normal ending. Lǐyú returns to their original world after the [Destined One] fufills their destiny.

<<Promise>>

Secret Ending. Unlocked after the successful completion of the following side quests:

<<Long Way From Home>>

<<Red String of Fate>>

<<Fishbowl>>

Secret Ending. Unlocked after the successful completion of the following side quests:

<<Red String of Fate>>

<<???>>

Depending on the [Destined One]'s actions during CHAPTER 3, can trigger side quest <<???>>

(To achieve this ending, the [Destined One] must fail to complete side quest <<Long Way From Home>>)

#s0rr3l's art #black myth wukong #black myth wukong oc #liyu #destined one x oc #liyu x yezi #ahhhh yay ibgot refs now #*grabs them* look at my child aren’t they great #ive got 0 skills at writing but i wanted to keep track of liyu's everything while i flesh out backstory #so i thought an rpg game page description would be cool #will write more!! just… that means outlines. and DRAFTS #nlkljnjlnhnnnng hyperfixation save me

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mickandmusings · 10 months ago

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i. true blue

part one of the 'hangman & honey' series!

summary: The summer he turned nine, Jake was convinced he'd spend it like any other summer: riding his bike down dirt roads with all the other kids, lending a helping hand on the family farm, and brushing up on his backyard football. His life hits a tailspin when a new family moves into the house just down the road, leading him to a friendship and feelings he never saw coming.

word count: 4.5k

warnings: cute childhood friends to lovers, small sections of angst, tragic backstories and southern traditions. primarily self indulgent. this is written by someone from the most southern small town imaginable, so it's written with love as an ode to my own hometown, enjoy. <3

In the great state of Texas, just a few hours south of Austin, sits a small town called Haven. It was a fitting name for a town so picturesque-miles and miles of endless farmland, stunning sunsets and sunrises, and the beauty of the state's flora and fauna. However, in all it's Southern small-town glory, it was home to little else. There was the hub of activity 'downtown'-the one school system, a family-owned restaurant, a convenience store, the First Baptist Church of Haven, and a hair salon. On the outskirts of Haven sat a large patch of barbed-wire fenced farmland, one that spanned most of the remaining parts of the small town, more than the eye could see. It was large enough to have its own unpaved road-Seresin Farm Road-and was home to only one house, the Seresin family house.

The Seresin family had owned the land long before the turn of the century, and had been passed down from generation to generation ever since. The Seresin's owned much of Haven to begin with, their farmland excluded. Most of the businesses rented their buildings from Jacob Seresin Sr., with the exception of the school system and the church. Despite their seemingly looming hand of ownership, you'd never know they held power at all. Mrs. Janet Seresin-first lady of the Seresin estate-was known as the town egg lady, always more than happy to pass out dozens of Styrofoam cartons free of charge. She held the unofficial prize of having the best homemade ice cream in all of Haven, and anyone in the small town would attest. Jacob Seresin Sr.-head of the Seresin farm and Janet's husband-was regarded in the same warm fashion. You could find him driving up and down the main street in his trusty red farm truck, often loaded with feed or some kind of good necessary to keep his place up and running. He'd stop and talk to anyone and everyone, literally everyone, he knew. He had been the one to help nearly everyone in his community rebuild after natural disasters, always willing to help someone in need, never asking for anything in return. The Seresin's were Haven's unofficial first family, leaders of sorts, in the small town.

Their son, Jacob Seresin Jr., was elusive and a topic nearly everyone knew to avoid. He had been raised on the family farm, attended the local school, lived and breathed the same life as everyone else, but found himself itching for more. He quickly fell into trouble with the local law, and with a last name like Seresin, he got away with mostly everything, which, perhaps, was his greatest downfall. He had gotten his high school girlfriend-a sweet local girl named Georgia Joann Smith-pregnant their senior year. When she broke the news, he'd taken off in his truck to Kentucky, where it was rumored he still was, looking for something he could never find. Nine months later, Jacob Thomas Seresin III, or 'Jake' as he preferred, was born, healthy, all ten fingers and toes. Just hours after birth, his mother fell gravely ill, and made her own swift exit in death. She left behind only one thing-her son. Jacob Sr. and Janet took him in with no questions asked, raising him as any grandparent would. Jake, luckily, seemed to inherit more of his mother than his father. His blonde hair gleamed in the Texas sun, turning almost gold in the heat-filled summers. His green eyes held his kindness-a sharp contrast to his father's dark brown eyes that seemed to only hold his anger. Jake bore Georgia's gentle soul, her wide smile and her witty personality, she lived on in Jake entirely. So when the new family moved into the empty house at the end of Seresin Farm Road, Janet had zero hesitations in sending Jake down to welcome their new neighbors to Haven. She'd spent the entire morning making homemade bread, having to occasionally swat away Jake's hands from the counter or tell him to completely get out of the kitchen while the loaves cooled. After lunch, she handed him a well-wrapped loaf and gave him instructions to take it to the newcomers, which Jake did without complaint. He'd placed the bread into the metal basket attached to his royal blue bike, trekking down their long and winding driveway. When he'd arrived nearly ten minutes later, he had parked his bike on the edge of the lawn, against a towering oak tree. He made a point to kick the dirt off his shoes, not wanting to track it onto the seemingly freshly painted, white wrap-around porch. He lifts his first to wrap against the door, one with a glass cut-out, much different than the screen door on his farmhouse. He fixed his windswept hair in the reflection of the window, remembering Granny's words of always looking well put together when meeting new people. The door's lock clicked, and when Jake looked up to see the man or lady of the house, he instead had to look down, finding a girl who couldn't be much younger than him. Her eyes were wide as they stared up at him, hair pushed out of her face with colorful butterfly shaped clips. Her eyes were captivating, and all of Jake's intended Southern charm had flown out the window. She smiles shyly at Jake, wondering why this stranger was on her porch.

"Uh, this is for you-or,uh-your parents," his arm extends the bread as he stammered. "My Granny made it, we live at the farm on the end of the road, we-uh, she-wanted to invite you to the neighborhood. I'm Jake."

Jake stuck out a clammy hand for her to shake, and winced internally. His Pawpaw would be reprimanding him if he saw this-it wasn't polite to make a lady shake your hand. Shaking hands was for business deals, and Jake had just shook her hand like she'd bought his show heifer. Jake's mind was clouded for a reason he couldn't explain, and he wasn't thinking straight. The girl blushed and smiled slightly.

"I'm Honey," her voice was quiet but pronounced. "That's not actually my name, but everyone calls me Honey, so, you can call me Honey. Um, is your house the one with the big magnolia tree in the front?"

Jake nodded quickly. Her eyes widened, shimmering with something Jake couldn't make out. Quietness settled over them before Honey spoke again.

"Is that your bike?" Honey points at his bike leaning against the tree.

"Yeah! Most kids ride their bikes everywhere here."

"C-Could I ride with you, maybe?" Her voice was suddenly shy, no longer meeting Jake's eyes. "It's just summer and I-I don't know anyone yet and-"

"Yes!" Jake cut her off, and mentally scolded himself, but as Honey flashed him a wide smile he couldn't find himself caring. She tossed the bread on the table just inside the door, slid on her purple jelly sandals and shut the door behind her. She led Jake to the empty garage, only full of empty moving boxes and a bright yellow bike. As she led them out of the garage and towards the edge of the yard, Jake's eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her.

"Shouldn't you let your momma know you left, leave her a note or somethin'?"

Honey's eyes cut to her feet, her smile fading.

"She won't care, I'll be back before she will. S-She's a nurse, works the night shift at the old folks home in the next town over."

Jake nodded but said nothing, pedaling off on his own bike to lead her back down to his farm.

From that moment on, Jake and Honey were practically inseparable. The entire summer was spent with a blue bike parked next to a yellow one, swimming in the creek behind Jake's house, and running around the farm with nothing but their imagination and makeshift stick swords. Jake's Border Collie, John Wayne, became a frightening dragon of their imagination, and Honey taught Jake how to make flower crowns from the wildflowers in the fields. Janet had grown fond of looking out her front window to see Honey sitting next to Jake under her magnolia tree, reading her Boxcar Children book as much as she could with Jake chattering next to her. Even when Jake was busy with his farm chores, Honey would sit placidly under the tree, enjoying the occasional breeze as she read her book of the week. After the long summer, Jacob Sr. had started referring to it as "Honey's tree," and he'd laugh to himself every time he saw the girl sitting quietly under it. Both Janet and Jacob Sr. loved having the sweet but shy girl around, especially when they found out that she spent most of her time alone in that house down the road. On the last night before summer ended, Jake and Honey sat under the tree, swatting at mosquitoes as the Texas sun set. Jake looked over at Honey, who had finally put her book down, and asked:

"Why do you like this tree so much?"

She smiled a smile that Jake knew to be half-hearted and brought her knees to her chest, her chin resting on her kneecaps.

"It reminds me of home."

Honey had moved from her tiny town in Mississippi that summer, and she often talked of her home there, the friends and family she'd left behind, how her mother had left when her grandmother died, looking for a fresh start.

"My Gram had a tree like this in her yard, and she'd babysit me when Mom worked," Honey's eyes rested on the ground, where she was picking grass from the ground around her bare feet. "She'd read to me a lot, and it was my favorite place in the world. Sometimes when I read here it sort of feels like I never left."

Jake simply nodded, thinking of the mother he'd only met in pictures, and the grandparents he wouldn't trade for the world's richest man. Neither of them spoke a word about the statement she made, but they understood what it meant to both of them. Even at age nine, Jake was in love with the girl next door, even if he didn't know it yet. From the first year they met and every year after, Jake and Honey found themselves under the magnolia blossoms. Well, almost every year...

As the budding teens entered into their freshman year at Haven High School, the differences between their personalities became more apparent than ever. Jake was the ideal all-American southern boy: athletic, outgoing, someone who guys high-fived in the hallway, and one that girls would be late to class just to get a glimpse of. Jake was never one to let the attention get to his head, at least not too much. Sure, he enjoyed the feeling of being liked, and, sure, he could be cocky at times, but he was never the one to bully those completely different from him. Someone like Honey. Honey had always been quiet, shy by nature, and the very definition of an advanced student. She was beloved by her teachers, but not as well received by her classmates. With a town as small as Haven, it was either incredibly easy or incredibly hard to make friends, and for Honey, it seemed to be the latter. It wasn't as if Honey was perpetually odd-she wasn't homely or weird, just quiet. Jake was the only one who knew about her boisterous laugh that could be prompted with his corny jokes, or her wild streak, like sneaking into his bedroom window after she and her mother got into yet another fight.

At the beginning of the school year, she spent her breaks talking to Jake, and she sat next to him at lunch. He'd let her ramble about her current read, and he'd talk about yesterday's football practice. She'd leave with the promise to come around for dinner, Mrs. Janet was making her favorite. However, when football season started, and Jake had made an infamous saving play at one of the first few games, he had peaked in popularity. Honey found herself on the outside of his swarm of new friends, listening to him talk to his football buddies while the girls that followed shot her sympathetic or lethal glances. She'd ignored it at first, simply enjoying her paperback until Jake could spare himself a minute to talk to her. Eventually, the bell would sound before she even got the chance to say 'hello' to him, and, with her heart suddenly heavy, she'd make her way to class. The routine lasted for weeks and she'd find herself waiting by the phone, figuring Jake would call her after football practice, but she'd only be greeted with silence through the night. After the second week of no contact, she decided to leave Jake and his new friends to their own devices, opting to sit in the library for breaks, taking her lunch in the empty courtyard. It was like Jake hadn't noticed her absence at all, at least in her mind, but Jacob Sr. and Janet noticed immediately. They had missed her bright aura that lit up their farmhouse, watching as she greeted the dogs as she parked her now lilac bike in the driveway. Janet missed her companionship as Honey would watch her sew patches onto Jacob Sr. and Jake's clothes, and her husband missed catching up with her over dinner. The only time they'd see her anymore would be on Friday nights, at Jake's games. She'd sit in the bleachers with them, decked out in her navy blue and gold, watching intently as the boys in jerseys made their way up and down the field. At the end of the game, she'd say her goodbyes before Jake would find his grandparents and they wouldn't see her until the following Friday. In typical grandparent fashion, Janet had assumed Jake had done something. Her grandson was kind, gentlemanly, but he also had a sharp tongue and a big head, which he sometimes used in malice. So, over dinner one Thursday, Janet finally dipped her toes into the water.

"Maybe you should talk to Honey after the game tomorrow, she always seems to slip away before you two get to catch up."

Jake's eyebrows furrowed as he wiped his mouth, looking up at his grandmother.

"Honey? At a football game? Granny, I don't really think that's her scene. She hates when we have a pep rally at school, I don't think she's going to a football game voluntarily."

Jacob Sr. and Janet give each other a knowing look across the table.

"How blind are ya, son?" Jacob Sr.'s voice is accusatory.

Jake looks up from his plate, looking over at his grandfather with a confused look.

"She's been at every game this season, Jake," his grandmother's voice speaks, much softer than her husbands. "She sits next to us in the stands. When was the last time you two talked? Just the two of you?"

Jake scoffs at his grandmother's accusation, his head shaking as he tried to wrack his brain for the last time he'd talked to his best friend.

"Maybe a week or so ago, I-I can't remember."

"That's a damn shame," Jacob Sr.'s voice grumbled. "She's a sweet girl, smart too. I know she doesn't run the same circles as you and your new buddies, but she's a good friend Jake, and you're treatin' her as if she doesn't exist. She still comes to all of those games. I'm not tellin' you what to do, but maybe give her a call, and pray to the Lord above that she wants to talk to your dumb ass."

Jake's heart sank as he carried out his nightly farm chores that night, thinking of how he had treated Honey. He knew what the other girls in the group said about her, how she was 'quiet' and 'weird,' often making comments that were completely false or disrespectful. Jake always shut the comments down, but found himself not bothering to talk to the one person who had always been there for him. Was it his fear of his new friends thinking he was weird? Did he think he wouldn't be surrounded by his football buddies if they saw him talking to someone like Honey? As Jake shut the barn door, he sighed, deciding he didn't care about either. Honey had been his friend for years, long before high school or popularity, or stupid teenage rules. She'd never changed, she was still the girl he fell in love with all those years ago. That night, as he sat by the phone thinking of what to say, he'd heard the faintest knock on his door. He figured it was his Granny coming to tell him goodnight, so he made quick work of making his way to the door and flinging it open. Instead of his grandmother, Honey stood in front of him. She held an algebra textbook in her arms, her eyes never meeting his, her arms crossed protectively. Her eyes were red rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks staining her cheeks. She'd been crying, and Jake knew Honey all too well, her tears had nothing to do with the algebra assignment. Something had happened to her.

"Uh, hey, I-I know it's late, and I didn't want to bother you, but I've been workin' on this stupid algebra assignment for three hours, and i-it's not making a lick of sense. You-You're the only person I know who could help me, so if you could just show me how to do one, I'll be out of your hair. I know you have a game tomorrow, and you should really sleep-"

Honey was rambling, picking the skin around her fingernails, she was nervous. It shattered his heart in his chest, he could never remember a time when she was nervous around him.

"No, no, you're fine, Honey. C'mere."

He opened the door wide for her to come in. She nodded in thanks, hovering awkwardly in the space between his bed and his desk. Any other time she'd plop herself down on his plaid comforter, all but curling into the sheets and falling asleep. Now, she didn't know what to do. She hadn't spoken to him in weeks, and he was different now. He wasn't just Jake, her Jake, he was Jake Seresin, up and coming star of their hometown football team, someone that a person like her should avoid in the hallway, someone that shouldn't even be talking to her.

He pushed the chair of his desk out for her, figuring she'd feel more comfortable there. She laid her textbook and notebook out flat, opening the book to the dozens of equations she couldn't make out. Honey was incredibly smart, but as her math classes advanced, she found herself staring at her own notes in utter confusion.

"Um, so, this is on polynomials," she started. "But I couldn't even tell you what a fuckin' polynomial is and I'm starting to lose my mind."

Jake quickly noted the physical manifestation of her worry-her hair messy with the way she had been running her hands through it, the chipped nail polish on her nails, and her chewing on her bottom lip. His heart ached, how had he not noticed her struggling? They were in the same class, she sat two chairs in front of him.

"Honey, I'm sorry."

She didn't even spare him a look.

"It's not your fault I'm stupid, Jake."

Jake took her arm in a light hold, turning her to look at him.

"I'm not talkin' about algebra, and you're not stupid, first of all. You're one of the smartest people I know. I'm talkin' about the way I've been actin'. It's not fair to you, I've been an ass. I've been ignoring you at school, treatin' you as if you aren't even there. You've come to all my games and I didn't even know. Thanks for that, by the way, but, I mean it, Honey. I'm sorry."

Honey shrugs, her face sprouting a faint pink blush.

"'S fine, people grow up, move on. You don't have to apologize for leaving me for people more like-minded. I get it, I don't necessarily fit the mold of your new friend group. It's okay. They seem to really like you though, and you seem happy. Plus Sam is...she's pretty. I get why you wouldn't want me hanging around."

"Sam?" Jake's voice was confused. Sam was a cheerleader, and she was friends with the girlfriends of his teammates. They had a passing conversation from time to time, but they weren't dating. "What're you talkin' about?"

Honey's brow furrowed, tapping her pencil's eraser against her book.

"Sam Vance told me like the third or fourth week of school that you were together, around the same time we stopped talking. I just assumed that was why you didn't want to talk anymore. It's sort of the reason I've kept my distance."

Jake's blood boiled, he was not dating Sam Vance. She was heinously mean, even to her own 'friends.'

"Honey," Jake started, his eyes full of sympathy, his flash of anger flickering. "I'm not dating her, not by a long shot. I don't know why she lied to you, I've never said more than a few sentences to one another, she's...mean. She's vicious, I'm sorry."

Honey's head only shook in a nonchalant manner. She was good at this, pushing people away, Jake had noticed it over the years. After years of practically raising herself, those she loved either abandoning her or leaving her in death, she expected everyone to leave. Honey herself knew that someday Jake would leave her, just like everyone else, so when he pulled away, she didn't bother trying to stop it, no matter how it hurt.

"Stop that. I know what I did was shitty, and it seemed like I didn't want you there, but this isn't me dumping you off, Honey. I swear. And I know something's wrong, you're not crying because of a homework assignment. If it's because of what happened between us, I'll do anythin' to make it up to you-"

Honey's bottom lip trembles, her eyes lining with tears as she shakes her head. She looks up at Jake, pain clouding her usually kind eyes.

"You don't have to worry about me, Jake."

"No I don't," he stated honestly. "I want to, Honey. You're my best friend, and you're hurtin'. You may not need me, but I want to help you. I know I haven't been a good friend, the worst actually, but talk to me, please."

Honey looks at her lap, bringing her knees to her chest in an action of protection Jake was familiar with-every time she has to get vulnerable, it's her defensive action, as if curling up in a ball would save her from hurt.

"For what it's worth," Honey started, her voice small and quiet. "I really don't understand polynomials, like, at all. But you're right, it's more than that." She pauses and takes a deep breath, Jake's heart shattering. Her inability to speak freely, the bags under her eyes, her nervous habit at the forefront-he'd never seen her so tired, so heavy.

"About a week ago, I came home and all of my mom's stuff was gone. I mean, all of it, her bedroom was completely empty. She left a note on the kitchen table." Her eyes focus on the Cowboys poster on the back of Jake's door, her eyes dulling. "She decided to move in with her boyfriend, and he-he doesn't even know she has a child, so she left the house for me. Which is fine, we never got along anyway, it's just been...lonely. She pays the bills and leaves money, so it's not like I'm fending for myself, but, it just really sucks she doesn't really care about me. I guess it shouldn't, but-" She pauses, eyes dazed out, silent tears running down her cheeks. "Sorry for the soapbox, I just, it all is piling up, and now I'm crying over polynomials." She laughs dryly. "Just, God I've missed you, Jake. I sort of pushed myself away from you because I thought you'd found people you'd rather spend your time with. I'm nothing like you interest wise, and-"

"Stop putting yourself down, I won't stand for it." Jake looks at her as she laughs in a quiet manner, hands wiping away her silent tears. Jake moves directly in front of her, making eye contact. "I mean it. You're ten times cooler than any of them. Most of the guys on the team, pretty laid back, cool, but all they ever want to talk about is football and how hot so-and-so is, and their girlfriends? Worse, by a thousand, at least most of them. I'd like to think I'm not that shallow, right?"

Jake Seresin was a lot of things, but shallow was not one of them.

"Please hang out with me tomorrow? I'll have Granny pick you up for school. You and I are going to talk until the bell rings, you've got to catch me up on that Scarlett girl in that book you were reading last time we talked. I'm sitting with you at lunch because Granny made me promise to bring you lunch, and you gotta catch me up on last week's Dawson's Creek episode. Then I'll see you at the game, and we can swing by The Burger Basket, you, me, burgers, fries, a strawberry shake for you and a chocolate one for me."

Honey laughed, nodding her head, her heart warming as she heard Jake ask for the things she thought he found annoying-her ranting about the books she was reading, or the TV shows she was watching. She wiped her tears, standing and hugging the blonde boy who knew her better than herself sometimes. Her chest felt lighter, it felt good to be known so incredibly well. He squeezed her tight before she let go. (Jake never, ever, let go first.) She sits back in the desk chair, sliding in next to Jake, her head falling on his shoulder.

"So," she spoke after a moment of silence. "Polynomials?"

Jake chuckles.

"Let's make a deal, Hon. I explain to you how to solve these equations, and you explain to me what the hell Shakespeare is talking about in those English assignments for Mrs. Elmer's class?"

Honey laughs, she and Jake were both good students, but in two very different subjects.

"You've got yourself a deal, J."

Jake smirks, taking the pencil that sat in the crevice of the book, his scratchy handwriting across her paper as he attempted to explain. In a matter of minutes, Honey began to understand, a smile forming as she grasped the concepts. Jake's green eyes met hers in the light of his desk lamp, glimmering, and the breath in his chest catches, his heart hammering. His palms sweat around the pencil and he can't look away from her.

"You alright, Seresin?" Honey's voice is laced with humor, and it snaps him out of his trance.

"Y-Yeah."

Jake had lied, he had just realized, for the first time since Jake had known Honey, he was beginning to see her as something more than just his best friend. When he looked at Honey, he noticed something he'd never noticed before, she was beautiful.

#jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #top gun imagine #jake hangman seresin #hangman x reader #hangman imagine #requests

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sheriffaxolotl · 3 months ago

Text

Rough Hands and Gentle Strokes (Chapter 1) Arthur Morgan x Reader

Summary:

In the rugged wilderness outside of Blackwater, a hardened outlaw crosses paths with a woman who challenges everything he’s ever known. A kind-hearted and resilient art teacher, she bears the weight of the world’s judgment, especially regarding a woman’s place in it. As their lives intertwine, he struggles with feelings he can’t make sense of, questioning his very purpose. In a world of harsh realities, can he dare to let someone in? And will she allow herself to soften enough to find love where she least expects it? Together, they come to heal, challenge each other, and discover what it truly means to fight for something worth living for.

Additional Tags: Romance, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Pre-Blackwater Massacre (Red Dead Redemption), Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Sexism

Chapter 1: The Touch That Lingers

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The sun hung high over the quiet town of Willoughby Creek, its golden rays dancing over the bustling main street. Children’s laughter floated through the air, mingling with the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the hum of distant conversation. Arthur Morgan tugged his hat lower over his eyes, squinting against the glare as he guided his horse, Boadicea, toward the general store. He wasn’t planning to linger—just pick up supplies and get moving. The less time spent around people, the better.

Compared to Blackwater, Willoughby Creek felt like a world apart. Where Blackwater thrummed with the energy of a growing town, a hub of commerce and the occasional confrontation, Willoughby Creek was still finding its rhythm—quiet, more laid-back, with a slower pace of life. The folks here went about their business in a way that reminded Arthur of the earlier days of civilization, before progress changed everything. A lot more open space, fewer buildings, and none of the modern hustle and bustle. In some ways, it suited him. But that didn’t mean he felt like sticking around long.

The creaking of an old wooden sign as it swayed in the wind drew his attention for a moment, but he quickly shook it off, focusing on the task at hand. He wasn’t here to get lost in thoughts of how things used to be—he had a job to do.

But as he passed the edge of the small park by the church, something made him pause. A group of children sat cross-legged on the grass, their faces alight with concentration as they hunched over wooden easels. In the middle of it all was a woman, her voice soft but carrying a melodic quality that drew his attention. She moved among the children, her skirts brushing the ground as she knelt to examine their work, offering encouragement or gentle advice.

Arthur’s brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard laughter like that—pure, unrestrained, and joyful. It was contagious, and before he knew it, he’d stopped entirely, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mister, you here to join the class?” piped up a small voice.

Arthur’s eyes darted down to a freckled boy staring up at him, a mischievous grin on his face. Arthur shook his head, glancing around as if to make sure no one else had heard.

“Nah, kid. Just passin’ through,” he said gruffly, shifting his weight. “Don’t reckon I’d be much good at somethin’ like this.”

The boy wasn’t deterred. “Aw, c’mon! It ain’t hard. You just gotta try. Here, I can show ya!”

Arthur took a half-step back, his hands coming up in a warding gesture. “Listen, I—”

“Mister!” the boy interrupted, his tone insistent as he grabbed Arthur’s sleeve and gave it a tug. “It’s real easy! Miss Harper says anyone can draw if they give it a shot.”

“Miss Harper?” Arthur repeated, glancing toward the woman now, who was crouched by another child and hadn’t yet noticed the commotion. He was about to gently extricate himself when the boy cupped his hands around his mouth and called out loudly.

“Miss Harper! This man says he can’t draw!”

Arthur groaned inwardly as several heads turned in his direction, including hers. The woman straightened, brushing her hands on her skirt as she approached, her expression curious. Her eyes—clear as a mountain stream—locked onto his, and for a moment, he felt rooted to the spot.

“Oh, now, don’t be shy,” she said with a smile that held both warmth and mischief. “We’ve always got room for one more.”

Arthur shifted awkwardly, one hand scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t think I’d be much good with all that,” he muttered, his voice gruff.

“Nonsense,” she replied, gesturing to an empty spot on the grass. “Art’s not about being good. It’s about trying. Besides, I’m sure the kids would love to have you join us.”

“Yeah, mister! Draw somethin’!” the freckled boy chimed in, tugging on Arthur’s sleeve again.

Arthur sighed, glancing between the boy and the woman, whose expectant gaze didn’t waver. He opened his mouth to protest once more, but the boy’s grin widened as he thrust a piece of paper and a bit of charcoal into Arthur’s hands.

“Here! Just try it!” the boy said.

With a resigned shake of his head, Arthur relented, muttering under his breath as he lowered himself onto the grass. The woman’s smile softened, and she crouched beside him, her presence unexpectedly calming.

“Here,” she said, demonstrating a quick, simple outline of a horse. “Just start with basic shapes. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Arthur’s first attempt was, in his opinion, a disaster. The horse he drew looked more like a lopsided mule, and the weight of so many curious eyes made his hands feel clumsier than usual. He wasn’t used to drawing where anyone could see—his journal was a private refuge, where lines flowed easier without the pressure of an audience. Here, under watchful gazes, it felt like every flaw was magnified. He half-expected the kids to burst out laughing. But when he glanced up, he found the woman studying his sketch with a soft smile.

“It’s got character,” she said. “And look at how strong those lines are. You’ve got a steady hand.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Arthur replied, his voice tinged with self-deprecating humor.

She laughed, a sound that made something in his chest loosen. “I’m not. Art’s about expression, not perfection. And you’ve got plenty of expression here.”

By the end of the lesson, Arthur’s initial awkwardness had faded, replaced by a reluctant sort of enjoyment. The children’s chatter and the woman’s easygoing demeanor had a way of disarming him, and he found himself lingering longer than he’d intended. As the children began to pack up their supplies, she turned to him with a curious tilt of her head.

“Thank you for joining us,” she said. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Arthur, Arthur Morgan,” he replied, adjusting his hat, his voice faltering slightly.

“Well, Arthur, it was a pleasure having you in class. You’ve got an artist’s spirit, whether you realize it or not.”

He snorted softly, brushing a hand over the brim of his hat. “Don’t think anyone’s ever accused me of that before.”

She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. There was a kindness in her face, a softness that felt out of place in a world that seemed to grow harder by the day. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. I’m Miss Harper, by the way. If you’re ever in town again, feel free to stop by. We’re always here on Wednesdays.”

Arthur nodded, tipping his hat politely, but before he turned to leave, his gaze lingered on her for a moment longer. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he noticed. Her hands, pale and delicate, bore faint smudges of charcoal, a small testament to her craft. Her dress was simple but well-made, the soft blue fabric catching the sunlight in a way that reminded him of clear summer skies. A loose strand of hair had slipped from her bun, framing her face in a way that made her look younger, almost carefree.

She didn’t seem like the sort who belonged to a place like this—Willoughby Creek, with its rough edges and tired faces. She carried herself differently, with a quiet confidence and a grace that made Arthur feel a little self-conscious of his own mud-splattered boots and worn clothes.

“Take care, Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice pulling him from his thoughts.

“You too, Miss Harper,” he replied, his voice rougher than he intended.

As he walked back to his horse, he could feel her eyes on him, and for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down, that thought stirred something unfamiliar in him—something cautious, but not unpleasant.

When he swung into the saddle, he hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting back toward the park. The sound of children’s laughter carried on the breeze, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. Miss Harper was crouched beside a young boy now, showing him how to hold a piece of charcoal properly. She laughed at something the boy said, her head tilting back slightly, her expression open and genuine.

Arthur scratched at the back of his neck, feeling an odd warmth creeping over him. It wasn’t like him to pay much attention to anyone, let alone a schoolteacher in a quiet little town he had no real reason to linger in. Yet, as he turned his horse toward the trail, he couldn’t help glancing back once more.

The memory of her smile stuck with him, as did the image of her standing there with the sun framing her like some kind of picture. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name—something warm and unsteady, like the first rays of dawn breaking through the dark.

And as he rode away from Willoughby Creek, he found himself wondering if, perhaps, he might take a little longer to pass through next time.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The ride back to camp was quiet, the sun dipping low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the trail. The gentle clop of his horse’s hooves and the occasional rustle of the trees were the only sounds accompanying him. Arthur kept his eyes on the road ahead, but his mind drifted back to Willoughby Creek, to the park, and to Miss Harper.

It wasn’t often someone stuck with him like that. Most folks he passed through towns barely left an impression. But her, with her calm voice and that unshakable, easy smile, had rooted herself in his mind like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

By the time he reached camp, the sun had sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in hues of deep blue and purple. The gang was scattered about, some gathered around the fire, others tucked away in their tents. Arthur exchanged a few nods and muttered greetings but made a beeline for his own tent. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, not with the thoughts stirring in his head.

Once inside, he lit the small lantern on his makeshift desk and pulled out his journal. The leather-bound book felt familiar in his hands, the pages worn and filled with the fragments of his life—sketches, musings, and bits of poetry he’d never admit to writing. It was his way of making sense of the world, of keeping a piece of himself in a life that seemed to take more than it gave.

He flipped to a fresh page and began writing, his hand moving slowly at first.

“Passed through Willoughby Creek today. Nice enough place. Kids were laughing in the park. Seemed like the kind of town that don’t see much trouble, at least not yet. Met someone too. A teacher. Miss Harper. She said I had an artist’s spirit. Can’t say I know what she meant by that, but she weren’t mocking me, I think. Funny how some folks can see something in you that you don’t see in yourself. Maybe she was just being kind.”

He paused, tapping the pencil against the page. His jaw tightened as he stared at the words. It felt strange to put her down in writing, like it made the memory of her more solid, more real. With a quiet huff, he set the pencil to the side, rubbing the back of his neck.

But instead of closing the journal, his fingers lingered, his mind drifting back to the way she’d looked, standing in the park with the sun on her dress. Without thinking, he reached for the pencil again, the movements of his hand slower, more deliberate this time.

The lines came hesitantly at first—a curve of her face, the loose strand of hair, the faint crinkles around her eyes when she smiled. Arthur wasn’t much for portraits, but there was something about trying to capture her that made him focus in a way he hadn’t in a long time. The memory of her dress, that soft blue, kept coming back to him, and he shaded in the folds, the light catching just so.

When he finally sat back, hours must’ve passed. His fingers ached, and the lantern’s light had dimmed, the flame flickering low. He stared at the page, at the image he’d sketched—a rough rendering of Miss Harper, caught mid-smile, with a faint outline of trees behind her.

He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Damn fool,” he muttered to himself.

His gaze drifted to the small table beside his cot, where a worn, silver-framed photograph stood. Mary. The sight of her smile, frozen forever in that picture, made his chest ache in a way he’d grown used to but never truly stopped feeling. His calloused thumb brushed the edge of the frame, tracing the curves of her face. She had looked at him like that once too, full of hope and possibility, before it all fell apart. Before he let it fall apart.

A familiar weight settled on him, that dull ache of knowing how much he’d lost and how much of it had been his own damn fault. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat stubborn and unmoving, and set the photo back down gently. For a moment, he just stared at it, the silence of the night pressing in around him.

Then his eyes shifted back to the open journal on the desk, to the rough sketch of Miss Harper. The lines weren’t perfect, the proportions a little off, but her smile—he’d gotten that right. It was different from Mary’s, lighter somehow, like a breeze instead of a storm. It wasn’t better, he told himself—just different.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a slow breath as he studied the drawing. That ache in his chest was still there, but now it felt... tempered, softer, like a wound starting to scab over. For the first time in what felt like forever, the thought of tomorrow didn’t feel quite so heavy.

And just before he drifted off, he thought again of Miss Harper’s laugh, of the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t just another shadow passing through. For the first time in a long while, Arthur felt the edges of hope creeping into the corners of his mind. And he didn’t hate it.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

The days passed in the usual rhythm of camp life—chaotic and loud when it needed to be, quiet and tense when it wasn’t. Thursday came and went with a botched supply run outside of Blackwater that ended in an argument over who’d gotten the directions wrong. Friday blurred into a long, cold ride through the mountains with Hosea, chasing down a lead on a gang of highwaymen. By Saturday, Arthur was back at camp, fixing a broken wagon wheel while Dutch rambled about their next big score.

Life didn’t slow down, not for a moment. Yet, in the quiet spaces between the noise, Arthur found his mind wandering back to Willoughby Creek. To her.

It wasn’t deliberate, at least not at first. He’d catch himself thinking about the way her hands moved as she worked, smudged with charcoal but still delicate, or the way the sunlight had lit up her hair, catching on the loose strands.

He’d been cleaning his gun Thursday night when the memory of her voice drifted in, unbidden. “You’ve got an artist’s spirit.” He’d chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head, but the words lingered. What had she seen in him that made her say that? Surely not the man he was now, the man who spent his days riding hard and his nights drowning out the sound of his own thoughts.

On Friday, during a break in the ride with Hosea, Arthur had found himself idly sketching in the dirt with a stick while they rested. The lines he drew made no sense, but his hand kept repeating shapes he didn’t notice until later—curves like the hem of a dress, the outline of a tree, even the faintest hint of a smile. Hosea had teased him about looking distracted, but Arthur just grunted in reply and went back to saddling his horse.

By Saturday afternoon, as he worked on the wagon wheel, he caught himself staring off into the distance. It was a fleeting thing, just a moment of stillness in the midst of camp chaos, but in that quiet, he wasn’t in camp at all. He was back in Willoughby Creek, standing under the shade of those trees, hearing the laughter of children and watching her crouched beside a boy, guiding his hand as he drew.

“Arthur! You listening to me?” Dutch’s voice snapped him back, sharp and impatient.

“Yeah,” Arthur replied, shaking himself out of it. “I’m listenin’.”

As the days passed, Arthur tried to push the thought of her from his mind. There was work to be done, things to keep him occupied—patrolling, hunting, keeping an eye on the camp. But in the back of his mind, she lingered, like a quiet hum, always present.

Monday morning found him sharpening his knife by the fire, his thoughts drifting once again to Willoughby Creek. He wondered if the park was still the same, if the children still laughed and ran through the grass. His hand paused mid-motion as he remembered how she’d looked at him, so calm and steady, and how he’d felt like just another drifter passing through. Yet, something about the way she hadn’t turned away when he spoke to her, how she’d seemed interested, had made him feel... noticed.

The sound of a twig snapping nearby brought him back to the present. He glanced up, seeing John and Bill coming back from the river with supplies. Arthur gave them a quick nod, but his mind was elsewhere. His hand returned to the knife, but it wasn’t the blade he was focused on. He found himself absentmindedly carving small, jagged shapes into the wood. Faint outlines of trees and curves that looked a lot like the one he’d seen on her dress.

Tuesday came, and with it, another long ride out to check on the progress of a deal with a neighboring gang. Arthur kept his focus on the job at hand, but as the hours passed, he couldn’t help but feel the distance between himself and the men he rode with. Their conversations felt distant, like noise he couldn’t quite tune into. The laughter, the insults, the stories of past misdeeds—none of it really reached him. He was there, but not fully.

He found himself scanning the landscape, the sparse trees, and distant hills, as if searching for something—or someone—that wasn’t part of the life he had. His mind was somewhere else, half-wishing he were back on that road to Willoughby Creek, wondering if she might be walking down the street, or sitting in the park again, perhaps drawing quietly in the afternoon sun.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, Arthur could feel the weight of it, the pull in his chest. The thought of returning to Willoughby Creek was on his mind constantly, as if his body had already decided. He told himself he was just passing through, that there was no harm in a quick stop—just another day of rest on a long journey.

But deep down, something had shifted. He wasn’t sure if it was the pull of her smile, or the way she’d spoken to him, or the feeling that there might still be something good left in the world for someone like him. But he knew he couldn’t keep pushing it aside.

The morning light on Wednesday was crisp, and the air smelled different—fresher, almost. He saddled his horse with the usual motions, but this time, they felt deliberate. There was a purpose in his steps that hadn’t been there before.

As the camp began to stir with activity, Arthur rode out, his mind already miles ahead, heading toward Willoughby Creek once more.

He didn’t know what he was looking for, exactly, or if he would even find her there. But the thought of seeing her again, of hearing her voice, filled him with a nervous anticipation that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

And for the first time in days, his heart beat with something resembling hope. He didn’t know where it would lead, or if he would regret it. But for now, he was content to let that small, foolish hope guide him toward something he couldn’t quite name.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────° The ride was long, the familiar landscape blurring past him, but Arthur felt none of the usual impatience. His mind wasn’t occupied with the weight of the past or the worry of what the future might bring. Instead, it was filled with thoughts of Willoughby Creek, the sound of children’s laughter, and the faint memory of her smile. Each mile felt like an unwritten story, one he wasn’t sure he was ready to live—but it was pulling him in anyway.

As the afternoon wore on, the town’s silhouette finally appeared in the distance. It looked just as he remembered—quiet, unassuming, with the same rows of buildings, the same dusty streets, and the same park tucked at the heart of it. The closer he got, the more he felt a strange flutter in his chest, like a bird trapped in a cage, beating against the bars. He’d come here once before, without much thought or expectation. But now…

Arthur slowed his horse as he rode into the heart of the town, giving the familiar buildings a cursory glance. His heart rate picked up as he approached the park, the place where he had met her. The children were still there, running around in the sun, their laughter filling the air. But he was looking for something else.

He dismounted, the soft thud of his boots hitting the ground drowned out by the noise of the bustling park. Arthur scanned the area, his gaze landing on the familiar figures of mothers, fathers, and townsfolk, but not her.

For a moment, he considered leaving, just turning around and heading back to camp. It wasn’t like he’d promised anything—hell, he hadn’t even told her he was coming back. But something told him he had to stay, even if it was just for a little while longer.

And then, as if by fate, there she was.

Miss Harper was standing near the edge of the park, crouched down beside a child, guiding his hand as he drew. Her soft blue dress fluttered in the wind, and her hair—loose and wild in the breeze—seemed to shimmer like sunlight through the trees. For a moment, Arthur just stood there, watching her, feeling the weight of something both familiar and foreign stir inside him. He hadn’t expected to feel this nervous, to feel his heart race like it did when he was face-to-face with something he wanted but didn’t know how to reach.

She looked up, her eyes catching his almost immediately. A soft gasp escaped her lips, quickly followed by a tentative smile.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice warm and surprised. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

For a moment, Arthur couldn’t find his words. He’d imagined this moment a hundred times over the past week, but now that it was here, he felt strangely tongue-tied. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other.

“Didn’t mean to surprise ya,” he said gruffly, scratching the back of his neck. “Figured I’d pass through.”

She smiled again, and it was like a weight had been lifted off his chest. “Well, I’m glad you did.” She gestured to the empty space beside her. “I’m just showing this young man how to make a proper tree. You’re welcome to join us.”

Arthur glanced at the child she was speaking to, a boy no older than eight or nine, holding a piece of chalk in his small hand. He looked up at Arthur with wide eyes before quickly looking back to Miss Harper.

“I’m no artist,” Arthur muttered, his gaze flicking back to Miss Harper, who raised an eyebrow playfully.

“Not yet,” she said, her voice light, teasing. “Come on. I already know you have a steady hand.”

Arthur hesitated, but the offer was genuine, and the warmth in her eyes made him take a step forward. He crouched down beside them, his large hands seeming out of place beside the small child, but he did as she asked, picking up a piece of chalk and tracing the outline of a tree on the pavement. It was simple, nothing special—but it was enough.

For a long while, they worked in silence. The child drew beside them, occasionally looking up at Arthur’s rough attempt at a tree and giggling. Miss Harper’s soft voice would occasionally offer guidance, and Arthur found himself listening to her without realizing it. Her words, like everything else about her, seemed to settle into him, easy and natural, like the feeling of home he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

The peace between them stretched on, the quiet hum of the afternoon blending with the sound of chalk on stone. Arthur’s mind was surprisingly clear, filled only with the image of the tree he’d drawn—a simple, crooked line, but something about it felt... right. He caught himself smiling, despite his usual grimness. It was easy here, in this moment, with her, surrounded by children and the laughter that filled the air.

But just as he thought he might finally relax, a voice cut through the air, sharp and unwelcome.

“That’s enough, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand froze mid-stroke, the chalk slipping from his fingers and falling to the ground. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as a man in a long coat and flat cap approached them, his gaze fixed firmly on Miss Harper. The man was stocky, his chest puffed out like he carried the weight of the world, and his tone was anything but friendly.

Miss Harper looked up, her smile faltering just slightly. “Excuse me, sir?”

The man jabbed a finger toward the group of children, his face contorting in a mix of disdain and authority. “It’s improper, you know,” he said, his voice dripping with condescension. “For a woman like you to be out here, teaching them... especially teaching these girls. It’s one thing for them to learn how to read a bit of writing, but this—this nonsense, drawing and such—is no place for a lady.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened at the man’s words, something dark flickering in his chest. He could feel his muscles tensing, ready to rise and say something, but Miss Harper was already speaking, her voice calm but firm.

“I’m not teaching them nonsense,” she replied, standing up straight, her gaze unwavering. “I’m teaching them to create, to express themselves. There’s nothing improper about that.”

The man’s face twisted with outrage. “It’s unnatural,” he spat. “A woman’s place is in the home, not out here, teaching this kind of thing to young girls. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Miss Harper.”

Arthur’s hand clenched into a fist at his side, his eyes narrowing on the man. He knew the type—men who thought they had the world figured out, who believed they knew their place and everyone else’s. This wasn’t a man who saw women as anything more than tools for family and housework. It burned in Arthur’s gut, seeing her challenged like this, in front of the children who looked up to her.

But Miss Harper didn’t back down. Her voice was steady, though there was an edge to it. “You’ll have to excuse me, sir, but I don’t believe I asked for your opinion. I’m teaching them what they deserve to know. You’d do well to mind your business.” She glanced over at the children, her expression softening. “Now, go on, all of you. Let’s finish this tree.”

Arthur could feel the tension crackling in the air, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. But he admired her, how she stood her ground, her face resolute and calm even as the man’s anger bubbled up.

“Now you listen here—” the man started, stepping closer, his voice rising.

Arthur stood up slowly, the ground beneath him seeming to settle into place with each movement. He had no particular desire to get involved in this kind of fight, but something in him bristled, instinctively wanting to defend her.

“Is there a problem here, sir?” Arthur asked, his voice low, but unmistakably firm.

The man turned to face him, sizing him up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Arthur’s broad shoulders and the unmistakable presence he carried. There was a moment’s pause, the man seemingly calculating whether or not to escalate things.

“I’m merely stating a fact, friend,” the man said, taking a step back, his bravado faltering slightly as he looked up at Arthur. “A woman has no business doing such things.” He shot a venomous glance at Miss Harper. “It’s a shame. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, teaching these girls such ideas.”

Arthur took a step forward, his hand hovering near his hip where his gun rested, just a reminder of who was standing here with him. “You’re mistaken,” Arthur said quietly, a cold edge to his voice. “Now you best be moving along, rather than standin' around, talkin’ down to women like you seem to enjoy doin’.”

The man’s eyes flickered to Arthur’s hand as it rested near his hip, a subtle but unmistakable warning. His bravado faltered for a moment, the cocky expression twisting into one of irritation as he took a half-step back. He seemed to reconsider his position, no longer willing to push things too far with a man who clearly wasn’t one to back down.

“Fine,” the man muttered, his voice dripping with venom. “I’ll go, but mark my words, Miss Harper—this isn’t over. A woman has no business teachin’ those girls how to think for themselves. I’ll see to it that someone puts a stop to it.” He shot a final look of contempt at her, eyes narrowing, then turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his heavy footsteps leaving a trail of tension in the air.

Arthur watched him go, his jaw clenched tight, but he didn’t say anything more. The man wasn’t worth the trouble, and Miss Harper didn’t need any more of his nonsense. She stood silently for a moment, the weight of the encounter pressing down on her, but she didn’t let it break her. Arthur could see that, see how she straightened her shoulders and took a breath, as if shaking off the shadow the man had tried to cast.

“Don’t worry about him,” Arthur said, his voice softer now, though the edge of anger was still present, a remnant of the tension in his chest. “He’s just talk.”

She glanced over at him, her eyes meeting his with a small, appreciative smile. “Aren't they all?,” she said quietly, though there was a subtle tightness in her tone. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though.”

Arthur nodded, his hand shifting away from his hip and resting at his side. He didn’t know what else to say. The kind of world they lived in—where women had to constantly fight for respect, just for being who they were—was one he didn’t fully understand, not like she did. But he could see it now, the quiet toll it took on her, the way she had to pick herself up every time someone tried to put her down.

She sighed, looking back at the children who were still drawing, their laughter slowly returning to the air. “Thank you for stepping in,” she added, her voice softer now. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the moment pressing in. “I don’t take kindly to men talkin’ to women like that,” he said, his tone steady but firm. “You don’t deserve that.”

She smiled, a small but genuine curve of her lips that eased some of the tension between them. “Well, I appreciate it all the same. But you’re right—he’s not worth dwelling on. I’ve dealt with far worse.”

Arthur watched her closely, his gaze lingering on the way she carried herself, her shoulders squared, her face steady even after the man had left. There was a quiet strength in her, but it wasn’t the kind that he imagined she wanted to wear all the time. But what if she didn’t have to? What if she didn’t have to face it all alone, shoulder to shoulder with the weight of every fight?

The thought lingered in his mind as he shifted on his feet, watching her interact with the children, a soft smile lingering on her lips. There was something about the way she carried herself, like she was always poised, ready to meet any challenge head-on. But in the quiet moments, when the world wasn’t pushing in on her, she seemed so different. He wanted to see more of that side—the one that wasn’t always hardened by the world’s cruelty. The one that wasn’t always on guard.

Before he could dwell on it for too long, he felt her hand on his arm, a soft touch, delicate but warm. Her fingers rested there for a brief moment, and it was like the weight of everything else faded away. She looked up at him with a kind smile, her eyes reflecting gratitude, something soft and sincere in her gaze.

“Thank you again, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her voice gentle. “I truly appreciate it. You didn’t have to step in, but I’m glad you did.”

The simplicity of the gesture—the warmth in her touch—struck him more than he expected. For a moment, he felt his heart skip, something unexpected stirring in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, especially not this close. His breath caught, and for a split second, he forgot how to breathe properly. His chest tightened, the way it did when he was caught off guard, like the world had tilted slightly on its axis and he hadn’t quite found his balance again.

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden rush of warmth flooding his cheeks. Arthur opened his mouth to say something, but the words tangled in his throat, slipping away before he could form them properly. His usual gruffness, his tough exterior, suddenly felt inadequate. It wasn’t like he was a man who stumbled for words, but in front of her, with the gentleness of her touch and the softness of her gaze, he found himself out of his depth.

He shifted on his feet, his hand moving slightly as if he wasn’t sure what to do with it. His fingers twitched at his sides, the calluses from years of hard work suddenly feeling like they didn’t quite belong. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, trying to find his footing again, but the warmth of her touch lingered, a constant presence that made him feel oddly exposed, yet strangely... safe.

“Ah… uh… yeah. Nothin’ to thank me for,” he muttered, his voice rougher than usual, a little quieter too, like he was unsure of how to match the softness she was giving him. “I just... I don’t like seein’ people talk to ya like that.”

His words came out a little jumbled, as if his mind wasn’t quite catching up with his mouth. He cleared his throat, trying to shake off the awkwardness that had crept into his chest. But it didn’t help. He still felt that strange flutter in his stomach, like he’d forgotten how to be around someone who didn’t look at him with suspicion, or fear, or just plain indifference.

She smiled again, a soft, understanding smile that only seemed to make him feel even more flustered. Arthur’s gaze dropped briefly, looking anywhere but directly at her face, though he could still feel the weight of her attention on him.

“Mister Morgan,” she said, her voice light and reassuring, “you’re a good man. I appreciate it more than you know.” Her hand lingered just a moment longer, a light touch on his arm before she gently pulled it back, though the warmth of it stayed, as if it had seeped into his very bones.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Arthur mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck again, his mind still racing as he tried to regain some sense of normalcy. “Steppin’ in for folks. Ain’t my place, and I... I ain’t no hero.”

She chuckled softly, and the sound was like music to his ears. He risked a glance up at her, seeing the twinkle in her eye, the gentle amusement that softened her features even more.

“I think you’re more of a hero than you give yourself credit for,” she teased, her voice light and playful, but with that same quiet sincerity. “Least, today, you can be my hero.”

Arthur’s heart thumped in his chest, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t quite remember how to stand properly. His hands shifted at his sides, his boots scuffing the ground beneath him, and he gave her a sheepish look—something close to a nervous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. His mind wandered just briefly, noticing how her presence felt calming in ways he hadn’t expected. She had a soft scent to her, like wildflowers mixed with the faintest trace of lavender, and it lingered in the air around him as she stood so close. He wasn’t sure how he’d never noticed it before, but now it was almost impossible not to.

He blinked, his thoughts scattering a bit. It wasn’t just that though. There was something about the way she moved, the gentle fluidity in her motions, like the world around her didn’t need to be rushed. The way her hair framed her face, soft curls catching the light in a way that made him want to reach out and touch it—though he didn’t, of course.

"Maybe..." he said, his voice a little lower than usual, unsure of the weight of her words but feeling a strange warmth spread across his chest all the same. "Maybe just a little bit."

He cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure, but the smile that tugged at his lips remained, a little hesitant, a little shy, as though he was still trying to figure out what exactly it meant to be someone’s hero. The quiet joy in her gaze, the way her words hung between them, was enough to leave him feeling like he was standing on shaky ground—but for the first time in a long while, it wasn’t a feeling he minded.

Arthur stood there, still a little off balance from the strange warmth she’d ignited in him with just a few words and a simple touch. He had always been good at keeping his distance, but right now, with her standing so close, it felt like the world had suddenly gotten a little softer. Her presence was something he didn’t know how to handle, but he was starting to like the feeling of it.

When the moment stretched on, and the air seemed to hum with something unsaid, he cleared his throat, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the quiet fluttering in his chest. He looked over toward the path leading back to town, where the shadows were beginning to stretch long, the light fading as the sun dipped lower. The thought of her walking alone, that man possibly still lingering somewhere in the back of her mind, didn’t sit well with him.

"You know..." Arthur started, scratching the back of his neck, unsure of how exactly to word it. "I’d be happy to walk you home, Miss Harper. Don’t think I want that man bothering you again." He glanced at her, offering a quick but genuine smile. "I reckon you’ve got enough to deal with without folks like him getting in your way."

The suggestion felt strange coming from him—like he was trying to do something good, even if it didn’t come naturally. But it was the right thing to do. Besides, he found himself wanting to keep her safe, to make sure she didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone, not when he could help.

He shifted on his boots, suddenly aware of how clumsy his words had sounded, and he added, “If you don’t mind the company, of course.”

Miss Harper regarded him for a moment, her gaze soft but searching, as if weighing his offer. Arthur shifted on his feet, suddenly self-conscious of the silence stretching between them. He didn’t know what he expected—maybe her to turn him down politely or give him a teasing remark, but when she finally spoke, her voice was warm, thoughtful.

"I’d like that," she said, her eyes meeting his with a quiet sincerity that made his chest feel a little lighter. "I appreciate the offer. I really do."

Arthur felt a small, relieved smile tug at the corners of his mouth. He nodded, more to himself than anything, before turning slightly toward the path that led out of the park. His steps were a little slower than usual, like he was reluctant to rush this, but at the same time, he felt a strange sense of rightness in walking beside her, not as a guard or a protector, but just... as two people sharing a quiet walk home.

They fell into step beside each other, a comfortable silence wrapping around them. The distant chatter of the children, still lingering in the park, faded as they walked away from the lively scene, the evening air growing cooler with each passing minute.

Arthur couldn’t help but glance over at her now and then, though he tried to keep his attention on the road ahead. He found himself noticing little things—the way the setting sun caught her hair, making it shimmer like gold in the last light of the day, or how the faint scent of lavender seemed to follow her with every step. It was subtle, but it was there, and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, it made him feel like he was walking through some kind of dream.

As they neared the edge of town, where the dusty road met the outskirts, Arthur found himself thinking about how easy this felt. Like it wasn’t just a simple offer to walk her home—it was something more, something that felt right, like he was supposed to be here with her.

"So," he started, breaking the silence as he turned his gaze to the darkening horizon, trying to keep his thoughts focused on the conversation instead of how his heart seemed to be beating a little faster. "What’s it like... teaching these kids? I mean, I can’t imagine it’s the easiest thing, especially in a place like this."

He glanced over at her again, his expression curious. It wasn’t just the teaching that intrigued him—it was the way she’d handled everything, the way she’d stayed so composed even when people tried to tear her down. He wanted to know more, to understand more about her, about what made her the way she was.

Her eyes flicked toward him, a thoughtful expression crossing her face as she considered his question. “It’s not always easy,” she said after a pause, her voice carrying a quiet strength that seemed to come naturally to her. “But it’s worth it. These kids, they deserve a chance to learn, to grow up knowing there’s more out there than just what’s around them.” She smiled slightly, a soft, wistful look in her eyes. “I just wish... I wish more people saw that. Saw the potential in them, in me.”

Arthur’s heart tightened at her words, and he glanced down at the dirt road beneath them. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be, always having to prove yourself to the world, to constantly be pushing against the current. He wondered what it would feel like to just be able to exist without that weight pressing down.

“You don’t have to prove a damn thing to me,” Arthur said quietly, his voice low but firm, though there was something almost tender in his tone. “Not for me, or anyone else.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. Then, she gave him that small, quiet smile again, the one that made something flutter in his chest.

"Thank you," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “That means more than you know.”

They continued walking in comfortable silence, the night growing darker around them as the stars began to twinkle overhead. Arthur couldn’t help but feel like this was a moment he’d remember, one that was almost too peaceful, too perfect, to be real. But in that moment, he didn’t want to think about anything else—just the quiet rhythm of their steps and the warmth of her company.

As they approached the small house at the end of the road, the comforting quiet of the evening wrapped around them. The flickering light from the window illuminated the soft, rustic simplicity of the building, a humble cottage nestled against the edge of the town. Arthur slowed his steps as they neared, not wanting the walk to end. Something about it felt different—like it had meant more than just getting her safely home. The idea of saying goodbye had an unexpected weight to it.

When they reached the front gate, Arthur glanced over at her, his voice quiet but tinged with curiosity. “Well, here we are,” he said, hesitating before adding, “You got someone inside waitin’ for you?”

The question hung between them, light yet weighted, and he found himself almost bracing for her answer. He wasn’t sure why it mattered to him, but it did. His eyes flicked to the house, then back to her, wondering if he’d be handing her off to a husband or another man, someone who might look at her the way he wanted to.

Her eyes softened as she met his gaze, and there was a faint amusement in her smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes in the same way it usually did. “No,” she replied, her voice steady but not without a touch of something else, something private. “No husband.”

A small, unexpected relief flooded through him at her words. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d been holding his breath until it was released. He hadn’t thought about it before, but in that moment, a part of him was grateful that there was no man waiting for her, no one to claim her, to take her away from the quiet moments they’d shared.

“Well, I—” Arthur cleared his throat, feeling a bit awkward. “I didn’t mean to... I mean, I just didn’t want to be handin’ you over to anyone. Figured if there was a man, he’d be worried, you know?”

Miss Harper’s smile softened, and she gave a little shake of her head. “I understand. But no, no one’s waiting for me.” She paused, as if considering something before her eyes met his again, this time with a hint of something more vulnerable, more sincere. “I appreciate you walking me home. I know I can handle myself, but... it’s nice to have someone watch my back, even for just a little while.”

Arthur shifted on his feet, a little caught off guard by the sincerity in her words. He opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come right away. Instead, he just nodded, his heart feeling uncharacteristically light in his chest.

“Well, you take care of yourself, Miss Harper,” he said, his voice gruff but soft, the way he always spoke when the moment felt important. “You don’t have to worry about anyone botherin’ you while I’m around.”

She gave him a small nod, her smile more knowing now, as if she saw something in him that he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to acknowledge. But it was there, and it made something twist pleasantly in his gut.

“Thank you, Mister Morgan,” she said quietly, her tone full of unspoken meaning. “I’ll be alright. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, standing there in front of her small, quiet house. He wasn’t sure what to do next—whether he should say something else, or just leave it at that.

As they neared the small wooden porch, Arthur’s boots scuffed softly against the gravel path, and the quiet hum of the evening seemed to press in around them. They were standing at the base of the steps now, and without thinking, Arthur found himself stepping forward, his hand reaching out toward her.

"Here, let me help you," he said, his voice a little rough as his fingers hovered near her elbow.

She glanced at him in surprise, then down at his outstretched hand, her brows furrowing slightly, but there was a softness in her eyes that made something in him tighten. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing—he just knew he wanted to offer her something, some small gesture to make sure she got inside safe and sound.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it might seem, but her smile, warm and gentle, eased the awkwardness in him.

“That’s kind of you,” she said quietly, her voice soft, like she wasn’t sure what to make of the simple act of him offering his hand. But without hesitation, she placed her hand in his, the warmth of her fingers sending a strange spark through him.

He helped her up the steps, not saying a word, but somehow it felt like the simplest, most natural thing in the world. He was conscious of the way her hand fit in his, the way her presence seemed to fill the quiet space between them, the sound of her soft breath just beneath the night sky.

When they reached the top, she paused, turning to face him with a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes meeting his, and there was something in them, something unspoken that made Arthur’s chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur muttered, his heart beating a little faster than it should, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pulled it back. “Just don’t go doin’ any more of that stuff, alright?”

She chuckled softly, a warm, genuine sound that made his heart skip a beat. “I won’t. But I’m glad you’re here. I truly am.”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak for a moment, the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to moments like these, to soft touches and quiet smiles that lingered in the air.

"Well, you take care, Miss Harper," he finally managed to say, his voice a little rougher than usual, and as she stepped back into the doorway, he turned away, his mind buzzing with all the things he hadn’t said. As the door closed behind her, he hesitated, standing there for just a moment longer, before turning and heading back down the path.

Arthur walked a few paces away from the porch, his boots making steady crunching sounds against the gravel. He kept his gaze forward, not daring to look back. But the feeling in his chest, the strange warmth in his blood, refused to let him go. His heart thumped against his ribs like a wild thing, and the heat of her hand, where it had briefly touched his, still lingered on his fingers, as if it had somehow settled deep into his bones.

He finally came to a stop, his boots shifting slightly as he rubbed a hand over his face, the same hand that had touched hers. A low, frustrated groan escaped him, more from the feeling than the words he couldn’t quite manage to say out loud.

"Goddamn it," he muttered, shaking his head as he dropped his hand back to his side. His breath was a little unsteady, like he couldn’t quite catch it. He could still smell her—something sweet, something soft and natural, mixing with the crisp evening air. And for some godforsaken reason, it made his blood feel hot, too hot for the night.

His fingers twitched, like they were still waiting for her touch to return, and the thought of it made him grit his teeth. "What the hell’s wrong with me?" he grumbled to the night, kicking a small stone in frustration. His mind raced, chasing around the moments of the evening, the way her smile had made his chest tighten, the way her touch had felt like the most natural thing in the world and somehow, still, the most terrifying.

He stood there for a long minute, breathing deeply, his thoughts tangled with the heat in his blood, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, he gave a low, frustrated sigh and turned away from the house, his steps more purposeful now, though the unease in his chest lingered like a shadow.

One thing was for sure—he was far from done thinking about her.

°─────────────────°•❀•°─────────────────°

I haven’t edited this yet, but I’ve been craving to write something sweet and different from Bleed, Survive, Remember. I wrote until I was happy and giggling about it, and I’m excited to see where it goes. I’ll make sure to edit it later!

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #rdr2 fanfic #red dead redemption 2 fanfic #arthur morgan

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suugarbabe · 1 year ago

Text

[Chapter 1]

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader

Word count: ~3.5k

Warning: slow burn, nothing too intense…yet

an: this is my main work right now, I’m super excited for it. I will not be doing a taglist for this story but I will be working on it consistently so updates will come when they come but I plan on being pretty consistent. Feedback is welcome and highly encouraged 🤗

Pulling the sleeves of your jumper over your fingers, you tucked your hands under your armpits as you made your walk from the diner to the club around the corner. You’d say you weren’t sure how you got here, but that would be a lie. You did your best to suppress a shiver that was creeping up your spine as the cool night air bit at the skin of your neck.

The red glow of the club sign lit up that portion of the street. Protego. It was a clever name for the club really. To any passing muggle it seemed like any other foreign fancy name for a strip club, but the owners knew what they were doing. Protego, in the wizarding world, was a protection spell, and that’s exactly what this club was for Mattheo and his cronies; a protected space, the home hub. Any wizard that had ill intentions wouldn’t be able to step foot on the premises, which was exactly what you were hoping for.

Standing at the edge of the parking lot you did your best to straighten your skirt before deciding to hike it up a bit higher. You pulled the strappy heels you had packed out of your bad and put them on before pulling your jumper off to reveal the low cut top you had put on. You did your best to appear confident as you walked up to the club door, but the ocean eyes of the bouncer giving you a once over made a chill run up your spine.

The bouncer was tall, broad shoulders with a mess of brown waves on his head. His tongue ran along his bottom lip as he did nothing to suppress his smirk, “You lost, dolcezza?” His tone mocking as his eyes roamed your form. Your body flushed under his gaze, him shamelessly taking in your appearance.

You pulled your shoulders back, ignoring every fiber in your being that told you to run, to change your mind, that coming here was a bad idea. “I was wondering if you guys were hiring any more dancers,” you kept your tone even despite the screaming between your ears.

The man in front of you scoffed, “You want to be a dancer?” You did your best to hold eye contact as you nodded, crossing your arms over your stomach with the sudden feeling of self consciousness. You averted your gaze as he smirked at you again, not saying anything.

The door opened suddenly behind him causing you to flinch and step back. A woman with neat black hair appeared in the doorway, a scowl on her face, “I swear to fuck, Nott, I told you to stop pulling that fucking legilimens bullshit on me when you’re too lazy to use your fucking phone.”

The man, Nott, finally broke his stoic facade, rolling his eyes at the woman, “Oh, per favore, Pansy, you know I hate that muggle bullshit.” Pansy peered around Nott, glancing at you up and down as he did before, “This the girl?”

He nodded, smirk annoying plastered on his face once more, “Said she wants to be a dancer.” Pansy furrowed her brows, coming fully outside of the club before taking you by the shoulders and forcibly turning you around so your back was facing her. “Hmm, it could work, should I bring her to Mattheo?”

You shook her hands off, turning yourself back to face them, “Erm, who is Mattheo?”

Nott flashed his teeth in a charming smile, “Mattheo, dolce mia, is the boss.”

You did your best to follow Pansy towards the back of the club. It was much larger on the inside than it appeared, you were sure thanks to an extension charm that was placed on the building. You assumed the alcohol the muggles seemed to be guzzling down helped them ignore the clear disproportion.

You marveled at the girls on the different stages throughout the room, some two to a stage. How their bodies seemed to move, how they just narrowly seemed to sway away from the men’s touches but still appear desirable.

“Don’t fall behind, pretty witch like you would get swallowed alive out here without direction,” Pansy continued to maneuver around tables, ignoring the eyes of patrons with ease while you felt like bugs were crawling on your skin from the men peering at you with every step.

You quickened your pace slightly to catch up with her, holding your bag tight to your side until you both came to a large black door. Pansy lifted her fist, rapping once with her knuckles, then twice quickly, then a singular time once more.

The door seemed to open on its own, as the only people in the room were a tall brooding blonde leaning on the edge of a large black desk, while the other was a man sitting back in a large chair. The man in the chair, while sitting, still emanated a large presence. It was obvious this was Mattheo, the boss. He had dark chestnut curls that seemed to have one or two fall flawlessly over his forehead. His eyes were onyx and they were roaming your figure not dissimilar to Notts earlier in the night.

However unlike Nott you didn’t necessarily feel objectified when Mattheo looked you over, more like he was observing, watching you take in everything around you. The blonde man broke the silence, voice low and almost teasing with his question, “This the bird Theo wanted us to see?”

Pansy put on a tight lipped smile, pushing you further toward the two men, “This is her, tell them your name.” You stumbled forward slightly, stuttering over your name as you did so, internally cursing yourself. The blonde smirked, “Not much confidence, this one, yeah?” He turned to Mattheo, “Gonna need more of that if you wanna be a dancer, Darling.”

You straightened your spine, doing your best to stand straight, “I have confidence.” The blonde scoffed, “Could’ve fooled me, little bird.” You rolled your eyes, not appreciating being talked down to after everything you’d been through in the last few months.

“Please, I’m not going to take insults from someone who looks like they stepped out of the bloody Children of the Corn films.” The blonde’s brows furrowed at your comeback, his grey eyes clouded in confusion as Pansy did her best to hide her laughter. Nonetheless, she helped him out, “It’s a muggle movie, Draco.”

Draco scoffed again, “You bring a bloody muggle in here Pan-” his words were cut off as his necktie tightened around his throat with a twist of your fingers by your side, causing him to choke and cough as he tried to pull it down.

“Not a muggle, but I know enough to be around them and not cause suspicion,” you loosened his tie with another twirl of your hand and Draco gasped for breath. His grey eyes turned to storm as he went to take a step toward you. Mattheo’s hand shot out, grabbing Draco’s arm, “Leave us, cousin.” Draco shook his head, “Fuck, no. You saw what she did she-”

“Malfoy. Now. And take Parkinson with you,” Mattheo’s voice was low and authoritative, causing Draco to merely scowl in your direction. He threw open the office door, Pansy following quickly behind him and shutting it on her way.

You never turned your back, staying facing Mattheo at his desk. “Sit,” he pointed to the chair directly in front of him. Like a scared pup, you obeyed. Any confidence you had towards Draco vanished with Mattheo’s strong and commanding tone. You took careful steps, dropping your bag on the floor next to the chair. You tugged slightly at your skirt as you sat.

“Don’t cover up now, Princess. If a dancer is what you’re seeking to be, you’re going to have to be comfortable showing a lot more than upper thigh,” Mattheo’s face was unreadable, blankness in both his eyes and his expressions. You couldn’t help but shift in your chair opening your mouth to respond before Mattheo cut you off.

“You can be a bartender, but not a dancer,” he started writing something down, ignoring your expressions in response. “But I came here for…why not a dancer?” Mattheo sat his pen down, finally making direct eye contact with you. It seemed his eyes changed with his mood, and from what you saw he clearly wasn’t used to being questioned.

You did your best to hold eye contact, despite the erratic beating of your heart that you were sure he could hear. “You’re not fit to be a dancer, you’d do better as a bartender,” reading the look on your face, Mattheo did his best to restrict rolling his eyes before he continued, “You said it yourself earlier, you know enough about muggles to be around them but not cause suspicion. A third of our clientele are muggles, much to my cousin's dismay. Enzo does well managing them, but he could use another strong witch to help him out when they get too far gone.”

You perked up slightly at his compliment, “You think I’m a strong witch?” Mattheo stood from his seat, standing up to round the desk and lean back on it in front of you. Merlin, you figured he could be intimidating before, but seeing all of him in front of you; long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, arms crossed over his broad chest, you could see how others were quick to listen. Or quick to fall for him.

“Not many people would’ve pulled a stunt like you did on Malfoy, wandless no less,” Mattheo leaned forward, leveling his face with yours. His eyes pierced yours and you did your best to steady your breathing, but it was as if he was peering straight into your soul, into your past with how he was looking at you, “You’ve been through something. I won’t make you tell it to me now, but know if you work here, there’s no secrets. We can’t afford them in this business, on the surface and especially below it.”

He leaned back, allowing you to let go of a breath you weren’t aware you were holding. “How’s your legilimens ability,” he leaned back on his hands, as if the question was the same as ‘how’s the weather today.’

“I, erm, s’okay I guess? S’that something I needed to know if I were to work here? I-I wasn’t aware that-”

Mattheo held his hand up to stop your rambling, “Lets see what Enzo thinks of your abilities first, then we’ll see if it’s necessary. If it is, you'll do lessons with me. Twice a week until I feel like I can trust it.”

You went to ask what he meant when a quick singular rapt at the door caught your attention. With a wave of his hand Mattheo opened the door, “Enzo, this is your new trainee. Teach her the ropes tonight then report back to me. You know what I’m looking for.”

“Yes, boss.” Enzo’s voice behind you seemed calmer than all the others before. Mattheo motioned for you to stand, you did. You turned to face the man that was to be training you the rest of the night. What you didn’t expect was Mattheo’s voice in a whisper next to your ear, “Enzo is charming. Seems the sweetest of all of us, but don’t be fooled, Princess. If I needed it, he’s also the deadliest.”

An uncontrollable chill ran up your spine as Enzo greeted you with a kind smile, motioning for you to follow him. Enzo was the tallest man you’ve interacted with tonight, not as thin as Theo, but just as broad in the shoulders. He had a mop of brown hair and amber eyes that you were sure any girl fell easy for.

His black vest displayed the muscles in his shoulders and arms, one of which was covered in an array of tattoos down to his fingers. With a large hand splayed across the middle of your back he guided you to the side of the club where the bar resided. Immediately upon his return a slew of men were waving cards at him and shouting drinks.

He bent down to whisper in your ear, “Okay, Angel, let’s see how you do. If you don’t know how to make a drink, just mumble a spell into a class with your back turned, the boss said you’re pretty decent with wandless magic.”

You blushed slightly, whether it was the proximity he was to you or another compliment from Mattheo you were unsure, but now you were determined to show how well you could do. At the site of fresh meat, men at the bar were crowding your side, shouting various drinks along with cat calls your way.

They didn’t bother you much, nothing compared to how you’d been talked to before. Enzo’s eyes seemed to be always checking you, even between mixing drinks and grabbing pints it seemed like he was able to watch you. You did your best, grabbing drinks, swiping cards, pouring cocktails.

At last call the men seemed to get more frenzied, more desperate for your attention to drain their minds of their pathetic reality before they had to rejoin it after closing. One man in particular seemed to think he could control you, demand you give him more simply because you appeared weaker, smaller.

When you refused to get him another pint, as he was clearly loaded, he got handsy, grabbing your forearm and attempting to command your attention. Before Enzo got a chance to react you already twisted your arm in the man’s grip, grasping the collar of his shirt and pulling his face down to the bar, “Touch me again and you’re paying with a body part instead of a card, understand?”

The man nodded, a slight whimper leaving his throat. You let him up, him stumbling backwards before running off. You smiled sweetly at the slew of other men standing in front of you, silently asking if anyone else was going to be a problem for you.

Within thirty minutes you had everyone else’s tabs closed and were assisting Enzo with closing up the bar. As you were stacking cocktail glasses Enzo leaned on the bar beside you, “Quite impressive earlier, Angel. Thought I was gonna have to swoop in and save you from that drunk bastard.”

Your suppressed snort, “Despite appearances I can handle my own.” Enzo hummed in agreement, “Boss will like that. Where’d you learn to do that anyway?” You paused your actions, trying to control any color from rushing to your face at the memories of what you went through that caused you to want to be stronger, to learn how to better protect yourself.

“Taught myself, a necessary skill if you will,” you tried to play it off with a sweet smile but Enzo’s eyes told you he wasn’t buying it, only being polite and not pushing. You tried to distract you both, turning instead towards the man carrying a patron towards the door, “He work for the club too or is he just a good samaritan?”

Enzo followed your gaze, a grin spreading across his face, “That’s Blaise. He runs security with Theo, but he does more of the inside while Theo does more of the out. I’ll introduce you when he’s not as busy, real sweetheart if he likes you.” You picked another glass to dry as you kept conversation, “And the others, I know Mattheo’s the boss,” you emphasized the phrase with a playful tone, “but what about Pansy and Draco?”

“Draco’s in charge of finances, amongst…other things. While Pansy…well she’s kind of like Mattheo’s assistant,” Enzo’s tone told you there was more to both statements. “What other things? You lot are always saying things that double as another; s’giving me a headache. And assistant like…an actual assistant or like an assistant assistant?”

Enzo couldn’t help but laugh at your questions, “Godric, no, nothing like that. Like she’s his actual assistant, appointments, helping with hiring, the likes. Really keeps the rest of us in order when he’s off doing other business. As for the former question, if you need to know, Angel. You’ll know. Speaking of,”

Enzo titled his head behind you, causing you to turn and see Malfoy walking your way. “Cmon, little bird. Time to take you home.” You walked from behind the bar, “I can apparate home myself thanks, no need for the sitter.”

Draco rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed that he was the one tasked with this, “You don’t have permission to apparate in the building. C’mon, I’m taking you home. It’s not my choice either, a’right?”

“Then I can just leave the building and apparate home. I don’t understand the problem,” you crossed your arms in defiance, which only made Draco more irritated. He held his hand out towards Enzo in a will you please explain motion.

Enzo cleared his throat, “Listen, Angel. Mattheo’s rule is that if you work for him, he knows everything. That includes where you live, it’s gonna be easier just to go with Malfoy then fight it. Although I would love to see that fight, heard she gave you quite the run earlier.” Enzo smirked at the blonde.

“Watch your mouth, Berkshire,” Draco turned to you, holding out his arm, “C’mon little bird, I don’t wanna be at your place all morning.” Resisting further argument, you walked over toward him, grabbing his arm. The familiar feeling of twisting and pulling occurred before landing on your feet in front of your flat.

Draco’s sneer was evident as you grabbed your bag from his other hand and dug around for your keys, “This is where you live?” You scoffed, “Not everyone can live in a manor. Thanks for taking me back. Now you’ve seen it, you can go now.”

A small chuckle left Draco’s throat, “Sorry, birdie, Mattheo wants me to check out the entire flat. So I’m coming inside…unfortunately.” Draco followed you up the steps to the door, his tall figure looming over you as you undid all three locks on your door before mumbling undoing charms as well.

“Quite the security you have, birdie. What’re you afraid of?” Draco’s tone was dripping with curiosity that you weren’t about to entertain, “I’ll tell you my secrets if you tell me yours, Blondie.”

You turned the knob, walking through the door with Draco following. You did your normal routine, kicking off your shoes and hanging up your jumper by the door as Draco walked around your home. You walked into your kitchen, putting on the kettle for a cuppa.

When the kettle whistled you took down two mugs and filled them. Surprisingly Draco took one as he entered the room, taking a sip and making a satisfied humming noise. “Find anything interesting worth reporting back to your boss, Draco?”

He set his mug down, putting his hands in his trouser pockets, “Your boss too now. Enzo made a good report about you, said you held your own pretty well, kept up with orders, were strict when you needed to be and, as you phrased it earlier, blended in.”

A grin started to appear on your face, but quickly dropped at his next sentence, “But Mattheo won’t let you live here.” You leaned against your counter, crossing your arms over your chest, “What the bloody hell does that mean?”

The smile that formed on Draco’s lips was anything but settling, sending a chill to your bones no cup tea could warm, “Enjoy the night here little bird, but it’s gonna be the last in this flat. What you showed tonight has Mattheo thinking he can use you for…real work. I’d get good sleep tonight, birdie. Your legilimency lessons start tomorrow, and Mattheo is ruthless.”

Before you could even open your mouth to respond, Draco disappeared from your kitchen with a pop, leaving you standing there with his words swirling in your mind. As intimidating as the situation sounded, you needed this job. You needed the protection this job provided. You just hoped the cost didn’t outweigh the benefit.

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