#valley of echoes au | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eomayas · 5 months ago

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we can’t be friends (wait for your love) • jww [req]

pairing: non-idol!wonwoo x f!reader, fwb2l au

genre: smut 18+ MINORS DNI!!!!, fluff, angst

request: you start to have feelings for you FWB. unbeknownst to you, he feels the same way.

warnings: p in v, oral (f receinving), unprotected s*x, hand holding during intercourse, miscommunication, wonwoo is a munch

a/n: thank you for the request! i hope you like it :) it’s a bit long

lying in wonwoo’s arms with your cheek pressed against his bare chest, you think to yourself: i could get used to this. but the thought is quickly stripped from your mind, vanishing within a second once you remember that this isn’t something to get used to. it’s strictly no strings attached, and lying on his chest every night comes with strings that he is adamant about not having. “i don’t want to be tied down,” his voice echos in your head, practically taunting you ever time you think about him as more; more than just this guy that you sleep with a few times a week, more than just a booty call. simply more. you lightly shake your head as if you’re trying to get rid of any thoughts of him. “hmm?” he mumbles from above you, hand tightening around your arm ever so slightly.

“nothing,” your voice is nearly a whisper, hoarse from previously crying out his name, and not having talked for awhile. wonwoo hums and sweeps his hand from your arm to your bare hip. it’s not long before his fingers are rubbing your skin and you’re fighting to keep your interest in the tv show he put on. he’s aware that you’re trying to ignore him, but because he can feel your warm, bare heat against his upper thigh he doesn’t wait for you to finally give in.

“hey,” he says, drawing your attention. you flick your eyes up at him, and he almost smiles at how cute you look with your cheek smooshed against him and your eyes wide and innocent. you see the corner of his lip twitch, but it’s so quick that you worry you nearly imagined it. with a tilt of his head, he’s beckoning you up towards him.

you straddle his lap, settling against his stomach. you arch down to him, pressing your lips against him and holding yourself up by pressing your hands flat against his firm chest. wonwoo grips onto your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh and softly massaging and kneading your ass.

it’s hard to not want more from wonwoo when he touches and kisses you like this, like you’re the only thing he wants in this world, at this moment, in this lifetime. you consider that maybe it’s the bare minimum, that he should feel like this anyway because he’s about to fuck you, but you don’t really have much time to think deeper because he’s biting your bottom lip before running his tongue over it. “lemme eat you out,” he rasps, grip on your ass tightening.

wordlessly, you topple off of him onto the bed and he’s rolling on top of you, hands planted on the bed beside either side of your head. he kisses you again before trailing his lips down to your jaw, sucking on the underside until you breathe out a little sigh. he continues down, lips kissing down your neck and skating over your collar bones. he usually sucks marks into your skin, but he’s eager to get his mouth on you.

he kisses the tops of your breasts and bypasses your nipples to kiss down the valley of your breasts until he gets to your stomach. your hands rest on his upper back, nails already lightly pressing into his skin in anticipation. wonwoo flicks his eyes up to yours when he gets to the top of your pelvis, the look he gives you enough to make you tense up and part your legs wider. wonwoo smirks and presses a long kiss to your inner thigh, this time sucking a hickey into the skin. above him, you relax against the pillows and smooth your hand over this hair, your touch featherlight.

wonwoo pretends that he doesn’t feel something inside of him twitch at your soft gesture. he attempts to calm himself down by remembering that everything is heightened right now because you’re about to have sex—though that makes him freeze because what you two are supposed to be doing is just sex. nothing more, nothing less that that. he shouldn’t be feeling things because you’re touching his hair when he’s between your legs. “wonwoo,” you call out, palm applying light pressure on the crown of his head as you try to urge him lower onto your core.

ah—you only wanted him to get on with it. at least that’s what he tells himself; it does enough to calm him down, and he sinks lower, kneeling at the foot of the bed and pulling you towards the end of the mattress, until your glistening core is in front of his face. usually he makes you beg for his mouth, but this is for him as much as it’s for you, so he wastes no more time and sticks out his tongue to lick an experimental stripe from your hole to your clit.

you thread your your fingers through his hair with your left hand, a loose grip on the strands. wonwoo licks up your folds again, his tongue flat and relaxed against you. he flicks his tongue against your clit and you gasp, core tightening around nothing but aching for him. another gasp from you, and he finally buries his face into your cunt, arms hooking around your thighs to hold them open around his head.

your back arches off the bed when he suctions his lips around your clit, seemingly trying to suck the soul out of you. “w-wonwoo,” you breathe out, pressing down onto his head and gripping onto the sheets with your free hand. your chin drops against your chest and you try to keep your eyes open to watch him, but between him sucking on your clit and prodding at your hole with his tongue, it’s proving to be difficult.

wonwoo pulls you impossibly closer, nose bumping against your sensitive mound as he licks you from the inside out, bobbing his head as he does. you moan and whimper above him each time his nose rubs against your clit, your hips bucking up into his face. wonwoo releases his hold from around your legs to press against the insides of your thighs. “stop moving,” he mumbles from in between your legs, grunting when you close your legs around his head due to the vibrations from his voice against your core.

“sorry,” you squeak, shakily opening your legs wider for him. wonwoo retracts one of his hands to slip two fingers inside of you, curling and drawing out moans from you that only spur him on. “w-wonwoo, please!” you whine, throwing your head back and jerking your hips upwards. you’re not sure what you’re begging for; maybe to make you cum soon, for mercy, for more.

he growls something between your legs and shoulders his way in between your thighs, keeping you spread open. your chest rises and falls rapidly with every flick of his tongue and thrust of his fingers inside of you. a tight knot forms in the pit of your stomach, the pressure building and building the longer he works you out on his tongue. “fuck, wonwoo,” you whimper out, grip on his hair tightening.

the satisfying sting on his scalp spurs him on, mouth ravishing you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to eat you out. you cry out curses, thighs shaking against his shoulders.

euphoria reaches you almost without warning, your cunt spasming around his fingers as you release gushes out of you. wonwoo laps at you, his tongue eagerly licking up your juices. he pulls his fingers out of you, and you feel so empty but don’t have much time to worry about that while wonwoo continues to eat you out through your orgasm. it’s as enjoyable for him as it is for you—he could eat you out all day if given the opportunity.

“w-won,” you pant, vision spotty as your legs tremble. his eyes drag up to yours, pure hunger swimming in his orbs. one look at you, and he (reluctantly) pulls his mouth off of your core, lips glistening from your arousal. wonwoo kisses the inside of your thigh, his hand stroking your knee, before he sits back and licks his lips. “t-thanks.” you rasp, draping an arm over your eyes.

“give me minute,” you croak, sweat beading along your forehead and sliding down your temple. wonwoo doesn’t mind; hes patient and not in a rush. he gets off of the floor and stretches, rolling his neck and sighing when his joints crack and pop. he stretches his arms above his head, the tension in his shoulder blades releasing with a dull pop.

while you recover, he walks over to the drawer where he keeps his condoms and grabs the box. it feels light, and he shakes it to double check. when nothing rattles, he feels his heart sink and peers into the box in disbelief. “i’m out of condoms,” he says incredulously, running a hand through his hair.

“oh,” is all you say, your tone lacking disappointment. wonwoo gnaws at his bottom lip for a moment, staring down at the empty box of trojans.

“i’ll pull out?” he asks, ear turning red in mild embarrassment. he is expecting a ‘no’, for this night to be over quicker than he really wants—you’re never here longer than you want to be—and he won’t really be upset if you say ‘no’, because it’s risky, and you two aren’t really there in your relationship. there’s only been one night where you two didn’t use protection; it was after a night spent drinking together. the next morning he brought you a plan b, and the two of you didn’t speak for a few days.

wonwoo tries his hardest to keep everything between the two of you casual, just like how you said you wanted it to be between the two of you. sometimes those lines get blurred, and he doesn’t always know how to gauge your feelings without asking (which he rarely does), thus leading him to asking you risky questions like his previous one.

“okay.”

wonwoo whips his head around to look at you upon hearing your response. you’re still lying flat on your back with an arm thrown across your face. “what?”

“i said ‘okay’” your voice is calm, almost too calm that it makes him wonder if you’re aware of what you’re agreeing to. but wonwoo rushes over to you anyway, crawling on top of you and pulling your arm away from your face.

“are you sure?”

“hurry before i change my mind,” you mumble, parting your legs once again and inviting him to get closer. wonwoo scrambles to grab his glasses off of his bedside table and slides them on before repositioning himself in between your legs.

his cock is achingly hard—has been since he started eating you out—and waiting to be enveloped by you. wonwoo isn’t sure he’ll last that long without a condom, but you look worn out enough that he thinks you probably won’t mind.

grabbing the base of his dick, wonwoo lines himself up with your entrance and slowly pushes his way in. you let out a sharp gasp, propping yourself up on your shoulders to watch him push inside of you. “fuck, y/n,” he grunts, willing himself to keep his composure. “you feel that?”

“yea,” your voice cracks when you say it, body flushing with heat. you can feel every ridge, every vein, and every curve much more fully than you ever have. you are already worked up from wonwoo alone, but you feel as though it won’t take much to get you off again, not when you are experiencing this new sensation so wholly.

wonwoo grunts his way inside of you, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth. he pushes in until he can’t go any further, and holds himself inside of you for a second. your cunt pulses around him like it’s trying to pull him in further. “god, you feel good,” he groans, his head dropping down to his chest. his gaze falls on where he’s buried inside of you, where he fits in you like you were designed for him. “fuck.” he whispers.

you suck in a breath when he pulls out, and whimper when he pushes back inside. he finds a rhythm and you get lost watching him disappear inside of you, and then reappear. he doesn’t go fast, nor does he fuck you nice and slow. it’s in the middle, taking you right to the edge and giving you some time to recover. “unh- wonwoo,” you moan, falling flat on your back.

“yeah?”

you lick your lips, feeling a little embarrassed when you say, “i want a kiss.” it feels too intimate for your relationship, but so does him fucking you raw. you were never one to think too deeply about soul ties when it came to sex, but now you’re not so sure it was all junk.

wonwoo is quick to capture your lips in a kiss, one hand on you hip and the other planted near your head on the bed. you grip onto his sides as you kiss him back, mouth falling open to whine out his name. with every thrust inside of you, coupled with his chest pressed against your own and his mouth on yours, you feel closer and closer to the edge. he can tell with the your cunt squeezes him in tightly, and how your lips are pressed against his own that you’re close.

“yeah? you’re close?” he asks, kissing the corner of your lip and dragging his mouth down to your jaw, sucking a mark into the skin at your neck.

“s-so close,” you gasp out, whining when he pulls his mouth off of your neck and plants both of his hands on the bed. the need to be close to him washes over you, burns in your chest and your stomach and spreads down to your toes.his next thrust into you knocks the breath from your lungs. he grunts each time he moves inside of you, curses falling from both of your lips.

there’s nothing simple or casual, or friendly about what the two of you are doing. it’s all too intimate and is definitely going to complicate things later. he’s not somebody who wants to be attached to another person, not right now at least, but it feels like maybe he does. he looks down at you with an expression that makes you feel too much all at once, things that you’re not supposed to feel for a guy you’re just sleeping with.

you’re overcome with with feeling needy, nearly whining in frustration at the thought. you grab onto his wrist, trying to pull his hand from the bed and into your palm. “w-what?” he groans, looking down at you before sliding his gaze to where you have a hold on him. the corner of his lip quirks when you make grabby hands at him. “oh.” he says simply, interlocking your fingers together.

your orgasm hits your without warning, washing over you much more intensely than your last one. you’re chanting his name as your cunt spasms and your legs shake. “ah!” you moan, back arching off the bed and your chest pressing up into his.

liquid runs down your thighs and drips down onto the sheets below. wonwoo pants, his cock twitching inside of you. reluctantly, he pulls out with some difficulty because of how tight your cunt is around him, and shoots his cum onto your stomach, painting you white.

“fuck, sorry,” wonwoo rasps, placing a quick kiss on your lips. he’s never liked how it felt cumming on you, rather than inside of a condom or in your mouth. it felt rude, and a little demeaning, and it was never going to be his first option when it came to dumping his load. “i’ll grab a towel.”

you hardly register his cum on you until he’s wiping the inside of your thighs and then your stomach. your eyelids are heavy and can hardly stay open, fluttering shut every second before reopening when he touches you. “thanks,” you murmur, voice laden with sleep. wonwoo chuckles and says ‘you’re welcome’, but you’re too far gone to hear him.

when you wake up, it’s a couple hours later and you’re by yourself in his bed still bare. the tv is off, as well as the lights, so it’s pitch black save for the sunset shining through his window. you sit up and wince, a type of soreness between your thighs.

you slip out of his bed and find your discarded clothes and pull them on. standing in the middle of the room, you place your hands on your hips and sigh. a thousand emotions and questions are swimming through your head—confusion and what does this all mean? leading the pack. the empty, discarded box of condoms sits on his dresser like a trophy for what you two just did. you rub your forehead and gnaw on your bottom lip.

with a sigh, you grab the rest of your belongings and shove them into the tote bag you brought over and make your way out of his bedroom and down the hall. noise comes from the kitchen where wonwoo rifles through his nearly empty cupboards. “hey,” you say, making him jump and whip around.

“holy shit, hey,” he says, a hand over his heart. “you scared the shit out of me.”

“sorry,” you say, one of your hands holding onto your wrist.

“how’d you sleep?” he asks, shutting the cupboard and leaning against the counter, his arms crossing over his broad chest. his hair is still rumpled from earlier, though it looks like he just woke up from a nap as well.

“fine, i guess,” you say. he nods awkwardly and you dodge his eye contact.

“that’s good; i just woke up from a nap too,” he says. you look over at him with furrowed eyebrows, because he wasn’t in the bed with you. “i fell asleep on the couch.” wonwoo adds, like he just read your mind.

you nod and purse your lips. “you could’ve slept in your bed,” you say, shifting your weight from foot to foot.

“didn’t want to bother you.”

“it’s your bed.”

“you’re my guest,” he says, seemingly ending the debate. guest. that’s all you are to him—a guest. a guest in his bed, his house, his life—a guest. not permanent, just passing through for a moment.

it’s quiet for a moment. you don’t know what to say to him. “alright, well i’ll get out of you way,” you say, running a hand over your head before some hair behind your ear.

“you’re not in my way,” wonwoo says, pushing himself off the counter when you make a move to leave. “you don’t have to leave.”

“i should,” you reply, walking quickly to the door to put on your shoes. wonwoo is right behind you, right on your trail. you shove your feet into your sneakers and ignore wonwoos presence behind you.

stealing a quick glance over your shoulder, you’re met with a hard expression from wonwoo. his eyes are squinted behind his lenses and his jaw is tight, like he’s trying to figure you out. it sends a chill down your back and you turn away from him and slip out of the front door wordlessly, without a chance to hear him say goodbye.

three days go by before you see wonwoo again. he texts you first, sending you a come over text at 9:30 on a thursday. you almost ignored it, unsure of yourself, but your feelings for him got the best of you and you immediately texted back an omw and got in your car.

currently, his hands are skating underneath your shirt and up your sides to rest underneath your breasts. you grind on his lap, hands threading in his hair. your lack of communication with him was to see if you could get over how you felt about him, to see if you could withstand him and his charm. but clearly, you can’t.

you pull back from his mouth to let him pull off your top. you’re leaning back into him when he stops you by putting his hand on your abdomen. “can we talk?” he asks, voice a little breathless.

“about?” you connect your lips to his neck, sucking a purposeful hickey into his skin when his hands skate up your back and stop short of the clasp for your bra.

“about us.”

major bomb drop. you freeze against him, your hands stilling in his hair and your lips losing their suction around his neck. your heart hammers in your chest, and you wonder if he can feel it with how close your two are pressed against each other.

never would you ever think that he’d be the one to bring up the topic of you two. you didn’t even expect him to reach out to you first—you’re surprised that you didn’t crack after the first day—and you definitely didn’t expect him to see a problem with your relationship. pulling back, you place your hands on his shoulders and peer down at him. “what is there to talk about?”

wonwoo literally bites his tongue, the words ‘i miss you’ sitting on the tip. “did i take it too far the other day?” he questions, referring to asking to fuck you without a condom. you roll your eyes and get off of his lap, grabbing your shirt off of the floor.

“no,” you say, yanking it over your head. “i fully agreed to it, wonwoo. if i didn’t want to do it, i would have said no.” you say, blowing some hair out of your face. you don’t know why you feel so frustrated all of a sudden.

“then what is it?” he asks, feeling like he’s grasping for straws trying not to expose how he feels about you.

“what is what?”

wonwoo runs a hand through his hair. he feels you staring, waiting for him to expose whatever he feels like he can’t say to you. “can i be honest with you?”

“please.”

he sucks in a breath before he starts. “im starting to really like you. well, ive liked you for awhile, actually. and i know you probably don’t wan to hear this, because i know you just want to keep it casual, and- wait,” you interrupt him, your nerves feeling like they’re working in overdrive. “what?”

you drag a hand down your face. “i thought you wanted to keep it casual,” you say, hand curling over your mouth when he slowly shakes his head.

“no, that was you,” he says, but his tone is unsure now that you’ve counteracted him. “right?”

“only because you said it first,” you say, and the gears start to turn into place for the both of you. your little arrangement wasn’t mutually understood—more like it was mutually misunderstood—and the other was just going along with what was said, just for the sake of the other person. “wonwoo, you said you didn’t want any strings.”

he cringes when you say it out loud. “true, but that was before,” wonwoo clarifies. you furrow your eyebrows.

“before when?”

his cheeks turn a cute shade of pink and he adjusts his glasses. “before we hung out for the second time,” it’s embarrassing admitting it out loud, but it’s the truth. when the two of you started sleeping together, he meant it when he said that he didn’t want to be tied down. but after you two hung out again, and the ‘friends’ part of friends-with-benefits showed itself, he knew he was a goner. you made him laugh so easily, and made him feel like he could be himself around you. it wasn’t long until he started missing your presence and was mourning your absences.

you stare at him in complete shock. “are you serious?” he nods, and you let out slight chuckle, lightly shaking your head. “there’s no way.” you mutter to yourself. wonwoo tenses, waiting for the blow of you telling him that you don’t feel the same.

“if you don’t feel the same, it’s fine,” wonwoo says quickly, wiping around his mouth to give his hands something to do. you shake your head just as fast, eyes wide.

“no! i mean, i do, wonwoo. i like you too—a lot—i just…” you trail off and run a hand through your hair unsteadily.

“you just what?”

you shrug. “i don’t know, actually,” you giggle. wonwoo smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. you notice and take a seat next to him on the couch, angling your body towards him. “wonwoo, you’re great. the sex is great, everything is great. but i do want more with you. i like you so much, it was starting to hurt,” you say, not caring about how pathetic he might think you sound. you get the feeling that he doesn’t care how you sound, because he tugs you into his lap again, his arms securing around your waist.

“i want more with you too. and im pretty sure i like you way more than you like me,” he says, a smile on his face.

“mhm. whatever,” you say, running a hand over his hair just like you did the other day. wonwoos eyes flutter shut and you drag your hand down to rest on his cheek. “hey.” you murmur.

“what?”

“thank you.”

“for what?”

you shrug and lightly stroke his cheek. “just, thank you.”

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risuola · 7 months ago

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ENTRY #7 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // You touched my hand and suddenly I couldn’t breathe anymore.

contents: arranged marriage!au, emotional confusion at its finest — wc. 509

a/n: are we going to leave the fluffy territory? i don't know, i enjoy writing those little pieces about confused fools in love (??), don't at me ♡

series masterlist

Blabbering.

A hazy echo of Jujutsu elders played somewhere in the background — monthly gathering of all high-grade sorcerers — and Satoru’s mind was somewhere else. Seated on a hard chair, a setting akin to a school lecture that usually would have reminded him about his old days, he struggled to keep his composure. The lack of snarky remarks and constant scoffs and sarcasm brought attention of few of his colleagues, but there was nothing in this world that could shift his attention away from you.

You were next to him, seemingly absentminded as you kept your eyes in front of you, studying languidly the characters hiding behind the matted glass. You were observing them, the surroundings and he was observing you, thanking his own cursed fate that the sunglasses resting on the bridge of his nose were just as black as the middle of the night, not allowing anyone to see through them. He thought it was funny, ironic even, that what always was a way to establish his dominance — a glimpse of his blue orbs being enough to remind everyone that he is the strongest — now was just an excuse to steal glances of you with the corner of his eye.

Every time he took a breath in, your scent filled in his lungs. It made him dizzy. His hand rested on top of your thigh, a tip of his finger just barely touching your naked skin, while the rest of his palm met the fabric of your shorts, but it was that sliver of flesh that was driving him insane. He couldn’t help but focus solely on the gentle way you moved. He was your stress-toy and you were his distraction.

Seemingly paying him no mind, you kept playing with his fingers. Your dainty ones brushing up and down his long digits, ghosting over his knuckles and pressing on the pads of his palm — a tickling touch across the sensitive skin of the inner part of his wrist and then, you were following the veins on top of his hand.

He felt lightheaded.

The tips of your nails were scraping against his pale flesh ever so slightly, leaving a faint trace of goosebumps behind and teasing him from time to time. Your touch was soft and tender, sending sparks of intimacy right through Satoru’s core. His heart was racing inside his chest and he wondered if you could feel it every time your fingers brush over the pulse at the base of his hand.

You were taking your time. Slowly, lazily following the lines and curves of him, exploring the valleys and ups. Satoru felt a tingle of a shiver that run down his spine. Every single of your gestures was playful, innocent, sensual.

Tantalizing.

He was on fire.

The heat was burning him inside out. He fought with everything he’s got to not grip your thigh, to not squeeze the plushiness of it, to not just touch you more.

Gojo was on the edge, he couldn’t take it anymore.

But he didn’t want it to end.

taglist: @kinny-away @anan-baban @lotomber @netflix-imagines @kawliflo @nishloves @ghostfacefricker6969 @thejujvtsupost @yozora7154 @cherrycolabarbedwirebedpost @ae-mius @ropickle @chokesonspit @lansy-4 @just-pure-trash @mo0sin

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okiedokrie · 2 months ago

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the prefect's bathroom

Summary: Sneaking around in the prefects bathroom with your insanely horny boyfriend

Characters/Pairing: Joshua X F!Reader

Genre: Smut, porn with a minuscule amount of plot if you squint

AU/Trope info: Non-idol!AU, Hogwarts Altior!AU, Established Relationship

Word Count: 632

Warnings: Use of the nickname 'baby', praise, exhibitionism, bath pool sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, fingering, marking, overstimulation, hair pulling

Rating: 18+

A/N: Re-upload from my old blog!! I'm re-uploading my own work, I did not plagiarize. @hogwartsaltior au!!

Maybe sneaking around in the prefects bathroom wasn't the best idea you and Joshua ever had, but his long fingers rubbing your clit managed to snuff that last bit of hesitation out of you.

"Ah- Shua-" You breathe out, low and airy, his hair tickling your cheek as he sucked harsher at the skin just below your collarbone, making sure that your uniform would cover it.

"Shhh, try to keep quiet for me baby. We don't want anyone catching us here like this." He whispers into your skin, looking up to make eye-contact with the mermaid mural who looked flustered witnessing you two's actions.

The hand that wasn't prodding at your folds rested behind your head, fingers running through the roots of your hair just to grip it and give it a harsh tug, the stinging made you gasp in surprise and pleasure, Joshua using this opportunity to kiss down the valley of your breasts, moaning into your skin.

Joshua enters his fingers into your heat, the feeling of his fingers scissoring your cunt open was enough to pull a loud moan from you, the sound vibrating and echoing around the bathroom. Joshua closes his lips around one of your nipples, sucking and slightly pulling it with his teeth as his fingers start a steady pace pumping into you.

Joshua hitting the spongey part inside you was enough to almost make you forget where you were, not caring about being loud anymore. Joshua smirks at this, pulling his fingers out of you and placing his hands on the ledge of the pool, letting go of your hair, he pulls you in for a heated kiss, your arms wrap around his neck as you massage the roof of his mouth with your tongue.

Joshua grips your hips as he pushes his fat dick into you, the feeling of his thick cock stretching you out more than his fingers made you gasp and whine into his mouth, Joshua drinking up your sounds of pleasure.

"Please, please, move Shua, I need you-!" You whine into his mouth, horny out of your mind, Joshua just pecks your cheek and tightens his grip on your hips, starting a slow and steady roll of his hips.

You gasp and whine everytime his hips meet yours, the water moving is slow waves around you, occasionally splashing out. Soon, both of you get impatient, the force of Joshua's harder and faster thrusts basically pins you the the side of the pool, your nails dragging on his broad back leaving angry red lines in their wake.

You moan loudly, string of curse words and Joshua's name almost being covered by the sound of the water being disturbed so much that its splashing almost everywhere. "Shua- clit-" You gasp out, Joshua groans into your ear, fingers finding your swollen bud to rub it harshly in tandem with his powerful thrusts.

The tip of his fat cock keeps hitting your sweet-spot, your legs around his thin waist shaking with anticipation, a tight, hot coil tightens in your abdomen as both of you keep moaning in a higher and higher pitch.

"Fuck, baby I'm gonna cum, you want me to spill my load into you?" Joshua says, biting his lip after.

"Yes, Joshua, please give me all your cum-!" You moan, clenching around his cock like a vice, trying to milk him for his worth.

Both of you cum with a whine and a groan, the force of your orgasm causing you to sob out a strangled string of curse words as you feel Joshua's load filling you to the brim. Joshua takes his hand that was on your clit to feel your abdomen, he feels a bit of resistance as he smirks at the thought of it being his cum filling you good.

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delulufortoji · 8 months ago

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ONE NIGHT ONLY - choso kamo

pairing: choso x fem! reader

content: 18+, MDNI, begging, whimpering, riding, sub choso, modern au, and yeah thats pretty much it

word count: 2.9k

author’s notes: this has always been one of my favorite songs, so i was like "lemme write a fic with this song"

He holds you tight, fingers tangling in the strands of your hair, trying to pull you in deeper into the kiss. His touch is urgent, bordering on desperate as he clings to you, His hands roam over the landscape of your body, seeking to map every curve and valley, striving to keep you as close to him as humanly possible. He’s drowning in the feeling of your lips on his, nibbling away at them to keep you from pulling away—the taste of your lips is like a forbidden fruit, a temptation too sweet to resist. He craved more of you, your softness, your warmth, your alluring scent, which clung to him like a second skin, a scent that enveloped him like a comforting blanket. It's a scent he knows he will miss when the night is over, a scent he wishes he could keep with him always.

Reluctantly, Choso parts his lips from yours, panting for air, his chest heaving with each breath. “Mm…” He moans, pulling you closer by your hips, his voice a low growl in the silence of the room. “More.”

You glance down at him—his face is flushed with desire, his dewy cheeks stained with the signs of his arousal. Sweat begins to build on his brow as his gaze takes in the beautiful sight that is you, a sight that leaves him breathless with anticipation, his deep purple eyes soft and tender as they roam over your body, drinking in every inch of you with an insatiable thirst.

You still recall the night you first met, the memory playing like a reel in your mind. The bar was alive, buzzing with energy and excitement, The air was charged with the raw energy of rock music, the rhythm resonating throughout the room as the crowd, illuminated by the flicker of red stage, jumped and screamed to the beat of the drums. But to you, the sound of the music, the cheers of the crowd, the clinking of glasses—all of it served as nothing more than background noise as your eyes locked onto the band 's drummer. All you could see was him, the gleam of the overhead lights reflecting off his pale skin, contrasting with the dark hair that fell effortlessly around his face. His features were refined, chiseled perfection—every line and angle of his face seemed carefully sculpted, created by the hands of an artist, creating an intimidating air of godly beauty.

But it was his eyes that seemed to call to you, that caught your attention—they were laced with disinterest, with a gaze that seemed to indicate he was a person who didn’t seem to care about anything, a piercingly cold stare that made chills run down your spine. His eyes, dark like a moonless night, held an intensity that seemed to cut through the air, that oozed mystery and brooding allure, but once they settled onto you, they softened, his face flushed as he stared at you.

Before you knew it, he was gripping and grabbing at your waist, his lips melting into yours as he drew you in closer, his hands wildly exploring your body with an unmatched sense of urgency, thrusting up in you.

Nights like those became routine. Every couple of months he’d fly out to see you, just for one night. You’d fuck, and then he’d be gone by the morning, leaving nothing but his lingering scent and an ashtray full of cigarettes. You knew whatever you had was nothing permanent, but each time he left, you found a piece of your heart going with him, leaving you longing for his return.

“Don’t get too attached,” you remember him telling you, his words echoing in the silence of the room. “This is nothing more than a fling.”

He sounded so cold and detached then, as if this was nothing more than a night of fun and good sex. You never would have imagined that the same person then would be in front of you now, eyes of longing and desperation as his hands traverse your body, fingers digging into your skin, pulling you closer, whining, pleading to surrender himself over to you, to let him drown in the pleasures you had to offer him.

“Keep going…” He mumbles, his warm breath fanning across your cheek. He’s completely consumed by the sensations you’re stirring within him—every lingering touch, every caress, sends waves of longing coursing through his veins, leaving him yearning for more. Yearning for more of you.

A sly smirk tugs at the corner of your lips as you ease him onto his back, climbing into his lap. You can’t help but want to tease him, to play with him a little as you see him in this state—tonight was your only opportunity, and you were going to take full advantage of it. This was a night of stolen moments, a night of passion and longing, a night that you both knew would end with the break of dawn. But for now, you were his, and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.

You brace your hands just above his knees, your legs spread out, giving him the most alluring view of your body, tits out and all. You look down at him, a soft chuckle escaping your lips—his dark hair is splayed out over the pillow like a crow’s wings, his plum eyes wide and dazed, his cheeks stained a rosy red from anticipation. You slowly trace your fingers down Choso’s stomach, following the curve of his body towards his dick, your fingers teasingly brushing against his hardening length.

His breath hitches, and he lets out a low, guttural growl. “Stop it,” Choso murmurs, but you can tell from the way he’s moaning and writhing under you that he wants you to continue what you’re doing, wants you to keep pleasuring him, wants to succumb to your will. You know just what you’re doing to him, rendering him too weak to refuse your advances.

You lean forward, lowering yourself onto his cock with a deliberately slow and gentle push, sliding his member into your cunt, letting it delve deeper into your folds. Choso can barely manage to hold back a whimper as you dive into your task, sliding up and down his length, taking him fully in and then lifting up, rocking back and forth, your movements slow and intentional, teasing him with the sway of your hips, making him wish for more.

“Ngh, don’t…” He lets out a breathy whisper, his hand slipping up your thigh and gripping you tightly for stability as you drag those pretty sighs from his mouth.

Each movement is enough to send Choso into a state of euphoria, driving him to the brink, leaving him in a blissful state of disarray. The sight of him, disheveled and writhing beneath you only fuels your desire to tease him further, tantalizing him with the feel of your pulsating walls gripping his length.

You smile as you ride him, glancing down at his flustered expression. One night only, you think to yourself. This was one of the only times you would ever get to see him like this, with his stoic facade melted away, his defenses shattered as he surrenders to the pleasure you offer, only his vulnerability and desire evident.

Choso’s focus narrows, his entire being consumed by the closeness you’re allowing him—the brush of your soft body against his own skin, the wet heat of your pussy clenching around his throbbing length, the feel of your sweaty palms locked together—all of it only intensifies the lust that had consumed him. He clings to your body with an unmatched desperation, his movements rushed as he rolls his hips against yours, trying to savor every precious moment of closeness—he’s already drunk on the sensation of being this close to you, yearning for more, longing for a way to be even closer than you already are.

You lean down, letting your mouth trail down his neck, your teeth nipping at his exposed skin, drawing soft gasps from his lips. Your hands roam over his toned chest, your fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, appreciating the hard firmness beneath your touch. Meanwhile, Choso’s squirming beneath the weight of your touch, his senses overwhelmed by the sheer pleasure and euphoria that you effortlessly provide him, drawing those precious mewls and whimpers from his lips. He’s completely under your control, each whimper, each plea for more making your heart flutter with satisfaction. You love the sight of him beneath you, completely undone by your touch—you relish in it, in fact.

“You like that?” You tease, slowing your pace even more just to see his reaction.

His brows furrow, and his lips turn curl into a slight frown—he clearly wants to say something, wants to object, but the way you’re riding his cock leaves him so overstimulated that he can only let out cries of pleasure. He presses his lips together, trying to stifle the moans that threaten to escape, but the overwhelming sensual gratification had already taken hold of him.

It takes him a while, but he’s finally able to force out one sentence: “Please…go faster.”

Your lips tilt into a smirk—you know exactly what you’re doing to him and it drives him crazy. You feel so good, so damn good. Good enough to drag a needy whine from his lips.

“No.” You say, an airy chuckle escaping your lips as you watch him squirm beneath you.

Choso doesn’t immediately reply, gritting his teeth and turning his head to the side, the veins in his neck tensing. He’s trying hard to keep his cool, to keep his frustration in check, but the effort is clearly visible. His sulking is brief, however, lasting only a few seconds before he turns his attention back to you, hypnotized by the sight of you grinding against him. He focuses instead on whatever sensations you are permitting him; the warmth of your skin, the wet heat of your pussy squeezing around his length, the squeeze of your palms around his knees. But it’s just not enough for him, not enough to fulfill his desire. He doesn’t want to waste time going slow—he wants to be completely and utterly consumed by the pleasures you provide him with. He can’t stand it a moment longer. In one swift movement he sits up and turns you both over, putting you on your back and pinning you beneath his weight.

For a moment, he simply stares at you, his gaze intense, as if he’s trying to etch the sight of you into his memory. His dark hair falls around his face, partially obscuring his vision, but he doesn’t seem to mind, his focus solely on you. “Sorry,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a husky whisper, “I just…couldn’t wait any longer.”

You roll your eyes at his earnestness, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Just make this good,” you retort, a playful challenge laced in your words.

And that’s what he was going to do—he wants to be good for you, wants this to feel just as good for you as it does to him. He’s desperate to make you enjoy every second just as much as he does.

Choso’s hips slap against yours once—a single thrust already has you moaning, salivating at the sensation, nails digging into his skin for support, for something to anchor you.

“Fuck, Choso…” you manage to gasp out, your voice filled with raw desire.

Choso doesn’t respond verbally, instead, he forces himself deeper and deeper, driven by an insatiable hunger, captivated by the sensual sway of your hips, the tantalizing feel of your skin, and the addictive sensation of your clenching around his dick, finding himself overtaken by the primal urge to feel every inch of your body.

More. He craves more of everything you have to offer. He yearns to delve deeper, to explore every centimeter, every crevice of your body. He longs for a closeness so intimate, it would be as though you were momentarily conjoined as one person.

Choso begins to piston his hips with a purpose, each thrust a deliberate act of stretching you open further. The physical sensations that consume you both are no different than a potent drug, or an intoxicating elixir that fuels their connection. He fixates on the tight heat of your walls around his cock, the way your hips meet his rhythm, the delicious way you clench around him as his dick stretches your hole out.

“God…” Choso moans, unable to hide his pleasure. The sight of you before him is tantalizing, enough to strip him of any remaining self-control. The hunger in his gaze only intensifies, his eyes boring into you as he loses himself in the hypnotizing sight of your body. With a low growl, he pulls you down by your waist, his hips meeting yours in monstrous thrusts—his cock hits your sweet spot with precision repeatedly, each one eliciting a chorus of whimpers that echoed through the room, driving Choso towards the brink of madness.

His mind is filled with a single, overpowering thought - more. More, more, more is all he can think as his tip grazes your sweet spot, stealing those beautiful, salacious noises from your lips. Choso can barely focus anymore, can’t maintain his rhythm as he loses himself in you—you demand his concentration, demanding him to forget about everything else at this moment. And Choso succumbs to it all—the way your lips part every time you moan, each one a haunting melody that calls to him. The way your nails dig into his back, evidence of your passion imprinted on his skin. The way you writhe and surrender beneath him, the way your insatiable hole eagerly devours each of his thrusts - it all overwhelms his senses, controlling his every thought.

The rhythmic sound of your skin slapping against each other becomes a relentless symphony, a testament to your unyielding pleasure. Choso loses himself completely in you, completely drunk off of you—he just can’t help himself. You’re like a drug, impossible to resist once you get a hit. And you just looked so pretty beneath him, giving him the most captivating view of your body—pussy on full display, your eyes rolling back each time Choso hits your sweet spot. Every time Choso looks down at the naked body beneath him, his cock can’t help but throb, growing harder at the sight.

Choso can’t hold back any longer, his body reacting instinctively to the overload of pleasure. He lets out a contented sigh, his warm, creamy release flooding your pussy, filling you with his essence. Each pulsing jet of his cum stretches your walls, the sensation of being filled so completely driving you over the edge into your own orgasm.

He gradually slows down, each languid thrust of his hips causing his cock to pulse within you. His voice, husky and raw, breaks the silence. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” His words trail off, his breath hitching in his throat.

Choso's body is slick with sweat, the muscles in his chest heave with each labored breath, his heart pounding against his rib cage. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the overwhelming sensations coursing through his veins, the pulsating warmth of his release still lingering within you.

Slowly, he collapses onto you, his body molding perfectly against yours as he holds you. His head finds rest in the crook of your neck, the tickling sensation of his soft hair against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His arms wind tightly around your waist, pulling you closer against him, his fingertips lightly tracing patterns on your bare skin that leave a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The feeling sends a pleasant shiver down your spine—the soft sigh that escapes your lips draws his attention, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. His gaze softens as he looks at you, lips curving into a gentle smile, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingertips lightly trace the curve of your cheek, his gaze filled with a warmth that makes your heart flutter.

The gentleness of his touch, the warmth in his gaze, it paints a picture of a man different from the one you thought you knew—it's a side of him that you've never seen before, a side of him that he's only let you see this one night.

The gesture sends a warmth spreading through your chest, your heart fluttering at this moment of intimacy. Your heart swells in your chest, a warmth blossoming from within, spreading throughout your body. A smile tugs at your lips, your hand reaching up to cup his cheek. You lean in, capturing his lips in a slow, sweet kiss, a shared moment of tenderness that leaves you both breathless.

But as you lay there, in his arms, you can't help but feel a sense of sadness creeping in. This shared intimacy, this closeness, it’s fleeting. It’s a one-night-only deal, a brief interlude in your otherwise separate lives. By morning, he wouldn’t call you until the next time he was in town. By morning, Choso would be back to his usual self, the man who seemed so distant, so unapproachable—the man who only surfaces in the dead of the night when he’s sick of being alone.

So, you draw him closer, nestling his head in the crook of your neck as you try to steady your erratic breathing. “It’s fine,” you assure him, your voice barely a whisper against his ear, “keep going.”

This is one night only, a stolen moment in time. And you intend to savor every second, to make each moment last as long as you can.

pls listen to one night only by sonder it's literally so good

#jjk #jjk fic #jjk smut #jjk choso #choso x reader #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jujutsu kaisen x you #jujutsu kaisen fic #jjk fics #anime smut #choso kamo

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c0mbatchameleon · 9 months ago

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@jegulus-microfic March 12, prompt: retire, words: 953

Aka optometrist reg au (part 1? maybe) loosely based off of this post

James is having trouble breathing.

The problem is, he can’t quite remember how to do it right now. His brain, rather impressively, emptied of all of its contents the moment the optometrist opened the door.

Right off the bat, the man had been straight to business; swift stride into the room, eyes glued to the clipboard in hand, a curt “hello” and introduction before he sat down and uncapped a pen with his goddamn teeth. James could only stare dumbly, mouth agape as he stumbled over half-sentient responses to the all routine eye exam questions (“See okay with your current prescription?” A black curl falling over the doctor’s otherwise perfectly framed face, cheekbones carved by the sea, like stones.

“Uh huh.”

“Taking any current medications?” Beautiful silver-blade eyes meeting his expectantly.

“Uh-“ James coughing and clearing his throat, “no. No medications.”)

Now, he's at least regained his ability to form sentences. But as James watches the doctor fiddling with machinery, silver rings glinting in harsh, sterile lighting, he is finding immense difficulty in breathing like a normal human being.

“So,” James begins, leaning to rest his elbow on the table and swelling his chest ever-so-slightly. He does his best to smooth out his voice as he speaks, going for casual with just a sprinkling of something sultry. “Dr. Black, did you say it was?” He may not be able to fully function but God help him if he can’t still flirt.

The doctor's eyes flick up for only a split second, but James counts it as a win. “That’s correct.” He maneuvers what looks like an avant-garde torture contraption towards where James is sitting. “Rest your chin on the platform.”

James does as he’s told, holding back from an absurd urge to respond with a Yes, sir. He's definitely not conjuring a medley of alternate scenarios in his head in which Dr. Black orders him around. “And what might your first name be?”

“It might be of no relevance to the matter at hand, Mr. Potter.”

“Call me James, please.”

Regulus sits on the other side of the torture-machine and begins turning dials. “You should see a red X on the right side, James,” he replies flatly. Still, the sound of his name on the man’s tongue is fucking intoxicating. It's echoing around his skull--James James James JamesJamesJames--he wants to hear it a million more times, every minute of every day until his last.

James usually hates these appointments. Hates the big machines he has to stick his face in, blowing air and shining bright lights in his eyes. Hates that stupid picture of the house that they make him look at a million times over while some old man who looks just about ready to retire asks “One or two?”

But Dr. Black is not some old man.

He’s new—James has been coming here for years and has certainly never been graced with the sight of this angel-fallen-to-earth before. He's young, too; despite the way he carries the poise of a man with years of experience under his belt, cool and confident and collected, there’s no way Dr. Black is old enough to be more than a couple years out of school. All sharp edges and smooth skin.

And god, his skin. It looks impossibly soft, stretched over slender hands and freckled cheeks, strong nose and cut jaw. As James runs his eyes hungrily over the landscapes of peach-pale skin--hills and valleys spanning the doctor's face and neck and fingers and knuckles--he considers how easy it would be to reach out and touch it, find out for himself if it's really as smooth as it looks.

“James,” Dr. Black's voice cuts sharp through his fantasy, one brow raised where he's clearly caught James drooling over him. “Please look into the eyepiece.”

It’s not like James can help it. He’s a bit entranced by the way the doctor maintains such a stoic expression, posture rigid and cold eyes unwavering, especially now. It’s all the beauty of a pointed blade, glittering in the sunlight, begging to draw blood.

But James doesn’t miss the light blush now in full bloom across the man’s cheeks. Silver-clad fingers have begun tapping a sporadic pattern on the table as storm cloud eyes sweep down and back up James' face, quick as a flash of lightning, and isn’t that just curious? Suddenly, James wants to know what it would take to get that stone-cold cast to crack.

He shoots back a sly grin. “Sure thing, nameless doctor.” He looks into the contraption. “Oh would you look at that. A red X.”

The doctor lets out a muted sigh. He fidgets some more with the dials and buttons on the other side of the machine as James watches the X shift in and out of focus. He breaks the silence only when it's stretched for just a moment too long. “My name is Regulus. There’s gonna be a bright flash now.”

Immediately, a blinding white light flashes directly into his eye, burning a goddamn hole into his field of vision. He swears he can see the inside of his pupil for a moment.

But James doesn't care. Once the shock subsides, he finds himself grinning ear-to-ear.

Now we're getting somewhere.

He looks back up from the eyepiece to where the doctor, Regulus, is still intently focused on the computer and equipment. Evading James' gaze. Cheeks still pink.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Regulus.”

#I can’t get them out of my head #so here’s a small little thing #didn’t even rlly finish the scene so might continue it some time #laughing at james trying to puff out his chest and strike a pose at this eye exam #james potter #regulus black #jegulus #starchaser #jegulus microfic #james potter x regulus black #jegulus fanfiction #jegulus fic #sunseeker #marauders #james x regulus #writing stuff and things #microfic tag

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quarterlifekitty · 12 days ago

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Midsommar!AU

cw: Midsommar spoilers, dark romance/obsession, Cult! König, implied death/murder, indoctrination, author’s König’s thinly veiled breeding kink

König has dreamed of you since he met you. A beautiful, perfect girl. He can already see the flowers woven through your hair as you dance in the sun, linen hugging your waist. A perfect May queen.

There’s the matter of your boyfriend. He wants to leave you behind, the bastard. Probably thinks he can get his fill of local women— he’s been dying to break up with you anyways. Ungrateful prick. If König had a woman like you… you’d be cherished. Never want for anything. So caring and sweet— you’re wasted on that boyfriend of yours. His family would love you. Appreciate you. Take you as one of their own.

If they didn’t, König would die in a fire like his parents did. But his intuition hasn’t led him astray yet. He just has to take the appropriate measures to make sure that you’ll come along…. And that there won’t be anything left to bring you back from his sunlit valley. When he’s done, you won’t even remember what life was like before.

He has to hold himself back quite a lot when he’s with you. From holding you. Comforting you the way the man he lives with— the one who has fucked you and yet spurns your embrace— has never done. He has to stop himself from going after you when you cry as he needles you, subtly, sympathetically, about your loss. The seed is planted.

When you arrive at the valley, the time blows by like blades of grass carried by wind. One event flows into the next. Your doubts festering as König takes every opportunity to hold you, to give you everything you’ve been denied while he leads you along. Until you know exactly where your happy ending will be, and exactly who is in the way of it coming true. Later, he will great pleasure in being the one to knock your boyfriend down and paralyze him.

For now, you are crowned. His may queen. You’re the one that makes the flowers come alive. He knows no greater happiness than what he feels seeing you in the garb of his home, pulled about and giggling by the other young women as they dress and decorate you, as they sing with you, and make you one of them. A soft, pretty, unburdened thing. Fit to be held, to be wed, to indulge. You appear even more weightless than you had in his dreams. He feels every pulse and tingle of blood beneath your skin as he holds you by your cheeks and kisses you as if he’s always known you, as if he’s just been waiting all of his life for the chance.

He’s awarded his own laurel for his unclouded intuition. Not nearly as bright and beautiful as yours, but he’s quite happy for you to be the sun. König is the flower that cannot help but bend towards your rays. When the festival is complete, he will ask the matriarch for her blessing. That is— assuming that she doesn’t match you together before then. The sooner you’re coupled to him, the sooner the two of you can go about making a spring baby, very auspicious.

And as the flames dance in your eyes, the screams echoing around you, the sweet smell of fresh and yew and hay filling the air, you smile. Unburdened. In that moment König knows that his life has all lead to you, to bringing you home.

#writing #cod fanfic #Midsommar!au #könig x you #könig x reader #König #cw dark content

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romcomeon · 2 months ago

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𝟎𝟎𝟏. 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄

✒ 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋: life and fate are scary; and it takes immense sacrifice for one to be legendary.

✒ 𝐂𝐀𝐒𝐓: reader as calypso, solomon as odysseus, barbatos as athena, luke as telemachus, mammon as hermes, + a few special guests!

✒ 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: solomon x gn! reader, epic the musical au, odyssey au, greek myths reimagined, unreciprocated love, signs of manipulation, angst, angst, angst, mentions of grief and death, character death [lightning strike], solomon has a breakdown at the end, "penelope" is gender neutral

✒ 𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒: wc: 7k+ | read on AO3 .ᐟ

✒ 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐒: @mammonsrockstargf ﾉ @satangcrush ﾉ @eraofkalki ﾉ @sadpancakeface ﾉ @torchvic

He whose fate was swallowed by the high seas was no less of a love-driven fool.

For years he never returned, yet for centuries, his legacy strives within legends. Epic poems crafted by the most renowned of writers, curated to accurately depict his outstanding feats whilst making them a tad more magical. All these stories were sung in praise by orators as crowds gathered around—eyes, ears, and minds working wonders.

They themselves create their own interpretation of fantasized play for their greatest hero. The crowd’s silent roars, begging for a glimpse of a life once treasured.

A valley without its savior. A court without a martyr. An army without a leader.

Ballads and tragedies dedicate themselves to the fallen. With scholars utilizing this artistic medium as a bloodless graveyard for the ghosts of those who never returned. Their souls rest in peace among the wrathful flames of the underworld, dancing to the chants of the oracles. When the songs are as beautiful as the late Michael’s melodies reeking to the echoes of a meadow suffering drought to the god’s ear, perhaps, the scholars prophesied, Olympus would be merciful.

Of course, that would be if the world were as harmonious as the plays of the great Mephistopheles, with his cult's undying joy of wine and lust. Gaia was born from the depths of Chaos; Chaos had never been one for mercy.

By Satan’s decree and Barbatos’ valor, ruthlessness prevails in war. War was a testament to humanity’s own morals and beliefs. To relieve the growing surge of bloodlust when conflicts arise, bathing Troy in deep, luminous crimson. Screams of the deceased haunt these barren lands, filling the ruins of a grotesque landscape. Resembling the numb trauma soldiers possess murdering women and children, the hubris of the rulers sought to persuade them to do more.

Ruthlessness was mercy upon themselves.

Amidst hamartia, these idols were worshiped by their men. Allowing their flaws to be redeemed, gifting them with celestial grace to guide them away from danger. The scholars call this peripeteia, the reversal of one’s fate. With bad turning good or divine turning corrupt, the choice was given to Chaos’ more prominent writers: the mortals.

Peripeteia never guaranteed a positive turn, even as most stories seem to suggest. The loud guttural roar bounced off stone walls, spreading across the vast lands. From the skies to beneath the sea, his name repeats itself.

“Praise him, oh great Solomon of Ithaca.”

Whispers of that name make the masses perk their heads up and gauge the source. The majority shake their heads in a low huff, mourning the disappearance of Greece’s greatest warrior and his crew of men. Tales depict him as one who matches Achilles in glory, Alexander in rule, and the gods in intellect.

Ask a cowardly soul about their view of the king, and they’d bashfully avert their gaze. Sealing their mouths shut lest they’d be able to speak for another day. The braver minority ridiculed the king’s rule, even as to boast about the castle remnants. With no hero, there was no order. Hundreds of suitors flock to the palace, offering sexuality for power. To them, this legend was no less of a dead man.

A kingdom without a king. A queen without a lover. A prince without a father.

Being the God of Wisdom, Barbatos made sure his greatest warrior survived the most gruesome of trials that rivaled Hercules’ challenges. Molding the king to fit his ideals; triumph basking in newfound glory with every ferocious beast his hands slay. Well trained to become a warrior of the mind; cunning and wit, quick to produce a plan for his own benefit.

The making of a warrior comes with many pitfalls. Intelligence carries a heavy burden of excessive knowledge, and with owning knowledge comes humanity’s impuissance—kindness. For knowledge is a gift of victors, but why supply ruthless killers with a force opposing their ideals? That was considered torture. A strong, well-respected legend was merciless. Never was it that there’d be justice, that was part of the reason, yes, though being just was clemency.

That marked the beginning of Solomon’s peripeteia. His virtue to spare one of Leviathan’s cyclops turned the narrative against him.

It’s what turned his own god against him.

Albeit, those were years ago, and the said old god knew that. Barbatos lets out a sigh, trailing his gloved hands along the cold tread of marble stairs. He took off the old rusted helmet, dark and vibrant green locks swaying along to the warm breeze. The headpiece was set aside, carefully gracing the dark turquoise cloth adorned with embroidery of owl feathers and slippery snakes.

He never pictured that in all these years he’d be reminiscing of those fond moments with that lily-livered soul. Each faint ‘tap’ ticks for every second, recalling a memory as if it only happened yesterday. The time before the great fall, watching the familiar tufts of white hair, black robe with an ombre of white and night-sky blue, and stars; stars that marked a better time.

He stood tall at the forecastle deck of his ship, raising the sword up high in his hand. Gray eyes fall upon the cyclops’ wounded figure, his face ridden with specks of blood. For he was no man nor mythical, his form casting a large shadow looming over the terrain. No man, but the reigning king of Ithaca. Leading with peace, working to save his comrades while the titan feeds. Hundreds of men’s deaths shan’t go in vain.

Remember him for if the beast chooses not to spare another weary soul, so be it. Perish. Solomon raised his chin up, pointing his sword to whoever sees. “I am your darkest moment,” he says.

“I am the infamous Solomon.”

Stupid. Foolish. Mortals were always foolish. Barbatos shakes his head in disapproval upon the memory. Perhaps, maybe, things would’ve been much different had he himself…

What could he have done? He was a god, a divine force of nature, either a friend or foe to a benevolent protagonist. Yet perhaps if he had done something. Perhaps if he hadn’t simply lashed out at Solomon’s blatant naivety of showing mercy, then he’d be fine. They’d be fine. Barbatos already knew that mortals were susceptible to demons lurking in their minds, waiting to coerce an unintelligent soul’s light to go dark. Maybe, if he had just been a bit wiser, they’d be fine.

"Your friend?”

"Hm?" Barbatos lifts his gaze up, hearing the curious sound of a bright young boy, There he stood balancing on the stone balustrade. The boy, well, man, fixed his balance before walking towards the god. He swept the fabric beneath him before sitting beside the other, slowly inching closer.

"I do not know who your friend is, or the mistakes, and..." he trailed off, averting his golden blue eyes to the side whilst his fingers fidgeted with the hem of his chiton. He cleared his throat, possibly to not be any more awkward. "Well, my time with you has been splendid!"

Barbatos glanced at him, cocking his head. "How come?"

Stars glint within the boy’s eyes. Clenching one of his fists as if to grab an imaginary sword, before eventually exclaiming filled with excitement. "'Cause I got in a fight and I didn't die!"

He catches himself for a moment, blushing bashfully before scratching the back of his neck. "I've never felt strong before,” he admitted. Sure it was surprising, but the young prince wasn’t necessarily like his father. Though it’d made sense, had the young lad last seen the king when he was an infant.

Barbatos could remember earlier events. Antinous and the other suitors, flocking the palace and picking fights with an unarmed little wolf. Barbatos knew that he can be stronger with the right guidance, so he did what he could; go into the warrior’s mind to quicken his thoughts, and make him effortlessly lunge attacks towards the bullies.

The prince had the motivation, the dream, and the intellect. Much like when Solomon was younger, he too had a good heart.

Then again, Barbatos knew this was different. This was no longer the same man who he grew apart with all those years prior. Rather of a hair as white as the brightest clouds, he was greeted with a soft, gentle blonde. And his eyes, not a harsh, stone cold gray, but a bright blue with golden ombre. That detail made Barbatos perk a smile, as in his thoughts, both of them looked like parts and recombinations of a certain godly messenger.

Those similarities turn to not be as glaring when he sees the fresh sparks of pure adoration on the prince’s face. Barbatos watches as the other composes himself, careful to choose his words but not holding back from ever portraying the swell of giddiness of his demeanor.

What shocked the god was instead was the words that escaped him. He spoke gently, invitingly even, but still nervous. He seems to not be so sure if these were acceptable to say, but he did. “You're my friend, I couldn't ask for more," he said. “Maybe if life wasn't spent as planned. Though, I think it's time that you lend a hand— and I don't think he'll mind.”

He reaches out, raising his hand. “If not his friend, then mine.”

Barbatos stared at the boy’s palm, confused. For as many long years as he had lived, he had never seen this generous act of… celebration? Nevertheless, understand the traditions and gestures mortals made with other mortals. Although, he understood that the divine weren’t necessarily mingling with these mortals in the first place.

Nevertheless, it was a new start. And the bridge between gods and mortals have slowly become invisible in the time of war.

So Barbatos also raised his hand, slapping his palm against the boy’s—if that’s how you do it. He thinks he did it correctly, seeing the prince’s smile widen. "You're a good kid, Luke," Barbatos sighs, smiling more in ten minutes than he ever had in ten years.

Luke only nodded his head. "Thanks!"

A billow of clouds seize themselves over the mortal realm. Hidden within the trenches of the sea of indefinite wonder lies the peak of mount Olympus. At the foot of the temple, a black owl swiftly glides through the air. Once it reaches the foot of the temple, it shapeshifts back into Barbatos’ figure, dusting off any dirt that got on his clothes.

“So… Barbi,” a voice lurks within these halls. It didn’t take long for Barbatos to recognize that diction: zany and all reminds me of tricksters. “Still missing yer mortal?”

“Not now, Mammon.” the god of Wisdom sighed. “I’m busy.”

Mammon, the messenger of the gods, groaned. “This ‘bout the ‘moni guy again?” he complains, crossing his arms as his winged sandals lift him up in the air, allowing him to lie down on almost nothing. “C’mon, it’s been years.”

The god almost circles around Barbatos, with how his gold and silvers clang with his every movement. “Haven’t moved on, hm?” Mammon flipped himself over, resting his face on his palms while kicking his feet in the air. “Say it, Barbatos, you miss the guy as much as the last one.”

Barbatos only walked away. “Keep yourself out of this. This is simply urgent,” he said.

Mammon scowled, standing upright while clearing his throat. “Well I supposed the time he went hookin’ up with Thirteen wasn’t as urgent—”

“Thirteen?”

Barbatos stopped in his tracks, turning back to look at the messenger. “What about Thirteen?”

“Ah,” golden boy realized his mistake. He gave a faint whistle, tugging a few strands of dusty beige behind winged ears, averting his gaze so as to not directly anger the literal god of wisdom and war. Thirteen, daughter of Helios. Protector of nymphs, and known for turning men into swine.

Mammon cleared his throat. “So ya didn’t know.”

Barbatos’ eyes narrowed, the shadows in the temple deepening around him. Suddenly his spear was pointed at Mammon, inches away from scarring the other’s throat. “What happened?” he pressed, his voice a low growl.

Mammon shrieked, hands in the air. “‘was that for!?”

“Say something,” Barbatos smiled, patience growing thinner.

Mammon groaned, shrugging. He leaned casually against a column, twirling a golden coin between his fingers. “It’s best if ya see it for y’self,” he said, sapphire eyes subtly hinting at mischief. “Sol’ gone be damned to do a billion more fuck ups than fraternalizing the old man.” He turned away, running a hand through his hair as he paced restlessly.

Barbatos raised an eyebrow, retreating back his spear. “I beg your pardon?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge of concern in his tone.

“‘s speakin’ the truth ‘ere.” Mammon stopped, casting a piercing gaze back at Barbatos. It was rare to see the troublesome messenger of the gods be so serious. Though moments like this don’t last long, before a smirk breaks itself on his face. “Don’t thank me,” Mammon waves off, fanning his hand.

“He might as well may die.”

The sirens’ songs scream through ocean waves—no longer in an alluring tone that stops seafarers in their way, but an eerie melody whom irks many sailors to change their trajectory. “Spare us, oh spare us please.”

Wailing cries die out with the thunderous waves reaching alarming heights, a yard longer with every second the sea god’s fury boils. The storms guard Sparta from any unwanted pests, for a simple step was met with a bolstering beam of light as the gods’ roar echoes through the mortal’s ears. Although what tickled his ears, or the contrary, was how quiet it got. Immensely calm; the sounds of despair long gone with every wave hitting the shore. In a matter of life and death, it was odd that it suddenly got so peaceful.

Specks of sand reach his eyelids. Solomon begrudgingly opens his eyes, greeted by the harsh golden rays of the sun. Lifting himself up off the shore, he lets out a low groan as his hand dusts off the rest of the sand. Long strands of hair fall on his face, his fingers scratching the bit of fuzz on his chin. The last time he recalled, he only had bits of stubble that he planned to shave off with the remaining beeswax they still had on the great ship.

The ship. Curse godblessed cattle.

He stays sitting there, eyes cautiously observing the surroundings. Unlike in the past years of his voyage where it was filled with dull, brooding shades of life and the underworld, this place almost hurts the eyes. Instead it is filled with light, soft yet vibrant hues of lush trees and serene waters: even the sand, finer than Spartan shores, colored in a beautiful light peach brown. Cupping a handful, the sand only smoothly glides through his fingertips; not a particle on his palm.

The sea greets him with little seafoam meeting the outline of his body, but not once wetting the worn out fabrics of his clothes. And at that moment, he realized, this was no ordinary island.

“Where am I?” Solomon whispers out, feeling the well of dread picking up from the deepest swells of his stomach. This place looked lively; and by his induction, too lively. No land on Gaia would be this swell when there was that god’s ongoing rampage.

As Solomon was about to go and try to scavenge the shore for more clues on this mystery island, a loud, sing-song voice booms in the air. Your voice, waving your dominant hand while the other holds the woven basket filled with sweet fruits. You had a feeling he’d wake up sometime soon, though you underestimated the speed of time. “Good morning sleepyhead!” you cheered, walking towards him in rhythmic skips and hops on the sand.

You slowed down as you got closer, seeing the other flinch and take a step back, with his arm at his front and his brows furrowing. On the contrary, you softly smiled, humming. You extend your hands toward him, though not touching his skin quite yet. “You’ve been resting for a while,” you said, almost with a small bit of laughter. “I swore you were dead.”

Solomon clicked his tongue. “Who are—”

“Did you know you talk in your sleep?” you asked, your hand now resting on his scarred check. Carefully running your finger to the trace of his jaw while you gush about how adorable it was, hearing his gentle murmurs even when most of his words were incoherent. Pristine snow-colored hair, marvelous earthy gray eyes, delicate and commanding diction.

Though you do wonder of a word that you could understand. Or well, not a word to, but a name. A name you heard through every gasp while his body twitched on the sand. They seem to grow more desperate with each repetition, a poor soul calling for someone in an endless void. Naturally, this had you curious, questioning him while your hand began to trail down his neck. “You keep mentioning their name quite lot. Who’re they?”

You didn’t expect him to grab your wrist, clenching his fists around it. You winced at the pain, though you observe how his actions may be harsh, yet his eyes, expression, looked happier. He wasn’t looking at you, no, far from it; he looked zoned out, catching imaginary glimpses, a loving smirk ghosts his face.

Solomon spoke gently, fondly even. Similar to his restless whispers of the night. “They’re my spouse.”

Suddenly that smile you had faltered, replaced by a confused expression. Your lips formed a small “oh,” your hand retreating back to the basket’s handle.

You weren’t exactly terrified. Very much on the relative opposite; disappointed. It’s common in the legends for great to be utterly devoted to their lovers. A waste, your eyes falling back and inspecting his figure head to toe. The man looked ragged. Hurt. Malnourished. Dirty. Your thumb wipes itself on your index finger, remembering the rough, but smooth sensation of his imperfect flesh.

“Well they aren’t here now, no?” you tilt your head.

Solomon looked appalled, his eyes widening in offense. Was it something that you said? You weren’t lying— his spouse wasn’t here. You’re far from his homeland; whisked away to the safest, luxurious cove that you kept hidden away. That’s what there was with you, you’re rather secretive. You keep what’s yours hidden from peering eyes, where no mortal won’t get the privilege of seeing.

It took you a second to note your slip of the tongue. Noting that honesty may come off as rude. “Ah, forgive me,” you said. You bashfully averted your gaze, small hues of pink flushed on your cheeks. Being lonely on this land has made you too excited to see someone who even survived getting here. You worried that once his pulse came to a halt, you had to send his corpse away from the creatures to wholeheartedly devour. “It’s been a while since I’ve met someone.”

You were honestly starting to love this change of pace. It’s no fun if he leaves so soon. Perhaps the fates could care less if you allow yourself to adore him—even with his conflicting feelings

So you shake your head, giving him the basket as you take his hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. “Anyways, come my love!” You chime, small stars sparkling in your irises. ”The island awaits us!”

His face grimaces, pulling back his hand yet your grip was just too strong. Solomon spouted bitterly, raising a brow in offense. “Your love?”

You paid no attention to his words, instead touring him of this wonderful landscape. Open arms, twirling around taking in the bright greens and luscious blues of wild flowers and old trees. So giddy, even come to admire this lonesome place even more. “We have everything we could ever ask for!” you jolly along, taking a brief glance at Solomon.

The other still looked to be so perplexed. His hands gripping the basket’s handles, his feet dragging themselves as if they were leashed to your arms. His eyes seem to wander, but not once purposely in your direction.

Still, he must still be processing being in such a wonderful place, isn’t he? You giggle. You stroll around, slowing down as to not yet lose your now forever lover. A small crab scuttles near your feet, pinching at the air with its tiny claws.

It’s a vivid shade of red, almost glowing in the sunlight. You crouched down, opening your hand as you waited for the little one to climb on it. Sadly, it didn’t seem to reciprocate your friendly actions. Instead it waddled away, strutting as quickly as it could with its little crab feet. You pouted as you watched, inching closer to instead grab it by the shell, before placing it on your shoulder.

“Much better,” you laugh. Now that it’s there you twirled around, eager to prove to Solomon how wonderful heaven feels. How wonderful it’d be if he sees the joy soon. “Oh, we thank Queen Rose,” you giggled again. Ogygia was just as bountiful as the maiden you used to serve’s magical prowess.

You noticed that Solomon had placed the basket on top of a moss-covered rock, feeling his hand along the bark in a calculated expression, mumbling something.

You spoke aloud in a melodic symphony. “The place is beautiful,” you coaxed, stepping closer with your hands behind your back. Closer and closer, you watch him stiffen up and he faces you, right hand quick to grab the handle of his sword.

“It is.”

There was no denying that he was supporting your sentiment. For the first time.

You thought about how to get more from him, with each slow footstep you took forward. It couldn’t be helped that you felt cheeky, seeing the brave, powerful warrior back up against the tree; defensive, but oh so helpless. Tattered robes with rusted pieces of armor, worn out sandals and puffed up bruises. Stunning, you thought.

“Perhaps,” you cheekily say, the back of your hand running along his chest. “Soon into bed we’ll climb and spend our time.”

Solomon swats your wrist away. “I’m not your man.”

‘Not yet,’ you thought. Again, you ignore all possible signs of rejection, clinging towards him.

“I’m what you want. What you need, dear,” you murmur, your fingers tracing the outline of his armor. “It’s just you and me, my love in paradise.” You step closer, your breath warm against his skin.

“Now until the end of time, from here and out, you’re mine.” You smile, leaning in just enough to brush your lips against his. “All mine.”

Solomon pushes you away, causing you you tumble back. As you were about to recompose yourself, you see a dull, rusted blade pointed at your neck

“I could kill you where you stand,” Solomon spouted bitterly, lifting your chin with the tip of his sword. “I’m no pet. I’m a married man.”

Oh. He’s feisty, and can wield a weapon well. You left out a soft chuckle, holding the blade with two fingers as you moved it aside. “Oh handsome, you may try, ” you tease, even as you trace the sharper end of the sword, “pricking” your finger at its tip.

“But last I check, gods can’t die.” You kiss your own fingertip, one eye open to gauge at his reaction.

Solomon furrowed his brows, lowering his sword. “God…?”

You smile, resting on one of the larger rocks. You spoke not a word, but your cheeky smile and prominent glow at the ends of yours hair settled your case. You weren’t just some creepy owner of a secluded island that doesn't seem to appear in any of the olden maps. No. Of course you had to be a god.

This was bad. Very very bad. Solomon wished not to mingle with the gods.

Solomon wished that you weren't a god.

“But fear not, I bring no pain!” you reassure. “We’re stuck in paradise. Where no one can come and go, as my island stays unknown—”

“This is no paradise.”

You raised a brow. Had you heard it correctly? It was a plethora of beautiful flora and fauna. “What are you talking about?”

Solomon only shook his head, giving a coy, but per say partly polite smile. “I won’t be drawn to ‘love in paradise’. Get me out this instant.”

“Oh! You really are such a fool.” You pout. Your eyes scan over him, lifting your hand to your chin. Humming, you spot a small, beautiful hyacinth blooming beneath the rock. You crouched to pick it, examining the wondrous petals.

“We could fix that starting with this bit of hair,” you said. As Solomon was about to interject, you had placed the flower up at his ear, making sure to lightly touch his skin. “Aww, poor you. I’m here now.”

“Not ‘till the end of time.” Solomon takes a step back. “There is NO way—”

“But you’re mine,” you take a step closer once more. The man felt trapped, as every step he moved away only got you to inch closer. For gods, he expected a bit of decency. As far as he was concerned, mortals were more like puppets, only keen to serve every whim. Gods weren’t particularly opposed to mortal relationships, so why not?

Had he a choice?

You give him a sudden, tight hug. “All mine.”

“They’ve kept you out of your control,” Barbatos muttered, watching Solomon all the way from Olympus.

The god pinches his temples, processing what he just saw.

Not only was Solomon truly making a barrage of avoidable mistakes, but now he's stranded in an island with a homewrecker and no crew.

"Time can take a heavy toll," the god sighed once more. He's quickly to splash along the waters, hopeful to catch small glimpses of progress. What kind? anything that can safely get him back.

'Seven years...'

It was the break of night, calm bright festive colors all reduced to the dark, lonesome blues and grays. You woke up to the cold gust of wind hitting your skin, feeling the warmth retreat back. You flutter your eyes open, only to be met with emptiness; the only indication that he was there was the subtle dent on the white silk.

You sighed, running your hand along your hair as you set up, blanket on your lap, staring at the cold bedside. You loathe the routine of getting up and fetching your lover, muttering silent prayers that he hadn’t whisked himself away and droned in hellscape. The only sign of warmth was only the moonlight peeking through the window of the wooden hut, and even that sent a chilling sensation down your spine. It was a matter of time before his thoughts would begin to unravel, and for his nightly cries to spiral.

You turned to your side, legs on the ground as you stood up from the kline.

“Solomon?” you yawned out, stretching your arms in the air before grabbing another silken sheet to cover yourself. It was during night where there were the harshest of colds, after all. Deafening silence, only exposed to the loud dining of crickets and other critters that lurk in these darkness.

At day time, you would catch Solomon often sulking along the shoreline. His head hung low as he sat on the sand, arms crossed over his knees, pulling them closer to his body. In rare instances, he’d trace his fingers along the grains of sand, marking it with countless words, names, and symbols.

One that stood out to you one time was his repeated scribbling of a certain phrase. You swore to have heard of it before, but watching as the perfect bed of sand and seashells instead was carved with constant repetition, seeing him grip whatever his hand got a hold on tightly as he goes to recall memories of a past he once lost.

Of how it was to be kind. “Greet the world with open arms. Relax, my friend.”

It felt psychotic. You had to lull him out of his wicked trance before he went to hurt himself physically. Wiping off the dirt that stuck to his face, trimming his long hair to a more manageable length, and having to watch so he doesn't starve to death. He was a lot, going for hours without uttering a word or making eye-contact. Every time you nudge his arms and join you, whether it be in an act of passion or whimsy, the sparks in his eyes only continue to fade. Void of any speck of hope.

“Solomon?”

You call out once more. Walking out the safe confines of the hut, you went into the now quieter, eerier, more maniacal-driven call of the night. Every night, you’d wake up to sniffling whispers and faint sobs coming from the other side. You’d attempt a soft hum, hopefully soothing him to a calmer state of mind, caressing his sides and watch him twitch his body away from your touch. On more restless nights, he’d swat your wrist away before you’re able to touch him, huddled in a fecal position and shivering with the hour growing colder.

It’s at night where you feel helpless. Every attempt proven futile, every act of service ignored or unsupported. Every word working to console him only worsens his cries. Long periods of solitude have rendered Solomon uncomfortable in the company of others. Within your shared hut he laments, and there was nothing you could do.

You find yourself at the foot of a steep cliff, all from following smudged footprints on the grass. You squint your eyes, making out a figure on top of the cliff, only illuminated by the bright moonlight as this figure stares down into the mellow waters. Slowly, as to not hopefully startle the figure, you inch closer, carefully tracing your eyes along his form.

Subtle white glow basking in the moonlight, the freshly woven chiton you made for him reflecting the rays through golden crewels of birds, waves and stars. When you made that, the symbols were supposed to represent hope and longing, a fortunate outcome if he gave you more time. Though when he adorns the garment, signs of hope turn into withering longing. Only engraved memories of the past that forever haunts him.

He stood as still as an oakwood tree, mildly resisting the harsh waft of air. As you inch closer you reach out to him once more. So that please, he’d turn around and see you eye-to-eye.

You desperately called out for him, worrying exuding through syllables when you took a momentary pause to utter his name. It was familiar, but foreign. “Solomon?” you pleaded, fingers clenching your palm when you still see him stand there. Still. A man who can’t be moved or accept the present; always stranded in the labyrinth of the past.

“I hear them,” he uttered. Catching his breath with every word, stifling a sob with every annunciation. “All I hear are screams.”

Solomon takes a step forward. Tiny pebbles drop themselves towards the water. Ripples that marked tiny specks of heaven sunken beneath the surface. You flinch, rushing towards him yet still shy of a few steps. Small comets that guide the sky fall down and crash as a meteor, falling into seas where ripples turn into tides when they reach the shore.

“‘Moni, get away from the ledge.”

“Quiet,” Solomon snarked. “You don’t know what I’ve gone through. You don’t know what I’ve sacrificed.”

The scholars would call this anagnorisis. How a tragic hero discovers the cruel reality of his circumstance. How despite any attempt for kindness—for mercy—all is worthless in his peripeteia. Loss was something you couldn’t understand. Being alien for a majority of your life had you numb to the thought of loss just yet.

Yet.

Perhaps you were instead afraid of experiencing that loss.

“Every comrade I long knew,” you hear Solomon say. Drowning in anagnorisis. Panting. He lifts his hand up to grab tuffs of snow locks, tugging on the strands. “ Every friend. I saw them die, and… all I hear are—”

“It will be fine, dear.”

Solomon turns his to the side, as if catching even a small glimpse. You held your ground, staying firm. Comforting him with gentle melodies, singing a small ballad to soothe his nerves once more.

“ Come back inside, dear,” you said. You hesitate, inching closer but make sure to keep your pace quiet. Your voice cracks, feeling the burning drops of tears trailing down your cheek. “Love of my life, please.”

“Come back to paradise.” “Just let me close my eyes.”

You hear him resisting the melody, dueting your ballad with hoarse dissonance. Still, you continued, all until you were able to palace your hand on his shoulder. Squeezing it to give a blink of reassurance, pulling yourself closer to coddle him in your embrace. Though you don’t plan to hurt him. Never did, and never shall. You lean near his ears, whispering, “I know your life’s been hard. I’ll stay inside your heart.”

“If you could just see…” “All I hear are screams.”

“I love our time here,” you pause, gulping. “I love your company, It’s just..”

“Life would be so much worse if you had died.” “JUST LET ME CLOSE MY EYES!”

Solomon snaps, pushing your hand away as he strides forwards, turning around and finally facing you. Finally seeing you. This was what you wanted, wasn’t it? There you were, gray eyes with bits and the tiniest stars dying out in lonesome nebulae. Tears stream down the corners of his eyes as he takes erratic, shaky breaths. His hand still grabbing tufts of his own hair, running itself along it and pulling at the string begging for an ounce of control.

He noticed you, and you can vividly see the absolute madness swirling in his eyes.

“‘Moni,” you call out, grabbing both his wrists and gently grabbing him off the end of the cliff. He follows you, eyes now trailing downward, brows furrowed. His lips quivering, his lungs gasping, his hands warm from cold sweat; from all the stress of these memories.

“Please stay away from harm,” you lull him further, wrapping his arms around your waist. They’re dead, but you’re here. He wasn’t alone, you had a splendid time together. Flowers, petals, birds and bees—this was all you thought a man could ever want. There he stood, the only time ever acknowledging you since his first arrival was one of terror. One urging you to leave him. You run your thumb gently on his cheek, wiping those streams of regret.

“Stay in my open arms,” you cooed. You carefully caress his hair, your hand gliding through each silken strand. You were here, and you welcomed him to a palace where he’d otherwise may die.

You hear Solomon’s breath hitch, staring at you in shock. Irises turn into pinpricks, flinching as he grows appalled by your words. Suddenly, all in his view twisted off into blurs and blobs of a series of different hues and arrays of various colors. Shades of blue, yellow, browns and pinks littered his vision, and your form melted away into nothing but just a color of shapes.

“Moni?” Solomon could hear a voice. A voice not like yours: it wasn’t melodic, in a sing-song tone that’s as soft as the flutter of butterflies. This was more kind, more earthy, more human. And lastly, more familiar. Your voices swallowed by the whispers of a distant past, silken velvety words in a calming diction. It wasn’t yours. It was no longer you who clouded his mind.

The image of your gentle smile was gone; turned to instead to be more genuine. One of excitement. Suddenly, Solomon saw the day at night. Sun kissed skin and curly, dark brown hair, with the figure’s bright cerulean eyes becoming clearer with the second. The hand was no longer on his cheek and the base of his neck, but tightly grabbing both his shoulders while lightly shaking him in glee.

“This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms!” the figure cheered, taking a step back and he did just as he said: he opened his arms wide open. As if welcoming Solomon in a tight embrace.

Solomon gasped, reaching his hands out. A small, hopeful smile ghosts his face. “Simeon?”

Simeon chuckled, moving his hands around before slowly, blobs and blues start to resurface along the base of his arms. Colors of light, periwinkle blue contrasted with specks of black and wave strands.

The king’s smile fades, squinting his eyes to focus more on the mysterious figure that his friend was holding.

These blobs and sharp shapes of diamonds and triangles instead morphed into the innocent figure of a young baby boy peacefully asleep in his blanket. Solomon’s eyes widened, even shaking his head while closing his eyes. To do a double take as to make sure the child he saw wasn’t who he thought he was.

The child from the wooden crib back at Troy. The child whom the gods had ordered him to… to…

Simeon hummed, rocking the baby in his arms. Solomon’s ears perked up from the soft, childish giggles exuding from the blanket. Simeon chuckled, letting the young prince play with his finger. “He’s wonderful,” the lad crooned, chuckling before slowly going back to a playful tune. “To think a man like Hector was able to have a child. Tell me, Moni, why didn’t we get to keep him?”

He raises a brow as he pouts to confront Solomon. Though it doesn’t last long, a simple sneer quickly puts him back in his playful act. Simeon gave Solomon one final look, nodding his head. He said: “Whatever we face, we'll be fine if we're leading from the heart.”

After that, Simeon’s figure soon faded away, carrying the down sleeping child. ‘Right,’ Solomon thought. He’s dead. He’s forever damned in the underworld; taking care of that Trojan. Although the man couldn’t help it. The image of a boy who once resembled his son before he left for war was too much for the king to bear.

And Simeon was too kind to be a father that he couldn’t be, unlike someone who would match Solomon’s lack of mercy.

“Captain?”

There it was another voice. From Simeon’s warmth it shifted to coldness. Bitter. Solomon took a brief glance—not that you were able to perceive any coherent shape—and was only met with blurred circles and squares of gray and muted browns. And unlike Simeon, he didn’t need clarity to focus on who it was, nor was he really willing to face the obscured face. Hair and body perfectly matching a memory, yet face scribbled away as to not recall his mate’s dismay.

Solomon held his stance, tilting his head up whilst staring back at the figure. “Raphael,” he said.

Akin to the lack of facial features, Raphael never focused on his captain. Instead, as a mouth starts to clearly come into view, he seems to be talking to someone far in the distance. He’s quick to grab the handle of his sword, his grip tightening. And Raphael repeats it once more, “Captain?”

“I have to see them.”

Solomon turned around again, as he heard a more uncanny resemblance. Instead of the ghost of the past haunting him, it was instead a clear image of himself. The only difference would be how ragged and scarred he used to look before being under Ogygia’s care. This wasn’t a blurry spectacle spawning itself to hurt it, this was just torture.

Not bearing to look at himself, he goes back to staring at Raphael. His mate’s eyes came into a clear view, and he wasn't mad. No. Instead he looked to be that he respects Solomon’s decision, but that wasn’t enough to ignore the stifling of his nose watching. “But we’ll die,” Raphael tried to reason out.

Raphael tried even as he knew that what Solomon said was final. Even with the regret lingering on right after, he was a man of his word. Even with his back facing his double, he could imagine himself hesitantly raising his hand, pointing towards his crew. Hearing the phrase he told the thunder bringer.

“I know.” “I can’t.”

Solomon watches Raphael’s shoulders relax. He sighs, clicking his tongue before bowing his head, only giving a cold, bitter gaze in dark, lapis irises. “How much longer till your luck runs out?” Raphael shots his gaze to the real Solomon. The flashing lights of lightning reflect at the of his shoulders and hair, illuminating a bright white light from behind.

The roaring sounds of thunder fill the air, as the flashing grew more erratic. “Wait, no! Raphael!” Solomon exclaimed. He tries to take a step forward, but knees betray him, instead falling down to the ground. “You can’t do this to me!”

The lightning’s flickering worsens, and with ragged deep breaths, he looks up. Raphael looks down at him, shaking his head in disappointment. “How much longer till we all fall down?” he asked one last time, before closing his eyes and taking a long, deep breath.

“RAPHAEL!”

The sky rips open. A jagged bolt of lightning arcs down, striking Raphael with a blinding flash. Time seems to stretch as Solomon watches. Horrified. The air crackles with energy, and the sound is deafening, a roar that drowns out everything else. The light envelops his mate’s body, and for a heartbeat, he was only a mere silhouette against the storm. All suspended in the surging flames of chaos.

And all Solomon can see is the silhouette of Raphael collapsing. “No…” Solomon cries, scrambling to his feet, adrenaline surging through him as he races toward the fallen figure. “No. No. No. No..”

Each step feels heavy, every step conspires to hold him back. “Raphael!” he shouts again, desperation clawing at his throat. Once he reached where the lightning struck, it was over. Raphael’s body was no more.

Solomon falls to his knees, grasping at coarse sand. His other hand reaches out to scramble along finely combed locks, ruffling it up in a tangled mess. “Please don’t make me do this,” Solomon wept. “Don’t make me do this.”

The voices of sirens fill the air, trapping him in an endless echo of screams, terror and revenge. Melodies of “waiting..” bounces through imaginary walls, each note striking his ears to bleed. He covers them lowers, lowering his head down to deafen the silence.

“Waiting…” Make it stop.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.” Make it stop.

“And it’s no longer you.” Make it all stop.

The loudest of the voices resemble yours. A loud, brash symphony that’s louder than any of his other demons. Your figure walks towards him, pulling his hands away from his and placing them on your cheek, whispering to him to open his eyes.

Your figure meshed with the colors of someone else from a distant past. As if your forms blended into one, where one can no longer be separated from the other. Washed out imagery of the bed made of trees that lies in their shared bedroom could be seen behind you, as leaves carefully drift down in a steady pace.

You smile, making him open his eyes. In a sing-song voice, you cooed. “Let me take the suffering from you.”

Solomon was quick to hug you back, sobbing into the fabric. You playfully scoffed, caressing your hands along his hair, murmuring sweet nothings. For judgment was blurry in watery eyes.

You also weren’t real. Not this mashed, stitched together doll that only took to keep half of your figure.

And Solomon realized that too soon, when you come tumbling down as nothing but sand along the shore. Grains clinging on to his clothes, specks reaching his eyes as they grow even more red. He can’t bear to understand. He fought to save lives, but not killing ended up leading all his men to perish.

Had he avoided it all if he hadn’t shown mercy.

And how foolish he looked begging for it. The gods were right; he was a Greek who reeked of false righteousness. The worst kind of good for he cannot be great.

The cauldron had overflowed, as the voices grew louder once again. Taunting him as their endless comedy, in his peripeteia, suffering in anagnorisis. In a final, desperate moment, Solomon went back to the safe confines of closing his eyes. To shut himself off from the truth. To move on, and hopefully get back on track to returning to Ithaca.

His queen. His child. That was who he fought for.

Hands clenching his chest, Solomon screamed.

“BARBATOS!”

Call him a fool. He’ll never allow himself to indulge in hubris once more.

a/n: this was honestly too much for the heart. so uhh, i hope you enjoy! also if anyone is able to spot all of the references then you'll be getting a small little bonus

thank you all for your support for this event, and for your patience as this was published a day late. Never fret, we still have more stories to come! and i hope you're there to follow me along through this journey.

and also, don't forget to greet the world with open arms! <3

event materlist | main masterlist | divider by cafekitsune

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askameisha · 2 months ago

Note

Brothers, we are honoured with the presence of a Honored battle brother Bananpie. Today is the day that the tyranids and the warp will know fear. FOR THE Banan EMPEROR!!!!!

“Never mention her name in such controversial matters. Her hearing is... scary.”

~ Twilight.

Annnnd meet Ibura! The Rainbow Dash from my universe. A Pillar with a very stormy mood, and who has the domain of the In-Between of Windreach! Probably the only one who swears so freely as well--

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st-el-la-luna · 7 months ago

Text

Call of the Valley {Call of Duty x Reader/Stardew Valley AU｝

Prologue: Grey

➔ gn!reader ("you"/"your" pronouns used), thoughts of violence, mentions of death

no character introductions yet, just some world building. unedited

Series masterlist!

997 words

Grey walls. Grey ceilings. Grey floors. Grey desks.

Everywhere you look is grey. From the meticulously lined cubicles to the desks lacking any personalization. From the uncomfortable chairs to the equally as uncomfortably sticky floors. From the company provided coffee mug to the company provided calendar. From your coworker's outfit (you swear that sweater used to be blue) to the contents of your lunch.

It’s all grey.

You sigh as you push around the mushy overcooked rice on your desk before you. In the silence of the office, you might as well have fired a gun, the sound a stark contrast to the usual deadness. The only sounds typical of this purgatory you call work are the tap-tap-tapping of keys and the clicking of mouses. Plus, the occasional beep of the microwave, or slam of the fridge door (you swear that fridge has been here longer than any employee. The way the lightbulb buzzes when you open the door sounds like a cry for help. A plea for you to end its decades-long misery. You, of course, don’t. If you must suffer, then so too must the fridge).

Someone clears their throat from the entry of your cubicle. You turn away from your sad little lunch to find your sad little supervisor. Who, surprise, surprise, is dressed in, you guessed it, even more grey.

“Something the matter?” she asks you with a smile that makes you want to use your cheap plastic fork to carve out her eyes. “I could have sworn I heard something.”

“Yeah, sorry,” you try for a smile in return, not sure why you bother considering you hate her guts as much as she hates yours. “I’m just... tired.”

“Well, tired or not, you know better than to bring that kind of attitude to the workplace. Big smiles, remember? The atmosphere matters you know!”

“Right, yeah,” you nod, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes. “Big smiles.”

“Come on, let’s see it,” your supervisor says, tapping the sign on your cubicle wall *Smile, you’re with Joja!* You put on a smile which she returns with a patronizing scrunch of her nose, talking to you like one would an unruly child. “There, that wasn’t that hard now, was it?”

It wouldn’t be too hard to use my stapler to knock your teeth in, you bitch. It’d only take a couple of hits... All the red would really brighten this place up... Ever heard of colour theory?

“Yeah,” you smile. “Not that hard.”

Your computer beeps. Your lunch break is over. You haven’t touched your food.

Your supervisor's smile widens. The brown-nosing corporate shill that she is. “Well, you’d better get back to it... And try to do better this afternoon. Your numbers have been trailing all morning. I’d hate to have to write you up.”

“Yeah,” you say as you drop your food into the rubbish. “I’m sure.”

Your computer goes off again, demanding your attention. Your supervisor stands there for a moment longer than she needs to, as if checking that you’re really going to work, then hums, pleased, and walks away.

It’s going to be a long day...

But hey, look on the bright side, you won’t be doing this forever.

One day you’ll die.

Die... The thought echoes in your head for a bit. Die... Die...

Your gaze falls to the drawer of your desk where the letter from your late great-uncle sits, waiting to be opened. You didn’t know the guy much, the family didn’t really talk about him, and he never came to any gatherings. But he had no kids and, well... No one really. He’d been thrilled when you had expressed interest in enlisting in your early teens. He taught you all the tricks of the trade and then some.

He was less thrilled when you told him you’d changed your mind.

It really wasn’t that shocking news. He’d kept talking on and on about pulling some strings, using his connections, but it’s just... not what you wanted anymore. You weren’t a kid anymore and well, you had to be realistic.

Besides, they didn’t want you to enlist. You’d tried and well... While you passed the physical tests fine and were more than smart enough to work in intelligence or as a bomb tech, your psychological tests were... Less than stellar. Which was difficult to explain to a man who, despite having watched countless of his friends die and witness atrocities you could never fathom, thought that mental illness was a sham created by the youth to get out of doing real work.

It’s not like you’d caused his heart attack. He was already sick. And all the smoking and drinking from his days on active duty surely didn’t help. He got himself too worked up over something small, and well... His heart just couldn’t take any more of it.

Speaking of being unable to take anymore... you can hear your supervisor coming back around. You look between your monitor and the desk drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor. Drawer. Monitor...

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to write you up. Just know this isn’t-”

“I quit.”

And, just like that, you grab your few personal belongings and shove past her to the door, manilla envelope clutched in your hand.

She sputters something behind you, makes a move to grab your wrist. You dodge.

“You can’t be serious,” she says. “You... You can’t quit now! It’s the busiest time of the year!”

“I just did... Oh, and Stacy?”

“Yes?” she asks, almost hopeful.

“You’re a right bitch. Just wanted to let you know.”

Her entire face goes red as her cheeks puff out. “You... I... Wh...”

You leave her there to her aneurysm, walking into the elevator and letting the doors close behind you.

You lean your head back against the grey wall, resting your weight against the railing. You glance at the envelope in your hand.

God... Please don’t let this be a mistake.

please comment and reblog to support my writing! asks are always open! Literally nothing inspires me to write more!

who should we meet first and how?

taglist: @tooloudarts @cadotoast @elaineiswithyou-blog @thigh-o-saur

Masterlist!

#call of duty #cod mwii #cod #call of the valley au #x reader #stardew valley #au #stardew au #cod x reader #task force 141

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lcverwrites · 1 year ago

Text

bad for business ― aegon x reader, aemond x reader (modern au)

summary … aemond sees something he wasn't supposed to...or was he? pairings … aegon targaryen x tyrell!reader, aemond targaryen x tyrell!reader warnings ... smut, unprotected sex, voyeurism, public sex, aemond being a but of a creep (but not non-con), aegon being a little shit, unhealthy family dynamics note … here's a little something that i cooked up a bit ago, i've been working on possibly making this some kind of series between aegon x reader x aemond, so let me know if you wanna see a possible part two!

⠀⠀⠀Aemond's hand clenched around the brass handle, the cool metal biting the rough texture of his palm, but the cold was the last thing on his mind.

The lighting was dim in the room, muted almost, a sconce on the wall offered a shimmer of yellow light, enough for Aemond's good eye to lock onto the two bodies pressed against the pale wall.

Perhaps he should have known.

Should have realised what he might have been walking into, when his mother asked him to go searching for his missing brother. An inkling of mockery lingering in the back of his mind, taunting him with the logical thought of the kind of person his brother was.

And there was a small part of Aemond that hoped his brother was just running behind, fiddling with his appearance, as he often is.

But nothing could have prepared his mind for the sight before him.

Aegon's dishevelled dress shirt was untucked from his black suit pants, unbuttoned and half pushed down his shoulders. Aemond could only see his brother's back, the once crisp white shirt, was wrinkled beyond repair.

But that was only the first thing Aemond noticed.

The second was the smooth leg wrapped around his brother's waist. Barely a glimpse of green silk slithered around the leg, the fabric was so dark that one might have mistaken it for black, but Aemond knew that dark emerald green colour well. Strapped to the foot, of the leg wrapped around his brother's leg, was an elegant black heel, glimmering diamonds adorning the strap of the shoe.

The third, and most important piece of the picture, was the woman Aegon had slanted himself against, the woman who was pressed to the cream coloured wall.

Her slender neck was on full display, head thrown back against the wall beneath her back, full lips parted as a pleased cry fell past her puffy pink lips. The dip of her neck was covered by a chain of diamonds, catching in the yellow light, looking like pools of crystal water around her smooth skin. The chain dipped lower on her skin, curving past her collarbones, slipping below the neckline of the green silk of her dress, resting between the valley of her breast, each deep breath caused her chest to raise, the blood red jewel glowing against her skin.

For whatever reason, Aemond couldn't have imagined this...couldn't have imagined her, the sweetest of flowers, beneath his brother's undeserving hands.

Aegon had his face pressed into her slender neck, mouthing at the smooth skin, faint red marks were etched into her skin, no thanks to Aegon's ravenous attentions. Aegon's once nicely styled hairdo had been ruffled, her fingers threaded in Aegon's ivory strands, tugging him into her body, welcoming his unholy behaviour.

Aegon's hands were wrapped around her waist, palming at the silk covered skin on her waist, nails threatening to tear the flimsy fabric, from where he was stranding, Aemond knew she wouldn’t have protested. The other hand was caressing the smooth skin of her thigh, pushing the fabric of her skirt from his way, allowing more of her skin to be exposed, more for Aegon to get his hands on.

The sound of her breathy whimpers echoed through the empty hall, accompanied with the rhythm of skin meeting skin, slow and methodical slapping that ricocheted off the bare walls.

Aemond could not see where the pair were joined, but the sound was enough for him to know, the pleased look on her face was enough of a sight, Aemond didn’t need to see anymore.

The moment he seemingly made his decision, he watched his brother whisper quiet words into her ear, lips wrapping around the gentle slope of her ear, the light catching the matching red jewels dangling from her ears for a split second, as Aegon’s lips brushed against her ear, her panting stuttered, eyes fluttering open slowly, as if she were remembering where she was, slowing, her head tilted forward.

And in a heart racing moment, her eyes locked with Aemond’s.

Her lips were parted, a sulled moan fell past her lips, but her full attention was now directed on Aemond.

“Fuck” Her voice was breathless, the words barely reached Aemond’s ears, but he knew she was doing it for his benefit.

The grip she had on Aegon’s cropped strands of pale hair tightened, burying his face into the supple skin of her breasts, his lips lapped at the cleavage spilling from beneath her dress, nipples perked and pushing against the now taunt green silk.

“Please” Her voice was louder now, carrying the short length across the hall, allowing Aemond to hear the plea.

Her pleas went straight through Aemond, sinking into his skin, digging her nails beneath the surface and refusing to budge until she drew every last breath from his lungs.

And Aemond knew he would do anything for her.

Her pleasured features were all Aemond could focus on, her eyes were sharp and focused, pupils dilated, clouded with a lustfulled expression. Despite her attention being solely on Aemond, she pulled Aegon closer, her hips canting up to meet his rhythmic thrusts.

As if she were taunting him.

Keeping him at arm's length, while she drew his brother closer, allowing him to destroy the elegant facade she’s painted.

“I want to cum for you, please” She sighed, her lips pursed into a pretty pout, allowing Aemond to take in the abused way his brother had attacked the supple skin, red, raw and utterly alluring.

Only she could look dishevelled, yet sensually elegant at the same time.

He knew he should just close the door, allow the couple their moment alone, and confront them once they were finished, but Aemond couldn’t seem to pick his feet up, rooted to the tacky blue carpet beneath his polished dress shoes.

Not when she was begging for him.

She was being fucked by Aegon, but begging for Aemond.

The irony made him want to laugh, throw his brother from her body and capture her lips for his own, fuck her the way she deserved, not against a wall in a dimly lit hallway, he’d have the decency to worship her where no one else could see her. Allow her to invade his senses, breath in her scent, taste her skin, feel her smooth body beneath his roughened palms, watch as she falls apart by his hand and his hand alone, devour her in a manner that would have her unable to speak anything but his name, like a pray on her lips, for his ears only to hear.

His grip on the door handle grounded his imagination, bringing him back to earth, where he watched her be brought to the precipice of pleasure by another man.

Fate was a cruel woman.

“I want it inside me, I want you inside me” She purred into Aegon’s ear, but her eyes were still on Aemond, inviting him into her inner thoughts, her pleasures, her fantasies…her fantasies of him.

Aemond’s breath hitched in the back of his throat as her face changed, it was subtle, a subdued moan slipped past her lips, catching in the back of her throat. Her brows furrowed slightly, like her focus was slipping away, barely holding on by her fingertips. Her head tilted back, like she wasn’t in control of her body anymore, responding to the rapid motion of Aegon’s hips, drilling faster against her body, shaking her breasts with each bounce, threatening a mouth watering escape. Despite her body moving of his own accord, she kept her hooded gaze on Aemond, as pleasured shocks ran through her body, allowing him a glimpse at this intimate moment.

With Aemond’s watchful gaze keeping close attention to her, she allowed herself to fall off the edge of her pleasure, diving head first into euphoria. The sounds falling from her lips shook Aemond to his core, he felt his slacks tighten, yearning to hear more, to feel more…to feel her.

It was a whimper of a muffled curse, a loud string of pleasured moans, gasping for a breath she couldn’t quite catch, her body tightening, drawing Aegon closer to her, bringing him further into her orbit.

Aegon’s lips twitched into an amused smirk, muttering a few words against her cleavage, words that her faltering for a moment, as if not expecting him to say whatever it was he said.

Her delayed reactions took a moment to really take in what Aegon had said, and he was clearly enjoying taking her off guard, as if he didn’t do it all that often. But the moment of taken abackness washed away, being replaced with a pleading pout.

“Give it to me, please, please” She murmured in a sultry tone, the words spilling from her lips, begging for something Aemond wasn’t privy to.

She made sure to keep eye contact with Aemond as she uttered the next words, and Aemond was lucky he didn’t burst in his dress pants.

“I want you to cum inside me” She pressed the words into Aegon’s ears, but loud enough for Aemond to hear them, to know she was addressing him too. “I want it so bad, please give it to me, please”

Aegon groaned loudly, his hips stilling against her own, her lips ghosting over his reddened cheeks.

Aemond could make out the soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips, amusement painting her flushed features, and to top it all off, she gave Aemond a subtle wink, as if she and he were in on some sort of secret.

Had she really been talking to him, it wasn’t just him imagining it?

“Enjoy the show brother?” Aegon’s lazy drawl entered Aemond’s mind, causing the man to look at his older brother, who was casting a sidelong glance at him, a lazy smirk stretching across his mouth.

“Funny” Aemond hummed gruffly.

He straightened out his shoulders, standing taller than Aegon, ever from where he was standing. He held his hands behind his back, pressing his chest out a little, looking down his nose at his brother, who looked thoroughly amused by his attempt at looking intimidating.

“Mother is looking for you” Aemond’s monotone voice echoed through the hall, the only noise in the empty corridor now.

Aegon let out an amused hum, looking back at her. She offered Aegon a gentle smile, before looking at Aemond, her smile widened and she gave him a soft shrug.

“Sorry, we got a little caught up” She replied in a soft voice, sweet as honey.

“Very caught up” Aegon echoed, a teasing tone to his words.

He finally removed his hand from her thigh, allowing her leg to drop from around his waist. There was a moment where Aemond can only assume Aegon was removing his cock from her, only through the soft squelching sound that followed. A soft giggle passed her lips, cheeks turning a soft pink as she flattened her dress, to look as if she hadn’t just been taken up against a wall.

“Feel free to watch brother, she’s a very pretty girl” Aegon spoke again, zipping up his trousers, while she tried her best to smooth out the wrinkles in his dress shirt, buttoning the shirt up as she moved along.

“Stop it Aegon, leave him alone” She chastised, but her eyes trailed back to Aemond, biting her lips softly as she tried to stifle her smile.

“You can watch” Aegon reiterated, turning around to face Aemond.

His shirt was buttoned up, looking less dishevelled than before, but still not as presentable as he knew their mother would have wanted. She saddled herself to Aegon’s side, sliding an arm around Aegon’s waist, holding herself to his side. Aegon returned the favour by wrapping his arm around her shoulder, fiddling with the thin strap of her dress, as if deciding on actually leaving the room, or going to another round.

“But you know to keep your hands to yourself” Aegon finished, giving Aemond a wide and toothy grin that would have come across as charming, if one didn’t know Aegon well.

It was coated with malice, a warning, to stay away from what was his.

But was she really his, if she was asking for Aemond’s cock?

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bucknastysbabe · 9 months ago

Text

Rating: Explicit

Tags: College!au, modern!au, nerd loser baby Criston, loss of virginity, hot stem computer partner girly, older girl, Alicent for the win, short n sweet n smutty, pnv!sex, first dates, Criston’s inner dialogue, subby lil baby

Taglist: @bambitas @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @aemonds-holy-milk @targaryenbarbie @starogeorgina @moncherrii @valeskafics @arcielee @lovelykhaleesiii @sugarpoppss2

A/N: shout-out to @fairysluna “he looks like a loser who jacks off to hentai but I’d fuck him.” I made the divider :)

Criston knew he was a fucking incel. Maybe at some point in his miserable life he could’ve done a sport and use his decent height and muscle tone. But no, he was cripplingly shy and had a stutter that took forever to get rid of— sometimes rearing its ugly head when he was angry or flustered.

He spent his time studying, playing league of legends, and jerking off obscenely to hentai. Yes, the Japanese porn comics. It was easier to ignore how pathetic he was reading those or talking to a chat bot that thought everything he said was hot.

Criston thought best to keep under the radar, head down and attentive in his classes. One day he’d be a rich computer scientist Silicon Valley type and then he could just, like, have the girls come to him. Because he’d be rich. No longer weird, ugly, and a huge VIRGIN. He felt like it was stamped on his forehead. Or perhaps his was the Star Wars buttons on his jacket— that’s a big cue.

He tucked a dark hair behind his ear, shaking his head. Another year, but one less until he could move on in life. Cole was glad he was in college, it was scores better than the constant bullies in highschool. It was his second year now and he was ahead of schedule. He’d be in an upper level compsci class with some juniors or seniors.

Scary.

Maybe there would be some other weirdo girl like him that would take pity and they could fuck, then go to Thursday’s Dungeons and Dragons like it never occurred. He’d like that. Swift and easy. Erryk Cargyll and Elinda Massey did that. But the only girl he considered ‘friend’ was Alicent and he was pretty sure she was a lesbian. Also totally not a nerd, Ali was very cool and involved.

He sighed while ducking into a seat. Criston carefully placed his stuff down at the two person desk, focusing on getting the PC ready. The instructions on the board were simple enough.

A waft of perfume and the presence of another body startled Criston. He jumped in place, brown eyes glancing over at the girl- no- woman. She was fucking hot. Like why was she sitting next to him type of hot?

“Hi,” she extended a hand, eyes roving, “Criston!”

“H-how do you know m-my name?,” he echoed stupidly, shaking her dainty hand, eyes comically wide.

She gently let go of his hand after shaking one second too long and giggled, “It’s on your backpack.” Criston blushed bright red and nodded, “Yeah, you’re right, ha-haha?” Oh God he was going to self combust. She was so hot. Like she had these patent leather boots on, a little red plaid skirt, and some tight-ass high-necked white tank.

“What’s your name?,” he managed, grateful the stutter wasn’t making too much of an appearance. She smiled and told him, baring white teeth and cherry red lips. The teacher droned from the front, “Glad you’re acquainted now, that will be your partner for the rest of the semester.”

Cole was going to jizz himself. Not in the fun way? Maybe the fun way? He was terrified. He had to tell the boys on Thursday. The beauty next to him raised her brows and flicked one of his errant curls. She whispered, “Can’t wait, Criston!”

Oh God. Oh God! He wasn’t going to make it.

“Hnghhhh, fuck yes, I am your sempai, mmm,” Criston flopped back from his hentai and laid on the bed, “Fuck. This sucks.” His cock was still hard and nothing was cutting it recently. The twenty year old’s mind was settled on his computer science partner. Who was obscenely beautiful and sexy and smelled good and so so so smart.

Oh. He was jacking off again. Maybe this was what the missing piece was. Criston closed his eyes and began to pump his cock some more, imagining her perky tits bouncing as he fucked her over a desk. He gasped sharply, prick twitching excitedly at something tangible.

He thought about the cute way she’d laugh at his dumb jokes. Or when he’d fix something in a faulty program and she’d purr, “Oh! Smart boyyyy.” He whined through his nose, squirming in place, imagining her breathing that in his ear. Criston cried out sharply, cumming so damn hard spunk reached his collarbones.

He laid there breathless, a dopey smile across his face. She was so perfect. He laid in his post-nut bliss and pondered his partners actions. For a girl older and way cooler than him, she sure did enjoy talking to him, even had his number, and they met outside of class to work on their project.

Could there be? No, no. Totally not.

The nerd thought about the times she blushed or would bat his shoulder. Or the time they nearly kissed putting together a PC. She’d merely laughed and said, “Just have to ask me!” He had a meltdown and awkwardly laughed it off. Criston did the same when she was wearing a low-cut top and she breathed, “I wore this for you today, I know you wanna look Cole.”

He sat upright with a bolt.

“Wait what?” he shouted.

“Shut the fuck up loser!,” came the reply of his apartment roommate. Criston rolled his eyes and blinked a couple more times. He still had cum drying on his shoulders from jacking off about the girl of his pathetic dreams and she might be into him? He needed a long shower and help from Ali— stat.

She came through quite quickly after he sent the SOS message. First Ali wrinkled her nose at his room and complained, “Ugh, I’m glad I brought my candles. It smells like man in here. God.” He gave her puppy eyes until the redhead exclaimed, “What?”

“You gotta help me!,” he pled, “I uh- someone likes me back?”

It was a flurry of cinnamon scented womanly magic after his admission. Bless Alicat.

The auburn haired girl swished through Criston’s wardrobe. She raised a brow at him and asked, “Is there anything in here that doesn’t have a logo or some strange wording on it? I can’t believe you just realized she was into you, I could smack you!”

He sat on the bed, freshly showered and in his briefs. Alicent and him had known each other since childhood— this was nothing new. Ali helped him type out a witty way to ask her out tonight without being too dorky. Criston eked, “I think I have some button downs my dad gave me, but they’re probably shoved somewhere.”

“Aha! Found them, still pressed too. I think this darker tan will look good,” she said while stepping out of the closet. Honors college had nice digs. It did pay to be a nerd. Criston eyed the polo shirt, leagues away from his usual t-shirts and jackets.

Alicent narrowed her eyes. He hopped up and sighed, “Fine, fine, I’m putting it on. Just lemme get the undershirt.”

Now he was clad in a nice top, some not worn-to-death jeans, and his rarely used church loafers. He was a pretty shitty Catholic. Alicent styled his wild curls, giggling, “Look at you go, who would’ve thought, you two are going to be some lookers!”

Criston rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Yeah, hoping she doesn’t mind the big neon-lit ‘virgin’ sign over my head.”

Ali snickered, “Or the nasty cartoons you jerk it too, might wanna get rid of that evidence if you’re planning on getting that far, yeah stud?”

He blanched, stuttering up a storm as she laughed. Criston grabbed all and any evidence of his…prior predilections..and hid them under the bed. In a big lockbox. Then completely wiped his browser history and any suspicious downloads. Fire walled it or whatever.

He sighed again, getting jittery, reading a text from the cutie.

‘Hey handsome, still see you in 30 on the plaza? I’m excited for the pizza and games! 💋’

Criston immediately squawked, “Ali!”

She ‘tsked’ and looked at the text. Then looked back at him with a funny look. Alicent deadpanned, “You’re such an idiot for being smart. I wish half the girls I texted were this forward. Just tell her yes, you can’t wait, you know she’s gonna look gorgeous and throw some emoji in!”

“So you are a lesbian?”

“And you’re not telling a soul!”

They pinky promised, Ali giving him a warm hug and pat on the cheek. She teased, “Luv yaaaa Nerd, don’t forget to wrap it!” He blushed and waved her off. Criston rubbed the back of his neck, glad he had such a good friend. He quickly typed back.

‘Hi- yeah I’ll see you there. I know you’ll be gorgeous, can’t wait xx’

The date had gone great. They didn’t ID either. So beers, pizza, and dumb arcade games they played. Criston probably had her up-down look at him sketched into his mind. She was in a cutesy dress herself, cut mid-thigh and a heart shaped window in the front to show her…assets. Not to forget some Doc’s he would gladly be stomped by.

“Criston, oh my god, you look so cute, who dressed you up,” she pulled him into a tight hug, whispering, “Should I be jealous?”

He sheepishly smiled, “No, just my childhood friend, she’s kinda, we’re not, you know.”

His class partner giggled, patting his chest, “No need, I gotcha. We all need those friends. C’mon let’s go!”

He couldn’t help but goofily smile down at her as they held hands walking to the pizza joint. Sometimes Criston would get so lost in his head and self-conscious, it would seem like he was always underfoot. But tonight, with her, he felt his right size. She grabbed their interlaced hands and pecked his skin, giggling.

Christ have mercy, lord have mercy. He was so down bad.

But as he said, the night went awesome. Conversation never lulled, he taught her the secret to ski-ball, and she schooled Criston in pac-man. He got his first kiss on the walk back, paused at the stoplight, waiting to walk. She pulled back and murmured, “You’ve been the best date.”

Criston, likely all moony eyes now, gushed back, “God, same, really, you’re great you know that? I’m just a bit clueless.”

She shrugged, “That’s okay. We don’t have to know everything.”

They walked near the honor’s college. They both chirped at the same time, “You uh-“ then burst into laughter. Criston grinned and ran a hand through his inky hair. He shuffled his balance and gestured, “Do you want to come back to my room? It’s all clean and female verified.”

“Lead the way handsome.”

Criston was glad for the bit of liquid courage still in his system, kissing and hugging on his ‘friend girl’? She was so sweet and touchy, it was driving him mad. He idly wondered if she was all sweet and adorable like that in bed. Thankfully his dick was tucked away.

The brunette keyed into his room, her arms around his waist, face smushed into his back. The junior cooed, “You smell good, you’re the cutest thing I swear, can’t believe this.” Criston eyed her nervously as he stepped in, replying, “You’re a catch, I can’t believe anyone wouldn’t go for you.”

She straightened up, looking into his dark eyes as she admitted, “No, it wasn’t that I was lacking…just searched for the wrong attention I suppose. You’re actually respectful.”

Criston smiled at that, snorting, “Catholic boy values I guess.”

“Or you are a good boy like I said,” she teased, thumbing Criston’s now-flaming cheeks.

“Can I kiss you again?” he eagerly asked.

They locked lips again, her arms around his neck, Criston tilting his face so his damn nose wouldn’t get in the way. His hands were politely shaking at her waist as they made out. Her tongue softly lapped into his mouth, the man gasping and returning the favor.

She moved his shaky hands down to her ass with a snicker. Criston groaned between kisses as he groped her pert ass— fuck, this was heaven! Cole walked her backwards towards the bed, pushing her back onto the freshly made covers. She smiled up at him, lips plump, the led lights from his room casting a neat glow.

“Come on then, can you get the shoes?,” she teased while shucking off her tight black dress. Criston eagerly dropped to the ground, whimpering as his hard cock painfully brushed against the fly of his pants. He quickly undid the thick boots and neatly placed them to the side.

Coming back up, he got an eyeful of pretty fucking titties and manicured hands on his waist. She purred, “Heard you down there, all good babes?” Criston nodded with a swallow and pathetic noise. She cooed while undoing his belt and pants, reminding him of the button down.

Now Criston’s lean body was on display with her own, only underwear between the two. That was perfectly dandy for him as he clambered over her perfect form, now playfully making out on their sides. Every single time his cock would graze the random throw pillow between them he’d whimper into her wet mouth, growing flustered. The front of his briefs were getting sticky.

He tried to not to rut against it, but he had a handful of fucking tit and her soft lips and noises, and Criston was only a weak little bitch! She pulled back to laugh, “You know, I’d much prefer you fuck me making those cute noises. But that’s up to you baby.”

He blinked owlishly, hand moving up her thigh to ask. “You don’t want me to uh- touch you first?”

“Sweetheart, I’m wet enough as is and we can worry about alllll that other stuff later hm?”

Criston made a gutted noise, nodding. She was right, he’d blow all over himself if he got to feel around her pussy for a bit. He rasped, “Yeah, okay, good- lemme get the condom.” He reached over her smaller frame, digging around the side table for the damn condom, trying to put his bravest face on.

Criston made a little ‘aha’ as he snagged the packet, settling onto his haunches and ripping the packet with his teeth. Meanwhile she undid her bra and shucked down wet panties, the slickness hitting his lean thigh. “Hng-fucking shit!,” the brunette accidentally moaned.

“Yeah babes? That’s all for you, here, lemme help.”

She grabbed the tacky lubed condom, rolling it on Criston, her teeth biting into a plump lip. He shuddered through the movement, taught tummy tensing and rolling as he tried to calm down. “There we go, you’re alright, just breathe sweeatheart,” the girl cooed.

Criston nodded haphazardly, easing himself onto his elbows, staring wide-eyed into her own. He wanted to blab about being a virgin, how he was scared of fucking up, how damn pretty and sweet the brunette thought she was. The beauty pecked his lips and cooed, “I know, take it easy, s’fine Criston.”

He jerkily nodded again, lashes fluttering against the faint neon lighting. Criston grabbed his cock and began to ease it into her, gasping wetly. His computer partner took over from there, wrapping soft legs around his waist, murmuring sweet nothings.

Soon he was seated inside her tight, warm, velvet pussy. Criston buried his face between her tits, sniveling and gasping as he tried to fight off every single nerve in his body screaming to let go. He tried to speak, more of a plethora of strangled whines and whimpers escaping his raw throat.

“Shhh, don’t think so much, s’okay Cris, you’re okay,” she hummed while petting soft hands down his heaving flanks and sides. Plush lips planted a kiss on his suddenly wet cheeks. God he was a mess. A whiny, flimsy, wet mess. The way she was squeezing around him made the rational part of his brain realize she enjoyed the pitiful sex still.

“Hn-okay? I- uhohgod- okay?”

She smiled and kissed him, the heels of her feet ushering Criston on. He began to pump slowly, liking the way her soft moan made his chest puff in excitement. The brunette began to build a decent rhythm, panting and moaning between sloppy kisses. He got lost in the feeling, truly.

Soon the cutie was gasping and begging, “Don’t cum yet, j-just, Criston, touch my clit, it’s the nub at the top, yes!, right there!” He listened carefully, thumbing at her swollen nub, panting like a racehorse between suckling at budded nipples. He’d ended up at a breakneck pace, completely over any pretense he was going to make a manly noise tonight.

Criston fought off his orgasm, although it was on top on him now. He moved his lips to hers again, swirling his thumb, thrusting his slim hips into perfect goddamn pussy. He gasped, “Oh, oh, oh God, m’gonna cum baby, m’gonna cummmmm!” The boy would definitely never admit he somewhat squealed.

His cutie whined excitedly under the loud sounds of the bed creaking, lean hips clapping into her softer flesh. She begged, “Right there sweetheart, mm, good boy, good boy! Right there with you!” She clung to his shoulders and tightened down, chanting Criston’s name like a litany.

Criston Cole was pretty sure he saw God when his balls drew up and he slammed back into her welcoming pussy. Sure, there was a condom, but the sophomore’s ears still rung with the choir of angels and he probably sounded like a slip of a thing getting her cunt pounded but it was worth it. So very worth it.

He kept playing with her clit until she milked him, again, crying out happily, throwing her pretty hair back and groaning throatily. “Ohhhhh, f-fuck, oh my god, mmm!,” he eloquently replied to her, feeling another little peak pass through his overstimulated system. He collapsed against her soft frame, panting softly, whimpering every other breath.

Oh god he was crying, this was not the time to be— oh she kissed it away.

“That’s alright baby, you did great, Mhm,” she hummed and nuzzled against his face.

Huh. Maybe he was in love now. Fuck hentai.

#hotd fanfic #hotd smut #criston cole #ser criston cole x reader #Criston cole imagine #Ser Criston cole imagine #criston cole x reader #criston cole smut

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thecoffeelovingfreak · 7 months ago

Text

𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓

pairing: boothill x gn!ex-undertaker!reader

genre(s): western!au, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort

word count: 14k

warnings: written before v2.2 & boothill's release, blood, injury, gun violence, swearing, alcohol consumption, implied/referrenced alcoholism, suicidal thoughts, graphic depictions of violence, death

notes: I've spent about the last month working on this a little bit each day, so I hope you enjoy this labor of love :). Feel free to tell me any warnings I might have missed! I also want to add that this is told in the past and present with flashback scenes in italics. Anyway, here are some flowers as a thank you for everyone who reads this! 💐 <3

Read it on ao3!

~~~

Dark clouds shrouded the sky as shots rang out across the valley. Dried mud fell from the edges of your boots in time with the gallops of your horse. Turning back, you aimed your revolver at one of the officers, red spread over his dirtied shirt not long after. A silver bullet grazed its way over the left side of your neck, leaving a stream of scarlet running down to stain your sharp white collar. The tarnished grey vest covering it blew open harshly in the breeze as you winded down the path into town.

Shouts echoed in the street as you leaned down, bringing the reins closer to your chest. Dainty yellow flowers reflecting the bit of sunlight breaking from the coming storm became trampled by hooves. Jumping the fence into a stranger’s backyard, you once again shot at another pursuant. He fell crudely from his ride, the horse startled and stopping before the same pickets.

With just one now on your tail, you jumped again, making a quick right down a small pathway and breaking out into the wide and dusty main street. Townsfolk jogged for cover in the shops, not unfamiliar with this song and dance, and carrying enough awareness to leave what could become an impromptu duel.

You spot a figure stepping out quietly from the nearby saloon, making his way behind the establishment. Bringing the reins together in one hand, you pulled tightly. Your horse stopped, and you brought them around to face the remaining officer – the deputy based on his badge. He pulled down the hammer on his revolver, aiming straight for your forehead. Bringing your hands up, you faced your palms outward alongside your head in mock defense. A small smirk grew on your face as you picked up on near silent hooves approaching the street.

“What’re you smilin’ about?” he asked pointedly.

A bang came from before you as blood splattered and flowed from the deputy’s head. He landed limp in the damp dirt, a look in his eyes that you could recall anywhere. The gaze of death – a complete absence of life in a form once animated.

A large stallion sidled up to you, a familiar head of black and white hair gesturing toward the path out of town. Angry shouting filled the street as people left their shelters, some staring you down and others rapidly walking to you, waving a hand or a weapon.

“We’d best get out of here before you can raise some more heaven.”

“You lead the way, then.”

With a wild speed, he took off ahead of you, wool cape billowing in the chilled air. You caught up quickly however, racing to pass the city limits and be in the wide-open again.

Desert ironwoods and mesquite trees became more abundant among the varying cacti. White translucent blossoms formed on some of them, while others rested uniquely. The sun began to pour further from the clouds, casting its rays over the light brown land as you rode on. At the top of a shady hill, you paused for a drink.

A husky voice broke through the birdsong, “Why don’t you get down for a minute?”

You looked at him quizzically, drying the corner of your mouth.

He matched your gaze sternly, “Well, first, you’re bleedin’ out the side of your neck. Second, I’m curious what that sweet mess you brought into town was,” his gaze softened as a proud smile grew on his face, “and third, I wanna hold you under the tree for a bit. It’s midday and I had ordered some fine lunch from the bar. I wasn’t expecting to be shootin’ a man instead of sittin’ with you.” he finished with a chuckle.

“You can sit with me now.” you retorted, lifting one leg around your horse before making the jump off.

“Indeed, I can.” he replied smoothly, reciprocating your action.

Drawing open the satchel hanging along his stallion, Boothill pulled out two small packs – one likely containing a meal and the other a makeshift aid kit. Although he never needed food, and rarely required bandages, he would always carry them in the event that your supplies would run out. It was part of the reason he had initially gone into town, but you happened to bring in the lawmen on your way to meet him.

Tidying the braid in your horse’s hair, you felt cold fingertips brush against your shirt collar, shifting it to the side. A white cloth rested on your empty saddle, a few materials from the aid kit on top. A cold rag rubbed against the outer edges of your scrape before it was placed on your shoulder, the left side being held to the front of your neck. Water flowed down along the wound, giving the cloth a light pink color. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but one that you had grown used to after years on the range.

Another wet cloth swiped across the injury, leaving light streaks of antiseptic behind. A quick rip reached your ears before a flat gauze pad was gently placed at the site and a gauze wrap surrounded your neck snugly. It would only stay for a few days, needing your remaining kit supplies to be maintained.

A grey brim soon came into view as a hat was placed on your head.

“Now you’re lookin’ like a real outlaw.” Boothill smiled as he gathered up all of the medical items and walked them back to his satchel.

You snickered before replying, “Should I get one the next time we go to Warren? I’d reckon it’s about time.”

“I’m afraid we ain’t got the funds for that right now, there’s just enough to get provisions.”

“I never said I would be buying one, cowboy.” You retorted, slowly striding to where he stood and flicking your borrowed hat upward.

“Well go ahead and take ‘em for all they’ve got, then we can pay a little visit to the theater.” He slid his right arm around your waist, lightly dragging you closer.

“Are you askin’ me on a date?”

“Maybe I am, sugar.”

Placing his hat back on his head, you left a small kiss on his cheek and turned out of his arms, swiping your lunch from his saddle in the process. “Why don’t we have one now?”

He smiled, teeth sharp and eyes playful, before following behind you to the tree.

—

PART I - Sorrow-Gilded Equals

“Boothill, that’s my name.” The cyborg in front of you replied, swirling his glass of whiskey before drinking it down.

He stood tall, a firm steel body paired with shining silver eyes, determination reverberating in his gaze. It seemed only natural that he was the first to draw your attention, raucously celebrating the year’s final round-up with his fellow rangers.

“Say, undertaker,” he looked over, “care to join us for a round?”

You glanced backward from the bar to the faro table housing a few of the gang. A hand hit the wood in laughter, empty amber bottles rattling against each other. The owner of said hand brought twelve checks back to his stacks.

“Quit your cacklin’, you smug cutie!” Boothill shouted, leaning back against the bar.

“Oh, you flatter me, you gunslingin’ sack of shit! Get over here and give me a fun time, why don’t you!”

“Gunslingin’, huh?” you teased, “I thought that was forbidden on the trail.”

“Well, I ain’t never been one for rules.”

“Really, now? And here I thought cowboys had a sense of honor.”

“We do, but it don’t always follow convention.”

With a hum you turned, walking slowly to the group’s oval table. “I’ll join you, and so will he.” A gesture toward Boothill brought him over, where he took a seat across from you. After a few curt introductions, he voiced, “Will here is the banker,” before pulling out a small bag of nickels from a satchel on his belt.

You followed suit and exchanged them for checks and a hexagonal copper token from Will. He layed out all of the spades in two rows on his board – ace through 6 on the top, and king through 8 on the bottom. The seven sat at the end of both rows between the 6 and the 8. He placed another deck of cards in the dealing box and drew the soda before burning it off.

You placed one of your checks on the nine, betting that it would be drawn second. Will pulled and revealed the first of two cards in the deck. A three, to which Isaac had groaned. Next, he revealed the second card, a nine. With the losing and winning ranks determined, you had won the bet at 1 to 1 odds, bringing in another check on top of the one you wagered. Isaac lost his check to Will, leaving Boothill and Lee’s bets still on the table.

The losing card from the previous round went beside the face-down soda card. You placed two checks on five this time, watching as Boothill put three with yours. Isaac went for four, and Lee remained on ten. Five was the winning card this round.

The black, white, and red of the cards began to fade together as the night went on. After several rounds, you found yourself toe to toe with the “gunslinger”. He didn’t speak a word as you both prepared for the final bet.

Ten of your checks went on one, and ten of his were set on eight.

Will drew and displayed the cards, one was the second, making you the victor.

Boothill relaxed into his chair with a low whistle, “Seems like I’ve finally got some competition! What d’ya say to another game?”

“Well, I’m not one to turn down a challenge. Ready for a duel, cowboy?”

“Always.” he smiled, shifting forward to prepare for the coming rounds.

As Will prepped the next game, the doors to the saloon broke open abruptly.

“There you are, you no-good son of a bitch!”

A bang echoed through the saloon as a bullet shot straight for your table. A silver revolver appeared in view before sharp lead was firing toward the entrance. Boothill’s gun returned to its holster as the intruding man crumpled to the floor. Blood covered the wood, spreading into the grain and taking its place among the many stains.

Isaac approached the bartender, likely trying to give him some money and charm to resolve the incident. Lee strode to the body, kicking it over and revealing a green bandana in their pocket.

“Yep, no doubt he was here for us, Hill. One of Walker’s boys.”

You were slightly familiar with the name; Lloyd Walker was in charge of one of the most prominent gangs around. There were countless ambushes with him as the figurehead, and just from the mention alone you could observe various reactions across the establishment. Few continued on in their games, veterans to these types of conflict. Others seemed stiff or enraptured in conversation about the man. In the case of many of these rangers, their eyes had a fire of revenge.

Walking to stand by Lee, you folded your arms. “Well, he ain’t one of Walker’s boys, anymore. He’ll be mine by morning and the dirt’s by sundown.”

“Need help moving him?” Boothill offered, leaning down to pick up the fallen gun.

“Sure.” you accepted plainly.

He handed the gun to Lee who inspected it as Boothill lifted the corpse, carrying him over his shoulder without a care. The jaunty tune of the piano resumed as you left the saloon with the gunslinger.

"I must admit, undertaker, this here was quite the party."

"Glad I could entertain."

“It wasn’t just you. I forgot how much I missed the thrill of a standoff; this old town doesn’t provide those opportunities like it used to.”

“How roguish for a ranger, but I’d have to agree.”

“Oh? Is the resident mortician gettin’ into trouble after hours?”

“Only with you around.”

“But we’ve only known each other for a night, unless I’ve ran into you somewhere before?”

Your boots resounded over the boardwalk deck as you kept walking silently to the front of your parlor. He didn't press further and waited quietly for you to unlock the back door.

With a creak, said door went wide open and you watched carefully as he flipped the body over on a mortuary table.

Finished, he grabbed a nearby towel to dry the blood off and clean himself up. You got a better look at him as he did so, no longer caught up in games and drinking.

A story spread around town, over a decade ago. It didn't stick around for long, but you witnessed it yourself. There was a boy – probably about fifteen at the time. He arrived on the back of a horse before being taken into the jailhouse. At the end of the week, he had been released, and took up odd jobs around the area. He headed out on the range a few months later for the fall round-up, then never came back.

"I'll see myself out, good luck with this rottin’ sweetheart."

A hand turned the back door open once more before Boothill exit casually. It was half-closed when you finally responded.

"Perhaps."

He paused, shifting to look you in the eyes.

"You're Jesse Blackwell, right?"

His gaze fell to the floor, "Once, but I ain't anymore… Goodnight, undertaker.” He dismissed with a tip of his hat and a small smile, shutting the door as he left.

—

Soaked ground squelched beneath your boots, the now sunny sky reflecting in the soft brown. The streets of Warren were bustling, showcasing its status as the second largest city in the state. A dark grey cowboy hat rested on your head, a shining black belt running around its center. Stealing it was easy, all you had to do was get some drunken fool to follow you to an alley. Point your gun at him and wait for him to give you all he has, then leave with a cold threat – revolver boring hard into his head. If he talks, he’ll be hunted down and stripped of his tongue. If he runs after that, he’ll be gunned down where he stands. You had done it before, and wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Boothill opened the doors to Jerrell’s General Goods a few buildings down the road, disappearing inside. You leaned up against one of the front posts of the hotel, watching coaches and uncovered wagons traverse the main street. Your horse whinnied from beside you where they stood, resting and glancing around on occasion. A soft breeze brushed against your neck, the chill of former rain still present. Small thumps came from your left as somebody passed behind you.

A hand landed on your shoulder, turning you around against the post. They gripped the collar of your shirt, leveling their gaze with yours.

“I’ve been lookin’ for you for a long time, you coward.” They threw you into the mud, stepping down from the deck in anger. “You remember me?”

Standing up you replied, “Somebody’s always got a feud with a person like me, I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”

“Town of Fort Talia, five years ago. You murdered my brother.”

“Jasper?”

“Well, it seems you do recall.”

He swung his right arm, fist colliding with the side of your face. It hurt terribly, but fights weren't uncommon to you. With where you grew up, and some training from Boothill, it came easy now.

You raised your own right arm, blocking his next hit before bringing your left up to target underneath his nose. He stumbled back a bit at the pain, and you hit again at his right cheek and then upward from under his jaw. He took a second to level himself before spitting at the ground and pulling his pistol from his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, the grip facing outward.

"Do you not know how to use it, Ellis?"

"I do, but I want you to feel my sufferin’ first.”

The grip crossed your cheekbone, sending a sharp sting across the plane. With you now staggered, a knife plunged into your torso just above the hip. It remained lodged in your flesh as you clashed onto the ground, mud coating your clothes.

Ellis stood still for a moment, watching. He glanced down at the gun, preparing to fire it off. Quickly and with slight caution, you drew your revolver and shot him between the eyes. He fell as the horses shifted and voiced their discomfort. Your head lay in the mud, breath trying to calm after the incident.

"You've always been a good-for-nothing piece of shit, Ellis." You whispered.

Standing up carefully and to the best of your ability, you heard something heavy landing on wood before wet footsteps.

“Hey, now,” Boothill said, hands coming to brace your elbows and steady you. “Who came and dragged you to heaven?” His eyes assessed you – up and down, side to side – then he brought your left arm around his neck.

"You couldn't hear us fightin' from the store? Here I thought you’re supposed to have superior hearing.”

Ignoring you, he placed you against his horse, retrieving the full satchels from the deck and laying them down beside you. His cold hands came to pick you up, setting you just behind his saddle, legs hanging over the side to keep yourself in the stablest condition possible. Lifting his right leg under himself, he mounted his stallion, beginning to ride down the main street to a destination unknown.

"What about…" you trailed off, eyes growing weary.

"I’ll take care of it, you just rest."

"Whatever you say, cowboy."

Your head rested against his right shoulder, the cool leather of his jacket soothing the burning cuts from Ellis' pistol. The only thing keeping you lucid was the persistent movement inside of you, slicing against more flesh at every stomp of hooves. If you had a mirror, you're sure that you'd look like hell – Boothill was right.

It was saddening that the other Weston boy had spent the last few years hunting you down. He spent practically his entire life distant and running away, and now he had the guts to ambush you in the city. Still, you supposed whatever old grudge he carried now lay dead alongside him.

—

The first time you laid eyes on Jasper was at his mother's funeral. He stood in a thick coat beside his brother watching wordlessly on with silent tears. A wooden cross sat before a mound of dirt, engraved with the following:

Callie Weston

A strong mother, and relentless woman.

1846 - 1879

Her grave wasn’t far from your father’s, a bushel of freshly picked desert marigolds resting under his own headstone from your visit. Two of the bright yellow flowers still rested in your pocket as you walked to the family’s side.

Placing the blossoms underneath the delicately carved wood, you spoke softly, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Ellis whispered.

“I’m sorry for yours as well.” Jasper had replied.

With a nod of your head, you left them to their mourning.

When you made it into town from the cemetery, shouts could be heard in front of the saloon.

“Go home, you idiot!”

“Have a little compassion!”

“I do, but my compassion doesn’t include wastin’ away here while your boys are up on that hill.”

The man stumbled slightly down from the deck, voice cracking as he said, “Surely you can understand, mister… please.”

“Go home, Isaiah. Try to sober up before they get back.”

The bartender threw his cloth over his shoulder before leaning against the post, waiting patiently. Isaiah wiped his hand down his bearded face as he exhaled, then walked off down the street toward the few blocks of houses.

Gesturing at a nearby man, the bartender lowly spoke, “Hey, will you follow him? Make sure he stays safe and doesn’t do anythin’ wild.”

You crossed in front of the saloon doors as the man walked off, trailing behind the drunken one.

“Wait a minute, kid.”

Pausing in your steps, you turned around to face the swinging doors to the saloon. The bartender came out as quick as he went in – a bag in hand this time.

“Some oil guy came through town not long ago, ordered more food than he even wanted. There’s untouched steak and soup in there, it’ll probably need to heat up again. Share it or keep it to yourself.”

“Thank you kindly, sir.”

With a polite nod, he disappeared back into the establishment, yelling at some other unruly patrons.

That evening you brought a couple portions of that meal to Jasper and his family. It took a bit of asking around to find them, but soon enough you were knocking on their door.

Ellis answered, looking down at you coldly.

“I wanted to bring you some food. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it.”

He took the bag wordlessly, before shutting the door.

“I have some stew for you, mama.”

Her gaze never drifted from the window as you placed the warm bowl beside her. Draping a cloth over her lap, you watched her solemn face. Silently, she turned for the bowl, letting it rest in her likely cold hands.

You stood, walking to fetch her tea from the kitchen. Upon return, you found her gently bringing the spoon to her lips, shaking lightly as she did so.

With a soft thud, the mug settled on dark wood. Drawing a book from the nearby shelf you sat down next to her, flipping the leather cover open.

You read calmly from the pages, skipping over or changing words you didn't quite know. It had been a couple years since you stopped going to the schoolhouse, after all. There was just no time after your father died, especially with your mother in this state.

A hand landed quietly on your knee, drawing your attention back to her. Marking your new spot in the book, you set it down with the remnants of her meal.

She brought her hand down to yours, gripping quickly in thanks. It was dejecting seeing her like this, but after this long it was hard to picture her outside of mourning.

"Why do you never talk to me, mama? Did I do somethin' wrong?"

With a shake of her head, her gaze returned to the window and her hands to her lap.

About a week later, you remember waking up early to the sound of your dog barking loudly from the front yard. Donning your heavy coat, you opened the door to find Jasper trying to pet her down at the fence line.

"Is this your dog?" he had asked.

"Yes."

"She's real pretty…Thanks by the way, for dinner."

"It's no problem. I had extra."

"I noticed you were visiting someone of your own."

"My papa." you replied, standing beside him and petting the long fur of your dog. "He was caught robbin’ a wagon full of weapons and shot by the lawmen, at least that's what I heard. Mama never said nothin' to me about it."

He hummed, looking down and rubbing behind the ear of your dog.

"My mama was sick for a long time. It was hurtin' my dad forever, probably even more now. He doesn't really care how it makes me feel – my brother neither. They just leave angry in the mornin' and come back even worse at night."

A minute of vulnerable silence passed between you, before Jasper spoke up again.

"Are you headin' to school?"

"No. I'll have to be at work soon."

His eyes seemed wide for a second before he shifted, "Where do you work?"

"At the funeral parlor, as an assistant to the director."

"Why would you pick a job like that?”

“I don’t really know. I just saw the horse-drawn hearse moving down the street and felt somethin’ come over me.”

“I think I can understand,” he whispered, looking down into your dog’s eyes.

He stayed like that for a moment as you rested in the early morning quietness. A bird sang abruptly from the nearby tree, and he perked up once more.

“Would you want to walk down to the river with me? We could try and catch a frog or two before daybreak.”

“I guess.”

“Great,” he nodded.

And that became your routine. Every morning, he would come see you and your dog. Sometimes he would have a little snack for her in hand and other times he would have a paper with some work he couldn’t quite figure out. Being with him by the river was a pleasant thing – something to get both of your minds off of circumstance.

“I plan on retiring next year, and I would like for you to be my successor.”

The world seemed to still as Mr. Whitfield sat calmly, waiting for your response. His aging black hair shifted lightly in the wind, his gaze out over the nearby buildings. Cool stone rested under your back as you leaned against the parlor's walls.

“I… I’m honored, sir.”

“Oh, just call me Peter already. We’ve worked together long enough.”

“Thank you, Peter.”

The sounds of the town took over for a moment before he stood up, walking in through the door. A commotion drew your eyes up from the deck, watching as someone rode in with a grumbling figure on the back of their horse. The person in the saddle had a dark green bandana hanging out of their pocket – the trademark of a growing gang in the area.

They dismounted across the street from you, just in front of the jailhouse. Both of the deputies came out shortly after, one talking to the person then bringing them in. The other approached the horse, throwing the figure over his shoulder. They disappeared into the sheriff’s office, seemingly exchanging words about what to do with the two.

“Here are some books I’ve used over the years,” Peter said, a small stack in his hands, “If you’re going to take over the business, there’s more you’ll need to learn. Feel free to take these home if you’d like.”

“I appreciate it.”

He handed the books to you, then returned to his seat in front of the parlor. You decided to join him, setting the stack on your right.

As the gravity of your future inched in, you laid back against the stained wood of the bench. Your right foot tapped on the deck, reverberating over the plane anxiously while your thoughts became jumbled.

“What’s weighing on you, kid?”

“I’m just… starting to doubt myself is all.”

“I was the same as you when I first inherited this business from my father. He was always kind and courteous, served the community well. I’m passing this on to you because I see you as my kin. I have every confidence in you, whether you see the potential in yourself or not.”

His words brought water to your eyes, making you inhale and look away towards the snowy mountains in the distance.

Sniffling brought your attention back as Jasper walked up to the deck, cradling his left arm with the other hand.

“Are you alright, boy?” Peter questioned.

“Could I go inside?” he asked gently, making eye contact with you.

Standing up, you guided him into the entry room of the parlor, watching as he sat on the sofa.

“I ran as fast as I could, I figured since it was day you’d be here.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it yet.”

“Alright. I’ll go get some coffee and an aid kit.”

Turning to leave the room, you heard him speak up again.

“Can I come with you?”

“Of course.”

It was probably about five months later when you found Jasper sitting on the bench of the parlor, bottle in hand. After locking the door, you went and took a seat next to him.

“What are you doing, Jas?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know nothin’ anymore.”

“That’s not true.”

He tilted his head before taking another sip. Your right hand came to rest at the back of his neck.

“Talk to me… please. Nothin’ you say will leave this porch.”

“I… think I’m not cut out for this.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” he gestured around the street, “I do my best in everything, and it still isn’t good enough. My dad couldn’t give a shit about me and my brother anymore, all he does is drink and sleep. He hardly ever goes to work – I wouldn’t be surprised if he was fired by now! Ellis ain’t much better. He leaves for the farm early, storming into my room and draggin’ me out before he goes. Always tellin’ me I need to grow up – that I’m not man enough for this world. It’s not like I have a job, and I ain’t been going to the schoolhouse much recently either. I figured since I’m set to be finished there soon anyway, I could start skippin’. I just… wish my mama was still here. Even when she was sick, she still went through every day with more strength than I’ve ever had… Looking back now, I think she accepted that death was comin’, and she lived to her fullest because of it. Maybe I could take a page out of her book. I know that this all might seem sudden, but you’re the only one I’ve got.”

“You’re good enough to me, Jas. Even if that doesn’t seem like much, I want you to know. Your family is just too ignorant to understand. You’ve got plenty of grit in you, but you still show that you care.” You sighed before continuing, “And I understand. While my mama might not be dead, she hasn’t spoken since my father died. I still try my best to take care of her, but it’s like she’s just sittin’ there, waiting for her day to come.”

The snorting of a nearby horse broke the heavy atmosphere.

“If it’s a job you want, you’re always welcome here. Peter would gladly have you work the front. Just come talk to him tomorrow.”

“Alright.” he smiled smally.

“Hand me the bottle?”

Glass hit the wooden deck as you set down the exchanged liquor. Standing up, you reached out a hand for him.

“Come on, you can stay with me.”

Jasper’s life only worsened just two months after that night at the parlor. He didn’t come in for work that day, and you couldn’t find him anywhere usual in the town.

Crying and a thump at your front door brought you away from your mother’s side. You had been tidying her hair, a simple activity you would do to help her before she started her nightly routine.

Peering from one of the windows, you saw him waiting in your front yard, holding onto your dog for comfort. He looked up in your direction when you emerged from the dimly lit doorway, walking down the stairs from the porch.

“He shot him. Shot him dead, right in front of me.”

You got on your knees in front of him, bringing your hand to his shoulder.

“I… I was comin’ home from a walk, I… I went out to clear my head. Ellis, he stormed out with my dad trailin’ behind him. His eyes… they were just fed up – bloodthirsty almost. He looked at me. God, I’ll never forget that stare. They yelled at each other some more, going’ on about somethin’. My brother… he drew his gun, shot my dad right in the chest four times. He came over to me, put a hand on my head and told me things would be better now. Like hell they will! He took off on some horse – he’s gone now too. Out runnin’ from the law and leavin’ me high and dry with nothing.”

He let go of the dog, running his hand down his face. She walked off to somewhere behind you, sniffing around.

“I’ve got nothin’ but you, now.” He whispered, looking up at you full of turmoil.

You brought both arms around him, feeling him start to cry again.

“I know my dad had his grief, even when my mama was sick he’d be out doin’ who knows what. Still, I… I can’t help this weight on me.”

“It’s natural, Jas. You lost two people tonight, despite your experiences with them, it’s still a loss.”

He exhaled shakily, shifting back from you and rising to stand on his feet. You matched him before bringing your hand back to his shoulder, rubbing your thumb lightly against the edge of his neck.

“How about supper? Would that help a little?”

“Yeah… yeah.” he sighed.

Together you walked to the front door, and on this occasion, your dog followed too.

—

PART II - Redemption for the Wayward

Winces and the metallic echoes of medical tools could be heard from the nearby room. Boothill rested in an entry room chair, leaning back with his hat over his face. There was nothing in this space he wanted to look at – nothing he sought to remember. Your sounds of pain didn’t help either.

He had gotten stitches himself many years ago, but the scars were long gone now.

A sharp cry resounded down the hall, followed by hushed murmurs from the doctor. There was a fiery response, before the room went quiet again.

It wasn't the first time he had found you in trouble – far from it in fact. Since the day you started riding together, it seemed like thunder followed. Be it the sounds of hooves, gunfire, glasses on the table, or simply storms themselves.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

—

"I want to leave with you."

It was the only time you had ever seen surprise on Boothill’s face.

Holding his gaze you continued, “Does that sound like a plan?”

“I… I don’t see why not. Are you sure you don’t want to clean up first?”

As if answering his question, whistles broke out two streets down. A few shouts from who you assumed to be lawmen echoed, sending a wave of fear through you.

“No. I’ll find a river or somethin’ later, right now we just need to get out.”

“Mind explainin’ why they’re lookin’ for you?”

You appeared stunned for a moment, before you recalled the events that led to the blood on your hands.

“Please… please just end me already.”

“You know I can’t do that to you, Jas.”

He ran his hand through his hair, revealing more of his distraught face. “You’ve seen me… I’m just like my father and there ain’t nothin’ I can do about it no more.”

“That’s not true.”

“Don’t lie to me, we both know I’m right.”

“Jasper, please, come over here so we can talk this out.”

“We’re talkin’ it out right now.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“I’m sick of talkin’ anyway. I put my blood, sweat, and tears into trying to get rid of this feeling, but it never leaves. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do anymore.”

You stood on the back porch of your parlor, watching as he pulled a gun from his side. He walked to you, leaving it on the chair to your left.

Just three months ago you watched Boothill walk from this porch, the hint of new friendship roaming on the wood.

Two months ago, you bid farewell to your new assistant, a promise of success growing over the stain.

One month ago, your mother spoke to you for the first time in seven years, apologies and regret falling from her lips.

Now, you would be in the greatest standoff of your life.

“If I’m gonna die I want you to do it.”

“No.”

He grabbed your left hand, lifting the gun up from where it rested. “Give me my freedom, please. We both know nothin’ else will.”

“Jas…”

“Stop wastin’ your breath.”

A set of tears rolled down your cheeks, and in a final act of care, Jasper wiped them away.

“Don’t cry for me. I want this. I want to see my mama again, healthy and bright. Maybe even my dad,” his voice broke, “smilin’ and rocking on the porch. I may even see you one day, too.”

He inhaled before bringing your hand up to his forehead, a sad look of acceptance and peace on his face. He nodded, the barrel of the gun shifting up and down.

“Goodbye, Jasper.”

A shot rang out, slightly muffled from the circumstance. Blood splattered down to the dirt, soaking into it crudely. Jasper’s body tumbled back down the wooden steps, landing face up at the end. He looked content, the dead light in his eyes causing conflicting waves of emotion within you.

There would be no time to feel them, though. Not yet. Even if it was nearing midnight, there was always a deputy out somewhere.

You descended the scarlet-covered steps, kneeling down to close his eyes. A warmth spread over your hands as you did so, red coating your fingers when you pulled them away.

Exhaling heavily, you left the back alley, on the lookout for a horse.

Boothill told you he’d be leaving tonight, after a final few rounds of faro at the other saloon in town. Why, he never shared, but you figured it had something to do with the incident a couple months back.

If you were lucky you could join him – head out on the road of an outlaw. It wasn’t an idea you had ever considered before, but now it seemed like the only choice.

The fire crackled in front of you, smoke rising to the starry sky. Boothill sat beside you, hands occupied with a knife and a piece of wood, idly carving.

In the silent peace, you felt the gravity of your actions begin to set in. Water crept over your eyes, gathering along the edges and flowing down your cheeks. Your quiet cries were some of the only noise in this area of the desert. Somewhere out of the town limits and secluded enough to provide cover in case of any emergency.

“Do you… have any regrets?” you asked lowly, drying your eyes with an exhale.

Boothill looked up from his work, “Once, but not anymore.”

You hummed, staring into the bright flames before you. Sadness welled once more before you spoke up.

“I shot my oldest friend today. He asked me to, came to me pleading.”

There was no movement or sound, until he set down his tools. “And now you’re out on the road with me.”

The dried blood on your hand felt like a glove as you clenched your fist. “I suppose I am.”

He stood up, walking to his horse’s side. A blanket was in his hands as he returned, tossing it gently in your direction before sitting back down to carve.

“I might not be the best at comfort, but I’ll try.”

You placed the wool underneath your head. Neither of you had the makings of a proper camp yet, but even if it was a makeshift pillow it would work.

“When we were out on the trail, there wasn’t much for occupying your time. Most of it was spent herdin’ and fending off animals or gangs. We often had cards with us, and so we’d sit around a fire like this one at night, playin’ the boring games that didn’t involve gambling. When it was time to sleep, some of us would take our places closer to the cattle. We’d sing or hum to them to keep them calm – they always told me I had the best voice. One that suited folk like us the most.”

With that, he started to hum a tune. It was quiet, and the slicing of wood fell in time with the slow rhythm. The melody was soothing, and with a deep exhale you found yourself letting go. As your eyes drifted further shut, he started singing. They were right, he did have a voice perfect for the range.

—

“Thornton’ll be headin’ out for a while. Said we could use the room upstairs as usual.”

You hummed, buttoning up the fresh shirt the doctor had given you. The space stayed quiet after, as your gaze bore into the bloody knife resting on the cloth-covered table. You stood up carefully, gritting your teeth before you were upright.

Grabbing your hat and gun belt, you met Boothill at the doorway.

“How’re you doin’?” he asked gently, bringing his hand up to the side of your neck. His thumb rubbed along the edge of your jaw as you crossed your arms.

“Fine, still trying to work off the sting.”

“Well that’s better than nothin’, isn’t it?”

He was right, yet, there still was something tugging at your chest. A sensation that weighed on your breath.

“I apologize-”

“There ain’t nothing to apologize for.”

You sighed, “I just hope I haven’t been much of a burden these last few weeks.”

“I take care of you, and you take care of me. It’s that simple. There’ll always be trouble when you live a life like ours,” he chuckled, “I’ll never think less of you for it.”

—

“You've used a gun before, right?”

Boothill looked over at you, an eyebrow raised and a hand resting along his belt.

“Only once.”

“Well then, we're gonna work on your skills today.”

He walked back over to his horse, unclipping a holstered revolver from his equipment. A red and cream package of bullets were placed on his saddle. He gave the brown leather-clad weapon to you, letting you pull it out yourself and feel the cool weight in your palm.

“I wanna see your instinct first. Spot that rock up there?” he gestured toward a miniature cliffside, angling down toward the two of you. A large dark grey stone lay on its edge. “Aim for it and shoot.”

You analyzed the gun for a moment before raising it in both hands, the top of the barrel aligning with the rock. Pulling back the hammer from its half-cocked state, you heard a singular click. Pressing your index finger down on the trigger, a bullet flew from the barrel straight at the stone. It made an echoing crack before the case flung off to the side.

“Not bad. Do it again.”

You shifted your feet in the dirt before taking up your former stance. Aiming, you drew back the hammer as the chamber revolved. Two clicks sounded this time. With a finger on the trigger, you pulled it down to hear the same ringing shot and clack against rock.

Boothill sidled up next to you, bringing your left hand down to your side.

“Another.”

Now only using one hand, you shot once more. A small chip fell from the rock as you hit a second spot.

"Fall back into me a little bit."

"Why?"

"If you're gonna be an outlaw, you best learn to carry yourself like one."

You did as he said, falling back into a casual lean against his chest. His arm came up against the back of yours, carrying it down to your side before lifting it back up again and pointing the revolver at the rock. You brought the hammer back again, before pulling the trigger. You cocked the gun once more, firing another shot at the stone, followed by a third.

A low whistle came from behind you, “Aren’t you a natural?”

“Well, I’m learnin’ from the best.”

“Got that right.”

“Are you always this smug?”

“Only with you.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe that.” you stated, turning around from his hold.

“Really now?”

“You just love to keep on teasin’ me. That’s what it is.”

“And if so?” he questioned, stepping forward as if taking on a challenge.

“I’ll keep doing this dance with you, cowboy.” you tipped his hat down, watching his silver eyes disappear beneath the brim.

“I wouldn’t prefer it any other way.” he flicked it back up, a sharp smirk on his face.

“Now, why don’t you show me how the best shoots? I’d like to see what I’ll be competing with soon.” you stepped back from him, angling the gun toward the rocks.

“I said you were a natural, but I never said you were as practiced as me.”

“Talkin’ down to me?”

“Just statin’ facts.” he tilted his head, spinning his revolver from it’s holster along his leg.

“What a show-off you are.”

“Quit talkin’ and start aimin’.”

“You’re on.”

“See those deer?” Boothill whispered, watching beside you as a herd of coues passed by a few yards away.

The wind brushed against your cheeks, carrying the scent of coming rain in the twilight. There must have been water falling on nearby creosote bushes.

You stared on, admiring how sweet they looked roaming and feeding on cactus fruit.

He smiled at you, seeming almost wistful before his gaze returned to the scene. "I remember we used to see them a lot in the brush along the trail. Big herds stayed longer than just a few of them, less skittish together I suppose." He laughed lightly, genuine and lovely. "The first time I saw a buck was on my family's farm. I had just finished some harvesting, when its antlers caught my eye. The wheat was up to my elbows at the time – I still recall its itch. We had locked eyes, and from that day forward I felt called to be out like them. It was part of my motive for joinin' the round-ups."

"There's a freedom to it – one that you only dream of before you finally live it."

"So articulate. Maybe you should start doing all the talkin'."

You snickered, beginning to pack up your belongings from the small camp you learned to make. "I'm afraid I could never be a poet like you."

"With all this flattery, I just might be inspired enough to pursue that instead."

"I'd better get a dedication, right on the first page.”

"You’ll get the entire book, sugar." He smiled.

"Oh please, save it." You tugged down his hat to hide his teasing eyes.

—

PART III - The Revenant of Vengeance

The wet stone pathways of downtown Warren echoed the heels of your boots. There was little light behind the shops – few people too. It was the perfect spot for a short walk, one that could provide a break from the doctor’s incessant tinkering.

“Well, looky here.” Boothill murmured, pausing to look at a board of papers.

“Think I’ll be up there?” you questioned, hands in your pocket beside him.

“Oh, without a doubt.” his eyes roamed the posters before lighting up at a pair. “Right here, see.”

‘Reward’ was printed in large font at the top. The value of $2,000 sat above text that shared your name, followed by a photo of you from about six years ago, dressed professionally in a well-designed chair at the funeral parlor. Your name was added below it, and a description of your appearance. The signature of the sheriff was penned at the bottom, adding yet another county to your roster.

Boothill’s began the same, with the exception of a $3,500 bounty. An unflattering sketch took up most of the page, as well as key notes about him underneath.

“They can never get my eyes right.” he huffed, gaze lingering on the board.

“My picture isn’t even accurate anymore.” you voiced, arms now crossed against your chest. “What lousy lawmen they have here.”

“I’d have to agree.”

With a sigh you continued, “I reckon it’s about time we get back to the office. Before those lawmen spot us.”

“We could take them.”

“Maybe so, but we don’t need larger bounties.”

“Really? I think there’s somethin’ romantic about it. The more wanted you are, the larger the reward. The more opportunities for attention and infamy.”

“Is my attention not good enough?”

“Come on now, sugar, you know I love it more than anything else.”

“Well then head back with me, cowboy, and I’ll show you some.”

He chuckled lowly, “Who could turn down an offer like that?"

As you turned to walk, his hand landed on your shoulder, the other reaching up to the board, ripping off one of the posters.

“Well I'll be.” you mumbled, observing the photo on it from over his arm.

Lloyd Walker, wanted dead or alive with a reward of $5,000. He had practically become public enemy number one in the surrounding areas over the last seven years. He had numerous crimes, and as many tricks up his sleeve to match. At least that's what the rumors said – his gang was only ever unruly.

“What do you say? Is he gonna be our newest target?”

A fire grew in Boothill’s formerly somber eyes, as he turned to you with a smile.

“Absolutely.”

—

The damp and pebble-covered ground was tarnished with deep red, the remnants of injury seeping into the soil beneath a discarded body. It was windless as Jesse laid against the riverbank, staring up into the ray-stricken cloudy sky. Low cries for help continued leaving his bloodied lips, but his energy was wearing thin. Every inch of him ached – stinging or burning the only sensations he could feel.

Still, he couldn’t just lay here and accept death. He was far too stubborn to ever answer a reaper’s call.

And, as if by some little twist of fate, hooves clamped their way toward him until rushing footsteps were the only thing he could hear.

“Good lord, sir, what happened to you?”

It was an ambush, plain and simple.

One moment he was talking with the other rangers and the next they were hiding behind rocks or trees, shooting at whatever green bandana they saw. One or two bandits weren’t unusual, but they had never dealt with such a large group before.

He was panicking, running out of bullets and watching his friends fall in the dust. They were overwhelmed with little to no chance of making it out unscathed.

Walker’s people were relentless, though, and they would never leave until they got what they came for or hit the dirt.

How unlucky for them that Jesse was the same.

Dilapidated cabins were built together in two rows, some of their group’s stolen cattle grazing off to the side. His horse stopped right at the rotting wood enclosing them, head high as he prepared for revenge. They had killed four of his trailmates, and he would be coming now for at least four of them.

It was bold to break the rules set for round-ups, and Lee’s warnings echoed through his head. There was leniency given to him before, and for this cause, he was sure he’d get it again.

After dismounting, he made his way through the brush to one of the cabins, two revolvers in hand. It was a risky game, but he was willing to play – whether it was the facade of victory or delusion from righteousness keeping him going.

He snuck through the makeshift settlement, hearing bits of laughter from his left. No matter what he did after this, he would have all surrounding eyes on him. Treading lightly, he stalked behind the house until he found a decent opening. He aimed through the cracks in the dark wood, going straight for the heads he could target. With four clicks, both guns were fully cocked and he shot.

It would be the only regret he had in his life.

“Time to wake up, my friend.”

An oddly chipper voice reached Jesse’s ears, as if summoning him from a lengthy slumber.

His eyes drifted open, leaving him to feel painless yet confused.

“I’m sure there is much you would like to know, but please, try to become used to this body first.”

This body?

“We’ll need to utilize some methods of physical therapy to ensure that you know how to use it, and that everything is in working order.”

He turned his head in the direction of the voice – a movement that felt unexpectedly stiff.

“You may call me Dr. Thornton, or Claude if you’d prefer. You have been reborn in the city of Warren. Do you remember where that is?”

Reborn?

“Yes, doctor, I do.” his voice hadn’t changed, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was amiss.

“Wonderful. Do you recall the events that led you here?”

“That is perfectly fine, sir. I found you there, and brought you back to my practice. Well, my unofficial practice I suppose one could call it. What about your name?”

“I was bleedin’ out by a river, before… well I’d prefer not to talk about that part.”

“Jesse Blackwell.” he responded, without any hesitation.

Thornton stood up, drying off his greased hands on a nearby rag. He brought the same towel to Jesse’s neck, but he couldn't feel it. The mild brush of cloth, a sensation he had known well from cleaning himself up, never came. He began to tilt his head downward, but the doctor’s fingers caught his chin.

“Not yet.”

He shifted his chin back up, staring straight ahead as alarm started setting in. Questions plagued his mind, until a sharp snap from behind broke him out of it.

The doctor held his hands out to him, and he placed his own over his open palms. They were grey, metallic, and the more he looked at them, the more they seemed almost mechanical. His thoughts seized him as he found Thornton’s eyes. They seemed proud yet there was a glint hidden under their pine-like color that brought a pensive look to Jesse’s face.

He was guided to take a step, and he heard what sounded like a boot as he did so. It persisted as he was brought across the floor to a doorway, passing into another room. His hands left the doctor’s, falling back to his side as his gaze drifted up to something covered in a white sheet.

“Are you ready to welcome this new life?” Thornton asked.

After a brief moment, Jesse nodded.

The cloth was lifted to reveal a tall mirror, one that reflected every inch of him.

“If there is anything you would like me to change, you need only say the word.”

Silence fell, as Jesse was confronted with rushing realization.

He survived Lloyd Walker, but at what cost? His humanity?

But what constitutes humanity?

Flesh and blood?

The ability to experience empathy and emotion?

His bewildered eyes met the doctor’s – ones that were steady as stone.

Thornton looked into the mirror from beside him. “You are a marvel of human craft, sir.”

Something in him stirred at the words, an anger that he wasn’t well-versed enough to place. The only thing he could do was grab the doctor’s collar, observing him with contempt.

“Come now, Jesse, you best be grateful. I’ve transformed you. You’ve become something that people could only dream of. You cried for help and I gave it to you.”

The doctor stumbled after he was released, moving back into the office, or whatever he liked to call it. Jesse remained in the small room, inspecting himself in the mirror. He stared for a long while, paralyzed by the overwhelming circumstance. He felt violated, like his very being was invaded.

Was his life even his anymore?

No. He couldn’t sink into that void.

“You’ve surpassed my expectations, Jesse. Count yourself free to go, though you’re always welcome back for repairs… or a hideout if you find yourself in trouble.”

Clad in monochrome leather, with a few scattered hints of red, the reborn cowboy placed his hat on his head as he opened the front door to Thornton’s establishment.

“My name ain’t Jesse.” he voiced, looking back at the suited man. “It’s Boothill.”

The doctor met his eyes over his glasses, “Farewell then, Boothill.”

—

A disheveled Claude Thornton broke through the spare room’s door, appearing wild and bruised.

“They’re on their way.”

Any plans you had been discussing with Boothill were interrupted as you watched the panicked man sharply. “Who exactly?”

“I think you already know." he said, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"You goddamn idiot."

"They cornered and beat me! What did you expect me to do?"

"Follow our agreement that we could lie low here." Boothill stated, glaring at the doctor as he reloaded his revolver.

"I had only made that agreement with you, friend, not them.” he replied, gesturing a hand toward you. “Regardless, the law knows by now that wherever one of you goes the other will follow.”

“And this time you’ll be with us.” you sighed, lifting your hand for him to stand up.

Grabbing the man’s right arm, you brought it behind his back, placing your other hand on his left shoulder. Guiding him down the stairs as Boothill followed, you walked to the hitches Thornton had built at his rear door.

Whistles came down the alley as you ordered him to sit on the back of your horse. After he finished grumbling, you mounted and began riding off to the left as Boothill went right.

Handing him a spare rifle from your horse, you pulled two revolvers from your gun belt.

“I apologize, but I do not know how to use one of these.” he shared, holding the weapon awkwardly.

“You’re hopeless, doctor.”

Trading with him, you aimed the rifle at one of the lawmen approaching you.

“Just pull down the hammer and shoot at them until the chambers are empty. Don’t bother reloading, we’ll be out of here by then.”

He nodded before turning his head back, covering the rear as you winded down stone streets, doing your best to avoid bringing citizens into the fray. You caught a glimpse of black and white disappearing around a corner – a road that led to the train tracks from what you could recall. Pulling the reins to the right, you moved to follow, shooting at one of his pursuers before dodging the fallen body.

Droplets flicked against your boots, leading the doctor to groan at his dirtied shoes. Broken glass nearby signified it was probably some discarded liquor.

A horn sounded from your right, accelerating the rushing sound in your ears. One of Thornton’s hands gripped onto your shoulder tightly as you sped up, crossing before the train daringly.

Pausing on the other side of the tracks, you watched cautiously for any other lawmen. Boothill came up next to you, eyes analyzing your figure before they followed your gaze.

“I swear the two of you are going to get me killed.”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t do it myself after the shit you’ve pulled.” you spat, securing your rifle back against your horse.

“Need I remind you I had no other choice.” he retorted, handing you back the revolvers.

“You sold us out after three hits, doctor, that’s something that would get you a hole in your forehead with anyone else.”

“I only told them where you were, dear, not him.”

You pointed one of the guns behind you against the side of his skull, disregarding if it was empty or not.

“Do you think that’s somethin’ you should really be saying to me? For as much tinkering as you do, and as many people as you claim to help, I don’t think you’re very bright. If you were, you wouldn’t have given us up, and you would watch your mouth when you’re talkin’ to me. Now, tell me you can understand that at least, doctor.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now you best stay quiet.”

“Alright.”

Putting the gun back into its holster at your side, your focus returned to Boothill.

“Are we still going north?”

“I don’t see why not.” he replied, shifting slightly in his saddle.

“Then let’s go – this train is almost over.”

—

The town of Iris Creek was quaint, fresh air gliding over land of dying grass. A few small flowers grew along the trails, blossoms of deep violet running up their stems. Your stresses slowly quelled as the peaceful atmosphere set in.

At least until you had to sort out Thornton's situation.

Boothill had left for the saloon not long ago, attempting to find what information about Walker he could. In his absence, you would be taking the well-dressed man to the hotel.

Getting the room was a simple affair, so was the walk to where he would stay. It seemed odd that you received no second glances, but it was a welcome change.

Entering his room, the doctor finally spoke, "What do you think of him?"

"Pardon?"

"Boothill."

He sat in a chair right before a plain wooden desk, crossing one leg over the other.

"I care for him very deeply, but I think you could figure that out already. ”

"Would seeing him in pain hurt you, then?"

"What exactly are you trying to say, Thornton?"

"Nothing at all, just conjecture." He responded, hands coming up defensively before returning to his lap.

"I still have half a mind to kill you."

"Always so crude with me," he shook his head, "If you do decide to murder me, you might as well do the same to Boothill. Nobody else in this world understands his inner workings like I do. If I'm dead, there will be no one left to repair him if something goes awry. He's already tried before himself and landed at the same conclusion."

In the dim lighting of your shared room, your fingers carded through Boothill's newly cleaned hair. The noise from the saloon below reverberated upward, but it faded into nothing as warm lips found your neck.

"What did you find?" you questioned, quiet in the tranquility of the moment.

"There's supposed to be a whole bunch of Walker's a bit further up in the mountains. By Whitetail Hill."

"Well, that's good. Leave at dawn and we could make it there by early afternoon."

"My thoughts exactly."

A group of cheers from below filled the silence. Sharp edges nipped at the same spot of your neck, drawing a short wince from you. It was soothed by a soft tongue licking across the area as cool fingertips traced the other side of your neck.

You began to turn your head in his direction before those same fingers brought your chin down. Rough lips met yours in a rare instance of gentleness, something that reminded you of calm before a storm.

—

PART IV - Death, the Range's Old Friend

Dust kicked up from underneath the gravel path as you brought your horses to an abrupt stop. A figure rest in the middle of the road, bloodied claw marks running down their front. They coughed, red splattering back against their cheeks.

“Mercy… mercy, please.”

A scarlet covered bandana slipped from their pocket, bits of green peeking out from beneath. You cocked your gun at them before speaking.

“I’ll grant you your wish after you answer some questions. Deal?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You were coming from the area of Whitetail Hill, correct?”

They nodded weakly.

“Where specifically?” Boothill asked, looking around the surrounding forest – likely watching for the animal that attacked them.

“Copperhead Mine.”

A breeze blew through the trees, carrying an odd and empty whistle. A bang interrupted the cryptic melody as the Walker’s plea was granted. The slow movement of hooves followed shortly after, as you maneuvered around them.

“What do you think we’re headed into?” you wondered, meeting Boothill’s eyes.

“Nothin’ good, I can tell you that much.”

“How many’ll be there?”

“I can’t say. The bartender said upwards of 20.”

“Will we be able to take them?” you picked up the pace, looking over the small cliff to your left.

“After all this time, you still doubt us.” he chuckled, matching your speed.

“It’s better to stay realistic.”

“You have me with you, anything we do is realistic.”

You sighed, as the clouds drifted across the blue noon sky. “I suppose I just want you to look after yourself more.”

He waited an instant before responding, features full of sincerity. “I know you care about me, more than I had ever thought I would receive. But I’m not going anywhere – there’s nothin’ in this world that could kill me anymore.”

—

The ominous tune of the wind persisted, some symphony of nature that could only serve to unnerve you. A shiver went down your spine as you reached a viewpoint of the mine, a chill seeping in beneath your clothes. Dismounting, you pat the neck of your horse, trying to steel yourself before the confrontation.

You nodded at Boothill, before leaving first down to the camp. Dry grass crackled under your steps, before the crunch of gravel came instead. The sound alerted who you assumed to be the leader of the group, a scarred eye looking over you in suspicion before he spoke.

“What the hell are you doin’ out here?”

“I was in Iris Creek yesterday, askin’ around about any jobs. They said you’d need some more hands out here.”

“Really now? Who exactly told you that?”

“The bartender at the saloon.”

“Which saloon?”

“There’s only one in town, friend.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Quite so.”

He glanced back at a set of boxes, before making eye contact with one of the members. You drew your revolvers, shooting at two of the people before ducking behind a pair of barrels. Boothill emerged from behind one of their tents, blood already coating his cheek.

He was always brash in his ways, usually coming in guns blazing unless the plan said otherwise. Even then, there was no safe bet that he would follow it. Today was a lucky day, you supposed.

Splinters of wood broke off in your direction, falling over the edge of your arm and over a dark red stain you had yet to notice. Aiming around the side, you fired at one's eyes and another's cheek from where they hid. A second pair hit two plainly in the head, one of their bullets going astray into the rock by the mine entrance.

A strong grip wrapped around your ankle, pulling you backward through twig-like bushes. You were met with the same scarred left eye when the dust cleared – a gaze that spoke murder pinning you down. A fist met the side of your face, brute pain emerging afterward. He went again but was met with your right arm. He tried your left side, and you let him get a hit in as you cautiously unsheathed your knife. With a block to another hit, you slashed your knife across his chest. It was the easiest thing to do in this position, and he backed off of you slightly to stare down at the scarlet seeping into the edges of his cut shirt.

A tight hold turned him over, leaving you above him. The sharp tip of the knife pointed right under his chin as you started your interrogation.

“Where’s Lloyd?”

“I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” he spat.

Taking the blade, you punctured along the edge of his right eye. He screamed as crude fluid bursted against your sleeves, running down the side of his face as you twisted it.

“I’m not fuckin’ around with you! Where is Lloyd Walker?”

“In- in Thatcher!”

“That’s it? You sure there ain’t anything else you want to tell me?” you questioned, drawing the knife from his eye. Another scream came before the tip of the blade returned to his chin, dragging down to his sternum.

“He’s hidin’ out with somebody. They’re in bed together, doing some real shady business. Patrick Arrington – that’s the guy you want to meet with! He’s in the oil business, and real paranoid to boot.”

“Any tips you want to share before I’m finished with you?”

He licked his lips, panicked and steadily bleeding. “Find Ef. I… I met her at a theater once. She loves it there, lights up the minute the curtain rises.”

“Does she have a full name?”

“I don’t know it.”

“Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

“I’m not lyin’! She never told me!”

“Doesn’t matter anymore.”

The blade plunged in his throat forcibly, the near frightening sensation of shattering bone reverberating to the hilt of the knife. A dry wheeze left his lips as you stood up, pulling the weapon back out.

A low whistle, one that you could recall anywhere by now, came from behind you. Boothill walked up, looking down at the body.

“Did you get anythin’ out of him?”

“Plenty. What do you think of a trip to the capital?”

He smiled, sharp with excitement and thrill. “Sounds like a lovely time to me.”

—

PART V - Ballad of the Dead and Alive

It had been years since you last set foot in Thatcher. The city had become strikingly more commercialized, with a shop, service, or office on every corner. Your boots had been left behind at the hotel room, exchanged earlier after a trip to the tailor’s for something more formal.

Wood doors with decorated glass opened as you walked into the lobby, Boothill following behind.

“Tickets for two, please.” you smiled, leaning against the front counter.

“Door to your left.” the taker replied, sliding the slips underneath the barricade.

With a tip of his new hat, Boothill thanked them before heading through to the hallway. It was plain black, something simple yet classy per recommendation of the tailor. He had outright refused their first suggestion of a top hat – slight disgust on his face as he said that would never be his style.

“Guess I finally got that theater date.” he chuckled, opening the double doors to reveal a lit stage.

“I suppose you did.” you replied, taking his hand and going to find your seats.

A narrator stood in front of the curtain, reciting the introduction to a play. Now sitting in the second row, you and Boothill waited patiently for the show to begin.

“‘Do not plague thyself with vexatious matters. Live unshackled and wander from this day forth.’ Thus, did the young Lady Rena commence her journey.”

A beautiful woman walked out to center stage, clothed in a green silk dress. A wide-brimmed hat of the same color rested on her head, feathers rising from the right side that were held under a silk brim. Lavender sprigs and violets emerged from the left, wrapping around to sit delicately on the front.

A gasp came from your right, bringing your gaze away from the show. Brown hair, pinned and curled, came into view before an apologetic expression.

“I’m sorry, I just love to see how the characters dress.”

“It’s alright, you didn’t bother me at all.”

“Oh, well I’m glad.” she smiled, then looked back to the stage.

As the play continued on, your gaze bounced between the actors and the spectator next to you. She seemed to beam at the performance, her eyes watching every detail closely even if she noticed your attention on her. It wasn’t until the brief break before the climax that she turned back to you.

She didn’t say a word for a minute or two, simply looking over your features.

“Have you ever thought about acting?”

“It’s never crossed my mind before.”

“It just seems like you have a knack for it.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I can’t really say, it’s just a feeling. I have a… friend that reminds me of you. She’s been up on the stage there all night. She acts so well, and you can tell she really loves it despite her always telling me it’s just a job.”

“And what about you?”

She paused, seeming to briefly sink into herself. “Can I trust you with a little secret?”

“Of course.”

She smiled smally, “I actually wrote this play. When my work day was over, I’d go up to my room and spend a couple hours jotting it all down. My boss is a miserable man – it’s a pleasant break from him.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely to see it brought to life, then.”

“It’s my biggest achievement so far, and nobody besides you knows the truth behind it.” Sincerity took over her face, a beat passing between you before she spoke. “So, it’s only fair that you share your truth with me. Who are the two of you?”

A hand came to rest on your shoulder as the other was held out across your front, waiting for a shake.

“You can call me Boothill, Ef.”

Her face looked surprised, as if she had possibly seen him somewhere.

“We were preparing to do business with your boss, Patrick Arrington, correct?” he continued.

“Yes.” she replied curtly. “He’s been having me carry around something for you as a matter of fact.”

She placed an envelope in Boothill’s open hand. He turned it over between his fingers, taking a moment to look at the wax seal. With a quick rip, it opened, revealing tight cursive on the parchment. It was an invitation to a dinner in two nights time. Arrington’s signature sprawled over the bottom half of the paper, bold in comparison to his previous handwriting. He spoke of knowing Boothill was in town, likely trying to seek him out. Instead, he wanted them to meet and have a discussion over steak. He also extended the invite to you, his “hell-raising partner”.

If Arrington and Walker wanted a confrontation, they would get it.

“I hope the two of you will entertain his offer. Let us enjoy the rest of my play, though. We can be friends for this evening at the very least.”

—

Patrick Arrington's house reflected his wealth. Dark colors were covered by intricate wood detailings, highlighted well with lamps. The butler guided you and Boothill into the dining room, revealing a lengthy table covered in candles and plates. The men of the hour waited patiently, Patrick at the head of the table with a glass of wine and Lloyd to his right, a lit cigarette resting between his lips as he inspected the utensils.

They weren't very intimidating to say the least.

"Glad you could join us," Lloyd welcomed, a silver steak knife twirling around in his hand. "I've been waitin' to see you again for years, been pretty boring without your games." He pointed said knife at Boothill.

Patrick's weathered eyes met yours as he gestured for you to sit at his left. You strode to the cushioned chair, a foreboding sense creeping in as you pulled it out.

"You can take the seat opposite to me, Mr. Blackwell."

His features appeared defiant before you glared at him. It would be best to follow his commands. A sharp exhale left him as he sat down, leaning casually.

A new butler came in, wine bottle in hand. He poured for the two of you before being dismissed.

Swirling his topped up glass, Patrick leveled his gaze onto Boothill. "I want to make you an offer."

"Ain't that the nature of business." he chuckled.

“Indeed.”

Seared steaks made their way onto the table as Arrington shared his proposal.

“You may take Walker’s life, so long as I take theirs.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard him, boy.”

The room remained tense as your hands froze, a slight cut staying in the meat at your idleness.

“I’m willin’ to… succumb to your revenge,” Lloyd waved his hands around dramatically, “Let you claim my bounty – just after someone is exchanged for me.”

“You think I would ever agree to that?”

“Well, let’s just say it is not so much an agreement as it would be a reward.” Patrick smiled, placing his fork on a cloth gently.

A line of cold steel rested against your throat. You set down your silverware, raising your hands and leaning back.

“I didn’t do nothin’ to you, Mr. Arrington.” you reasoned.

“Maybe not in your eyes. A debt is owed to me, however, and it must be repaid. Your father stole my weapons, robbed my men, and ruined my oil! He was scum, and it seems you are too.”

“Any issues you had with him aren't my problem.”

“The knife to your throat begs otherwise, dear.”

“You started this.”

“No, I did not. Your friend here began his feud with Mr. Walker years ago. That is the true reason why the both of you are here tonight. I am simply ending a personal matter at the same time.”

“What’ll it be, Jesse?” Lloyd asked, an excited smile growing on his face.

You met Boothill’s stare, watching the gears turn in his mind. His gaze drifted upward, past yours and to the person behind you. Their grip tightened on the hilt.

“I’m gonna have to decline.”

Walker laughed as Arrington’s face went stoic.

“So be it.” a familiar voice spoke.

The knife formerly held to your neck flew into Patrick’s right shoulder. With the room still surprised, you flipped the dining table with help from your near-executioner. Plates clattered onto the floor surrounding Lloyd, the candles beginning to eat away at the rug.

“Where do you think you’re going, you piece of shit!”

You watched, revolver in hand, as Ef strode angrily to an escaping Patrick. He gripped his shoulder, walking out and down the hall as fast as he could. She followed suit, chasing and pinning him down easily. The click of your dress shoes echoed over the wood floor as you came behind her, witnessing her tackle him to the ground before pulling the knife from him. She threw it to the side, choosing to instead beat him as hard as she could while curses fell from her tinted lips. You leaned back against the wall, toying with the chamber of your gun. You watched as it spun, just one bullet sat inside.

With a huff, Ef rose from Patrick’s bloodied body, scarlet covering her teal dress.

“Do with him as you please. I’ve had enough of him for eternity.”

She then turned down the hall, the sound of ascending steps coming shortly after.

You came to stand right next to Arrington’s head, pressing your left heel down on his shoulder. He groaned, trying to twist out of the situation.

“I have a special hatred for rich filth like you.”

Two clicks of the hammer – a blank.

“Always walking around like you own the place.”

Another blank.

“Throwing money at everything you can – money that you made from stealing what belongs to others.”

Blank.

“And you’re so much better than me? Look at what you’re doing right now.” he whispered out, eyes growing unfocussed.

“We might be bad people, but at least we’re honest. I think liars like you will suffer a worse fate than us. You’ve got no honor, no respect, left in you. Sold it all away for what? So you could feel some power? Some control? We all die the same, Patrick. This wealth’ll mean nothin’ in the end. Keeping it all to yourself only makes people resent you more. We struggle everyday, only ever dreaming of what you have and take for granted everyday. You deserve nothing that you have in this world if all you do is abuse it. Save whatever dignity you have left for hell, Arrington. You’re gonna need it.”

A shot fired as his mouth opened, leaving red to splatter out from the proximity. You leaned down, taking his pocket watch and dangling it in front of you. It was gold, polished, and engraved – an item that could fetch a high price. You shoved it in your own pocket as you left his body, searching for the stairs Ef had gone up.

Flames caught on the curtains as Boothill waited in a standoff with Lloyd. Neither uttered a word as they waited, staring each other down. Crackles came from the walls, the flames illuminating the space with harsh glares. Walker drew his old pistol, aiming quickly and preparing to fire. Blood flowed from his arm not a second later, three shots ringing out in the burning dining room.

A swift kick crossed his face a moment later, something sharp cutting down it. Despite his pain and lack of clear vision, he took one of the scalding candlesticks and threw it in front of him. His hand came to hold his face, sighing.

“If you want to kill me Jesse, do it already.”

The cold barrel of a gun met the back of his neck, one click reaching his ears.

“Givin’ up that easily! Really now?”

“I’d rather die than try and make it out of here.”

A set of curtain rods fell to the floor before Boothill spoke, “ I’m gonna take my time with you, then. See if you can handle what you put me through.”

Whistles sounded through the courtyard as lawmen slowly encroached the property. A pair of satchels rested full over your shoulder, one similar sitting on Effie’s horse. They were bulked with stolen bonds, jewels, and anything else you could get your hands on.

“I suppose this is farewell.” she exhaled.

“For now, at least. If you’re going down a road like ours, I think we’ll cross paths again.”

“I hope so.”

“Go be with your friend.” you smiled, winking and patting her horse as she mounted it. “And thank you for the help. This wouldn’t have worked out if it weren’t for your decision.”

“You flatter me. But you’re welcome anyway.”

She pulled a poppy from her hat, handing it down to you. With exchanged nods, she rode off around the back, leaving you to the steps of Patrick’s burning house.

The front door burst open as Boothill kicked at it, stepping out as smoke started billowing from the building. You had every confidence in his capabilities, but you still found yourself in his arms. Crimson stained his cheeks, seeping into your palms as you brought his face closer to your view.

“How are you?”

“A little worse for wear, but if you kiss me, I just might be alright.”

“That can wait, cowboy. For now, we’d best get out of here.”

—

Epilogue

The sun beamed down brightly, casting a hazy glow over the river. Morning light was always lovely at times like this, and the sound of rushing water provided a welcome sense of relief. A soft breeze blew through the tree branches above you, ruffling the papers in Boothill's hands as well.

His head rested on your thighs, leaning back and reading them over with a smile. A sketch replaced your photo now, headed by text that read: “Reward for the capture, dead or alive, of __ __. The murderer of Patrick Arrington, they are still at large in Kearny County.”

“Look who made it big.” he chuckled.

“Think they’ll have a stage ready for me next time we visit?”

“If that stage is the gallows, then I’m sure.”

You laughed, leaning back against rough bark.

“Meanwhile I only got an extra $500! Can’t believe those lovely lawmen.” he grumbled, ripping them in half.

You brushed your palm over his forehead, shifting his hair back.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Fingertips brushed down his cheek, before curling under his jaw and tilting his head in your direction. Silver and red eyes met yours, simmering down to a rare gentleness. He stared at you for a moment, no vibrant expression or words leaving him. Peaceful – that’s what he was.

“Where do you want to go next?” you asked, thumb tracing along his cheekbone.

“I think we’ll just keep ridin’, stop where we want and see where the trail ends.”

“Take some jobs here and there, try to make some money.”

“Sounds nice.”

You hummed as Boothill turned his head back to the river, sighing toward the low reeds.

“Would you ever want to have a farm again?”

He rested quietly before replying, “No, but I wouldn’t be against working on one every now and then.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes, though.”

“Course. There’s plenty more I could show you too.”

“Like?”

“Anythin’ you can imagine.”

“What a magician you are.”

“You flatter me, sugar.”

“Gettin’ a little shy on me, are you?”

“Not at all.”

He leaned up on his right hand, the left coming to the side of your neck. Slightly rough lips met yours challengingly, as if lovingly proving a point. Cold metal was removed from your neck, fingertips running along your throat teasingly before coming up to tug down the hat on your head.

“Stealin’ my moves now, cowboy?”

“You learned them from me first.” he chuckled, “Just one of our many games, right?”

#coff writes for hsr 🍾#hsr #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr x reader #hsr au #hsr fanfic #hsr boothill #honkai star rail boothill #hsr boothill x reader

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