#but the woman a few weeks ago asked if i was old enough to sign for myself even tho i had to give her my date of birth

[justagalwhowrites]

Yearling - Ch. 22: Storm

A spring snowstorm hits Jackson. A continuation of Yearling ch. 1-21 found on Tumblr here.

PLEASE PAY CLOSE ATTENTION TO THE CONTENT WARNINGS, THIS IS A ROUGH CHAPTER!!!

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Past sexual assault vaguely described; animal death; PTSD response; sexual assault of a minor mentioned in a vulgar way (not seen); possible child death. No use of Y/N. Minors DNI 18+ Only 

Length: 8.6k 

AO3 | Chapter One | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Early May, 2013 

You were outside when the woman rode up. 

Your home was well hidden and you’d only seen five people since Mark had left almost a year earlier, each of them making their way into your land and telling you that he’d sent them your way. They were all kind, they were all vulnerable and they were all loaded down with things you would need. Flashlight batteries and bulbs, sugar and salt, rubbing alcohol and petroleum jelly. Thread, fabric, pain killers, antibiotics, guitar strings. One woman had been sent with a snack sized bag of Lays that were still sealed and a bottle of whiskey. That had made you smile, the clearest sign that Mark hadn’t forgotten about you. 

All of the others had arrived on foot, seemingly with a good idea of where to go, mostly alone but two women has traveled together. The timing wasn’t predictable but you at least knew what you could expect when someone Mark sent your way came into your territory.

This woman was different. 

You heard her before you saw her, the thundering footfalls and heavy breathing of her horse loud against the quiet of the forest. You didn’t have time to fortify your position, didn’t even have time to go get more ammo. So you stood your ground and raised your rifle, heart pounding, when she burst through the tree line and into the clearing that you called home. 

“Back the fuck up!” You yelled, gun raised. The horse all but skidded to a stop, the woman on its back clutching a bundle of blankets to her chest with one hand, yanking back on the reins with the other.  

“Easy!” She said dropping the reins and putting her hand up. She still clung to the bundle. You recognized the horse. It was Perseus, it was Mark’s horse. “Are you Texas?” 

“Who’s askin’?” Your accent was thick, fear a knot in your stomach as you looked Perseus over. You didn’t see any signs of injury.

She kept her hand up. 

“You knew Mark?” She asked. She had an accent, too. Georgia southern, like Mark. “Brown hair, criminally long eyelashes?” 

You narrowed your eyes at her and tightened your grip on your weapon. 

“He knew you,” she kept going. “He… he told me all about you. Doubt he ever mentioned me but… he talked about you all the time. He loved you and I think you loved him, too.” 

You swallowed past the growing lump in your throat and tightness in your chest. She kept using past tense. 

“What about him?” You asked, keeping your gun raised but your grip loosened. 

“He sent me to find you. We need your help,” she said, reaching and tugging her pant leg up just enough to reveal a festering bite mark on her ankle. “And I don’t have much time.” 

***

Early April, 2027

“I can’t believe you’ve been calling her a fucking baby deer this whole goddamn time!” 

Ellie was perched on Shimmer’s stall door, watching as you and Joel set out blankets for the horses. It has been snowing all day and winds were picking up. You were worried a blizzard was moving in and you wanted help getting the horses set to ride out the storm if you couldn’t get to them for a day or two. 

Joel was happy to assist, especially since he had come back from patrol a week earlier with a copy of Bambi on VHS. Ellie hadn’t been able to calm down about it since and it reminded him of the giddiness she had when she started in on the puns the first time, almost four years ago now. He’d have done anything to get that back and, it turned out, all it took was an old Disney movie and a funny nickname.  

“Thank you,” you laughed, almost smug. “Don’t talk for a few minutes and get saddled with the name of a cartoon deer for life…” 

“Hey, needed somethin’ to call you and you try coming up with anything else after lookin’ at you with those big eyes,” Joel said, defensive but smiling. “Not my fault it stuck.” 

“Yeah well Bambi here was gonna kick your ass the first time we met,” she replied. “Big bad contractor was gonna get beat up by a fucking cartoon deer from a kid’s movie…”

Joel tried to keep from laughing and raised his eyebrows at you. 

“OK that’s an exaggeration,” you said. “All I was going to do…” 

“I asked if you were going to try to kick his ass,” Ellie cut you off. “And you said ‘no try about it, I was gonna kick his ass.’” 

“And what did I do to deserve that?” Joel asked, teasing. 

“Well, Ellie tried to warn me about you…” You began, but Ellie cut you off. 

“Should have listened….” 

You glared at her. 

“But she wasn’t very clear,” you said. “And if some grown man was messing around with a girl, I was going to kick his ass. Turns out I didn’t have a reason to.” 

Joel laughed. 

“Glad you spared me.” 

You laughed before planting your hands on your hips, looking around the stable for a moment, taking stock. 

“Think things are just about as good as they’re gonna get,” you sighed. “But I think they should be good for a day until we can dig out and get back over here. Just wait for them to finish dinner, put more feed in after…” 

“Think there’s any chance of the patrols making it back tonight?” Ellie asked, her eyebrows drawn together. 

“Probably not,” Joel said. “They got places to ride out shit like storms if they get stuck, they’ll be alright.” 

“Still,” you said. “Had a group that was due back tonight, Jackson was probably the closest point to ride it out. Think I’ll hang out for a bit yet…” 

“I’ll go get us something to eat,” Joel said. “We’ll wait with you, head home after, settle in to ride out the storm.” 

“Can we stay at Bambi’s?” Ellie asked. “She’s got a way better stereo.” 

You smiled. 

“Sure, kid,” you said. “On you to get Joel to dance party, though.” 

“Dance party?” He frowned. 

“You wouldn’t get it, Old Man,” she replied, the hint of a smirk on her face. 

“Don’t get a lot of things about you, Baby Girl,” he said before stretching his back a bit. “Alright, back in a few. Try not to find too much trouble while I’m gone.” 

You and Ellie both rolled your eyes and he couldn’t help but smile as he made his way through the few inches of snow that had already fallen, heading for the mess hall. 

One of Joel’s favorite parts of being back on good terms with Ellie was getting to see your relationship with her. Even before she was mad at him, he wanted her to have someone like you in her life. Another woman she could talk to, look up to, guide her in ways he didn’t fully understand. She needed that and he hadn’t been able to see it happening from the distance she was holding him at before. 

He knew the two of you were close, he just hadn’t realized how close until the last few months. The two of you felt more like family than Sarah’s mother ever had and he treasured it, treasured that you seemed to love his daughter almost as much as he did. 

The mess hall was getting ready for a storm, too, putting together baskets of food to send home with Jackson residents so people wouldn’t be struggling through the storm for their meals over the next few days. He gathered enough to last the three of you for a bit plus some sandwiches for tonight before he started back toward the stables, the wind more forceful and biting than when he’d left just half an hour earlier. 

As he got closer, he noticed tracks in the snow, hoof prints leading to the stables. A patrol had made it back and, for half a moment, he was a little disappointed. If the storm wasn’t as bad as they were expecting and the patrol was able to make it back to Jackson without losing much time, he might not get to spend the day with you and Ellie tomorrow. Ever since the storm started moving in that afternoon he’d been excited for the chance to have some unexpected time just the three of you - almost like playing hooky but with permission. 

But he knew he should just be happy the patrol made it home through the weather, hopefully with all the people intact. Which, he was. But damn if he didn’t love an excuse to spend time with you. 

He opened the door to the stable and quickly moved shut it behind him, expecting to find you taking saddles off horses. Instead, you damn near slammed into him, your eyes wide, not saying a word as you shoved the door open and took off into the snow. 

“Bambi?” He called after you. You didn’t even slow down. He jogged over to Ellie’s perch and set the food down, a tightness starting to grip his chest. 

“No idea,” Ellie said, not waiting for him to ask. “Patrol came back, said something about some people they found outside… She just said ‘savvy’ and took the fuck off.” 

Joel looked around for a second. Julie was standing next to her horse, a confused look on her face. 

“You found people outside?” Joel asked. 

“Yeah,” she said, still staring at where you’d run out. “Yeah, a group of five. We brought them back…” 

“Where are they?” He asked, fighting to keep his voice calm. 

“The clinic…” 

“Ellie,” he said quickly. “Stay put here, alright? I’m gone more than half an hour, head on home. Mine or hers, don’t want you in that little place for this storm, OK Baby Girl?” 

“Yeah,” she nodded, not giving him shit. She looked concerned, too. “Yeah, OK.” 

He gave her a stiff nod and went out into the building storm, following your footprints to the clinic. 

Joel heard you there before he saw you, your voice pleading and desperate as he shut the wind and snow outside. 

“Anything,” you were begging. “Anything at all, a name, an age, hair color, anything, please…” 

“I’m sorry,” a man whose voice Joel didn’t recognize said. “She did say much before she died, just that there was a girl…” 

Joel found you then, in the same room he’d been in when he’d come in from patrol with a bullet in his leg. 

“Where?” You asked. “Where’d you find her? Did she say where she escaped from, how far she’d come?” 

“We picked them up about 15 miles north east of here,” Fred, one of the men on patrol, said. “Just south of Kelly.” 

“Think she came from a camp ground near there,” the other man said. He was skinny, a patch of frostbite on his nose. “Said something about cabins…” 

“Right,” you nodded. “Right, thank you.” 

You turned and ran smack into Joel’s chest. You barely seemed to register it, hardly even glancing at him before ducking around him and running out the door again. 

“She was asking about a girl,” Fred said quickly. “These folks here, had a woman with them before we found them. Said she escaped raiders, that the raiders had a teenaged girl…” 

“Fuck,” Joel muttered under his breath before looking at the other man. “Thanks, Fred.” 

He didn’t wait for a response, just ducking back into the snow, the wind starting to howl now, running to catch up with you. 

You were on your porch by the time he reached you. You didn’t even seem to be aware that he was following you, you were too focused on something else entirely. You didn’t even bother to take your boots off when you got in the house, just ripping the coat closet inside your door open and pulling out your patrol materials as Joel let himself in. 

“Bambi,” he said gently. You looked up at him for a moment, like you were surprised to find him there before you focused back on your pack, shoving in blankets and flashlights. “Come on, honey…” 

“They’ve got her, Joel,” you said, barely glancing at him before you grabbed your bag and half walked, half ran to your kitchen. “Can’t just leave her out there with them, I…” 

“There’s a snowstorm, Sweetheart,” he said gently, trying to keep his voice calm. “It’s not safe…” 

“Doesn’t matter,” you started stuffing food in your bag, no rhyme or reason to it that Joel could see. 

“Yes, it does,” he said, trying to take the pack from you. You yanked it back, a vicious look in your eyes before you ducked around him. “Baby.” 

“I’m not leaving her to those… those…” your voice cracked. “Those fucking monsters, I’m not, I can’t just leave her, I can’t just abandon her, I…” 

“You getting yourself killed won’t help anybody.” It was getting harder and harder to keep the panic from his voice. He’d never seen you quite like this. Close to it when out on patrol and there were signs that raiders were near, signs of their violence, but he’d always been able to pull you back from the edge. He wasn’t sure he could this time. “Bambi, you can’t…” 

“Yes, I can.” 

You moved around him and he followed. 

“I know you want to help people,” he said. “But you can’t help anyone if you get yourself killed. I know you want to save everyone from going through what you went through…” 

“That’s not what this is,” you said, turning in circles like you were looking for something but you couldn’t place it. 

“Then what is it?” He caught you by the shoulders and looked at you, your eyes wide and panicky. “Tell me, help me understand. When the weather clears, I can go with you and…” 

“It’ll be too late then,” you shook your head, tears starting to swell. “As soon as the snow stops they’re going to leave and it’ll be too late, I’ll never catch them and they’ll still have her and I can’t lose her again, Joel, I can’t, I can’t take it, I can’t do this again, please, don’t ask me to do this again I…” 

“Do what?” He asked, pleading, his grip on you firm. “Let me help you, Baby, please, tell me what’s going on. Who…” 

“My daughter!” You said quickly. Joel froze, his heart pounding against his ribs. “I have a daughter, I have a daughter and if it’s her I… I can’t lose her again, I can’t. I have to go get her…” 

“You…” he breathed. 

“My daughter,” you said, eyes wide. “Please, Joel. I think they have my daughter.” 

*** 

Early May, 2013

You lowered your rifle enough that it was no longer an immediate threat and she relaxed a little, letting the pant leg fall over her ankle again. There was a small cry from the bundle in her arms and you frowned, looking between her and it. She carefully lowered it from her chest, looking down to it. 

“Hey, you’re OK sweet girl,” she said gently. “It’s alright…” 

The bundle fussed but didn’t cry again and she looked back to you. 

“Can I get down?” She asked. “Got a lot to talk about and not a lot of time to do it. Figure I’ve got an hour left. Two, tops.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly. “Yeah, OK. Let’s talk.” 

You didn’t invite her in, not wanting to deal with the potential hazard of her turning into one of those inhuman things in your house. She didn’t seem to mind. 

Her name, she said, was Laurel. She was about your age, you guessed, with her dark hair in two thick braids, deep brown eyes and rich umber skin. 

“This is Savannah,” she said, tilting the bundle so you could see inside. “She’s nine months old…” 

You looked at her, awed for a moment. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen a baby and you resisted the urge to reach out and run your finger over her chubby, impossibly soft looking cheek. She blinked at you, her brown eyes oddly keen and exacting for a baby, her lashes almost obscenely long. You frowned, leaning in to look closer at her. You knew those impossibly soft, brown eyes set in her lovely russet-hued face. 

“She’s Mark’s,” you said softly, looking up at Laurel. “She’s Mark’s, isn’t she?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, she is.” 

“I…” your voice broke. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he had someone, I wouldn’t have…” 

“It wasn’t like that,” she cut you off. “My husband died about three years ago. He got hurt, it got infected… Not even the fucking apocalypse kind, just the kind that you can clear up with penicillin if you can find the damn stuff. Mark… we were both lonely, looking for something to make it better for a while. It just kind of happened. She just kind of happened.” 

The baby cooed, stretching and reaching for you. 

“Where is he?” You asked, looking back at Laurel. “What happened to him?” 

“Our settlement got overrun,” she said, her voice suddenly thick. “They came out of nowhere and just… He tried. He tried so, so hard, you should know that he tried. But he got bit, on the neck, trying to protect us and… He told me where to find you. That’s what he did with the last few minutes of his life, he told me where to find you, he told me that you’d take care of us, make sure we survived. He told me to tell you that he loved you and that he wanted to come back to you…” 

You found yourself nodding, tears on your cheeks as you looked into the eyes of the man you loved in his child’s face. 

“He died before I got bit,” she said. “He died thinking we had a shot. I kept her safe, though. She was safe…” 

“You did good,” you said, throat tight. “You really did…” 

“I need your help,” she said before taking a deep breath. 

“Course,” you nodded, tearing your eyes away from Mark’s daughter to look at her. “What…” 

“I need you to take Savannah.” 

You just blinked at her for a moment. “I…” you broke off, shaking your head. “What? I… no, no, I’m not who you want, I don’t…” 

“I don’t have a lot of options,” she said. “I don’t have time to find another person let alone someone I know I can trust. And I know I can trust you with her. Mark loved you and you loved him, you won’t let anything happen to his child.” 

“But I…” you looked back at the baby in her arms. “I don’t know anything about kids, I wouldn’t even know where to start, I don’t…” 

“Please,” she said, her voice breaking. “He wanted you to take care of her. I think… I think part of him knew it would just be her. That’s why he sent me here, to you. He wanted it to be you. He trusted you and he loved you, he wanted her to be with you. Please, I’ll beg if I have to, just please take care of her. Please.” 

You looked at the baby in her arms, at Mark’s eyes with the impossibly long lashes. 

“OK.” 

Laurel held her daughter while she told you everything. You paused her to take some notes when you thought of it, things like a recipe for formula when she refused solids and what to do when she started crying but wouldn’t stop. She told you how much her daughter loved to gnaw on bits of apple and loved to bounce in time to her father’s humming and her birthday - July 20. 

She started twitching more in what felt like no time at all, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. She pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead. 

“You’ll be OK sweet girl,” she whispered to her. “You’ll be OK. Mama loves you, OK? Try to remember that for me, OK?” She looked up at you. “Will… will you tell her about me? About Mark?” 

You nodded, the pinch of tears tight in your throat. 

“Of course,” you said. “I’ll make sure she knows everything you did for her. She’ll know about you.” 

She nodded, passing you her child. Your child. 

“I’d like to do it myself,” she said, nodding to the gun at your hip. “If that’s OK.” 

“Yeah,” you nodded, adjusting Savannah in your arms and handing Laurel the gun. She took it and walked backwards away from you, her eyes on her daughter. Your daughter. 

“I’ll close my eyes just before,” she said once she was about 20 feet away, still looking at her baby. “Can you cover hers for me? I want to look at her as long as I can but I don’t want her to see…” 

“Yeah,” you nodded again. “I can do that.” 

“Thank you,” she smiled tightly, actually looking at you this time. “I… I know this isn’t what you planned but… It’s easier, knowing she has someone.” 

“I’ll take care of her,” you said. “I’ll love her. I’ll take care of her.” 

Laurel just nodded and looked back at her child, watching her for a moment, the gun in her shaky hand. 

“Mama loves you,” she said softly, raising the gun to her temple and closing her eyes. You quickly pressed Savannah’s face into your chest and held her close. 

Everything was eerily silent for a moment, the longest second of your life, before there was the crack of the gun and the sharp cry of the baby who was all you had left in the world. 

August 2018 

“You have learn this, Savvy.”

“I don’t want to shoot them, Mama,” your daughter looked over at you from her spot on the downed tree, looking at the infected more than 100 feet away through a scope. 

“These are the easiest things you’ll ever have to shoot,” you said gently. “It’s nice to shoot them, you’re making it so they’re not hurting anymore…” 

“But they’re people.” 

Her eyes - her father’s eyes - were so wide. The springs of her curls were bundled back away from her face, a sprinkle of freckles across her nose. 

“I know they look like people,” you ran your hand over the crown of her small head. “But they’re not, not anymore. They’re things that are hurting and the only way to help them is to shoot them. And shooting them keeps you and me safe. Now, you can do this. Do it just like you do at home with the targets.” 

She looked at you, her big eyes watery, before obeying and turning back toward the gun. You watched as she lined up her shot and took a deep breath, exhaling before firing. 

Her shot went a little wide, catching the infected on the arm. It whipped its head around and shrieked before running for you. 

“Mama!” 

“It’s alright,” you said, looking down your own rifle for a moment before firing and hitting it in the head. It dropped like a stone. “See? All OK. This is why we learn.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice was thick and trembling and you looked over at her, tears streaming down her face. “I tried hard, I promise…” she hiccuped and gulped in air and you set your rifle down and sat up before pulling her against you. 

“You did so good,” you kissed the top of her head. “Don’t be sorry, Honey, you did so good, I’m so proud of you.”

“But I didn’t kill them,” she pulled her face from your chest, her lower lip quivering. “I did it wrong and…” 

“You’ll get better,” you said gently. “No one is perfect when they’re learning. This is just to make sure that you’re safe. I’ll always protect you but it’s good for you to know how to protect yourself, too. This is just in case, OK?” 

She nodded against you and you held her until she stopped crying. When she calmed, you ran your thumbs over her cheeks and kissed her small forehead, wishing you didn’t have to teach her these things. If you could just shelter her away from the world - from infected, from the people who has found power because of the infected - then it would all be OK. She wouldn’t need to know how to kill. It could be just you and her, growing things and raising horses and reading by the fire, until the end of time. 

But the world, you knew, was not so kind. 

“Want to go pick out some books?” You asked gently. She nodded and the two of you got up and you took her hand, leading her to the library. 

In the more than five years you’d had Savvy, she had become your entire world. Everything you did, you did for her. To keep her safe, to make her happy, to teach her. You’d known nothing about children when Laurel brought her to you. The first night, you’d held her close while you both cried and you prayed to a god you’d never been sure existed that you would do right by her.

Loving her came easy. Living for her was harder. 

But you fell into it eventually, guiding her through the world as it was now as best you could. If you found a family near your territory, you’d watch them from afar and, once you knew it was safe, bring Savvy to introduce her, give her a chance to know someone besides yourself. You taught her how to read, how to count, how to skin a rabbit. You had no idea if it was the right thing but you hoped it would be enough that, when she was older, she would survive if something happened to you. That’s all that mattered, that she would be OK. 

“Mama?” She asked, setting her picture book on her legs as you browsed the shelves for more books on home schooling and small scale farming.

“Yes baby?” 

“What else would I need to shoot?” 

You frowned and looked down at her, your hand on the spine of a book. 

“What?” 

“Well, you said that the not people are the easiest things I would have to shoot,” she said, face serious. “So… what else would I have to shoot?” 

“I don’t think you’ll like shooting animals much,” you said and she crinkled her nose. “But you’ll probably have to at some point.” 

“But I like animals,” she pouted. 

You smiled. 

“I know you do.” 

“What else?” She asked, still peering up at you. 

You sighed. 

“Sometimes…” you turned your attention back to the books. “Sometimes you’ll have to shoot a person.” 

Her wide eyes somehow grew wider, a look of horror on her face. 

“But…” her little voice broke. “But I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I know,” you said quietly. “But sometimes we have to.” 

“Why?” 

“Because,” you looked down to her. “There are things in this world that want to hurt you and you need to know how to hurt them first.” 

“But you’re here,” she said. She was so young, so small. You knelt, getting down on her level. 

“You still need to know how,” you said. “I will do everything I can to protect you but I might fail. You need to know how to destroy them before they destroy you because they will. They will destroy every part of you they can touch if they have the chance. Don’t give them the chance.” 

She considered that for a moment, her face very serious. 

“Does it hurt?” She asked, looking up at you. 

You reached down at cupped her cheek.

“Yes,” you said quietly. “Yes, it does.” 

Her eyes were wide and soft and deep and you wanted, more than anything, to keep her safe. 

“But I’ll take care of you,” you said, stroking her soft skin with your thumb. “For as long as I’m alive, I’ll take care of you.” 

September 15, 2023 

“Mom?” 

You looked up from where you were working at skinning a rabbit. There was a glow in your front window, a hold over from when Savvy was even younger and you had to leave to go check on the horses before bed. She got scared one night when she woke up and found that you weren’t in the dark cabin. Ever since, you always left the electric lantern on when you left in the evenings, even though she said she didn’t need it anymore. It was just enough to work by as the sun got lower outside. 

“Yeah?”

“What…” she paused, an odd look on her face. “What’s in Gattling’s mouth?” 

The dog was hovering behind Savvy’s legs and you leaned around from your position on a tree stump, trying to get a look at her. You frowned, not able to make it out in the low light, and set the rabbit and your knife down, wiping your hands on a rag tucked into your belt.  

Gattling’s tail wagged as you approached, her head low and you squatted down to be on her level, angling her head toward the house so her muzzle wasn’t in shadow. Her snout was red with blood, something dangling from her jaws. You held your palm out flat. 

“Gattling, release.” 

She obediently dropped it in your hand with a sickening splat. It took you a moment to realize that it was a pinky finger. 

“Mom?” Savvy’s voice was shaky. You dropped the finger where you stood and heard the crack of a gunshot in the distance. 

“We have to move.” 

You grabbed her arm and pulled her in the house, Gattling trotting close behind. 

“What’s happening?” She asked, looking back over her shoulder. “Mom, what’s…” 

“Get packed,” you said, grabbing a pack and thrusting at her before running to the dresser in the corner. You shrugged out of the shirt you were wearing and traded it for the one you’d worn when you fled the ranch 20 years earlier, not willing to leave Justin’s shirt behind. “Some clothes, first aid, batteries, flashlights, all three kinds of ammo, sleeping bag.” 

You went to the kitchen and started grabbing things you’d already preserved. Jerky, dried fruit, some seeds. Most of the canteens in the house were full and you grabbed a few. You grabbed the pistol, the shot gun and the rifles. You set it all out on the table and looked over to your daughter who was obediently filling her pack. 

“Leave room for this,” you said, taking your rifle from the pile. “Meet me by the horses as quick as you can. Turn out the lantern on your way.” 

She just nodded. You sprinted for the cabin you’d turned into a stable. Nike was huffed at your arrival and you grabbed her tack and saddled her up as quickly as you could, making sure there was room to add basic supplies. Savvy ran into the pen just as you led Nike and Perseus into the middle of it. 

“Long guns,” you held your hand out as you tightened down straps of the saddle. She handed you the shotgun first and you tucked it into a strap on the saddle. The rifle came next. You stepped back and looked at it for a moment. 

“OK,” you said turning back to your daughter, looking her over. She’d gotten so tall, she was only a few inches shorter than you now, you didn’t even need to stoop to press a kiss to her forehead. “Want you to head north, understand?” 

“What are you talking about?” She asked as you took her arm and guided her alongside the horse. “Mom, you’re coming with me, I’ll just follow you, I’ll just…” 

“I’ll get to you when I can,” you said. She shook her head, her eyes wide. 

“No,” she grabbed your arms. “No, you can’t, you can’t just leave me, you can’t…” 

“I’m not leaving you,” you held her face in your hands, looked into her eyes. She had her father’s eyes. “I’m not, OK? I will find you. I will always find you, sweet girl, I will always protect you. That’s what I’m going to do, OK? I’m going to buy you time. Cut north, stick to the woods, off the trails. You know things here. Go out of the way, work your way around the long way to the library. Meet me there in three days, it should be safe…” 

“Three days?” She gaped at you. “No, I can’t…” 

“Yes you can,” you said, firm enough that you believed it, too. “Yes you can. I’ve taught you everything I know, you can make it. It’s just three days, you’ll be OK. You’re so strong and you’re so smart, you’re going to be OK. I will always find you. I will always protect you, I will always keep you safe. I promise.” 

You pulled her tight to you and kissed her temple. 

“I love you,” you breathed, pulling back to look at her face. “More than anything, I love you. I’ll see you soon, OK? Ride through the night, switch horses at dawn and keep riding until tomorrow night. You can do this.” 

“I can do this,” she repeated. “I can do this.” 

You looked to the dog at your feet, her tail wagging and her muzzle bloody. 

“Gattling,” you said. Her ears perked up. “Savvy.” 

She immediately went to your daughter’s side, ready to protect her. 

You boosted Savvy onto the horse, taking a final look at her. 

“Just three days, right Mom?” 

You swallowed, hard, before nodding. 

“Just three days. Be safe. Be smart. I’ll see you soon.” 

You didn’t have the luxury of watching her ride away. The second her, Nike and Perseus were clear of the paddock, you ran to saddle up Hercules. 

You needed to buy her time. 

October 13, 2023

You were still paying for your escape. 

It was hard to keep track of time. You were with Mitchum and his crew about two weeks the first time. That’s what it felt like, anyway. You were pretty sure it had been about half as long since they got you back. It was hard to tell. You were so panicked, in so much pain that time stretched and expanded and every hour that passed was an hour that you were separated from your daughter and you needed to get to her, you had to. She was just 11 years old and the world was not kind to girls. You’d taught her everything you knew but you had to get back to her, you didn’t want her to have to hurt and kill. 

When you’d escaped, you’d done nothing but search for her. You went to the library, tried to track where you thought she’d have come from but it had been weeks. There was no trail left to follow. You were about to return to your cabin to check there when Mitchum’s men found you again. You still had no idea where Savvy was.

You’d promised to take care of her. You’d promised her, you’d promised the woman who had given her to you a decade earlier. You’d promised. 

You had to get back to her. 

They’d chained you to a wall this time but you thought you might be able to pull the bolt out of the wood if you worked at it diligently enough. You pried at it until your nails were bloody and you kept going. You were covered in blood already, anyway. It was sticky on your skin where it had flowed from the cut on your head where your face had been slammed into the floor as one of Mitchum’s men had taken you from behind while you were on your knees. It had been a steady drip from inside of you since the first time Mitchum forced himself on you when you were brought back, whatever injury there was not given time to heal. The raiders seemed to like it when you bled on them. It even coated part of your arm where one man had cut you when trying to control you, not happy with your lack of compliance as he hurt you. A little more as you tried to pry yourself free wasn’t going to draw attention. 

The door slammed into the wall without warning and you jumped, shocking back from the wall. The man standing there smirked, stalking over to you. 

“Getting ideas are we?” He sneered. He didn’t wait for a response. “Thought you’d have learned your fuckin’ lesson last time…” 

He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cuff that held you before pulling you roughly to your feet. He didn’t give you any clothes, he just pulled you, naked, out to the circle of men around a campfire. Your heart sped up, tried to count them. You weren’t sure you could survive being at the mercy of the more than two dozen who were here, not at one time. He threw you into the dirt and you caught yourself on your hands and knees. 

“Here’s my favorite little bitch,” Mitchum stalked forward. You sat back on your heels and crossed your arms over your chest, trying to protect what you could. “How have you liked being back home? We keepin’ you entertained?” 

A few of the men laughed. You swallowed and peered around, hoping for something you could take advantage of, just one open space, one unguarded moment and you could escape. For good this time. You could do that, you could escape and figure out where you were and then find Savvy. 

“Figured out what you were hidin’ back in that homestead of yours,” Mitchum said, a smirk on his voice. You looked at him, eyes wide. Your stomach dropped and he laughed. “Didn’t think you’d like that. Can see why you were workin’ so hard now, she sure was a pretty little thing.” 

“Fuck you,” you spat. 

He laughed. 

“That can be arranged,” he said. “Fucked that girl of yours, too. Broke her in real good…” 

You were on your feet before you fully realized what you were doing, running for him. You grabbed at his face, snarling and grasping as you sank your bloody nails into his skin. You dug deep and he punched you in the stomach as one of his men pulled you back, forcing you to the ground. 

“I’ll kill you!” You shrieked. “I’ll fucking kill you!” 

He stalked forward and punched you across the face before grabbing a fistful of your hair, forcing you to look at him. You felt blood on your teeth and you wished it was his. You wanted to rip his throat out like an animal, wanted to claw and bite at him until he succumbed. 

“I wanted to keep the both of you,” he said, holding your hair tight in his fist, fingers against your scalp. “Figured you’d be a lot more fun with her life on the line. Too bad she couldn’t take it.” 

The world tilted on its axis. You hadn’t eaten in days but you still felt like you were going to be sick, like everything inside of you, the blood and the viscera that made you a living being, was going to come up. 

“Oh yeah,” he smirked. “Should’ve probably been more careful with her but it was just so much fun to hear her beg for her mama…” 

“You’re a liar,” you hissed through clenched teeth. “A fucking liar!” 

He kept his eyes on you and he whistled before forcing you to look at the fire. Two men stepped forward, each carrying burlap sacks. One was much larger than the other. 

“Show ‘er.” 

The first man, the one with the large bag, turned it over. A horse head fell out of the sack, landing on the dirt with a wet thud. It took you a second to recognize her, separate from her body, but it was Nike. You screamed, the sound clawing its way up from your chest and you instinctively reached for her only to have Mitchum rip you back by your hair. 

“Wanna see what’s in the other bag?” He pressed his mouth against your ear as you sobbed. “Decided to keep her head, thought I should pass it around, see if it’s as good cold…” 

You strained in his hold, trying to shake your head. You couldn’t get yourself to form words. There was the distinct feeling that someone was cracking you open, prying apart your chest and pulling your organs out one by one. They didn’t belong to you anymore. You weren’t sure they ever really had, they were hers and she was gone.

You couldn’t see her like that, see just her head, like she had only ever been parts and pieces to begin with.  

“Please,” you managed through the gasping, racking sobs. “Please, please, no, I’ll do whatever you want, whatever…” 

Mitchum smiled. 

“Good.” 

The pain of the brand barely registered in your mind, even as your body jerked with it. Everything seemed dulled and numbed. Time slowed and stretched and, for a while, the only thing that your body seemed to have space for was the agonizing pain of losing something you were never built to lose. 

It was a year before there was room for anything else. 

Early April, 2027 

“Bambi…” 

“Move, Joel.” 

You shoved past him. You’d need a sleeping bag, two sleeping bags, actually. An extra pair of boots, she probably didn’t have those. She’d have out grown the last ones she had, she would be 14 now, she’d be even taller, have bigger feet, longer legs. They didn’t give you clothes when you were with them, you doubted it was different for her. 

First aid, that you’d need. 

“You can’t do this, Baby,” he was following close behind you. 

“Yes, I can.” 

“You’re gonna get yourself fucking killed,” there was a strain in his voice. “Who knows what you’ll be walking into out there, how many there’ll be, how armed they’ll fuckin’ be, what they’ll do to you if they get your hands on you…” 

“I have to try.” 

You didn’t have a gun here. You’d have to get one, you were pretty sure Maria would give you one if you told her why you needed it. 

“Just…” Joel sounded desperate. “Just wait, until after the storm, just wait, I’ll go with you, we’ll look, we’ll…” 

“It’ll be too late,” you shook your head. “Someone got out, as soon as the weather clears they’re gonna move and we’ll lose them, it has to be now.” 

“Have you seen how shit’s pickin’ up out there?” He came around in front of you, taking you by the shoulders. “Baby, the wind is gonna knock you off your damn horse, you can’t help her if you’re dead, please, I’m begging you, please…” 

“What would you do?” You asked. “If it was Sarah, if it was Ellie. Would you sit here and wait? Or would you go get her?” 

He froze, looking at you. 

Your knife. You’d need your knife. You went to get it but Joel stopped you, his hand on your elbow. 

“Bambi,” he said quietly. “You can’t know that it’s her.” 

“It could be,” you said. “Joel…” 

“It’s been years,” he whispered. “Baby, it’s been years, there’s… I’m so sorry but she’s… They wouldn’t have let her live this long, she couldn’t have survived this long, she’s gone, I’m so sorry…” 

You shook your head. You had that feeling again, like the one you had that day around the fire when Mitchum had told you he’d killed her, the feeling that your whole self was being ripped apart. 

But you’d never seen that she was gone. You never held her body, never saw the life leave her eyes. You didn’t know that she was gone. She could be alive. She could. 

“You don’t know that,” you said, your voice thick. “You don’t…” 

“You barley survived,” he said softly. “You, the strongest fucking person I know and you damn near died. A teenager couldn’t have survived that, Baby, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry and…” 

“No,” you snapped, swallowing back your tears. “You don’t know, you don’t know them like I do…” 

“I do,” he cut you off. “Sweetheart, I am begging you, stay here. Please. Don’t get yourself killed, if it’s her we will find her as soon as it’s safe…” 

“You don’t know!” You pushed him back. He was costing you time, time you didn’t have. Savvy was out there, she was out there alone and afraid and you were going to find her. “Let me go, Joel. I know them, you don’t understand them, you can’t understand them…” 

“I understand them because I used to be one of them!” 

You froze. He was watching you, his eyes wide and desperate as he panted for breath. Your heart was pounding, there was a high pitched whine in your ears, something like a siren or when you first came to Jackson and could hear the electricity in the walls. 

“What?” You whispered, suddenly keenly aware of how close he was to you, of his hand on you. You could feel the outline of his fingers, each individual callus distinct against your skin. 

“I used to be one,” he said softly. “A… a raider, I used to be one. It was a long time ago but I know how they think, I know how they operate and… I’m sorry but if they’ve had her for three and a half years? She’s gone, Sweetheart. There’s nothing left for you to save…” 

You thought Joel was still talking but you couldn’t hear him. It was like you’d just jumped into deep water, the cold of it shocking and painful and the rush of it drowning out everything you knew. You couldn’t hear, couldn’t breathe, could barely see. 

Joel. Your Joel, the person you trusted more than any other, was a raider. He was like them, like the men who had torn you away from your daughter, who had raped you, who had tortured you, who now might be doing the same to your child right now and Joel knew them because he was like them because he had done those things, too. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

You were suddenly in your body again, out of that deep dark water and back in your house. Joel’s hands were on you and it was like they were on fire, you could feel it through your skin into your muscle, your bone, down into the marrow of you it hurt where his hands were on you. 

“Baby,” he said gently and you forced yourself to look at his face. You couldn’t breathe. You’d kissed him, told him things you’d never told anyone, all but begged him to touch you and he was just like them. 

“Don’t touch me!” You screamed it and he ripped his hands away like you’d burned him. You could breathe again and gulped in air, reaching for the back of your couch. You needed something to keep you standing, you felt like you were going to collapse or throw up. Joel’s hands were up, like he was waiting to catch you if you fell. “Don’t touch me, don’t you fucking touch me!” 

“You’re OK,” he said, keeping his hands off of you but stepping closer. “I’ve got you, you’re OK…” 

“Get away from me!” You backed away from him, looking for the best way out of here. You had to get away from him, he wasn’t safe, he was just like them and you had to get away from him, you couldn’t be anywhere near him. “Get away!” 

You said it again and again and again and you kept backing away from him until you were pressed against the wall. Joel stayed where he was and, when you were able to look at him again, it looked like he was in pain. 

“I’m away,” he said softly, his hands up. “Not gonna touch you, Sweetheart…” 

“Don’t call me that,” you were sobbing and you weren’t sure when you’d started. 

“What?” He whispered. 

“Don’t fucking call me that!” You bit out, staying back against the wall. He was so big, he could overpower you, he could hurt you, it would be easy for him. “Don’t call me that, not when you’re like them, you’re just like them, I trusted you and you’re just like them…” 

“No,” he shook his head, voice thick. He closed the gap between you quickly and you shocked back from him but he didn’t seem to notice, taking you in his arms and clutching onto you. But his touch made your skin crawl, everywhere his body was against your own screaming in panic. “No, not like that, I never… I never did what they did to you, Sweetheart, please, you have to believe me, I never did that, never. I just…” 

“I trusted you!” You sobbed, your legs collapsing from beneath you. Joel clung to you, keeping you from falling to the floor, but you hated his hands on you, suddenly feeling like hands you’d hated so much. You twisted and fought to get away but he just held onto you. “I trusted you, you made me love you, I let you inside of me and you’re like them, you’re just like them…” 

“I’m sorry, Baby,” his voice was thick and wet. “I’m so sorry, I wish I could take it back, wish I could change it…” 

You managed to firmly plant your feet on the ground and you shoved against his broad, firm chest, desperate for distance from him. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” 

He let you go and you scrambled back from him, fighting to breathe. He was looking at you, tears in his eyes. 

“Baby, please,” he whispered. “Please just… let me take care of you, I understand what…” 

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” your voice shook. 

“Bambi…” 

“Get out,” you managed. 

He said your name. Your real name. 

“Get out!” You screamed, so loud and harsh you felt it ripping out of you. “Get out of here, get away from me, get out!” 

“I’ll go!” He kept his hands up. “Just gotta promise me…” 

“I don’t gotta do shit for you,” you shook your head. 

“Promise me you won’t do anything that will get you hurt,” he said softly, He was crying, too. “Please, I’m begging you, I’ll do whatever you want just promise….” 

“I won’t, now get out!” You yelled. “Get out, get away from me!” 

“I’m going,” he said quickly. “Please… Please, be safe, please.” 

You watched as he made his way to your door but he stopped and looked back at you. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For… for all of it, I’m so sorry.” 

He closed the door behind him and you collapsed to the ground and sobbed, clutching onto yourself like it was going to keep your body intact but it still felt like you were going to shatter into a million pieces and there would be no one to help put you together again. 

You weren’t sure how long you were there on the floor but, eventually, you were able to make yourself move again. 

You thought of Savvy, of your daughter, of where she might be, of how you’d promised to keep her safe. You got up off the floor, body numb, and grabbed your pack before going out into the snow. 

Next Chapter

A/N: Alright, yell at me. I'm ready for it.

There's a lot in this chapter, I know. It's long, it's rough, it's been coming for a while. We first got a hint of Savvy in chapter 4 when Bambi thought about Joel's possible relationship to Ellie and she's been hinted at regularly since. She's why Bambi knew to use ginger to help William's teething, she's why Bambi was specifically grateful to have another adult around when Marisa showed up, she's why Bambi keeps searching every time there's even a hint of raider activity.

And after everything she's been through, she can't just blindly accept Joel's past, that's way WAY too much for anyone who's survived what she has to bear.

I hope this didn't come completely out of the blue and I hope you're still up for reading more of this story. I hope it'll be worth it in the end. I think it will be.

Thank you for being here. This is a story that I feel like deserves to be told, even the dark parts of it, and I'm so thankful you're along for the ride. Love you ❤️

Taglist: @ashleymsnodgrass@planet-marz1@kalea-bane @juneswonderlust@ilovepedro @h-annahayy @starstruckmusiciansartghost@beccerjune@mumma-moonchild@netonetoneto@mellymbee@purplelye@n7cje@flugazi@evyiione@randomhoex@aliengirl99@orcasoul@reds-ramblings@pedropascalsbbg @fupoola @tinypotatothing @knopes-waffles @lilmizmoz @ayamenimthiriel@jenispunk@panda-pascal@sarap-77@flugazi@your-slutty-gf@daniegraceg@partyofone3413@cumberpegg@noisynightmarepoetry.@fifia-writes@grumpygrumperton @srmacaroni @txlady37 @bigboiseason123

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #yearling #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc

[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR, CH 2/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: the prodigal son returns tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but now a little more than kinda), original side character(s), does arthur count as a tag, he needs his own warning, its more exposition please don't leave

word count: 4.9k

a/n: HERE! DAMN! (i'm so sorry this took so long)

<< previous chapter

you can find a link to the playlist here! tag list (look how crazy. i have a LIST.): @photo1030

The subsequent mornings are painted with varying shades of gloom. It was smeared over the sky in thick coats, and if it was just a little thicker, it might be able to keep out the spears of light. 

Sometimes, they tickle. Sometimes, they recoil from the rigid mounds of snow and blind you and anything else unfortunate enough to get caught in the line of fire. Pain in the ass, really. A particularly nasty pain in the ass flickers in the cloudy metal of your spoon one morning while you’re shoveling grits into your mouth.

“You planning on eating the table too, kid?”

Your eyebrows shoot up, as does your spine once you lower your spoon back into the chipped bowl. 

“My apologies,” you gulp. “You’ll uh, have to forgive me, Mrs. Campbell. Seems the winter air’s gotten to my head.”  

Mrs. Campbell was a wiry, dark-haired woman of 63, and had spent more time rearing cattle than children. She was rough, tough, and at present, leveling you with a stare so doubtful that you wonder if the look you often catch on the livestock is embarrassment. 

After holding your gaze for a few moments more, she resumes the rocking of her chair from the corner and returns to her darning. A large red sock, the same one she’d whacked Mr. Campbell over the head with after she’d found it on the floor of the living room only thirty minutes ago.

“No, no, you’re alright.” Mrs. Campbell pauses, though her hands continue to work. Under, over. In, out. Not a single finger pricked. “Think that’s the most I’ve seen you take down in one sitting, is all. You bite like a bird.” She makes a funny chewing motion with her mouth—or, at least you think it’s supposed to be funny. It seems to amuse her well enough; most strange things did. 

She then asks how much horse feed is left, and you tell her enough to last for the next two weeks. You ask how her daughter’s baby boy is doing, she tells you he’s been picking his nose, and the two of you return to your respective distractions: the pulling of thread and a spoon fishing around a now empty dish while you consult silently with the peeling floral wallpaper. 

Arthur Morgan’s appearance had set you on edge, loathe as you were to admit it. The fact that there’d been no sign of him since you’d first spoken only hastened the growing dread, more so than the lack of response after your father’s men had been so kindly disposed of. 

Contingencies had been thoroughly accounted for, leaving you mildly inconvenienced at best and dead at worst. There were other conclusions you’d drawn up, of course, but dealing in extremes had its benefits.

You press your thumb absentmindedly into the corner of the dining room table. Could the Campbells have heard your exchange? No, they couldn’t have, too old. And that was excluding the fact that the main house was rather far from the cabin. Given the time frame, it would have been well beyond what was reasonable for your…situation to have been brought up. 

Besides, this was important. Better to sort this out now than when—if—he showed up at your doorstep again.

“I have a question.”

Mrs. Campbell snorts. “I presume you’re lookin’ for an answer.”

You set your spoon down, and stand to clear the table. “Do the two of you get…stray cats often?”

This time her hands waver. “During the warmer months, sure. But in this weather? I mean, if it had the guts to get through all that ‘winter air,’ I don’t see why not.” Her eyes flick up. “Would have to be real hungry, though. Or stupid, which I doubt, ‘cause cats ain’t stupid—sonuvabitch!” 

You jerk as her needle clatters to the floor. She lets a curse slip as she hunches over to retrieve it; another follows as she tugs the string loose, just a little, and her fingers trip over themselves before falling back into a steady rhythm. 

Her brows pinch in concentration. “Never met a stupid cat,” she repeats.

“I…I see.” Moving around to the other side of the table to collect what's left, you frown when you catch your warped reflection in a bent spoon. You pick it up, and your fingers brush over the bump unconsciously. “I saw one,” you say slowly. Mind fumbling over any disastrous outcomes. “A cat, I mean. He’s been hanging around my cabin for a while now. I was only asking ‘cause he’s been spooking the chickens.”

When Mrs. Campbell doesn’t answer, your mouth gets the better of you. “Only, he turned up again a couple nights ago. Acting real docile, you see.” Not docile. The farthest thing from it. “Nearly shot him then and there, but—oh, he just looked so pitiful! He’s real mean looking, all scratched up and such, but I was tired, so when shooing him off didn’t work I let him in. Didn’t hiss, didn’t bite, nothing. But, I think I may have scared him. Skittered right out the door, quick as lightning. He’s been pissin’ me off—pardon my language—but, I just don’t see why he’d go through all that trouble to show up if he was just looking to leave the moment I raised so much as a finger.”

You only cease your rambling once you realize that you’ve bent the spoon too far in the wrong direction. “I…should turn him away, shouldn’t I? If he shows up again?”

Mrs. Campbell lets out an exasperated exhale, smooths out her apron, and sets her mangled sock down in her lap. “He kill any chickens?”

“No, but—”

“You feed him?”

“No?”

“Well, I think you should. It’d be real funny.”

Funny. Funny, she’d said. 

You look to the silverware for consolation, but they can only produce a weak gleam.

“Quit making faces at my utensils, I hate when you do that. If you got something to say, say it now so I can finish this damned sock.”

Instead of making faces at the spoons, you reserve them for the tablecloth. “I just—don’t think it’d be wise.” A wanted man, with a lofty bounty at that, and you were comparing him to a mangy feline. Attempting to see him as anything other than what he so obviously was would be disingenuous. 

And maybe Mrs. Campbell wasn’t the right person to be speaking to about this, because her nose crinkles with such distaste that you have to remind yourself that you’d remembered to bathe. “You’re grown,” she says, “and you work here. I’m inclined to believe that you have enough know-how to keep yourself from doing anything too dumb. If not, oh well.”

“…Right.”

Sometimes you wonder if her daughter had moved out not for marriage, but to escape Mrs. Campbell’s dreadfully indifferent way of speaking. Still, you take her words with relative care and pray that the “feeding” portion of her advice can be altered into something much more metaphorical.

When you attempt to bring the dishes to the water bucket, Mrs. Campbell’s head snaps to you and she clicks her teeth. “Drop it.”

“I was just—”

The sock finds its way into a basket of other half-finished projects at her feet, and she pushes herself up to stand just as tall (if not taller) than any tree before snatching the dishes from your hands. “I don’t pay you to do my dishes, girl.”

You smile. “I don’t believe you pay me at all, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Precisely. Your Pa pays me. And enough with that ‘Mrs. Campbell’ mess; makes me sound like an old crone. Told you to call me Fran, didn’t I?”

Shrugging past the bitterness in her tone at the mention of your father, you turn to the doorway and pull your coat off of the hook you’d tossed it on the night before. It’s only slightly warm from where the sun has touched it. 

The beams have softened their assault on the curtains; it’s still fairly cloudy, but there’s no sign of incoming snow. Chores would be alright, if only for today. 

“I’ll work on it, Mrs. Campbell. But, I do have one more question, if you don’t mind.” You wait for a nod while you pull on your boots with a wince. “How come you don’t take on any other help?”

Like most of her responses, Mrs. Campbell doesn’t give much away. Nothing remarkable that you can discern, at least. She merely winks and carries on with her washing. But just as you set a foot out the front door, she calls out to you. 

“Hey, kid?”

You turn.

“If the worst you can call him is a spooked cat, he can’t be all that bad, can he?” 

You freeze. “Pardon?”

She looks up at the ceiling, as though her next words will appear if she gets her eyes to narrow enough. Glasses had been the first of many neglected suggestions you’d offered upon your arrival. You’d even offered to buy them yourself, with what little you’d been able to bring with you. But Mrs. Campbell, being Mrs. Campbell, had simply laughed.

Squinting, she returns her focus to the bucket and reaches for a cake of lye soap. “Ah, and tell that idiot if he slams my doors, I’ll send my foot so far up his ass that them science folks won’t have any animals left to call him.”

__

Illusory warmth finds you a few weeks later.

It isn’t quite spring yet; winter is a stubborn mule, and though the snow has receded into the dirt it still stamps its hooves into the wind. In the water, too—freezing rain taps its fingers onto the windows. Soft and melodic, it nearly puts you to sleep from your place on the floor before you remember the annoyances it’s dragged along with it. 

There’d been no sign of trouble tonight, and the chicken wire had been reinforced a few hours prior. That’d mostly been the work of Mr. Campbell, though. He’d chirped about some promise he’d made to his “lovely wife,” and went on his merry way after leaving you with some choice words from the wife in question about the importance of rest. 

The rain had started not long after. Which was great, for someone out there. But, bad for you. Pretty bad. Ugly, messy bad—because it was cold, dark, and the dirt hadn’t the moral backbone to keep itself together for any longer than two blinks before your boots were practically swimming in it. 

The trudge back to the cabin was only slightly humiliating, considering the fact that the sole witnesses were the owls you knew were hiding out in the safety of the trees. 

Scampering from the uneven path to the front porch, however, was another story. Although the pliant (no good, backstabbing) earth was quick and eager to drag you to its depths, you were aggravated enough to be slightly quicker, and your palms shot out to catch you just before your chin could meet the full wrath of the wood.

But the word “just” was a pebble cast into a pond, and the first ripple was the metallic tang that flooded your mouth. Diatribes were spat onto the ground alongside the blood, tongue throbbing with a vengeance before you drove the heels of your palms down to push yourself up. The second ripple was a little less red, but just as irritating. The rain had pulled the wet fabric of your work shirt and trousers tight over your limbs, and it had begun to border on painful when water droplets struck like one might strike the skin of a drum. 

“I’m grateful, I’m grateful, I’m oh so fucking grateful…” It was a mantra you often found yourself repeating whenever nature’s pranks sought to drive you mad. Rain was good. Rain was fine, actually, so you’d ignored the creaking of your knees and hobbled your way inside.

And here you sit: back propped up against the wall, shivering like a fool with your knees tucked into your chest. The mud crusting between your fingers barely registers while you work on releasing yourself from your wet clothing.

Which, of course, is when the light tapping on the window takes its cue to crescendo. It’s a rather flimsy cloak for the uneven thunks outside that make no attempt to conceal themselves. But your bones know better. 

Awful timing, that man. 

You feel the weight of his fist against the door before he makes contact. 

(One.)

You shoot up.

(Two.)

You lunge for the table.

You decide against greeting him with the rifle, which is a significant improvement. It’s a revolver. But you did have the good sense not to kick the door again; the rusty hinges were fragile enough without your meddling. Instead, you let it creak open with one hand on the doorknob.

You’re met with a bruise, planted right atop a cheekbone. A swollen bottom lip, blood threatening to split it wide. He’s got a button missing from his rumpled jacket, and the caving of the porch underneath his feet clues you in on the fact that he’s favoring his right leg. He’s been fighting. Fighting, and he looks about ready to keel over and die. Or pick another fight. Probably both.

Part of you unwinds at the sight of him, battered as he was. Present as he was. But the more logical part of you senses that he’s here for something, and the even more logical part of you remembers exactly what it was that stood at your doorstep.

It’s then that the stench of alcohol hits you, and the familiar smell of mud sweeps in not long after. Arthur is completely covered in it, save for his face. And—

There. There it is again.

That look. 

Your pulse trips in your throat, and you pray that he’s inebriated enough to ignore it. “You’re on my porch. Why?”

Bright blue comes back into focus, and his hands fall to his hips. “I can go where I damn well please.”

“That’s all well and good, but why are you on my porch?”

He sniffs. Peers just over your shoulder. “...House call.”

You step to block him. “Now that’s two chances. I have it on good authority that one is just fine these days, but I’m feeling generous.” And confused. Extremely confused.

His face contorts into a heatless grimace, and the doorknob squeals. You’re suddenly reminded of the odd tales of shapeshifters you’d stumbled upon as a child: one moment a man, the next a bloodthirsty predator. Not a particularly helpful development—especially since your talk with Mrs. Campbell—but it was a development nonetheless.

Arthur rattles off the courtesies typically extended toward esteemed guests while you look him over again, and your eyes lock onto his hair. Another familiar connection—doe brown strands, streaked with mud and nearly plastered to his head from the light downpour. Much less ferocious than the rest of him. But, tonight, if you have to pick, he’s a wet dog. A wet, potentially drunk dog, who was missing his hat. 

And suddenly, the natural chatter of the trees comes to a halt. 

“What’d you just call me?”

…You idiot.

“I didn’t call you jack shit,” you lie. Arthur gives a loose smirk, and your next protests become nothing but bluster. “What, the little girl that hit you knock your ears shut?”

“Figured I’d let her get a hit in, out of the kindness of my big ol’ heart.” Arthur sways on his feet a bit, peering down at you through the water that he hasn’t bothered to wipe from his lashes. Gravity finds eventual triumph, and he leans into the post before eying the revolver still in your hands. “Don’t suppose you’re plannin’ on pullin’ that trigger any time soon.”

“What’s it to you?”

Arthur’s face begins to harden, and he crosses his arms tight over his chest. “You know, last time I was here I said you were lucky. Well, I’d like to make an addendum: lucky and stupid, lady.” 

You cast a disbelieving look at the leg he’s been keeping his weight off of. “And you’re drunk. The fact that you got here without your horse cracking your head open is a miracle.”

His brows draw low, and he rubs the heel of his boot against the muddy spot where you’d fallen earlier. Blinks at the ground. Then, with the vigor of a child caught sleeping in church, wipes angrily at a speck of mud on his thigh. “M’not drunk,” he finally mutters, flicking the offending dirt out into the yard and crossing his arms again. “And I’ve got enough trust in my horse to fill at least half of that barn y’all got.”

“Just half? Not the whole thing?”

“Whole thing would be two horses.”

You almost laugh. Almost. When you don’t reply, his eyes drop back down to the gun, gaze contemplative. “You got any idea how easily I could’ve knocked that flimsy thing outta your hands?”

“Why of course I do, Mr. Morgan.” The dampness you’d been struck with pulls at you, bones heavy and patience now worn thin. You give the revolver an exaggerated twirl, the metal snatching what can be seen of the moon through the rain and reflecting it at him. “I’m real lucky you’re here to tell me so, ain’t I? Matter of fact, why don’t you go and fetch me my chair before I topple right on over? ” 

“That ain’t what I meant, and you know it.” You think he sounds somewhat regretful. But somewhat isn’t enough. 

“Do I now,” you say dryly. “You seem to ‘not mean’ an awful lot.” 

Arthur pushes himself off of the post with his shoulder and shoves his muddy hands into his muddy pockets. “I just don’t see why you people are so eager to act like you got your life for dog-cheap.”

“You people?”

“Yeah, you heard me. You people.” He’s looking at everything but you now, eyes wild but body frighteningly still. “You’ll look trouble right in the eye, and lie right through your damn teeth till it gets you laid out cold in a ditch somewhere.” Arthur gestures to the embarrassing height your shooting arm has dropped to in the time that he’s spoken. “I can tell each time you open that door that you won’t shoot. Can’t, I’d argue, ‘cause if you didn’t have my big head within one inch of that barrel, you’d be some deep shit.” His words are a forlorn echo amidst the rain, now nothing more than a light haze. 

You could shut the door and go back inside, you think. Tell him he’s wrong, because he most certainly was. Peel out of your damp clothes, because standing outside in the chill spelled nothing but trouble. Arthur wouldn’t push. He was just as prone to bluffing as you were. 

And yet.

And yet.

“I could say the same about you. Don’t think your kin would take too kindly to the fact that you’re hangin’ around someone that knows your face. Who you are.” You steady your aim. “That’s a loose end, Arthur. You don’t seem like the type of man to keep many of those around.” It’s the first time you’ve said his name all night; you’re only sure because the moment it leaves you, his entire body tenses before he sags back against the wooden post. 

The way he looks at you then might be considered cruel and unusual punishment. You think of butterflies, embroidered into blankets from childhood. Tacked to the wall of your father’s study. The only difference between them and you is that you’re free to leave.

If only you possessed something to sweeten the deal—whatever deal you could come up with in the next five seconds. To mask the returning waver of your voice, now laden with inconceivable realities. “Am I a loose end, Arthur Morgan?” 

He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Untucks a hand from the arms he’s wrapped around himself to scrub at his beard and finally wipe at the water you’ve been eyeballing from his lids. He opens his mouth again, now on the precipice of what might be an explanation.

“S’dangerous,” is all he says.

You see red.

The arm holding the revolver is dropped so you can poke a finger into his chest. “You’re not making any sense!” Each word is enunciated with a jab, and you cringe at the feeling of rain rewetting the mud underneath your fingernails. “You cut and run, turn up drunk and beaten half to death, practically beg me to let you inside, and then you get upset when I say I won’t pop a bullet into your head?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, voice beginning to escalate. “Now if you would just listen for more than two seconds—”

You cut him down with a harsh whisper. “Listen? Listen?” Your eyes momentarily check for any sign of a light being turned on in the main house. Nothing. Your finger falls away then, and a violent chill wracks your body from head to toe. “No, you listen. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. You said your piece the last time we spoke, and you left, so why are you on my porch!”

“I don’t know!”

Something cracks, and your vision blurs when you whip your head to recheck the lights. Still nothing. The crack fizzles out into nothingness, and you return to find Arthur close. Awfully close. And your hand is warm and—oh.

It seems his pluck is rather contagious. The noise you’d heard wasn’t thunder, but the sound of your treacherous hand clapping right over Arthur’s mouth.  

Time stills. Or speeds up, more like. The only thing you can be certain of is that ring of greenish gold around his pupils. The brush of his lips against your palm. Humid air being released in slow, steady clouds. You briefly wonder what else this warmth has dominion over, save for your cupped hand. Who else. 

The speed of the exhales increases, and envy wriggles in the dirt of your heart like unearthed worms. Did his mind wander, as yours often did? Surely not as emphatically. It no doubt ambled from one thought to the next, attention snagged only when he had the energy to do so. Had you been interesting enough to snag his?

The spell is broken by a lamp flickering on in the distance. 

“Shit!”

Sheer panic sinks its claws into you before rationality can, and you’re curling a hand around Arthur’s wrist and yanking him inside before he can protest.

You’re both panting ragged breaths once the door shuts behind you, in spite of the mere two steps it’d taken to cross the entryway. Tangible confusion permeates the air, and Arthur looks at you expectantly. It’s only fair that the (secondary) perpetrator speak first.  

But words are tricky, tricky things. And as much as you partook in your fair share of falsehoods, finding the right ones when you didn’t feel that your life was on the line was an unfamiliar practice. 

Voice quiet, you blink at the muddy footprints on the floor. “You left my door open.”

“I remember,” he replies. Simple.

The silence returns, eerily reminiscent of your first encounter. You consider telling him about the warning Mrs. Campbell had wanted you to relay to him. But then you think about all of the other things he’s missed since he’s disappeared, and your mind becomes saturated with just about everything, and somehow nothing at all. But Arthur’s voice, once again, cracks the fragile quiet. 

“God damn it!” He begins to pace, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes. You’re thankful that he’s finally lowered his voice to a whisper, though the close quarters don’t seem to help with the intensity. “I ain’t supposed to be here. Not like this.”

“Not like what? Arthur what do you—” 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he says, voice edging on the side of desperation.

“How what was supposed to go?” You look at his hands, fumbling with his belt loops. He sucks in a brittle gulp of air when he catches you looking, like he’s surprised you’re looking at him at all. 

And then, miraculously, the pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

“I’m to kill you. Ideally this evening.” 

Until it all promptly falls apart.

You turn away. Begin to work open the half done buttons of your shirt. Arthur turns to face the door. You decide to humor him. “Who.” 

“Some man, your Pa, I presume,” he says. For the first time in what feels like eternity, his voice is devoid of any feeling. It sounds small. Not defeated, not yet, but oh so small. “Willing to pay big bucks to get rid of a ‘financial thorn’ in his side. Knew ‘bout my business in Blackwater, which I assume you’re also aware of. Said he’d had some bonds on that boat.” Blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the curtains. “He said I could sniff things out, see if I wanted to to his dirty work.”

Shirt falling to the floor, you allow yourself some time to stew numbly in your naivety while you get the fire going; you could be disappointed all you wanted once you were warm. You can hear Arthur scrubbing at his beard again when you begin to drag a chair in front of the fireplace. You sit, or collapse rather, and shuck off your boots with little care for where they land. Where the mud splatters.

“How’s Marlene?” You ask.

Rustling. He’s turned around. More frantic rustling. He’s turned back to the wall. “I’m sorry?”

“Marlene. Chicken. ”

“Ah. She’s uh, good. Eating good. Still pecks like hell, though.”

And, once again, more silence.

You bark out a dry laugh. It hurts—hurts like hell, but it tumbles out of you with a sharp snap. It snowballs into pure, unadulterated laughter. Bouncing off the walls, the drinking glasses, the mud, right into the fire and back out again. It continues until you’re left with nothing but a pathetic wheeze rattling your lungs.

Settling into the back of the chair, your head lolls back till you can see an upside down version of the bewildered Arthur you’d turned away from. The angle is awkward, and the blood rushing to your head makes him look all warm and fuzzy, but it’s precisely why you’ve chosen it.

“Didn’t think finding all this out would be so funny.” He speaks as if poking a tiger.

Another half-hearted chuckle slips out of you. “Good god, I thought you were trying to proposition me.”

“Proposition you?” He scowls. ��What on earth would I—” 

Arthur stops. Blinks one of his blinks. Gives his eyes another rub. Blinks again. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. This “blinking” thing.

“Oh.” He frowns.

Frowning right back, you push yourself to stand and toss some old papers from your table into the fire. “No need to seem so put off by it, gosh. Should’ve told me you were out for my head from the start. Would’ve made this a hell of a lot less embarrassing.” Disappointment had beat out the warmth.

You wait for an apology, or a joke. Or something. Anything. But you’re met with nothing. The paper eventually crumbles into nothing, too, smoke tickling your nostrils alongside the smell of rain.

His voice sounds from the back of the room.

“I didn’t say that.”

You whip around.

“Say what.”

He speaks as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I didn’t say I wasn’t. Interested, I mean.” When you point to yourself, he rolls his eyes. “No, the couch.”

There was no couch.

The two of you watch each other for a bit. Then Arthur finds another annoying spot on his thigh to rub at, and you’re watching him.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, voice flat. You pull on a blanket, suddenly conscious of the bareness of your shoulders. “You’re drunk, or tired, or both. You weren’t here. I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Am I clear?”

You stand on wobbly feet and motion for him to leave.

“You don’t think I’m joking, do you? I meant what I said.” He brushes past your outstretched hand to clunk into the chair, mirroring that same awkward position you’d found yourself in earlier. Strong neck arched, fire light catching the water that’s begun to bead on his cheeks. “I don’t do charity. Don’t think I have the money for it, actually.”

“How kind of you.”

“I mean it. Truly.”

“Then come back tomorrow,” you blurt.

Fuck.

What the hell were you doing? “You come back tomorrow night, sober, and we’ll see.” No, we would not.

But it’s too late—Arthur is rebounding off of the chair, straightening out his jacket (he’s noticed the missing button, finally), and striding to the door before you can retract your mistake. Even so, you follow after him like a besotted moron, only stopping when he turns to face you once the door is back open.

“Tomorrow, then,” he says. Eyes dark. Searching.

And then he’s stooping down. Reaching for your hand. Pulling it to his dry lips, and pressing a chaste kiss right to the top of it. He chuckles when you shiver, still clutching the blanket tight around your shoulders.

You’re released soon after. And Arthur gives you one long look, tells you to lock your door, and leaves.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #witching hour

[tennessoui]

Number 19 for the prompt thing. The parents meeting because of their kids. I’m kinda imagining Korkie being like a tutor/school reading buddy for the twins or something but you can just ignore that if it doesn’t match your thoughts on it.

hello!! i thought back as much as i could, and i don't think i actually did this prompt the first time around a couple of years ago, so there's nothing to link to save for the prompt list!

i stuck with korkie as obi-wan's kid and the twins as anakin's, but made the kids the same age and then took...a few more liberties with the prompt haha

(19. parents meeting while taking their kids to class) (sort of)

(2.8k)

“Leia, baby, why do you always decide to get into fights at school when it’s my week with you?” Anakin asks the steering wheel as he buckles himself in and turns over the engine. “They’re going to start thinking I’m raising a truant. Then they’re going to start asking about your home life, then they’re going to bring in experts to ask me more questions, then Padmé’s parents are going to throw their considerable legal weight around and get my partial custody revoked and then where will we be? Is that what you want? To only see me on your birthday and Christmas?”

Anakin pauses and reconsiders. Knowing his daughter, she may very well only want to see him for birthdays and Christmases. It would mean double the presents.

Thankfully the silence of the car doesn’t offer much in the way of constructive critique.

At a red light, he puts his head down on the steering wheel for a long enough moment that the car behind him honks when the light changes to green.

“They’re going to stop letting me leave work to come get you,” Anakin mutters a few minutes later as he turns the car into the school’s parking lot. “I have a partner meeting in thirty minutes that I really can’t miss, baby. Can’t you at least schedule your schoolyard fights around my calendar?”

It’s all rather pointless, but it feels good to grumble and bitch in the time it takes him to leave his office and arrive at the school, before he has to put on his adult face and demeanor to sit through another round of We’re Worried Your Five Year Old Is Too Violent As She Seems To View The Monkey Bars As Sacrificial Zones.

“Maybe she’d like hockey,” he says under his breath as he grabs his jacket from the other seat and swings it over his suit. It’s fucking freezing already, not even December. It’s indecent, that’s what it is. Surely a place as cold as this has a peewee hockey team in need of another angry little girl.

“Thank you,” he says when a woman holds the door open for him on her way out the building.

He’s stil sort of freaked out that the elementary school his children are going to is fancy enough to have an entrance hallway with a chandelier hanging from the ceilingk, but it’s not him that’s paying for their private school education that doesn’t offer discounts for all the collective hours they’ll spend napping on the floors.

To the immediate left of the door is the receptionist’s desk—behind her, the nurse’s room. He’s quite familiar with both. Mrs. Whitsdale even waves when she sees him, which means, unfortunately, she’s just made the shortlist of people Anakin needs to make Christmas cookies for. She joins the ranks of everyone else that’s been made to deal with his son and daughter in the tumultuous year after the divorce.

“Hi, ma’am,” he says dutifully, sticking his head into the receptionist area. “Do I need to sign in or can I just go up?”

She waves him away. “I’ve already got you, sweetheart. You’re late anyway, they’re waiting for you upstairs.”

“You’re a miracle amongst men,” he calls out as he turns instead to the right of the door and up the old staircase that leads to the principal’s office. This is also a route he is incredibly familiar with.

How can he be late? He practically flew here on light feet and broken speed limits. It’s enough to take his mood from bad to worse, which isn’t optimal for a meeting with the principal of the school when it’s his kid who caused the fight. Anakin’s role is to nonconfrontational, contrite to the point of groveling—because he knows his daughter won’t. 

That’s already hard enough when he’s feeling normal. It’s practically impossible when he’s feeling foul.

But Padmé did always say Leia got her stubbornness and temper from Anakin.

Anakin’s always said Leia never really had a chance considering who her parents are. 

After all, someone threw a hairdryer at the hotel mirror before they got divorced and it wasn’t Anakin. But he’s not stupid enough to even think that when Padmé’s around.

The big oak door at the end of the hallway on the second floor is elaborate, looks heavy, and stays closed. He knows that this is the headmaster’s office, but he’s never seen the guy around. He doesn’t even know what the guy does. What’s a headmaster of an elementary school doing every day? 

It’s an elementary school.

But, again. Anakin’s not paying for all this pomp and circumstance.

He takes another right instead, down the corridor in the opposite direction to the principal’s office. The door’s left ajar, and Anakin knocks politely before entering at the call to.

A couple of things bring him up short as soon as he steps into the room. For one thing, it’s not Principal Cinoff behind the desk, but a stranger who has the remnants of a three-piece suit on, jacket hanging neatly on a coat rack in the corner of the room. His vest is a deep red that should do nothing but drain his complexion—all pasty white skin, freckled and sun-starved, paired with his reddish hair and beard. It doesn’t, which is unfair to the point of duplicity. Or–something.

The way he’s sitting at the desk, hands spread wide on the wood and shoulders back, leaves no doubt in Anakin’s mind that the stranger is in a position of power here at the school. And probably in, like. Life. He looks like the kind of guy who gets his groceries on discount even without providing a loyalty card. He also looks like the kind of guy the system bends to accommodate. As a lawyer, Anakin is offended and deeply disturbed. That’s why his stomach does two or three flips in quick succession when they make eye contact.

The stranger’s eyes are cool and focused as they run over Anakin, and he gives him a perfunctory incline of his head. At least his eyes are warmer when they fall to the kids in front of him. 

And that’s the other thing that shocks him.

The amount of children in front of the desk. One pouting ginger kid off to the side, arms crossed and staring down at his light-up sneakers.

And then two very familiar heads of hair on the other side. 

“Luke?” He asks before he can stop himself, surprise dripping from his tone. “What are you doing here?”

At this rate, he’s going to give his daughter a complex, he knows it.

But Luke has never been in trouble before. Sure, they’re only five, and it’s only been three months of school, but in that time, Anakin’s been called down here six times to deal with Leia-related emergencies. He’s always imagined that meanwhile, Luke was in his classroom, chewing on crayons or diligently helping the teacher pass out homework assignments.

The stand-in principal coughs slightly and rises. “Ah, Mr. Skywalker-Amidala. Thank you for being able to join us today.”

Anakin scowls automatically before schooling his face into something far more diplomatic and pleasant when his children whirl around in their seats to look at him. The last thing he needs is for his children to think they can sneer at authority figures, given that he’s one of their main authority figures. 

Luke leaves his chair to hug onto his leg, pressing his small face into the fabric of his pants, presumably seeking comfort and also to wipe his face dry of tears and snot.

Anakin puts a hand on his head and strokes through his hair, darting a curious glance at Leia, who has turned around to glare forward again, arms crossed over her chest.

“It’s just Skywalker, actually,” he tells the stranger. “Amidala is their mother.”

The man’s eyebrow goes up and he picks up a pen to make a note on the papers before him. An actual note. Regarding Anakin’s divorce. “Ah, apologies then,” he says. “Our contact list notes you as the father, Skywalker-Amidala, and their mother as Amidala-Organa.”

Anakin squints, trying to decide if the stranger is just trying to correct a clerical error in the school’s records or fishing for gossip. He gives him the benefit of the doubt. “Amidala is their mother, recently remarried to Organa. Organas. And she’s always been better at remembering to file paperwork than I am.”

The stranger keeps his face admirably placid. “Ah,” he says. “Well, Mr. Skywalker. Should we begin?”

“Uh,” he says. “What about the other parent?”

The stranger blinks at him, both eyebrows raised. “I’m a widower.”

“Uh,” he says. “I meant…” he gestures at the other child, the surly looking ginger kid.

“I’m afraid it will just be us, Mr. Skywalker,” the stranger says. “Please, sit.”

Anakin sits, and Luke is quick to scramble up into his lap with a very plaintative, “I didn’t really mean to.”

“So at recess today, the children were playing on the swings,” the stranger who must be the principal for the day says. “And—”

“Sorry,” Anakin interrupts. “Can I get your name please? I was expecting Principal Cinoff.”

The man pauses. “Sheri has been put on sudden maternity-leave a few months early,” he says. “For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be dual-hatting as both principal and headmaster while we continue to search for a temporary replacement.” He raises an eyebrow at Anakin. Anakin really doesn’t appreciate that. “This was in an email the school sent out to all the parents recently.”

“Yes, well,” Anakin says. “I get a lot of emails.”

The man looks unimpressed. “I encourage you to prioritize the communications from your children’s learning institute.”

Anakin bristles. What a dick. Who the fuck says learning institute?

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” he asks in his best unimpressed voice.

“Obi-Wan Kenobi,” the man’s unimpressed voice is ten times more chilling than Anakin’s, which is also not fair. “Please, call me Dr. Kenobi.” Anakin scowls. “I appreciate the fact that you feel as though you can cover the extremely busy roles of both headmaster and principal of an elementary school, but I would really rather wait until the other parent gets here so we can most productively discuss the altercation, Mr. Kenobi.”

“Please, Mr. Skywalker,” Kenobi says. “Leave the litigation to the court rooms, we—”

“It’s Esquire, actually.”

Kenobi’s face grows very pinched around the mouth and eyebrows. Anakin feels a vicious thrill course through him even as his stomach flips again.

“I suppose I should have made it clearer at the beginning of this session,” Kenobi says, tone dripping in you idiot. “This is my son, Korkie.”

Anakin’s mouth falls open. His immediate thought is, of course, Korkie Kenobi? And he thought Luke and Leia were too cutesy for twin names.

“Korkie is a family name,” Kenobi adds rather dryly. “My late wife’s grandfather’s.”

Anakin doubts that’s even true. He bets it’s not actually, that Kenobi just plays the dead wife card to get out of judgemental questions about his naming abilities.

But then another, worse thought occurs to Anakin. “Wait a second, you can’t be the parent and the principal!”

“I assure you, I am impartial.”

“Like hel—heck you are!” Anakin straightens in his seat and Luke lets out a grumble, clinging tightly to his front. “I demand a different authority.” “No,” Kenobi says firmly, as if the matter is at rest. This, of course, is absolutely infuriating.

“It’s unfair bias and I will not see either of my children punished in a tyrannical and self-serving institution—”

Kenobi pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Skywalker, unless you would like to have me call Mrs. Cinoff away from her pre-mature baby, I am the best option this school has. Please. Settle down.”

“Dad,” Leia says, “I don’t want to miss reading time.”

Anakin breathes out in disgust. Shitty, overpriced private school. This sort of thing would never happen at a publicly funded school.

“The fact of the matter is that Luke pushed Korkie off the swings,” Kenobi says with a stern look at both Luke and Anakin. He holds up his hand when Anakin opens his mouth. “An incident that many were witness to. And before you make an accusation, there were many witnesses who were not on the school’s payroll, Mr. Skywalker.”

Anakin closes his mouth sullenly.

“Korkie could have been very hurt, Luke,” Kenobi says, clasping his hands in front of him and looking down at Anakin’s son. “He was swinging pretty fast when you pushed him, and he could have broken his ankle in the fall.”

Luke’s bottom lip trembles. “I didn’t want to hurt him,” he mumbles, turning his face back into Anakin’s sleeve. “He was being mean. I just wanted him to stop.” “I wasn’t!” Korkie cries, sitting straight in his chair for the first time since Anakin’s arrived. “I wasn’t being mean, dad!” “You said Leia’s hair looks like cinnamon buns on her head!” Luke shouts back, pushing away from Anakin’s arms to glare at the other boy. 

Anakin winces. When it’s Padmé’s turn with the kids, Leia always turns up to school with elaborately braided hair, twisted on top of her head in elegant formations that look effortlessly pretty. He knows that’s not Padmé’s work, but he also can’t figure out if Breha or Bail is responsible. It’s not something he wants to ask.

The fanciest Anakin can do, after all, is two buns on either side of Leia’s head. 

That do, truth be told, look rather like cinnamon rolls.

“Ah,” Kenobi says. “I believe I understand the miscommunication here. Korkie, would you like to tell the Skywalkers what you meant when you told Luke that Leia’s hair looked like cinnamon buns?”

If possible, the kid turns even more red, blushing furiously. “I really like cinnamon buns,” he mutters, crossing his arms tighter. “They’re my favorite.”

“He’s started asking for them for breakfast several times a week,” Kenobi tells Anakin with a smile lingering around his lips. “I’ve been wondering why.”

Anakin isn’t sure he likes the explanation. Sure, Korkie can have whatever sort of crush on his daughter that he wants to have, but likening her hair to cinnamon buns isn’t very kind, and he’s pretty sure that if someone else was the judge in this trial, they wouldn’t be so quick to justify the other boy’s words.

Luke seems to agree with him. “Your hair looks like carrots,” he snaps, crossing his arms.

Because Anakin is an intelligent adult who understands that making enemies with the headmaster’s son isn’t the best move, he adds on the Skywalker family’s behalf, “Luke loves carrots.”

Luke, in fact, hates carrots. 

“There is still the matter of Luke pushing Korkie off the swing,” Kenobi says, eyebrows raised like he understands exactly what’s going unsaid here. “We do not encourage physical violence of any sort here, and it was dangerous. Korkie could have been hurt much more badly than a scraped knee.”

The words are very serious and grave, and Luke wilts under the headmaster-principal-father’s disappointed stare. Anakin bristles.

“Well, it’s his first infraction,” he says. “And he was sticking up for his sister. I think that’s fair. He won’t do it again.”

“Hm,” Kenobi says, pushing papers aside and pulling out a glossy leaflet. “Now, I cannot force you to consider this, but I noticed that neither Luke nor Leia are currently enrolled in any of our extracurriculars.”

“They’re five.”

“We have many on offer at Jedi Prepatory School,” Kenobi continues as if Anakin hasn’t said anything. “And I wanted to highlight our peewee hockey league. I think both Leia and Luke would enjoy the rigorous schedule, and they may…benefit from the…structure it offers. And team activity.”

Anakin glowers. He can read between the lines. Kenobi’s just called his parenting style structureless and lazy. It makes him want to grab the pamphlet and rip it to shreds in front of him. “I would have to talk about it with their mother,” he says stiffly instead.

“Of course,” Kenobi says cheerfully. “When you do, please give Bail and Breha my well-wishes as well. It’s been far too long since I’ve had the time to see them, given how exhastingly busy it is to be the headmaster and principal of an elementary school.”

“Right,” Anakin grits out. “Yeah. I’ll let my ex-wife’s new partners know.”

Kenobi’s smile is all teeth. “I look forward to seeing you in the rink, Mr. Skywalker Esquire. My son plays on the team.”

Anakin wonders if there’s another peewee hockey team he can have his kids join. Just so they can beat Jedi Prepatory school and then laugh in Korkie and Dr. Kenobi’s faces.

Yeah. That sounds really nice.

He’ll look when he gets back to work.

This takes priority.

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #i actually love writing aus where they're assholes to each other from the start and also insane about the other #anakin definitely finds a different peewee (baby hockey) team for teh twins #and makes sure he can make it to their every game #especially those against jedi prep #so he can spend the entire time sniping at kenobi #this time with gloves off because their kids can't hear them from the ice #rude and mean and barbed enough that all the other parents throw kenobi startled looks #and given them a wide berth #they hate each other they're flirting like mad they sneak away from the school cupcake sale to fuck in the computer lab #anakin has never been more involved in his twins' kindergarten education #neither has dr kenobi

[missathlete31]

Birds of a Feather- A Bradshaw Sibling Story

Chapter 1- Welcome to the World Baby Girl

Carole, still reeling from the loss of Goose, isn't sure how to feel when she learns she is pregnant. Thankfully she has the support of two Navy pilots to help her welcome her newest addition to the world and a certain blue eyed Lieutenant ends up being a surprising rock at her side.

Notes: Once I get through the background information, this story will be told in a more story-like format (with conversations and better descriptions etc). Right now I just want to get you all to the point that movie begins with all the history (and drama) I've given these characters.

Welcome to the World Baby Girl

When Carole Bradshaw finally starts recognizing the signs of pregnancy, seven weeks after burying her husband, her first instinct is to just cry. She had been doing that a lot lately, barely able to make it to her son Bradley’s bedtime before she sobs deep and hard into Goose’s pillow. Now though, as she recognizes the churn of her upset stomach as not the flu but morning sickness, she has to fight the urge to not collapse to the kitchen floor right then and there. Bradley, oblivious to his mother’s struggles in the way only a small child can be, plays with his cereal, spooning the cheerios happily as he manages to forget once more what Carole herself can never; that Goose is never coming home again.

Carole has never thought of herself as a particularly strong woman but she concedes that perhaps she is tougher than she thinks. She keeps herself together, encourages her four year old son to eat instead of play with his food and manages to wait until a reasonable hour in the late morning to phone her sister and ask her to babysit for the day. Her sister Judy agrees immediately; all of her family in the walking on eggshells stage of caution around her that Carole is pretty confident she could ask them to help her commit a robbery and they would be there in masks just to never have to tell her no. She appreciates it, when she doesn’t find it maddening, but on a day like today she is particularly grateful.

After Bradley is dropped at his Aunt’s, Carole drives two towns over to pick up pregnancy tests. It’s not that she is ashamed, not at all, but their town in Western Pennsylvania is small and gossip travels fast. Carole might be stronger than she thinks but she knows she’s not strong enough for the rumors to start without knowing if she’s carrying or not. Besides, the possibility of carrying her late husband’s child could be a precious gift, something she won’t risk tarnishing by letting it out before she is certain.

She scours the shelves of the small pharmacy she stops at, pretends that she is there for the gummy bears she grabs for Bradley and the lotion she picks up for herself. Carole heads to the women’s aisle and finds the ClearBlue boxes, remembering when she heard about at-home pregnancy tests a few years ago and how she found the concept completely mind-blowing. Now she is thankful as she grabs three boxes and heads to checkout, gratified that the woman at the cash register clocks her wedding ring and smiles a good luck as she grabs her bags to leave.

She heads home and follows the directions to the letter, though the young blonde has never been known as a rule follower before. Energetic, fun, life of the party, if Carole took a moment to really think about it, she would realize that she not only lost her husband but a part of herself as well that day; the part that smiled and danced, that hooted in excitement regardless of her audience, the part that lived for joy as easy as one lives for breath; but that was all gone now, even more so when she noticed all three tests coming up with the same result.

She was pregnant.

Tears come, as she knew they would, and Carole isn’t sure if she should be horrified that she still isn’t sure if this is what she wants. One more piece of Nicholas Bradshaw should be the greatest gift in the world, but a baby growing up without a father also seems the cruelest. Is it fair for Carole to bring a baby into this life when she herself is already so close to floundering? Is it blasphemy to even think of not having this baby? Carole knows it’s up to her, that no one else in this world can make this decision for her, that no one can judge her for what she decides do as well. She clutches Goose’s wedding that she has moved to wear on a chain around her neck and places her other hand on her abdomen. It’s too early for kicks or to feel any movement, but Carole does experience a sort of calm tranquility as she stands in her bathroom in the silence, her hands connecting her past with her future. Goose always wanted a big family, had cried like a baby when they first learned they were expecting Bradley. He would want this child more than life itself, would have given his life willingly if he knew it would give her this blessing. Carole pictures a little baby, with Goose’s nose and smile, her husband’s amber eyes staring back at her as she rocks the newborn in her arms. It will never bring Nick back, will never lessen the pain of his loss, but maybe, just maybe, it can create some love with it too.

Everything moves quickly from there.

Carole tells her family first and more tears come. It’s different this time though, she can already tell, the grief still pressing but also lifting just that tiniest bit, her mother’s tight squeezes as they cry together healing in a way she wasn’t expecting. For a moment she feels traitorous, as though she is ignoring Nick’s death with the preoccupation of the growing baby in her body, but soon she realizes that perhaps this was Nick’s gift for her all along, something to help her through.

She tells Goose’s parents next and if she had any thoughts of not going through with the pregnancy, they die the minute Henry and Margaret fall upon their living room floor and hold each other, thanking her for telling them and begging Carole to let them help in any way they can. They spend the rest of her trip to Tennessee alternating between taking Bradley around their farm and making sure Carole doesn’t lift a finger, each sparing glances to her still flat belly when they think she’s not looking. It’s overwhelming at times but also weirdly comforting, Carole feeling closer to her in-laws than she ever felt before. She mentions her comfort of this type of living when the topic of Carole putting up her home in Pennsylvania for sale. The blonde isn’t surprised when the elder Bradshaws immediately offer her space on their land to live with Bradley and the new baby. It’s a kind offer, more generous than she could really say, but she declines.

She knows where she needs to make her new home.

Her family didn’t understand when she told them she plans to buy a house right outside of North Island and from the way Margaret’s face pales and Henry grows silent, it seems the Bradshaws don’t understand either. Carole expects this, she appreciates why this would seem so strange to everyone else, but the young mother can’t imagine bringing another child into this world and being so far away from her husband’s final resting place. Nick is in North Island, in a military cemetery not far from the waters he died in, from the air he flown in; Carole owes it to her children and her husband to not keep them any further apart than fate has already made them.

The move cross-country might break her, but it will be her cross to bear.

The bungalow she buys is small but homey, and perfect for the neighborhood they choose. It has the cutest garden, that Carole immediately starts to plant the most vibrant flowers she can, and a porch swing that she has a kind neighbor check its integrity of before it becomes her and Bradley’s favorite spot to watch the sunsets. As for the house itself, it has three bedrooms, one for each of the now remaining (and soon to be arriving) Bradshaws and is close enough to the beach that she and Bradley can walk every day across the sand. Her son loves it. His hair, which slowly starts to darken despite being consistently in the California sun, is always in a perpetual state of curly unrest from the sea breeze, his body tracking sand everywhere in their home. Carole only laughs, even when her stomach starts to swell and it gets harder to clean up all the time. Bradley has taken to the idea of a sibling remarkably well, all things considering, though he is sure in the way only a four year old can be when he pats at her stomach and asks how his little brother is. Carole decided not to find out the sex, not ready to see if she is getting a Nick or a Nicole, the names already decided as they feel only right.

During this time she wonders if she should tell Maverick. He writes her when he can, sending the letters to the family’s old address that her sister is kind enough to forward, but Carole makes sure to not tell him anything about what she is really going through, bringing a baby into this world alone. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Pete or that she doesn’t want him to know per say, she just doesn’t want to make him think he needs to take care of her. He’s young, so young, and though he feels responsible for what happened to Goose that day, Carole wasn’t lying when she told the pilot she didn’t blame him. She doesn’t, and she never will. She knew just as much as Goose did about the risks he took each day. Pointing fingers or tossing blame didn’t bring the man back; it just pushed those who remained away.

The problem with Pete Mitchell was that the man was a lot like a puppy who enjoyed punishing himself. She saw it when they first met and the kid was weighed down with the guilt of his father’s service records, and she saw it after Goose was declared deceased and Pete expected her to smack him instead of embrace him in a hug. Carole knew that if she told Maverick about the baby Pete would think it was his duty to put everything on hold and be at her side and she couldn’t ask him to do that. It wasn’t his responsibility, best friend or not. He deserved to live his life; he deserved to move on.

But sometimes life doesn’t let you make those decisions.

In her seventh month, Carole gets a knock on the door and opens to reveal one Iceman Kazansky in his service khaki’s. The man’s blue eyes immediately stalked down to her growing belly and his lips purse before he snaps himself out of his thoughts and meet her gaze. It seems he had come to apologize for his own actions that day, explaining that if he had moved out of the way quicker than Mav wouldn’t have been caught in his jetwash, ultimately leading to the spiral that forced both Pete and Nick to eject. Carole listens silently, allowing the man to get all his feelings out before she tells him the same thing she told Mav: she doesn’t blame him.

For all the coldness of his reputation, Ice gives a sharp nod before allowing just the barest of tears to fall, though he wipes the evidence away quickly. He stands then, expecting to be asked to leave now that he has said his peace but Carole just offers him to stay for dinner. The man accepts before she even finishes her statement. She expects some awkwardness but there is none to be found, Tom is nothing but a gentleman and the perfect guest, even taking the time to play with Bradley as the child shows the pilot all his favorite toy planes.

When dinner is over and Tom finishes washing and drying the dishes he insists on doing, he finally brings up Pete’s status. Carole had listened to the tall blonde pilot talk vaguely about the Leyton mission during their meal, classified though, so beyond saying it got a little close and Maverick had to come to his aid, Kazansky had stayed mum on the true details. Much different than Maverick, who discussed the mission at length in one of his prior letters, not adhering to secrets any better now than he ever did before, much to Carole’s amusement.

Tom takes the seat across from her at the now cleared table, fingers steeple in front of his lips. He is a patient man, she gages that just from this one night of interactions and Carole can tell that he chooses his words carefully. Finally, when he is ready, Tom tells her the truth, that despite getting over his trepidations in the sky, Pete was struggling again, finding himself in the rambunctious death-be-damned stage of mortality that leads to reckless actions and tragic conclusions. Tom was worried before but he is anxious now, admitting to Carole that he came to the house not only to apologize for his actions on the day that Goose died but also to ask the blonde for her help in reign Maverick in, afraid that no one else could be up for the task. Carole knows she has the right to say no, that no one could blame her if she was to say she has too much on her plate as it is to try and save a renegade 25 year old pilot with enough issues that he could fill the sky he flies in, but she also knows she loves Pete, he’s the little brother she always wanted, and she won’t let the universe take him away too. She tells Tom to give her his number.

A week and one overly emotional reunion later, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell becomes a permanent fixture back in their lives. He’s stationed at Top Gun again so it’s easy for him to be at their house for dinner every night, pulling a reluctant Iceman with him; an ecstatic Bradley more than happy to welcome them both with open arms. Carole feels as though maybe she was wrong not to tell the younger man about the pregnancy right away as he takes one look at the not yet built nursery furniture and he and Ice roll up their sleeves; building everything themselves in record time and then hanging model planes in Bradley’s room as a nice surprise for the future big brother. They become a family, the five and a half of them; dysfunctional in their abnormally but aren’t those always the best?

As her third trimester progresses either Pete or Tom is there for every one of her doctor’s appointments, sometimes even both go, earning her skeptical looks from some of the other patients and nurses that don’t know her whole story. She doesn’t care; Carole has never been one to desire people’s approvals, and she welcomes the Naval Aviators’ dual support as the realness of becoming a single mother to two children gets closer and closer.

But then again life deals her a harsh hand.

Pete is fired from his position with Ice teaching at Top Gun. If it didn’t hurt so much, Carole wouldn’t have been surprised; Pete is not someone that should be teaching anyone about rules or regulations, but it still wounds the pregnant blonde when he is re-deployed to a carrier in the Pacific. She wants to be angry, at him, at the Navy, at the world, but it won’t help the situation and she knows that. She’s two weeks from her due date; she has to accept that Pete won’t be at her side.

Tom will be though. Tom who has taken to her family as easy as Pete did all those years ago. Tom, who buys her baby clothes and toys, never forgetting to get Bradley something too so the kid never feels left out. Tom who makes her dinner when she can’t seem to stand for too long, cleans her house when she feels the anxiety of nesting deep in her chest, and entertains her crying tantrums about how she misses Nick and wishes he were there.

Tom is a god sent.

Carole wondered at first why he was so willing. Guilt is powerful, but the man is giving up his whole life for her little family, without getting anything in return. Or so she thought. She comes to learn that Tom has no family of his own, his parents both passed, his mother just less than a year ago, and that besides Slider, who has also become a permanent fixture in her life now when he’s in town, Ice has no one. Wounded hearts tend to find each other and Carole is happy to open her home to one more lost soul, if only to heal them all.

Her water breaks on the beach of all places, as she stops to pick up a seashell and Bradley laughs that mommy peed her pants. It’s only the two of them of course; Ice teaching for the day, so Carole walks herself and Bradley back to their little house and manages to call 911 and the air base Ice is stationed. A neighbor she has gotten close to takes Bradley to play with their own children and Carole is loaded into the ambulance alone. She tries to hold in the emotions when the nice paramedic holds her hand through the contractions, tries to pretend it’s Nick, or even Pete or Tom and not this virtual stranger, but the sobs roll easily, the heighten hormones leaving her gasping in their intensity.

She is brought to a room and encouraged to relax, treated like a first time mom though she’s been through this before. Carole figures in a way this is like a first; Nick was at her side all through Bradley’s labor and delivery, cracking dumb jokes to make her laugh and promising her that she could kill him later for the pain his actions put her through. She remembered threatening a lot of bodily harm, even a threat to cut off a body part but the minute Bradley was placed in her arms she only felt love. Pure, unadulterated love in its strongest form. Would it be the same this time? Would she be moved to bliss like she was the first time she gave birth? Or would this poor little baby be placed in a crying mother’s arms, a mother filled with grief and pain? Was it fair of her to do this?

Carole doesn’t have time to dwell on those thoughts because Tom arrives then, flustered and out of breath like the normally composed man never seems to be. He zeroes in on Carole, seems to recognize her barest attempt at keeping herself together, and just goes right to her side. His hand grabs hers and squeezes, as though he hopes to transfer all the strength he holds in his muscles to her, as though he is willing to transfer his very life himself if only to help her through this. Carole manages a smile, albeit a small one since a contraction decides this is the best moment to strike, as she looks to the blond pilot next to her and thanks him for being here at her side. Tom only says there is nowhere else he’s rather be.

Tom is the rock at her side through it all. He calls her neighbors to check on Bradley and informs not only her own parents but Nick’s as well about how the labor is going. They all try to catch the next available flights but they won’t make it in time, something that Ice has the good graces to not correct her on when Carole foolishly hopes her mother will be in California in time for the baby’s arrival. Tom even manages to get a message out to Mav, using some favors he stockpiled to have the call made through all the way in the middle of the ocean. There’s nothing Pete can do from the ship but it still brings a little relief to Carole’s jumble of emotions that at least the dark haired pilot knows what’s going on.

As the hours progress, Carole expects Tom to leave but he never does. He takes a few breaks to relieve himself or take a second to sit but otherwise he’s with her through it all, though he makes sure that Carole knows if she wants that to change, if his presence isn’t welcome, he will leave at her slightest hint. It warms the blonde woman’s heart in a way she can’t imagine feeling, this man devoting so much to her and she rewards him by just holding his hand tighter. Carole asks Tom to tell her stories, anything to get her mind off the pain and the wait and Tom, though preferring silence and listening, spends hours telling stories about his beloved mother Emily. He admits that Carole reminds him of her, perhaps being why he clung so much to her and her little family, and how the pilot will never forgive himself for not being at his mother’s side in the end. When she sees tears in the man’s eyes, Carole doesn’t call attention to it, instead allowing Ice to pretend he is going for another coffee, instead of getting some air to get out of his own memories.

She’s in labor for 18 hours, pushing for two when the doctors start to contemplate a c-section. It’s the last thing Carole wants, and she tries to tell everyone in the room her opinions on the matter, but no one seems to be listening. Finally it takes her trying to physically get herself out of the bed for the doctor to allow a half hour more of pushing before they make the call. Determined now, Carole pushes with renewed vigor, burning up a sweat as she clenches and tightens her muscles trying to get this baby out.

When finally the pushing starts to work and the doctor lets her know that the time has come and the head of her baby is visible, Carole doubles down and uses every ounce of energy she has left to get this baby out. The pain is unimaginable, worse than she remembers with Bradley, though she’s not sure if it’s also from the ache of her broken heart that is making everything throb harder. She screams as loud as she can each time, so loud that she can’t even hear the doctor’s words from below her, but Carole can make out Tom’s voice over the white noise of it all. His tone is calm, almost commanding, though his icy blue eyes look widened and wild as he watches the miracle of childbirth right before his eyes.

Tom continues a mantra of how strong Carole is and how she’s almost done, how the baby is almost here when the call for one last big push is announced to the room. Carole yells as roughly as her body can managed, squeezes Tom’s hand with a pressure that feels like it could crack bone, and finally pushes with all her might when suddenly all the pressure that has been bearing down on her is relieved with a sudden clarity. The cries of a newborn join Carole’s own as the woman can’t seem to figure out if she’s happy or sad as tears run down her cheeks. Her limbs are so exhausted yet the blonde still manages to start flailing as she’s unsure if she’s grabbing for her baby or running away from it. She doesn’t move from the bed though, she physically can’t, and when the tiny human is placed on her chest, covered in blood but so very alive, Carole sobs as she realizes she has a daughter. Welcome to the world baby girl, is all she can think as she filled with the same love she had with Bradley and the same protectiveness. She is willing to do anything for this baby in her arms, this beautiful gift from Nick that she has been blessed to receive. She never wants to let her go.

Unfortunately, chest to chest only lasts a few minutes before the baby is taken away from its mother to be checked over. Carole moans when the little weight is removed from her hold and she looks up to see Ice’s eyes follow her daughter’s movements with the same worry Carole herself is experiencing. She urges Tom to follow the baby, and the man nods, stepping across the room to watch the clean up and weighing of the newest addition to the world. He is silent, eyes icy, posture straight and imposing, and Carole knows that her daughter will have a protector in Lieutenant Kazansky until the end of time. It’s not the same as a father, nothing will ever be, but it still warms her heart.

Carole doesn’t realize she’s crying again until Ice comes back over, wiping her checks easily and then grabbing a new towel to dry the sweat off her brow. He has been unfazed by everything she has thrown at him this day. Her tears, her screams, and her cries not scaring him but instead making him compliment her strength and resilience. Even now he congratulates her on her good job, on what she has managed to do, but Carole finds it hard to listen. A part of her wants to shove his hands off because he’s not the man that should be at her side, but another relishes in the touch, in the companionship, in not being alone.

She cries again as the overwhelming need to hold her daughter returns. She needs to hold her; she needs to see something of her husband before she rips out her own hair. The nurse brings a tiny bundle back, her daughter clean now and much quieter. She places the baby right on Carole’s chest once more and smiles, congratulating both Carole and Tom and informing them the baby is perfectly healthy. Carole sucks in a sob, taking in the widened eyes and soft lips of this beautiful baby girl in front of her. She can’t stop staring, can’t stop looking for the similarities between this baby and Nick, and can’t stop the tears at the similar nose as though it is the greatest gift she could ever receive. After what must be a few minutes but only feels like seconds, a new nurse informs Carole that she needs to be cleaned up before she is brought to a room, asking if Dad wants to hold the baby while they work on getting mommy settled. Carole immediately breaks down into harder sobs, to the point her baby is removed in fear she could hurt her with the way Carole’s full stomach constricts with her emotions. The nurse looks confusingly over at Ice and sees that the man has blanched and paled, looking guilt as though it is his fault that such assumptions of the baby’s paternity was made.

Before anyone else can react, Carole’s mother enters the room in scrubs, having blown more money than she ever spent in her life to get to her daughter as quickly as possible. Carole cries anew at the sight of her mother, and Tom uses the distraction to slip out of the room, sure that he is not needed anymore. He doesn’t leave the hospital though, staying in the waiting room until Ann Kramer (Carole’s mother) comes outside and inform Ice that Carole and the baby are both fine and resting; mommy in her room and baby in the nursery. Ann gives Tom the tightest hug her small frame can manage and thanks him profusely for everything, saying how Carole admitted tearfully that she would have been lost without him.

Tom brushes off the praise easily enough, just happy that all the Bradshaws are doing well. He offers to relieve Bradley from the neighbors, knowing the little boy must be worried about where everyone went. Ann looks thankful and then says she should get back, no doubt wanting to help her daughter through the emotional gauntlet her hormones are probably raging within her. She heads back to Carole’s room and Tom moves towards the elevators before he decides to take a pit stop before he heads to the Bradshaw home.

He finds the nursery easily, standing by the glass window at the few babies housed inside. Tom spots the Bradshaw baby easily, her face already memorized to him; not needing the card to tell him which one she is. There was a tiny tuff of brown hair when the little girl was born, but it is covered now in her newborn cap, her body wrapped up just as snuggly in the hospital issued blanket. Her eyes are closed and her little face peaceful, creating an image of angelic serenity in a sea of hospital craziness. Tom knows he might never see another image so beautiful in his life, perhaps only if God grants him the miracle of having his own kid, but even then he’s not sure. He is so in awe of this child in front of him, so in awe of the strength of her mother, of how life can be so cruel and yet so kind to the same people. Tom finds that he loves the little baby slumbering in the nursery with every part of his heart, as though she was her own. He will protect her for life, feels he has to, and finally Ice begins to understand what Pete meant when he explained his own feelings of love and protectiveness with Bradley. Both Bradley and his new little sister have experienced the suffocating loss of a parent at the youngest of ages, it is the rest of the world’s duty to not let them drown from this loss, and Tom intends to exert this job until the end of his days.

Then his eyes catch the name card.

He knew Carole wanted to name the baby Nick for a boy and Nicole for a girl after their father, and there on the card is the name Nicole.

But there’s another name in front of it.

It seems his stories about his mother made some kind of impact because the name Emily Nicole Bradshaw is written in a lovely print right there on the basinet in the nursery. The sight of it takes Tom’s breath away. The letters in Emily are purple and swirling in a whimsical way that reminds Tom of a princess in the fairy tales his mother always loved to read to him. His heart pings with the ache of remembering his mother, and of the gratitude towards Carole for giving him this tiny gift. She had already mentioned him being godfather, a title he was beyond honored to be asked for despite the fact he didn’t think he was worth of, but this, this little name for this little girl, was the most amazing present Tom could have ever received in his life. He doesn’t think he can ever thank Carole enough.

Knowing the best way to start is to make sure her son is just as safe and taken care of as the rest of the family, the blond pilot decides to take his leave. Tom takes one more glance at the sleeping beauty resting peaceful within the basket before he heads for the exit of the hospital, his own tears falling silently upon his stoic face.

He looks up naturally to the sky once he’s outside, sees the warm halo of the sunshine above and hopes that Nick Bradshaw is up there, looking down on his family. “I promise I’ll always protect her” Tom says aloud, not carrying if anyone else hears as long as the WSO can. “I promise I’ll always protect all of them” he amends and then, as though someone is actually listening or perhaps his exhaustion decides to play tricks, the sun seems to get brighter. Taking it as a sign, Ice smiles and continues to his car, hopeful that Goose approves of his new vows.

Notes: So now we see the start of Emily and her godfather Ice. I love writing a soft Tom and IcePops is going to be a growing theme in this story. Thank you for reading and let me know what you think!

#top gun maverick #top gun #top gun fanfiction #maverick #iceman top gun #bradley bradhsaw #emily nicole bradshaw #carole bradshaw #nick goose bradshaw #bradshaw family #original character #angst #baby #Carole is so strong #ice pops #mavdad #val kilmer #tom cruise #top gun maverick fanction #birds of a feather

[seasonsbloom]

Hi May, you awesome human being with mad Hangman characterization skills! ❤️

Can I have a “fake dating” from the board with Hangman pleaaase? 🥺

♡ pairing ; hangman x female!reader

♡ wc ; 900

♡ warnings ; explicit language

♡ note ; i'm sorry this took me forever :((( thank you so much!

Thank you for the interest but there will NOT be a second part to this!

“The way I see it,” Natasha says, tipping her face back into the sunshine, “there’s really only one option.”

You’re tanning on the beach, spread out on your towels. The scent of sunscreen and salt tingles in your nostrils as you brush grains of sand off your shins.

“How so?”

Natasha starts counting them off on her fingers, and says, “First, you can’t take Bob, he’s way too shy. Second, can’t take Rooster, he’d take this shit way too seriously.” A single finger remains in the air and you stare at it with a mixture of disgust and pure, unadulterated dread. “Which really only leaves one option.”

“Don’t even say it,” you mutter. 

She shrugs, but you can see her cheek denting in where she’s biting the inside to keep from smiling. “I’m just saying. Do you know anybody more dramatic than Hangman? He’d eat being your fake boyfriend up.”

You scoff. “Natasha,” you say, “if this is part of your stupid plan to get me to date Hangman…”

“I just think it’s a little pathetic that you still insist you don’t have a crush on him.”

You don’t even know what to say to that, so you clench your teeth so hard your jaw aches with it. 

Two weeks ago, your ex shot you a text to invite you to his engagement party. A fucking text. And there’s just no way, no way in hell you’re showing up there solo, with nothing but a congratulatory Tequila bottle tucked under your arm, basically saying Hey, look at me! Right here at your perfect engagement party to your perfect fiancée with your perfect job and perfect family and perfect life and, yeah, right, by the way, I’m still single, still a loser, still not engaged, still definitely maybe a little bit totally in love with you, and definitely not moved on with my life!

Yeah. No thanks.

Once more you let your eyes wander over the pool of prospective dates for the night. They’re playing volleyball, all of them shirtless and so ripped it’s ridiculous. Like a weirdly sexual Old Spice commercial. Even Bob has taken off his shirt, revealing the pale shoulders spotted with freckles.

You pretend your eyes don’t linger on Jake and the stupid patch of chest hair that always makes you a little dazed.

With a hint of desperation in your voice, you say, “What about Payback or Fanboy, they…”

“You barely know them,” Natasha interrupts. “The party is tomorrow, that’s not enough time to teach them how you take your coffee and what your favorite movie is. It’d never work.”

“You think Hangman knows what my favorite movie is?”

“Clueless,” Jake says, throwing himself down on the towel next to you. He leans across you to steal your water bottle, his leg pressing against yours, still wet from the leap he just took into the ocean. Cold droplets of water drip onto you and you shudder. “Paul Rudd is your celebrity crush to this day.”

You blink at him, and Natasha thrusts a hand forward in the international sign of see, I told you!

“So what are you ladies talking about?” Jake asks, taking a few greedy sips of your water before leaning back on his elbows. You’re definitely not staring at the movement of his throat or the rippling muscles in his abdomen. You are a woman of integrity and class. “Apart from me, of course.”

“Nothing,” you say, the same moment Natasha says, “Our girl here needs a fake date to her ex’s wedding.”

“Oh, fuck,” you whisper, flicking your sunglasses down over your eyes and fighting back the embarrassment that rises up like bile at the back of your throat. “Thanks for having my back.”

You can feel Jake’s eyes on you. “Bad ex?” he asks.

For a second you consider not answering him, but then you sigh, draw your legs up to your chest and wrap your arms around them. Shrug. Say, “The worst.”

Jake nods. “Black tie?”

“Semi-formal.”

He clicks his tongue. “I got a suit lying around somewhere, I think.”

Your heart stutters. Slowly, you turn to face him, go criss-cross applesauce, your knee bumping into his hip, blinking down at him through the veil of your tinted glasses. “You’d come with me?”

“Sure thing.” He stretches across your towel, folds his hands behind his head. “I’m the best-looking guy in the county. You wanna make your ex jealous? I say you go best of the best. Cream of the crop. I say… you go Hangman.”

“God,” you mutter, even as your heart gives a tentative little jump. “And here I was thinking you were being selfless for once. This is a real ego boost for you, isn’t it?”

Natasha snorts.

But Jake just laughs and, without looking at you, says, “Sweetheart, I’d jump off a cliff if you were the one asking me. Even though I don’t see how giving this body to the sea would benefit anybody. I should be cast in bronze and put outside of public libraries.”

He sounds so sincere it throws you for a loop for a second. You clear your throat, trace a pattern into the sand and then finally say, “Pick me up at seven tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

It takes you a moment, but finally, you say, “Thanks. You’re really saving my ass here, Hangman. I don’t know how I’ll ever make that up to you.”

Jake’s mouth curls up into a lazy smile. “I can think of a few ways.”

Yeah, you bet he can.

#hangman fic #hangman x reader #jake seresin fic #jake seresin x reader #top gun maverick #hangman #mine #drabble #hangman drabble #hangmandrabble

[makethatelevenrings]

Angel By the Wing - Twenty-Seven

Chapter Warnings: pregnancy, emotions

Series Masterlist (Mobile Masterlist)

“I can get dressed by myself, y’know? It’s only a few stitches.” You glared pointedly at Bradley who raised his hands in surrender, your soft cotton shorts dangling from his hand.

“Humor me,” he replied. You rolled your eyes but grabbed onto his shoulders to stay balanced as he tapped your left leg. You lifted it and he slid the shorts up until you switched legs and he did the same on the other side. Fucking softy. Your bear.

You twined your fingers through his dark curls and lightly tugged on the strands, letting the slip across your skin as you trailed your fingers down, down, down until they came to rest on his cheek. While he was still bent down, Bradley leaned in closer and pressed a quick kiss to the rounding swell of your growing bump.

“You’ll text when you get to Sarah’s?”

“Of course, bear. No need to worry,” you crooned. Ever since the bar fight three nights ago, he and Jake had been on alert as though anything would hurt you. While it was a bit insufferable at times, you appreciated feeling cared for.

“You two better behave at work. Nat will tell me if you’re goofing off.”

He chuckled and laid a kiss on your temple. “No promises.”

With another sigh, you heaved yourself out of the front seat of your creaky old car and slowly walked up to the front door of the large house before you. You hadn’t been here since the night you left early. So much had changed in just a short time.

“Well, don’t just stand out there!” Sarah Kazansky said as she opened the door. “Come on in!”

For a woman who had recently lost her husband, she didn’t look completely devastated. You followed her inside the house and stared at how little it had changed, but yet there was still an empty hole that was achingly present. Sarah led you into the kitchen and then spun around, quickly embracing you in a warm hug.

“Hi, sweetie,” Sarah whispered.

“How are you?” you asked. You sank into the soft comfort she offered and you could sense that she needed this just as much as you did.

“I’ve been better, of course.” She pulled away and patted your cheek gently. “I thought I had enough time to get used to the idea. To spend as much time as I could with him. But grief comes in waves.”

You smiled sadly. “Well, it’s a good thing we both can swim, huh?”

Sarah pulled you in for another hug and then stepped away to head towards the fridge. “Want anything to drink? Sun’s out so it’ll be hot. I have water, soda, beer, and some seltzers.”

“Just water is fine,” you said.

“Because you’re pregnant,” she replied without skipping a beat. Your lips parted and you gaped at her in shock. Sarah laughed as she retrieved two bottles of water and tossed one to you that you easily caught.

“I’m a mom, kiddo. How far along are you?”

“Nine weeks. I guess the first sign was…”

“The avocado.”

You laughed at the memory and nodded. “Yeah. The avocado.” The two of you walked out to the garden where Sarah’s passion project had been growing in perfect time for summer harvest. Bright red strawberries hung from vines along with tomatoes, carrots, and cucumbers. Sarah was proud of her little garden and she loved donating most of it to the local food bank.

“Are you excited? Scared? Is your boy being supportive?”

“I’m scared out of my wits,” you admitted. “But uh…not really sure who the father is. There’s two options and they’re both great. Really.”

“Both?”

You grimaced. You forgot that outside of the comfort of Jake’s apartment, whatever the three of you were, it wasn’t what society deemed “normal”. But then Sarah’s hand landed on your arm and you glanced over at her.

“Tell me about them.”

A smile grew on your face and you ducked your head to focus on plucking strawberries and putting them into one of the baskets. You debated for a moment if it would be okay to tell her at a time like this for her, but she asked. In fact, she sounded eager. So you began to speak.

Your own parents had been radio silent, even after you left them the voicemail. You knew your mother was furious. Her unmarried daughter who fled home was now knocked up by a man she didn’t even know. How would she react when she found out it was two men that occupied your bed every night now?

But there was no judgment in Sarah’s eyes. Only compassion, understanding, and love. You choked up as you admitted how scared you were for the oncoming months and hell, the next stage of your life. You were going to be a mom. Someone was going to rely solely on you for everything. Were you able to do this? How on earth could you possibly provide for a child?

“Oh, honey.” Sarah pulled you into a hug. “It’s so normal to be scared. Your whole world is changing. That’s terrifying.”

“God, I’m sorry. You have your own stuff to deal with right now and here I am, crying all over you.”

She tipped your chin up so your eyes met hers, but there was no malice or anger in her gentle gaze. “Cut that nonsense out, young lady. You are family now. I am so happy for you right now and I understand how scary it all is. I’ve been where you are. If Tom was here, he would probably make your boys do mountains of paperwork as a scare tactic.”

Sarah cupped your face between her hands and smiled. “Tom loved you like a daughter and I know he’s watching over us right now, pissed as all hell that he can’t chew out your boys. Oh, sweetie, he would be so happy for you.”

You sniffled as tears grew in her own eyes. “To love a child is the greatest gift on this planet. It’s also the most terrifying gift. But you are not alone in this. Anytime you have a question or need help or need someone to be there with you, you call me. Okay?”

You nodded and she pulled you into another hug. “I’m going to give those boys a shovel talk. You understand that, right?”

“Amelia beat you to it,” you chuckled. “I’ve never heard such creative threats.”

Your mother was silent, just as she had been your whole life unless an insult came along with it. Sarah Kazansky, however, and Penny Benjamin, were a force to be reckoned with. Both women knew what you were going through, both as mothers and as women who loved naval aviators. Both women vowed their love and support.

But there was one more mother you needed to face.

Unbeknownst to her son, Jennifer Seresin was currently boarding a plane with a one-way ticket to San Diego.

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#hangman x reader #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x reader x jake seresin #rooster x reader #hangster x reader #abtw

[maddipoof]

Room 217

Steve and his girlfriend just having a lovely moment in a hotel. Lots of banter, lots of teasing, every old woman wants Steve to propose, like yesterday, and John Mellencamp. CWs: No y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns and there are no descriptions besides wet hair. Old ladies being weird, mentions of skiing and they have a dog. Some references to the shining as well, also I've never been to colorado so if i get the 2 things I said about it wrong you have my endless apologies. If I missed anything, let me know and I'll add it here, also if you're any kind if enby and you would rather this with any other pronouns, as a fellow gender blender demifemme feels right atm, I'm more than happy to oblige and repost with whatever you'd prefer.

March, 1992

Steve thought he’d pay a visit to the nice ladies in the mailroom that afternoon after work, he’d been having a pretty good day so far, why not share the joy? “Hello, ladies. How’s today been treatin’ you two?” he asked them over the counter.

“Not too busy, thank you for asking. Always so charming isn’t he?” Mrs. Smith asked Mrs. Lowe, both their white hairs deflating by now from the curled, permed coifs they shaped and gelled and sprayed every morning. 

“Oh yes, oh, and Steve, we saw your girl this morning. Looking lovely as ever.”

“Mhm, we saw her, but no ring.” Mrs. Smith reminded him again, twisting her own 2 carat diamond around her finger. Just 2 weeks ago she told him the whole story about it, how Mr. Smith scrimped and saved for ages to afford it, including selling his favorite tractor, to which they both side eyed his BMW through the window. 

“Oh, Deirdre, didn’t you see her with a ring catalog this morning?” Mrs. Lowe asked her, both of them poorly hiding their schemes. 

“I do think I did. I’d take notice of these things if I were you, Steve. How long have you been together again?”

“I’ve known her for 9 years, we’ve been together for 5, Mrs. Smith.” He wasn’t hurt by them asking again, in fact he expected it, as much as his tone expressed it. “And yes, I do notice, which is why I’ve been coming home so late these last few days, I need a bit more than 30 hours a week to afford this place and a ring.”

He saw the sneaky smiles on their faces as they wheeled around in their office chairs to get his mail. A few deliveries and a blush colored envelope with a floral postage stamp in the corner, a wax seal on the front. “Ooh, a wedding invitation?” Mrs. Lowe teased.

Steve nodded as he read the return address, “Looks like it’s from her cousin.” He checked his wrist watch and realized his girlfriend must have been expecting him, “I better be going, don’t want to be late for dinner.”

“Oh, you two going out?”

“No, staying in tonight, making risotto.”

Mrs. Smith gasped, “My recipe?”

“I think so.”

“Oh you watch out for that one, Steve, I used that recipe once and 9 months later I had Joey and Hannah,” Mrs. Lowe added.

Steve huffed a laugh. “You are bad.”

“Watch it Harrington.” “It’s very easy for mail to get lost down here.” “Packages stolen,” they joked back before waving him upstairs and calling for him to send their hellos to his girl. 

“Hey, gorgeous, where you at?” He finally got to the fifth floor and held the door open with his foot while he took the keys out of the knob. “We got a fuck ton of mail.”

But he didn’t see any sign of her or their dog, Leo, a big black lab, anywhere. “Babe?” He walked further into the kitchen of their cramped apartment. Leo’s leash was gone too, but there was a scratchy note left on the counter, probably left in a rush accounting for the scribbly handwriting. 

Hello my love, I hope you had a wonderful day. I was going to wait for you but Leo got antsy so I’m taking him for a walk. We’ll be back by 6:30 I promise —xoxo 

It was already 6:25, and by the time he was worried enough to grab his sweatshirt and go out to look for her, there was already an incessant scratching at the door and a giggle of ‘I’m trying, I’m trying. Relax buddy, I gotta get my keys.’ 

It clearly sounded like a struggle, Steve assumed her keys must have been deeper in her pocket than she remembered. He could have waited and let her unlock the door herself, but the excitement to see her was too much to bear. Also because he didn’t want any complaints from the landlord about scratched paint on the door. 

He heard her surprised little gasp when the handle turned from the other side, ‘Is Stevie home?’ He heard Leo make some sound like E.T. would have made in response, as well as the slamming of his tail on her leg.

“It’s 6:30.”

“What? No ‘hello’? No ‘how are you my beautiful, gorgeous, angel of a darling? Every hour in your absence has been agony.’ And here I was, thinking you were such a romantic.” She hung the leash up while Leo was shoving himself against Steve’s leg to get more attention and pets. She was about to walk out of the teeny tiny foyer after taking her shoes off but Steve caught her by the arm before she got the chance. Leo got out of the way while he pulled her shoulder into his chest, both hands on the other one furthest from him. 

“Hello,” and she expected his usual schtick of saying everything she said back to her, a little teasing but she could always hear the truth underneath. “My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”

“Steve,” she groaned and pushed him off of her and into the coats, “You’re supposed to love me, not kill me. I don’t even have six fingers on my right hand.” She got louder as she walked further away, “And besides, you’re much more of a Westley anyway.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“How so? Wait, farm boy Westley or Pirate Westley?”

“Oh, Pirate Westley, definitely.”

He silently shooed her out of the kitchen and fed Leo before washing his hands and starting on their own dinner while she explained.

“I don’t know, you just love too much to be an Inigo, too smart to be him, also you know I love you but you have like zero loyalty to your father and you shouldn’t anyway, so definitely a Westley.”

“Like I’d carry you through the fire swamp and everything?”

“And everything.” Leo laid at her feet while she went through the mail on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions that were probably older than her since it was a hand-me-down from Hopper when he moved in with Joyce at the same time they moved into their apartment. A sparkling seal caught her eye. “A wedding invitation?”

“I was waiting for you to open it, I think it’s from your cousin.”

“Hm. Mr. Joseph and Mrs. Deanna Sampson cordially invite you to a renewal of their vows, the 12th of December, 1992, Colorado Springs, Colorado. It’s at a hotel, like the Shining.”

“Oh that cousin?” The renewal of vows is what caught his attention. “Must be a small venue then.”

“Not funny, Steven,” she didn’t take her eyes off her lap where she flipped through the details of the invitation but the slight quirk of her lip that Steve was always able to clock betrayed her amusement. A wedding with ample opportunity for skiing, her cousin’s husband, and now by extension her cousin, are kind of rich, at least his family is, so they're renting the biggest, nicest, fanciest lodge for the day and having the wedding and reception there. “I’d totally have a small wedding first with just the people I want there then a bigger one for all the people that are mad they didn’t make the cut.”

“Who’d be at this wedding? The small one.”

“Dustin, Eddie, Robin, the kids, Joyce and Hopper, and maybe my parents, I haven't decided.”

He knew he was pushing his luck asking this, but the ladies of the mail room planted a strong idea in his head and he just couldn’t let it go. “I’m not there?” but he stayed facing the near boiling pot.

“I thought you were a given,” She said so casually. Only looking at him when the clatter of the spoon falling on the floor pulled her attention his way. They’d discussed it before, in passing mostly. Saying a marriage and a family is something they both want, but he’d never heard her say it like that. Like marrying him is the only option she’d ever choose. Like he’s always going to be the obvious choice. “So we’re going?”

“Hm?”

“To the wedding?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Deanna’s the best.”

December, 1992

They arrived two days before the wedding, Steve wanted to get more use out of his skis. She liked them because the bottoms were bright pink and she could find him anywhere. Checking in was a bear though. The mailroom part 2 for him since y/n was at a payphone to check in with Dustin about Leo.

“How can I help you, sir?” The woman who looked to be around Joyce’s age asked.

“Uh, I’d like to check in, please. Should be under Harrington.”

She scrolled through the system to find it, “Oh yes, you’re here for the wedding? Bride or groom?”

“Bride, she’s cousins with my-”

“You’re wife? I’ll get you an extra key then, one for both of you.”

“Thank you.”

“Enjoy your stay, room 217.”

“Thank you.”

***

“God, I’m exhausted.” Y/n threw herself down on the bed, wet hair and all. Everything about this room was so much bigger than their apartment. The bed, the bathtub; the kitchen was smaller though, but there was a much bigger space as a sort of living room. The fake fire was going and the tv above it was stuck on one of those MTV channels, the ones that only play music with slideshows of various album covers, because they couldn’t figure out the remote. She called the lobby about it and found Steve must have made quite an impression in the few days they’ve been there. “Hi, we’re in room 217, our remote kind of broke and it’s stuck on one channel.” “217, hmm… Oh you must be Steve’s wife, he’s quite the charmer down here.” “He usually is. Um, is there anyone who can help us with this?” “Unfortunately not at the moment, but we can send someone up first thing in the morning, just give us a ring and we’ll send maintenance right up there.” “Will do, thank you.” “Mhm, have a lovely night Mrs. Harrington.” “You as well.”

Steve came out of the bathroom with a cloud of steam surrounding him and a fluffy, white towel around his hips. “Steve?”

“Hm?” But his main focus was on digging through his drawers for pajamas.

“Have you been telling everyone in the lobby I’m your wife?”

He quickly straightened with his sweatpants clutched tight to his chest. “No-uh…no. They just assumed and, y’know like, who’d pass up a chance to have such a total knockout babe for a wife, right? So I just-didn’t correct them.”

“Mhm,” the look in her eyes feigned skepticism, but she really didn’t mind, she thought it was cute. “Can’t flirt your way out of this one, Harrington.”

“No flirting, just truthing.” He knew even that wouldn’t save him from his fate, her thinking he’s such a dork and then most likely going home to tell Robin all about it. He needed to think fast before she rolled over on the bed and picked up the phone to dial Robin’s number, he thought he could see her fingers already twitching in its direction. The song changed and while the intro played and he rushed to get dressed, inspiration struck. He held his hand out for her hoping she’d get the hint. 

“What?”

“Come dance with me.”

“This is hardly a danceable song,” she swung her legs over the side. 

“It’s John Mellencamp, of course it’s danceable.” Steve pulled her up by the hand even though she was already going to walk over. 

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Sh, sh, sh, let me listen.” He held their joined hands in the air, her left in his right, and his other was on her waist, swaying side to side and rotating around in a circle.

“You dance like such a dad,” she half whispered, half giggled.

“I’m a great dancer.”

“I never said you weren’t.”

“Could you listen to the song please, they’re like us,” and he started mouthing the words out with his breath.

A little ditty 'bout Jack and Diane; Two American kids growing up in the heart land

“Steve, we’re from Indiana.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“That’s not the heartland.”

“I’m pretty sure the heartland is all of the midwest.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

Jack, he's gonna be a football star; Diane's debutante, backseat of Jacky's car

“You played basketball and swam, those are like the furthest things from football.”

“You’re really draining all the fun out of this,” but she could feel the rumbles of his laugh with her ear pressed to his sternum. 

“And I’m not a debutante and we’ve never done anything in the back of your car.”

“The point that you’re purposely missing is that they’re in love.”

“I know they’re in love, but I’m in love-er with you.”

“Is that the right way to say that? Not ‘more in love?’”

“Well now look who’s being willingly obtuse.”

“I’m not obtuse, you’re obtuse.”

“I’m not obtuse, I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you too.” He rested his head on top of hers, his eyes stuck on her bare fingers. “But those things can coexist.”

“Steve!”

This was not a request but I thought of it at work because all we listen to is fm radio and everyday John Tesh makes me want to strangle myself with receipt paper. But I had the idea and I thought it was cute, and as always, it got way out of hand. So here, have my first complete Steve Harrington one shot <3

Tagging some babes because I love you and I want to annoy you all @beezywriting @haydipoof @sw34terw34ther @esperisdrunkinwonderland @avipoof @loving-and-dreaming @katsu28 @manyfandomsfanvergent and if i think of anyone else and they don't get to this before I get to them <3

#Definitely did not choose that gif solely for its bbg qualities #pfft that'd be ridiculous #steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #harrington #steve harrington x fem #Steve harrington fluff #ever have that moment when you look at a word so much it looks wrong #I just had a crisis thinking I spelt harrington wrong #steve stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things one shot #stranger things fluff #Dell's fics

[labellefleur-sauvage]

The Highland Fox and The English Rose

Summary:

Elain Archeron, the middle daughter of an enterprising English merchant, has been raised with one goal in mind: become the wife of a respectable Englishman. Everything else—her interests, her desires—didn’t matter. But when her father convinces her to enter into an arranged marriage with a brutal Scottish Laird to save their family from ruin, Elain is suddenly forced to reevaluate everything she thought she wanted in life.

As the newly appointed Laird of a derelict clan with a crumbling castle, marriage was the last thing on Lucien’s mind. His entire life is thrown into disarray when he is forced into a marriage contract he didn’t sign, to an Englishwoman he’d never met. 

But Lucien harbors a dark, ruinous secret that affects more than just himself, and he is determined to resolve the issue at hand. Together, the Highland Fox and the English Rose will go on a journey that will force Elain and Lucien together—or drive them apart.

Read on AO3. Masterlist.

XXX

Chapter 3: You Have Taken What is Before Me and What Is Behind Me

“Beg yer pardon, maam, but I doona’ think ‘helping out in the kitchen’ is somethin’ the Lady of the Hoose like yerself should be doin’, y’ken.”

Elain scowled, then turned and put on her most charming face for the head maid. “But Alis, surely going downstairs to conduct a thorough review of the kitchen and its staff is well within my duty as Lady of the House, correct?”

“Frankly ma'am, tis no’,” Alis replied shortly. “As head maid, it’s mah job to oversee the runnin’ of the castle, especially those areas tha’ the Laird and his wife should never haf tah see.”

“It’s not going to kill me to go downstairs and get my hands a bit dirty,” Elain shot back, hands on her hips.

“It verra well might!” Alis said, a hand on her chest, like the thought of Elain going into the kitchens gave her heart palpitations.

“Yes, death by oats, I’m sure we’d be the shame of Scotland if that were to happen!”

“Aye, tis it exactly!” Alis replied, triumph in her dark eyes.

Elain frowned. She needed to try a different tactic. “I know the castle has been without a Lady of the House for quite some time—“

“Aye—the old Laird was a confirmed bachelor. I’ve been managin’ this keep for well over fifty years!”

“And you’ve done a wonderful job,” Elain said placatingly. She was being somewhat serious—despite being slightly drafty, barren and missing a few stones here and there, the castle at least ran smoothly from what she had seen, all held together by the slight woman standing in front of Elain. “But wouldn’t it be nice to have someone else helping you?”

“Aye, it would, but it won’t be ye,” Alis said with a finality that made Elain realize she lost this fight. “It’s no’ proper for the Lady of the Hoose to wander down to the kitchens, or, or, gallivant outside in the woods, or ask to dust, for goodness sake!”

“Well, perhaps I can—“

“No,” Alis said. “There are plenty of other things ye can do to occupy yer time, like reading, or sewing.”

“For twelve hours a day, though?” Elain cried.

“Ye’ll be much busier when ye and the Laird start having bairns,” Alis said shrewdly, and Elain’s stomach dropped. “If there’s any advice ye need on getting started…”

“Er, no, that’s quite alright,” Elain stammered, blushing wildly. “I think I do actually have a bonnet to sew, goodbye!”

Elain fled, Alis’s throaty chuckles fading behind her as she rushed down hallways and staircases, uncaring of where she was going. She found herself at the doors of the library and pushed them open, sighing with relief when she saw that Nesta had vacated the premises for a time.

Elain sat down wearily on a low couch. How embarrassing, for Alis to point out what surely everyone in the castle knew: that Elain and Lucien weren’t even resting in the same bed at night together, much less seeing enough of each other to make a child. 

The embarrassment she felt now still paled in comparison to her wedding night two weeks ago, when she brazenly dropped the bedsheet hiding her bare body from Lucien’s gaze. Elain had been a little tipsy, true, and wanted to be the brave and fierce woman she needed to be to thrive in Scotland… and apparently she thought showing her naked body to her new husband would accomplish that.

Not that Lucien had objected. She had watched him staring at her flesh, dumbstruck, as his eye slowly traveled down her body, his mouth gaping like a fish. Elain had observed him, too, particularly the bulge under his kilt that grew and grew the more he openly looked at her body. Rather than frighten her, as her aunts had warned her, the sight of his covered manhood had only excited her. 

She groaned. Elain hadn’t been able to even look Lucien in the face the next morning at a terse, private breakfast between the two of them, and she had excused herself at the first moment she was able. Since then, she and her husband had been playing a competitive game of cat and mouse, with the twist being neither one wanted to win. At this point, though, Elain wouldn’t object to running into Lucien, frustrated and embarrassed as she was, if only because it would give her something to do.

Elain absentmindedly grabbed a book laying on the table and flipped it open. She had been spending more time in the library here than she’d ever spent in one before, if only because it was somewhere different than her formal sitting room. There she could sew, or gaze out the window at the pretty loch with its brilliantly blue waters… and that was it. 

Now, she found herself looking at a map of the Scottish highlands, with major towns and monuments drawn in along the numerous clan lines. Her eyes darted over the page—there were the Vanserra clan lines, far to the southeast; to the east were the Norse-descended MacDonnells. There was a large port town called Adriata to the south, a bog not too far from here, a sprawling settlement in the northern mountains called Velaris, a lonely island off the northeast coast with a single monument called Sangravah—

There were a few knocks on the door. Elain closed the book and tossed it on the table—it was probably Nesta, coming to check on Elain for the hundredth time in the past two weeks. “Come in,” she called dully.

“Ye look like ye could do with some cheering up.”

Elain lifted her head. The beautiful, red-haired woman Lucien had looked so happy talking to at the wedding was peering around the door, taking in Elain all alone in the library. “Unless ye prefer the company of books over people.”

Elain stared, too shocked at the woman’s abrupt appearance to offer a greeting or ask her who she was. 

“You doona ken who I am, do ye?”

At Elain’s shaking head, the woman sighed deeply. “I hate to break it to ye, Elain, but yer husband is an eejit. Cannae even be bothered to let his poor wife know that company is coming. I’m Vassa Fraser, Laird of Clan Fraser.”

Elain was stunned. “Laird? Women can be lairds?”

Vassa shrugged, shutting the door behind her and walking towards Elain. “Me dad didna have anyone else to pass the title to.”

“And everyone just… accepted that?”

“Och, no,” Vassa said, smiling cruelly, “but I made it quite clear that if I wasna the next Laird of Clan Fraser, there would be no Clan Fraser at all.”

Elain swallowed, unnerved by this new Laird. “I apologize that I wasn’t here to greet you, Laird Fraser,” Elain said stiffly, resorting to the politeness that had been drilled into her at a young age.

“Tch, say nothing of it,” Vassa said, sitting down casually on a couch across from Elain. “It’s no’ yer fault yer fool of a husband cannae be bothered to notify his wife of visitors. I can give his ears a good clapping, if ye want me to.”

She spoke so plainly and intimately of Lucien. The jealousy that she’d felt at seeing Vassa and Lucien talking at their wedding flared inside her. “Do you know Lucien well, then?”

“Aye,” Vassa said cheerfully. “He helped me take the Clan’s title by force several years ago. He literally beat back the other contenders so I could claim the throne, so to speak. Lucien’s deadly with a sword when it comes down to it.”

There it was—more casual violence from these people. Elain wasn’t sure she’d ever fully get used to it. Still, the trepidation Elain felt towards Vassa was nothing compared to the envy she felt at this woman having some type of closing relationship with Lucien. “Is that the extent of your… relationship with Lucien?” she asked coldly. 

Vassa’s eyes widened slightly at Elain’s frosty tone. “Aye, it is,” she said, far more gently than Elain thought she’d respond. “We’re verra close friends and fellow lairds—nothing more.”

Elain exhaled. “I—good, thank you.”

“Besides,” Vassa smirked, “I already have my hands full with my own man. He’s English himself.”

Elain perked up. “Really? How did he come to be up here?” With you , went unspoken.

“Part of the English military sent to crush the, er, slight rebellion my own wee fight to take the Fraser title caused,” Vassa admitted with a wince. “He took one look at me and threw down his weapons right then and there.”

“I see. Sounds… exciting.”

“More exciting than sitting alone in a library in a cold castle,” Vassa noted. “How are ye getting on?”

Elain blinked, startled at the abrupt shift in topic. “All right. I’m settling in.”

“Has Lucien been showing ye around? Helping ye?”

“Er, well, he’s very busy, isn’t he?”

Vassa huffed an unimpressed laugh. “Aye, but ye should be his priority at the moment. Tell me plainly: how are ye doing?”

Elain took a moment to study Vassa. Her bright red was cut short, falling to her shoulders in slight waves. A pair of the brightest blue eyes she’d ever seen gazed back at her steadily, undeterred by the foreign English woman in front of her. Vassa was fierce and proud, a true Scotswoman. She remembered Eris’s advice from the night of the wedding: speak plainly and be direct. 

“I’m bored,” Elain began, sitting up straight. “I have nothing to do here. The staff won’t let me do anything they fear is unbecoming of my station—I can’t go outside the castle walls, nor do anything to help run the castle, even though I’m its new Lady.”

“Are ye surprised the staff at the castle are so similar to your English staff across the wall?”

Elain blushed. “Yes. I thought—“

“That we’d be boorish brutes eating out of our hands and sleeping on the ground?”

Elain scoffed. “Well now, I didn’t think it was quite that desperate up here.”

Vassa grinned. “That’s alright. The Highlands aren’t as fine as what yer accustomed to in England—”

“I’m not concerned about that,” Elain tsked. “I had few freedoms in England. I thought Scotland would be different, that as a married woman I’d have more allowances than before, but it’s been the opposite. I could at least take a stroll into the neighboring villages by myself back in England. It’s incredibly frustrating,” Elain ended bitterly. 

Vassa sighed. “Aye, most Scottish women aren’t too limited in their day to day lives but yer no’ a Scottish woman. I know, it’s no’ fair,” Vassa said when Elain tried to interject. “Some folks this far north… don’t care much for the English, and Lucien is a new Laird himself. Suddenly he has a foreign new wife, rather than marrying the daughter of one of his minor lords or land owners, to gain their favor? Until people can be trusted, ye may need to stay safe in the castle,” she ended delicately. 

"So I am to suffer alone until Lucien’s people decide they’re not going to harm me?”

“Well, ye have yer sisters for a time, don’t ye?”

Elain huffed a laugh. “My sisters are driving me insane with their constant worrying and nattering and complaining. My eldest Nesta does nothing but make snide remarks about the state of the castle and Lucien, and Feyre leaves in order to explore the countryside on her own, regardless of the consequences. They bicker about everything, then tut about how sorry they are that I’m stuck here for life.” Elain took several deep breaths to calm her racing heart. “It’s so annoying!”

Vassa chuckled. “I’ve no sisters but plenty of girl cousins—it’s the same everywhere. They’re always criticizing me and fussing over me in the same breath.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I ignore them,” Vassa said simply. “At the end of the day most of them are a bunch of daft bampots that are taking their frustrations out on me. And I have Jurian to talk to, relieve some… stress, y’ken.”

“Must be nice,” Elain muttered. 

Vassa arched an eyebrow. “Do ye not see Lucien enough?”

Elain held her tongue. Perhaps the worst indignity of her entire situation was that her new husband couldn’t even be bothered to check on her and make sure she was settling in alright. She knew Lucien was busy— running a clan was difficult—but Elain was apparently dead last on his list. The resentment towards Lucien that had slowly been growing ever since their wedding day threatened to bubble over, but Elain kept herself in line. 

“That’s something I can discuss with him the next time I see him, whenever that might be,” Elain said bitterly. 

Vassa swore and shook her head. “That fuckin’ doolally,” she muttered to herself. “Absolute roaster.” Vassa looked at Elain thoughtfully. “Do ye enjoy the gardens?”

Elain raised an eyebrow. “The flowers and trees, outside,” Vassa went on. “Do ye ken where it’s at?”

“Yes,” Elain said slowly, trying to figure out why Vassa changed the conversation so abruptly. 

“It’s particularly lovely at night, under the full moon, like tonight,” Vassa replied, looking at Elain pointedly. “It might be good for ye to be out there. Tonight especially.”

“Er, alright,” Elain said unsteadily. “Perhaps, after dinner—“

“No! Ye should definitely wait until much later. Midnight, or just before.”

Elain tilted her head. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“Not at all, Elain,” Vassa said happily. “The garden is so lovely at night—“

“As you keep repeating.”

“That I think it would be verra good for ye to be out there tonight,” Vassa ended, looking far too pleased with herself. 

“Perhaps I shall take a midnight stroll in the garden then,” Elain said slowly. She didn’t think Vassa was trying to trick her or be cruel but it was a very peculiar insistence to ask of Elain.

“Good, good!” Vassa stood up. “Is there anything else on your mind?”

“Actually,” Elain began slowly, remembering something that had been bothering her since her wedding night, “how exactly are Lucien and Eris Vanserra related? Lucien said they were brothers but they have different surnames.”

“Ah.” For the first time, Vassa looked supremely uncomfortable. “They, ah, they’re blood brothers.”

“So Lucien was born a Vanserra?”

“Aye,” Vassa hesitantly agreed, looking anywhere but Elain’s face. 

“But he’s somehow Laird of Clan Macpherson?”

“His mother was a Macpherson.”

“If Eris is older than Lucien, why wasn’t he chosen to become Laird of Clan Macpherson?”

“Will ye look at the time,” Vassa said, looking around. “I have a meeting to attend—with Lucien, I’ll make sure to clap him around the ears for ye—so I’ll see you at dinner, aye?”

“Yes, but—oh! Goodbye!”

Vassa flitted away, her long tartan dress trailing after her. Elain was left with far more questions than answers.

Nesta came into the library shortly thereafter, and just like she had been doing the past two weeks, immediately began alternating between complaining about the castle and clucking after Elain. Feigning a headache, Elain rushed back to her bedroom and threw herself on her bed. 

She shouldn’t have set such lofty expectations for herself, Elain realized. She was only setting herself up for disappointment and heartache. It was clear Lucien wanted nothing to do with her, and while she had hoped for that on the way to Scotland, Elain at least thought he’d spend some time getting to know her, or that she wouldn’t be a prisoner in her new home.

Elain sighed and began getting ready for dinner. She’d go to the garden tonight, as Vassa had urged, and she’d begin the long and sad process of accepting that she was in a lonely marriage for the rest of her days. 

XXX

“So, how’s the pretty new English wife?” Tamlin asked.

Lucien grit his teeth. If one more person asked him how his marriage was going…

In truth, most days he forgot he was a married man. He and Elain slept in separate beds in separate rooms nowhere near each other, they never supped together, and they never exchanged more than a brief hello when they passed each other in the halls, and even that was rare.

And for what would be the best part of a marriage for any man, well… it was difficult to convince your wife to lay with you when she wouldn’t even look at you. Not that Lucien had even tried to convince Elain of the mutual benefits of a sexual relationship.

Was he tempted to risk everything he’d been planning for months on the chance to spend some time between his wife’s luscious thighs? God help him, he was. Whenever he thought of their disastrous wedding night, the only thing he could remember was a flushed and angry Elain proudly and unabashedly standing naked in front of him before his bed, her curvy body on full display. It was the most unexpected sight he’d ever witnessed, and Lucien thought that perhaps his English wife wasn’t quite the meek dormouse he had assumed she was. He had never gotten so hard just from seeing a bare woman before. His mind often wandered on its own, imagining what she tasted like, how she’d feel wrapped around his cock, what sounds would escape that pretty little mouth as he fucked her…

But he couldn’t get distracted. Between caring for his lands, the castle, managing his new trade routes and the fragile relationships he was cultivating with various lords and lairds of all of Scotland, and putting the finishing touches on his soon to be enacted plan, he had no time to spend any time with his wife, sexual or not. Lucien did feel a little guilty—he could imagine how frightened Elain must be, cooped up in a drafty castle with no one but her sisters to keep her company—but Lucien couldn’t think of that right now. At least, here in the castle, she was safe. 

“She’s fine,” Lucien answered eventually. Probably true. 

“Is she adjusting to Scotland well enough?”

“Er, aye, I believe so. Some of the food is a bit off putting for her, but she’ll get there.”

“It’s a shame her father left so soon. Perhaps that would have settled her down a bit.”

“Small mercies,” Lucien muttered. Mr. Archeron had hopped onto a departing wagon train the morning after the wedding, barely waiting to say goodbye to his daughters before he left to inspect the trade routes and roads to which he had bartered his daughter and forced Lucien into.

“Do ye see her much throughout the day?”

“Eh, not so much,” Lucien answered awkwardly. “We, uh, both appreciate our solitude.”

Tamlin nodded like he understood this perfectly. “All of the sisters appear to appreciate their own solitude.”

Lucien grunted noncommittally, too focused at the moment on balancing the estate’s ledger. They were only slightly in the red at the moment, rather than swimming in it like in previous months. 

“Nesta does spend a significant time alone in the library,” Lucien said. “And Elain…” What was Elain up to? He certainly never saw her enough to ask, and none of the staff bothered to keep him up to date on her comings and goings. “Elain is learning how to run the estate,” Lucien finished lamely.

“Feyre spends much of her time outdoors,” Tamlin supplied. He stood at the window, staring out over the wide forests that stretched beyond what their eyes could see. “She’s quite the huntress.”

“Interesting,” Lucien deadpanned, trying to look engrossed in his work so Tamlin would take the hint and leave. 

“Perhaps I will arrange a hunting party and ask her to come.”

“Sure.”

“And perhaps I’ll invite her to my lands when she and her sister depart, for a short stay,” Tamlin went on, eyeing Lucien from the side of his gaze.

“If it pleases ye,” Lucien said, making a show of rubbing his eye and fiddling with his eyepatch. 

Tamlin hummed. “I think I see Feyre in the courtyard now—perhaps I’ll see if she needs someone to accompany her.”

“Aye, aye, very good,” Lucien said, quickly standing up and escorting a thoughtful Tamlin out of his study with a few thumps on the back. “Feel free to borrow one of the horses—not Ajax, he’s a bit of a bastard, but one of the mares, like Daffodil.”

Finally Lucien was alone, but not for long. Three soft raps on his door, then Jurian quietly let himself into Lucien’s office.

“Where’s Vassa?”

“Said she needed to make a detour before our meeting. She'll be along when she’s ready. Is everything all packed? Food, clothes, maps, weapons?”

“Aye,” Lucien answered. “I’ve double checked everything, left plenty of notes without the exact details to Dougal, ye and Vassa and her men will patrol my borders while I’m gone—I think we’ve done everything we can.”

“What are you doing if the weather delays you?”

“Press on even at night,” Lucien answered, their practiced what-if scenarios fresh in his mind. “Trade Ajax for a fresh horse, if it comes to it.”

“And what if the roads aren’t as friendly as you expect?”

“Put my sword to good use,” Lucien said darkly. He didn’t want to have to kill anyone on his journey, but if it came between him and his goal…

“Not your pistol?”

“Only for emergencies. I doona have much ammunition, and it’s more for decoration than protection,” Lucien admitted, taking the heavy gun out from his desk. It was one of the few possessions he had taken from Clan Vanserra when he left, more as a final statement to Laird Vanserra than anything else. It was covered in bronze plating and delicate, black filigree along the barrel and chamber. “Lot of good this’ll do me on the road.”

They continued rehearsing the plan. A nervous weight settled in the bottom of Lucien’s stomach. So much was riding on him, and so much could go wrong at any one moment. 

The door to his study slammed open and Vassa strode in, her eyes blazing with fury. Both Lucien and Jurian shrunk back as she advanced on them.

“Ye, Lucien, are an ass!” she shrieked, swinging her arm back and punching his shoulder, then unsheathing her dirk and pressing it to his bare neck.

“What the hell are ye on about?” Lucien gasped, his shoulder aching and heart racing. He tried to lean away from the metal at his skin but Vassa only pressed it harder against him.

“Have ye been completely neglecting Elain for the past two weeks? She’s miserable and lonely! Have ye even uttered a friendly word to her at all?”

“I’ve been busy, as you well know!” Lucien snapped. “After this is taken care of—“

“Oh, ye were just casually going to go on yer way and come back months later and expect Elain to be waiting like a faithful pet? What’s wrong with ye, ye daft fuckin’ fool!”

Lucien flushed. “It’s safer for her this way!”

“Perhaps, but ye could have at least gotten to know her a bit, taken her for a damn walk, do the bare fuckin’ minimum a husband should do for his wife!” Vassa’s eyes were blazing and her hand was shaking with rage. Lucien winced as he felt the trembling dirk in her hand nick the soft skin of his neck.

“Vassa,” Jurian said sharply, “I doubt slashing Lucien’s neck would make Elain any happier.”

“I’m no’ sure about that,” she said darkly, withdrawing her blade and sheathing it. “She asked me what happened to ye that made ye take the name Macpherson.”

Lucien froze, his hand half-way to his throat. “And what did ye tell her?”

“That she’s better off asking ye directly. And ye will, I’ll make sure of it.”

Lucien relaxed. “Aye, I will. But if I tell her that, I’ll have to tell her everything.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“The less she knows, the safer she’ll be,” Lucien snapped. He brushed his hand over his throat; his thumb came back slightly bloody. “Ye know what some of those Lairds would do to someone like Elain if they turned their attention to her, just based on where she’s from. She’s so innocent and delicate—“

Vassa snorted. “I doona ken about that, based on what she had to say to me. But promise ye’ll talk to her before ye leave.”

“I promise,” Lucien said, his stomach tightening even further as he lied to his dearest friends. 

It was far too dangerous to trust Elain with this, to bring her into his closet circle so soon after meeting her. Afterwards, when everything had settled, he would woo Elain properly—she deserved that, and selfishly, Lucien didn’t plan on staying celebite for the rest of his life. 

To get to that point, he had this one final task in front of him. Unrolling a map, the three of them bent over his desk, making the final preparations for his journey.

XXX

Dinner that night was an awkward affair.

As there were numerous guests at the castle—Vassa and Jurian, and another Laird friend of Lucien’s, Tamlin Stewart, plus Nesta and Feyre—the staff had nicely done up the ornate wooden head table that hadn’t been used since Elain’s wedding night. A fine lace tablecloth was spreading over the table, and the most delicious scents and foods—mouthwatering roast chickens, the skin golden brown and crispy; individual rabbit pies, spiced and slightly sweet; potatoes basted in butter, slathered in salt and mustard; delicate and herby greens; and freshly baked loaves of yeasty bread—filled the hall.  

Elain sipped her wine. Perhaps Alis had a point—Elain would only be a nuisance in the kitchen for a feast like this. 

Nesta sat stiff in her chair, shooting small, distrustful glares at the Scots around her. Elain hadn’t told her much of what was—or wasn’t—happening between her and Lucien, feigning marital privacy, but it seems Nesta still found a reason to be angry with her hosts.

Feyre had no such qualms. Her and Tamlin—a hulking beast of a man, with wavy, shoulder length blonde hair, green eyes and a crooked nose from one too many fights—sat together at one end of the table conversing quietly with each other.

Elain paused and took a moment to study her youngest sister. She’d rarely seen Feyre around the castle in the past two weeks and had quickly stopped wondering where she’d gone off to each day when she showed up for dinner each night. Feyre had proven she could take care of herself; why should Elain bother worrying after her?

Elain thought she had an idea of how Feyre was occupying her time as she watched her younger sister giggle at something Tamlin muttered to her. Elain nearly dropped her potatoes at the sound. Feyre, giggling like a schoolgirl, at a man, no less. It was nearly as foreign to Elain as hearing the same sound from Lucien.

Speaking of her husband…

Lucien looked more tense than usual. Elain could see the tightness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he gripped his utensils to eat. Elain stared, transfixed, as one of his large hands poured himself another ale, as the muscles in his forearms flexed, his golden brown skin seeming to glow despite the dim firelight in the room—

“And how was yer day Elain?”

Vassa was politely looking at Elain as if she didn’t know exactly how her day was. She pulled her gaze away from Lucien’s body.

“It was fine. At this rate I’ll have the entire contents of the library read this time next year.”

There was a thump and Lucien suddenly grunted. “And do ye enjoy reading?” he asked in a pained voice.

Elain furrowed her brows. Vassa was looking at her far too innocently. “It’s an acceptable way to pass the time.”

“Anything in particular caught yer eye?”

Elain paused. “I’ve enjoyed flipping through the books on Scottish history and the maps of the clans, so I can begin to better familiarize myself with the different Lairds.”

“Oh!” Lucien said, his eye widening. “That’s… aye, verra good.”

And dinner ended exactly like it had every night before: with awkward silence between her and Lucien. 

Elain wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders later that evening. There was a chill in the air. If she were back in England, this would be a perfect summer’s night.

But she might as well forget all about England and her family and everything from her old life, Elain thought miserably, sitting on a stone bench in the back of the garden. Her life was in Scotland now, and as a woman, that life now revolved around her husband.

What would her life be like if she had married Graysen, rather than Lucien? She’d actually know her husband, and would have had a choice in the matter. She’d be in a familiar setting around people she knew and understood.

But it would be the same monotony she’d spent her life up until now living. With Graysen in the militia, she would rarely see him, perhaps only a few weeks a month or less, if he were called away. She would spend her days reading or sewing or entertaining guests, would receive countless visits from her sisters, and would most likely have a child by the time of their one year anniversary. It would be the same sort of dreary existence that Elain found herself in now.

The only difference was that all the time and effort her mother put into raising Elain into the perfect Englishwoman wouldn’t have been wasted on some uncouth Scotsman. Though even that wasn’t fair. She’d seen enough from those working at the castle and Vassa to realize that the Scots weren’t the maniacal, faerie worshiping heathens the pamphlets made them out to be. It was just Lucien who couldn’t be bothered to be a decent husband.

Elain huffed a breath, standing up. This was stupid—Vassa was clearly playing a joke on her, getting some sort of sick amusement at the idea of an Englishwoman freezing herself at nothing but her own insistence. She stood up and made her way across the garden when a sudden movement caught her eye.

The light from the moon glanced upon a flash of red along the back wall. Elain wasn’t sure if she had imagined it until she heard a scraping sound come from the stone wall behind her.

“Vassa?” Elain asked, moving towards the sound. “Vassa, is that you?”

The sound stopped. Elain rounded a large bush and came face to face—or face to chest, rather—with Lucien.

“Oh!” she gasped, nearly falling down before Lucien caught her by her shoulders and steadied her. They looked at each other in shock. Elain could see Lucien’s remaining eye widen with surprise before he let go of Elain like he had been burned. “I—I didn’t know—“

“What are ye doing out here?” Lucien asked, frustration filling his voice. He hadn’t managed to relax since dinner; his shoulders and neck still looked tight. 

Elain’s eyes widened at Lucien’s tone. He seemed frustrated with her ? “Is this garden not part of my new home, and am I not allowed to wander the castle freely?” Elain snapped back.

“Aye, but no’ when it's night and pitch dark out! Why are ye out here?”

Elain considered telling him that Vassa told Elain to be out here, but decided Lucien didn’t need to know everything Elain did. “Perhaps I enjoy visiting the garden at night, when the light of the moon can… shine down on all the lovely plants.”

Lucien stared at her incredulously. “What sort of dumb English bollocks is that? Is this how ye spend yer nights, skulking about in the dark?”

She pursed her lips, a hand on her hip. “And what if it is?”

“It’s a bit odd and I’d prefer it if ye brought someone with ye when ye take yer midnight strolls,” he said, looking up at the bright moon anxiously. “Come on, I’ll get ye in—“

“No! I’m fine out here!” 

Lucien tsked. “I can see ye shivering. Stop being so stubborn, lass, and come inside with me.” He reached out a hand for her. 

Elain took a step away from him. “I don’t want to!” Elain was aware she sounded like a petulant child but Lucien’s tone of voice grated on her, her resentment towards him rising within her. How dare he try to tell her what to do, when he hadn’t spoken a word to her in days before tonight?

“And what were you doing out here? You’re also ‘skulking about’ in the dark, same as me.”

“I’m, er, conducting a sweep of the grounds,” Lucien replied, looking anywhere but at Elain. “We’ve reports of seeing foxes in the hen houses.”

Elain raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. And you thought the middle of the night—in the garden, nowhere near the livestock—was the best time to conduct this search?” She looked him up and down. “And aren’t you a bit overdressed to look for a simple fox?”

Lucien avoided looking at her. He was wearing a kilt, the same green, dark blue and gray pattern he’s worn on their wedding day, knee length worn brown boots, a thick white shirt and a brown jacket. A dirk hung from his hips, and his back—

“Is that a crossbow?”

“It’s a verra wilely fox,” Lucien said evasively, looking at the moon again. “Let me get ye back inside.”

Elain glared at him. “First you compare me to a dog, then you ignore me for days, brazenly lie to me about what you’re doing, and attempt to coddle me like a child. What a fine husband you are!”

“Well, yer acting a bit like a bairn at the moment!” Lucien hissed, advancing towards her and reaching for her again. “Come along!”

“Ah, yes, are you afraid that the fox you’re hunting is going to attack me?” Elain sneered, dodging him again. “At least being attacked by a fox would be more exciting than how I spend my days now!”

For once, Lucien looked a bit guilty. “I’m sorry, Elain,” he said quietly, grimacing slightly. “I ken the past few weeks have been difficult for ye. I’m a bit busy with… some things at the moment.”

Elain recognized that Lucien appeared sincere in his apology, but she was too worked up, too angry to accept his kindness and docility so easily. “Too busy that you couldn’t bother to come find me and talk to me at all in the past two weeks?” Elain goaded.

The guilt vanished from Lucien’s face, replaced with a look that reminded Elain of their wedding night. “Doors open from both sides, ye ken.” He looked at her fully, glancing down to gaze at her body before settling on her lips. Elain was suddenly aware that she was only wearing a thin shift and the shawl around her shoulders. “But now that ye have me here—“

Elain hadn’t realized she was backed against the garden wall until Lucien stalked towards her and Elain couldn’t back away. She gasped as Lucien towered over her, his strong arms bracketing her head. 

“Well, wife,” Lucien said huskily. “What do ye want to talk about?” 

This was completely unexpected coming from Lucien, given his frosty behavior before, but not entirely unwelcome. Elain mentally cursed herself for being so weak when it came to Lucien, that all it took was a heated glance to melt her, before she remembered her anger. “You—you’ve been ignoring me!”

“Aye, I have,” he said softly, lowering his head so he was barely inches from her face. This close to Lucien, Elain could make out a tiny scratch on his throat. “Though it pains me so.”

“Does it really?”

“Aye, it does.”

“You’ve a horrible way of showing it,” Elain snapped, fighting to resist Lucien’s charm as his warm lips brushed her temple. She gasped softly at the touch, and felt her knees start to shake. This close, she could smell him so clearly, his long hair dancing across her face: crackling wood from a fireplace on a cold, rainy day, a touch of sweetness like a freshly baked apple pie, and a deep, rich scent that reminded her of the ale they served at dinner. Elain closed her eyes to steady herself. “And I’ve been so lonely and bored here.”

“Verra unfortunate,” Lucien whispered, his lips barely landing over her full cheek and continuing their downward path. 

“You couldn’t bother to let me know that we had visitors today. It made me look–” Elain shuddered as one of his large hands settled on the indent of her waist, his long fingers spanning her body and tightening against her flesh– “very foolish as the new Lady of the House.”

Based on the shaky breath he let out, Elain knew Lucien was as taut as she was. “A tragedy of the highest order.”

“And, and,” Elain swallowed, losing her train of thought as Lucien kissed his way along her jaw. He stooped down to trail feather-light kisses down the column of her throat, and Elain couldn’t stop the small moan that escaped her lips, especially when his lips continued going down, down, down…  

She felt Lucien chuckle against the sensitive skin of her throat, his warm breath dancing across her skin like embers from a fire. “And what, Elain?”

“And you left me alone and naked on our wedding night.”

Lucien groaned, pressing his lips into her forehead. “Which I’ve sorely regretted. How would ye have me apologize to ye?”

Elain looked up at Lucien through her eyelashes. His face was half-cast in shadow; all she could see were the silver scars on his face and the rough eyepatch covering the space where one of his eyes should have been. He looked dangerous and feral, and Elain felt desire suddenly and swiftly course through her body like a raging river.

It made absolutely no sense. Elain shouldn’t desire him like she did right now, especially after the abominable way he had treated her and the rude things he had said to her, even if he had apologized. She had been raised to expect gentle civility and respectful kindness from her peers and eventual husband.

But Elain didn’t want gentle or kind from Lucien, at least not now. His lips lightly sucked the skin under her ear, and Elain couldn’t contain her moan. What Lucien was doing to her body with so little effort was unnatural, like a clever and dangerous fae trying to seduce and tempt her into running away with him, and she was powerless to resist. 

Elain had never seen or met such a wild and dangerous man as Lucien, a man who wore his mysteries like a cloak and for whom violence was like a second skin. 

Elain wanted him desperately. 

“You owe me a proper wedding kiss,” Elain breathed. 

He groaned softly, then barely brushed his warm lips against her cheek, a whisper of a promise of more to come. “Like that?”

“I thought the Scottish had more fire in them than that,” Elain shot back, breathing hard and keeping her sharp eyes on Lucien.

“Aye, we do,” Lucien growled, his eye ablaze. His hand skimmed down her waist to her hip and roughly squeezed her flesh, his touch branding her even through her nightgown as Lucien tugged her close to him. Elain gasped at his aggressive touch—it was exactly what she needed, a way to feel something and let out some of the frustration that had been growing inside her the past two weeks. Elain reached up and gripped his biceps as hard as she could, wanting Lucien to feel the same pain and yearning she felt for him.

Based on the groan he let out, Lucien understood her loud and clear. “It seems my wee English wife isn’t the quiet, demure lady I thought she was,” Lucien rasped. Quick as a hawk, his hand not gripping her hip cradled her jaw. Elain stopped breathing, the fire in his eye turning her to stone as his thumb rested on her full lips. 

Elain was truly ensnared under Lucien’s spell—that was the only explanation she had as her tongue darted out and barely stroked the pad of his calloused thumb. Just from that small touch, Elain got a taste of rich, loamy, soil, freshly washed linens, and an unknown, bitter aroma as they all wafted across her tongue. 

Lucien slowly dragged his thumb down her lips. “An e bana-bhuidseach thu, air mo chuir gu mo mhilleadh?” he asked thoughtfully, almost to himself. His hand stroked her jaw, his resolve hardening. “Damn e uile—bidh mi gu toileach air mo bheò-ghlacadh leat, a ghràidh.”

Elain had no idea what Lucien was saying but she didn’t care, not when he was staring at her with more feeling and want in one eye than anyone with two eyes had ever looked at her. Elain couldn’t breathe, not when his gaze darted to her lips, not when he gently tilted her head back, not when he licked his own thick lips, and not when he slowly lowered his head towards her. She had never wanted anything more in her life than to feel Lucien’s lips against hers, and Elain knew, when his lips touched her own, his fire would start an inferno within her that neither of them would be able to put out—

Somewhere close by, a twig snapped loudly, followed by some loud jeers and laughter. Elain and Lucien froze as the sounds on the other side of the garden wall gradually dissipated away, the silence of the night overtaking them once again.

Elain glanced up at Lucien, who looked stricken, all traces of his desire gone. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “We—I shouldna’ have let it get that far.”

Her heart cracked a little. Her and Lucien had finally started forging a connection between the two of them, and he instantly regretted it when it was over. Elain pushed him away and righted herself, ignoring the throbbing between her legs. 

“You’re right,” Elain said angrily, tears burning the corner of her eyes. “God forbid you spend time getting to know your wife!”

“Elain, I didna mean—“

“I think you meant exactly what you said. Leave me.”

“I can walk ye back inside.”

“I don’t want you to!” Elain snapped, her vision blurry. “You ignore me, play with me, then say such hurtful things.” She balled her fists up, her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Her eyes stung with unshed tears, but she refused to cry. Elain looked Lucien straight in the eye. “I had very little say in this marriage, but I’m at least trying to make it work. You’re a horrible husband and I want you to leave now.”

Lucien looked devastated. “Elain—“

“Leave me!” she yelled, her resolve crumbling. “Just leave.”

Elain was aware of Lucien walking away but of little else. Sobbing, she made her way to a bench and sat down, letting all the frustration and anger and sadness leave her, wishing, with all her heart, that she had listened to Feyre and leapt from their carriage and gone back to England.

XXX

Translations:

An e bana-bhuidseach thu, air mo chuir gu mo mhilleadh?: Are you a witch, sent to ruin me?

Damn e uile - bidh mi gu toileach air mo bheò-ghlacadh leat, a ghràidh: Damn it all-I will gladly be enchanted by you, my darling.

#elucien #elucien fanfic #a court of thorns and roses #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #acotar #the idiots be idioting in this chapter #i tell you what #this is about as tense and angsty as I get #i dont know how some of yall write chapters on chapters of angst #my poor little heart can't take it #my fic #my fics #would anyone be interested in a tag list? #i can also ask this separately as its own post #but let me know!

[the-whole-shebang]

@wishlist022

Here's that Carmen Sandiego angst you asked for!

•••

Shadowsan had been looking for Carmen for nearly two months. Of course, since she'd struck it out on her own, it wasn't like he'd been seeing her much. Even so, he couldn't help but worry. He was constantly scrolling the news and checking in with Zach and Ivy over at ACME, hoping every day for word of another heist, another evil thief foiled by the great Crimson Ghost. As long as he had some kind of sign of life, that was enough for him. It was almost enough to make him crack a smile. He, Shadowsan, one of the greatest VILE operatives to ever hit the field, was here fussing over this girl like she was his daughter. Ridiculous.

Of course, he couldn't even think of smiling now. Once one month had gone by without any sort of news, he officially started to panic. It wasn't like Carmen, and it really began to make him curse not keeping some kind of direct contact with her. A million different horrible scenarios played through his head as he walked down a dusty side road in Buenos Aries: Carmen trapped somewhere it the wilderness, Carmen captured by Interpol, or worse, by an escaped VILE operative, Carmen dead and unidentified in a mourge somewhere in the world, her identity impossible to determine. He shook his head, willing away those pictures.

"No, it can't be," he thought. "She's alive. Somewhere. She has to be."

He continued his march towards the next town over. He had no idea where Carmen could be, but he figured he'd start here. This was where she came from after all; maybe she'd just hunkered down in her old home. He gazed at the landscape as he walked, remembering the mission that brought Carmen to him in the first place. Up until then, he'd never questioned his place in the organization, but having to see the delight at that little girl's face everyday for years, unaware of the circumstances that brought her to that accursed island. He regretted it everyday, but that was the past. Now is what mattered, and he refused to let his guilt crush him any longer.

After what felt like forever, he finally arrived at the next town on his map. It looked about the same as the past four: about 2 dozen buildings and a handful of people milling about in the late afternoon. He began asking everybody he could stop, mentioning Camen's name and showing her picture in a routine that was entirely habit at this point. In fact, he was so caught up in the rhythm that it took him a couple seconds to process when a woman told him she recognized the girl.

"Wait, sorry?" Shadowsan asked, thrown off.

"Yes, I've seen her," the woman repeated. "My husband found her off the side of the road just a week ago, all tore up. Why? Is she in trouble?"

Shadowsan's world fell out from beneath him. This was it, the worst case scenario was now starring him dead in the face.

"She... she's my daughter."

A few minutes later, he was standing in one of the small brick homes, looking down at an unconscious Carmen. He had to fight the urge to fall to his knees, but he felt incable of even holding up his own weight. The woman and her family were standing a few feet behind him, whispering in quiet Portuguese. Shadowsan didn't even bother to listen.

He crouched down beside her, inspecting the damage. Her closed eyes were covered in bandages, as was most of her body. She was breathing slowly, barely a whisper of life still in her lungs. He took her still hand, to exhausted to stop the tears dripping down his face. This was his girl, the one good thing he had managed to keep throughout all his years. It couldn't be over.

"Carmen?" He was whispering as quietly as he could. "Please. I need you to say something. I need-"

He didn't have time to finish his plea before before Carmen's grip suddenly locked on his wrist. She jolted in the bed, gasping so suddenly the family all yelped and stepped back.

"Shadow... san?"

"Yes! Yes it's me I'm right here," Shadowsan said, greif ripping at his chest at the sound of Carmen's voice.

"I- I'm sorry... really I am I... it's over."

"No, of course it's not. Your going to be ok." Even as he said this though, he could feel her wanning. He was losing her. He couldn't lose her.

"Please, just listen. I don't have much time. VILE... somehow... they're back. They found me, they might know where the others are. Julia, Zack and Ivy... you... you've gotta stop them."

"No no no we'll stop them together-"

"I'm sorry." Carmen shakily laid a hand on his arm. She smiled as best she could. "Thank you. For everything..."

She fell limp. Her breathing slowed to stop. It was a few moments before he stood. His eyes never left her body. VILE was back. Carmen was gone. Their was no one left to stand in their way, no one left who could truly take them down.

Except for one person.

Shadowsan left that house, Carmen's body in tow. He buried her off the side of the road, hoping she finally found rest in her home soil. But he wouldn't rest. Staring down at the freshly disturbed soil, he swore an oath. That he would hunt and burn and kill and every last trace of that organization was gone. He would make it painful, and he would make them regret.

Now that she was gone, what else more could he do.

#carmen sandiego #shadowsan #fic #fanfic #fanfic request #fanfic writer #angst #character death

[lilacwineandthesinkingsun]

Can you do one about Ragnar where he finds a girl after Legertha leave and take care of her and the falls for her but has to had it from aslaug with smut please I loved the last one

Sure will try. :) i hope you'll like it!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Ragnar wasn't the same after Lagertha left him. Sure Aslaug was with him, sure they had married and got beautiful boys. But it just wasn't the same. He never felt any kind of love towards her other than being thankful for being the mother of his children.

With new raids, new slaves and new people came to Kattegat as well.

But the most interesting one came as a free woman with the men of Harald and Halfdan.

The first time he saw her, se hopped off the ship, looking around warily as if nobody knew she came.

The second time was at the feast, well into the night. She was asking something from Aslaug in whispers, to which she nod, and whispered back. That was the first time Ragnar had seen the woman smile. After she left, he approached Aslaug, and sat on his throne next to hers, hopping Hvitserk on his lap.

-What did she want? - he asked simply. Aslaug was used to his manners and questions by now.

-She asked for shelter. I told her that i will ask if you'd be willing to share the old farm with her. You are either here or raiding, it would be a waste to not keep the farm working and well. - she said without looking at him.

-I'll take her tomorrow. - he said before leaving to drink.

She didn't have lots of luggage. Some furs, food she had spared from the trip here, a few coins.

-Were you in a hurry? - he asked as he lifted her stuff, which she protested for him not to.. but it was Ragnar after all..

-You could say that. - she smiled to herself.

-Tell me then, why would you want to live Harald's kingdom?

-I am a free woman i don't think i need to answer that question.

-Oh but i think you do. You see we have an alliance, if you are someone important, or someone dangerous should i not know? - he mocked her.

With a sigh she continued looking in front of her, never looking at Ragnar, no matter how hardly she felt his blue eyes boring into her.

-Harald and Halfdan.. they both fancied me. We grew up together, i .. i thought of them like brothers.. so when i refused them both, they threw me to their men. I am a shield-maiden, but i am still not enough when i am unarmed in between 15 of them...

Anger sparked in Ragnar's eyes. Viking men were cruel for sure, they took what they wanted, but disrespecting a shield-maiden like that was rather unheard of. Even if she only just begun, she couldn't have been older than 25. Practically a girl.

-Don't you have family to worry about you?

-No, they died few winters ago when the plague came.

She stopped in the door and smiled at Ragnar. A small but genuine smile.

-Thank you for accompanying me here. I swear on my armring Ragnar Lothbrok that when you call for me to go to battle, i will come.

He stepped closer, their noses nearly touching as he slowly lifted his hand to her waist. Only for her to close her eyes. She surely could not afford to offend Ragnar.

-I will keep that on my mind. - he whispered. Then it all went quiet. A few second later when she opened her eyes again, he was gone.

A few weeks have passed and Ragnar kept visiting her every 1-2 days. She was surprisingly smart, and quick witted. She reminded him of Lagertha, not cause of her looks, but because of her abilities, her brains. She was also surplisingly wise for her age.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aslaug noticed the absence of Ragnar. She had heard that he always left in the direction of the old farm. The god's did not show her any signs of her, so she did the next think she could think of.. visited the Seer.

-Who dares to dig me up in this cold winter day.... - he muttered - oh Queen Aslaug...

-Will she take my husband from me? - she asked.

The Seer started to laugh until he sutmbled to a coughing fit.

-You cannot lose what was never yours to begin with.

That one wounded her deeply, but she know that much.

-The pigeon will die under the crow's wings on the battlefield. Kattegat wil mourn for years to come.. but your husband will remain on your side in the daylight.

He held out his palm, and Aslaug licked it before leaving.

She had wished that Harbard was here, maybe.. maybe he could take her pain in exchange for the new woman's life.. How easy it would be...

That night she sent a man to kill the woman, not caring about the prophecy. However the next morning, she was waiting in the hall, with his severed head on the table. She was looking at his lifeless face while she drank wine from a cup. Her whole body bloodied. Aslaug stood by the door speechless and frozen, when Ragnar saw (Y/n).

He walked and sat down opposite to her, as she started to play with the edge of a dagger.

-Who is this (Y/n)?

She looked at him for a moment before smirking.

-Why don't you ask your queen? - Ragnar looked at Aslaug with wide eyes. The shock and fear evident or Aslaug's face, that was all Ragnar needed to see to know that it was her who sent that man. He took the dagger from (Y/n)'s hands, and threw it towards Aslaug, but missing her on purpose as she broke down crying. When he turned back to (Y/n), she wasn't there anymore.

He hopped on a horse and waited for her at the farm. She only came back when it was already dark outside. She quietly invited him in. Offering food and wine. As Ragnar was finishing up, he saw that she had already combed her hair, and only wore a nightgown, slowly stepping closer and closer to him, the last bite nearly falling out of his mouth. He stood up, drinking the last of his wine before stepping closer to her smirking form, to finally touch her waist again.

-She won't send any more man to kill you. - he said staring into her eyes.

-They couldn't kill me if they tried.

Ragnar used his hand on her waist to pull her flush to him.

-SHould you even be here? - she asked cocking an eyebrow as she planted her hands on his chest.

-I am where i need to be, taking care of you. - he said, gently touching his forehead to hers.

-Is this how you take care of everybody in Kattegat? - she giggled.

-You're the first.. - he said before sliding his hands under her buttcheeks, to lift her up. He knew where the bed was, he used to live here long long years ago. The memories still haunted him, but here, with (Y/n) they were quiet, as if she was the missing piece to the story. He gently put her down on the bed, ridding himself of his clothes before climbing back between her legs. Her kiss was warm, yet cold, exciting, thrilling yet distant still as if she was afraid of being just another. He turned them around so she would have more control. He hated not being in control but for her he would give it up. She smirked and took some cloth to tie his hands above himself to the bedpost.

It was foreign to him, but thrilling regardless. He felt as if he could just let himself go, she would take care of him. And that she did.

She slowly kissed down his body, teasing, kissing everywhere except where he wanted her to, only to feel that he's gonna immediately cum when she finally took his head inside her inviting mouth. The look of her, ass high up in the air, licking, sucking his member was nearly too much already. Everytime she felt him twitch, she slowed down or entirely stopped. At some point Ragnar was so out of it, he practically started to beg to her to sit on it. She giggled, as she straddled him. She leant down to kiss him slowly, only for him to rip the cloth confining him and with a yelp getting on top of her, holding her hands above her head.

She looked at him with lustblown eyes, as he lined himself up with her leaking slit. Only to thrust into her with one swift motion. She moaned, her back arched off of the bed.

He had never made love like with her before.

Just once or twice was not enough. He had not left the old farm for a week, and then again, still only did so Aslaug wouldn't send men for him.

With the sweetest kiss she let him go. She knew she wasn't gonna be Queen of Kattegat, nor did she wanted to. She was a shield-maiden, not fit for a throne.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

When spring approached everybody was in the hall, talking about the upcoming raid. Ragnar made her leader of a ship, she had her own crew of men and women now. They trained hard, and planned even harder. On the day they set sail, Ragnar stood at the edge of the dock where her ship was, touching foreheads with her.

-I'll see you on the otherside Dove. - he said as he gently kissed her.

Most of the men hated Aslaug for what he did to Lagertha, so when word got out, you suddenly had a whole village at your back.

Aslaug stood behind him with their kids, coughing to get his attention. With a sigh (Y/n) nodded to Ragnar to say his goodbyes, as she hopped on her already leaving ship. On the other side of the harbour, Harald and Halfdan watched the scene.

-So this is where she ran off to.. - said Harald. -She could've been queen, and she chose to be a simple mistress...

Harald's eyes followed (Y/n) as she interacted with her crew, not looking back at Ragnar or Aslaug.

-We did threw her to the men... i may not understand women, but that move was surely not too convincing regarding her safety and our feelings... - said Halfdan before climbing to the ship.

Thor spared her from any storms on the way to Frankia. She already had set camp when Ragnar's, and Harald's ships arrived.

By the time Ragnar made time to see her, she was talking with Harald near a cliff.

-Why did you leave us? - he asked.

-You really asked that? - she scoffed - You threw me to your men to use as they please, to even kill me if they wanted to.. just because you never heard no in your life.

-But i.. we loved you so dearly, you would've been queen..

-Did it ever cross your mind that i want a simpler life than that? I was never meant nor wanted to be queen.

-And being the mistress of Ragnar Lothbrok is simpler? - he asked.

She stood up, slapped him before she left, seeing that Ragnar heard everything. SHe did not stop, she just went to her crew, and drank.

A raid, an unknown continet isnt the place where she can affor to have feelings, where she could afford to fight her own.

Early morning Ragnar entered her tent with some water and a few pieces of meat and bread. She took it, but she did not talk.

-I would never betray you like that i hope you know that. - he said to her.

-You couldn't betray me like that even if you tried. - she said as she straddled him and took his already hard member to slide herself down on.

-I am nothing to you. - she said as she started to chase her own release on top of him, making him growl.

-You are everything to me. - he said grunting. - but i undertand you'd never want to be my queen.

-Good at least one of you understand. - she said before biting down on his shoulder. He growled and threw her back on the furs, getting on top of her, pumping in and out of her mercilessly. Her moans must have woke half the camp, but he did not care. It was quick, there wasn't much love in it. Animalistic desires took them over after the last few weeks.

Harald and Halfdan heard her loud and clear, knowing they had lost her... way back then.

After he had shoot his seed deep inside her, they laid cuddling for a few moments before the battle. The franks knew they were coming.

After days of trying and losing, Ragnar fell sick. The seer had told him that it would be the dead who would take Paris, not the living. He had instructed Floki to build a coffin, with a secret compartment. He only let Bjorn in on the plan. You were all mourning him as you all thought he was dead.

One by one everyone shared their secrets with his coffing, thinking he was long gone, already feasting in Valhalla.

She was the last to visit him.

-I cannot believe i am losing you already. We shouldn't have left the farm... - she cried. - i would even be your fucking queen, if only you'd come back to me sweet Ragnar...

9 men took the coffin inside the city. All of the men and women sang for him as they accompanied him to the gates. However Bjorn told the leaders to just hide near, don't go back to the camp. That is when she remembered what Ragnar said about the dead taking Paris. She smiled at how brilliant her lover was. Soon enough the battle was in full motion, they had took Paris. Only a few of the franks remained either in chains, or hiding somewhere. She was walking towards Ragnar, fire, blood and dead men behind her, and she smiled. Only she did not saw the archer behind her. He shot her back. Ragnar launched himself towards her, taking her limp body in his arms, crying for his love.

-So the dead indeed took Paris. - she smiled weakly.

-Shhh.. sh... you will be okay, you cannot leave me.. you cannot leave me too.. i need you.. i want you to be my queen...

She slowly, lifted her shaking hand to his face to wipe away his tears.

-My love.. i was never meant to be Queen.. - before shutting her eyes for all eternity.

Ragnar kissed her lips one last time gently. Carrying her out to the shore, so she could have a proper viking burial. That is what she'd have wanted. Ragnar was the one to shoot a flaming arrow to the makeshift boat.

-I will meet you in Valhalla (Y/n), we will feast together and make love for weeks.. You hurried there, but now i ask you to wait. Wait for me my love.. - he shouted after the burning body floating on the water.

And he never were the same after.

#ragnar #ragnar lothbrok #ragnar x reader #vikings

[mirrortouchedsea]

⬛⬛⬛ was seven years old when his mother died. He remembers being sad, mourning her sudden loss in the way children process death. He stayed by her bedside as she took her last breath, holding her hand and crying, begging her to stay. She loved him. She had spent her last moments making sure he knew that he wasn’t alone and never would be, as long as he could keep her in his memory. 

He remembers crying out as her casket was closed for the final time, lowered into the ground. Something snapped in him and he was begging her to stay again, begging them to not take her away. 

⬛⬛⬛ didn’t come out of his room for weeks afterwards. He sat in his room, cradling a photo of his mother in his hands. His father would leave food for him and he would eat it, never taking his eyes off the photo. 

So when his father came home after only two months of his mother being dead, ⬛⬛⬛ was not what one would call happy. Even though he’d started going back to school a few weeks ago, he wasn’t ready for someone else to take her place. Nobody else could ever be his mother. 

He got into an argument with his father that night. At seven years old, ⬛⬛⬛ decided that he couldn’t bear to live in a house with a man who could so easily replace the woman he claimed to love. He didn’t know where he was going but he took the clothes on his back, the photo of his mother, and some cash he’d been saving up and just walked out. 

He made his way to the bus stop and got on, thinking about where he would even go. He wasn’t sure he could make his way to his mother’s family on his own, as they lived on the other side of the country, and he definitely didn’t want to see his father’s family. So he stayed on the bus as long as the driver would let him stay. 

Eventually though, he did have to get off. It was sprinkling out, not enough to make him uncomfortable, but it was a sign of heavier rains to come. ⬛⬛⬛ made his way from the bus stop to a restaurant that looked like it was about to close, but still had the lights on and maybe they could give him some shelter from the rain, at least for a while. He stepped inside and stared at the workers cleaning up the dining room. They looked…concerned that a child his age was alone at night, especially in this part of town, one would say.

They asked him what he was doing out, if he lost his parents, if he was from the area. It’s not safe out here for kids like you, they told him. He doesn’t remember responding, but he must have because they shuffled him to the back of the restaurant to their boss and asked what to do with him. None of them could really afford to take a child in but he hadn’t told him where he was from or where his parents were. They suggested calling the police, but ⬛⬛⬛ started crying at the suggestion, not wanting to get them involved. I can’t go home, he told them, my father is a bad person.

The restaurant manager agreed to allow him to stay for a bit, giving him a meal on the grounds that he’d leave by the end of the week. ⬛⬛⬛ agreed, scarfing down the food like it was the best thing he’d ever eaten. 

Over the next few days, ⬛⬛⬛ bid his time by doing dishes, greeting customers, learning to read from the menu. The staff treated him kindly, but they felt distant, unsure of what to do with him, though by the time the weekend came, he hadn’t figured out where he wanted to go. A few of the staff pointed him towards an orphanage in town, but one of the cooks slipped him a one way train ticket to a few cities over, somewhere he could get out of that area, a note attached with directions on where to go to meet someone who would take him in. 

He held the ticket in his hand, scanning it as he walked through the station to the loading area, the note clutched in his hand. ⬛⬛⬛ was practically shaking as he entered the train by himself. A few adults asked if he was okay, if he knew where he was going. Yes, he said, I’m just not used to traveling by myself, but my uncle is going to meet me at my stop. That was a lie he’d rehearsed on the way there but they let him be. He had to fight himself to keep from falling asleep and missing his stop, but he must have succumbed to it at some point, as one of the adults next to him gently shook him awake as they approached his destination. He thanked them and hopped off his seat, getting ready to depart the train car and start his new life. 

He stepped onto the platform and was greeted by a bustling crowd. It was overwhelming to say the least, so many strange people just going about their day. ⬛⬛⬛ made his way to the staircase where someone came up from behind him, introduced himself as the person who would be taking care of the young boy. He could call him “Priest”, as his true name was of little importance. He asked if the young boy had a name, which the boy muttered under his breath. When asked to repeat it, he said he wished to give up his name, as he no longer wanted to be associated with the person who gave it to him. The Priest agreed with him and said they’d find a suitable name for him soon enough. There were many names in the world, but for now he’d be referred to as the Prodigal Son, or simply the Son for short. The Son found this amicable and agreed to the change. He remembers wondering what that meant, as he had never heard of the word “Prodigal” before, but he would come to understand it in due time. 

The Priest taught the Son many things, reading, writing, the history of Japan, things that he remembered being taught in school before his mother passed, but he also taught the Son many other things one would never find in a normal school. The Son learned the art of disguise, impersonation, how to manipulate his voice. Some day, the Priest had told him, he’d be called upon to use his gifts for the greater good. The Son, not knowing any better, accepted this and that his skills would be useful in the future. 

The Son went through many identities in his time studying under the Priest. His hair had been cut, extended, dyed and bleached, his eyes were a dozen different colors and none of them. He could mimic any voice after observing the speaker for ten minutes. He went by many different names, though he always came back to the Son. In due time, he forgot his father entirely, but he carried the last photo of his mother with him in his pocket wherever he went. It made him feel at ease, as if she were watching over him from the afterlife still, protecting him from the harsh realities of the world. The photo had faded with time, the wear and tear on it having almost removed her face entirely, but the Son could still picture it perfectly. It had been burned into his mind on the day he watched her take her last breath.

The Son started University at age 17, younger than many of his peers in Japan, and he graduated at age 20. It hadn’t been easy, but he had honed his skills and developed them on the stage, playing off his talents as being simply that, talent and skill, not something he had used to bring about political upheaval in the past and likely in the future. 

The Son had kept his distance at University though, going by another fake name and only attending the bare minimum of classes and extracurriculars that were required of him by the Priest. He had begun proper vocal training to learn how to sing, something that he had been told would be useful soon, though he had not been given the details, and further developed his voice by participating in several musical performances, though he still remained rather distant from the rest of the cast and crew, exchanging only the bare necessities of pleasantries and making excuses to get out of bonding time outside of scheduled practice hours. 

The Son was a lonely man, and he knew this. He knows this. He is a lonely man. He was about to turn 23 when the Priest finally told him about his newest mission. Do you remember your father, the Priest had asked over the phone. No, replied the Son, not more than I need to, anyway. So you remember you had a father, and he had another wife after you left, the Priest continued. The Son hummed in agreement, Yes I ran away because of her, you know this. Of course I do, but I just wanted to make sure, Anyway did you know he had another son with her? What do you mean by another son? I mean that you are an older brother, and your younger brother needs help. I do not want to speak to anyone else related to that man. Oh but you’ve been training to help your brother, haven’t you, he dreams of being an idol, someone who sings and dances on stage like you. Theater performances and being an idol are two different things. Yes, well it wouldn’t exactly be easy to get you to train to be an idol with no intentions on debuting, so we had to make do. Why should I help him? Out of the love in your heart for your own flesh and blood. I do not consider that old man my father, nor that boy my brother. He has a secret he needs to keep, something I’m sure you’re familiar with of course. What secret? All in due time, Son, will you help him or not? 

The Son refused to meet his brother in person for the first few months, preferring to instead communicate only by phone. He had been studying at Reimei academy, he told him, as part of the idol course. His mother loved idols, loved them so very much and it was the only memory he had of her. The Son understood his brother on that level. During their phone calls, the Son learned about his brother’s rival at the school, a boy by the name of Tatsumi Kazehaya who happened to be in the year above him. Tatsumi Kazehaya was perfect in many ways, something that his brother found infuriating. Why couldn’t he be like that? He lamented in one phone call. The Son told him that some people are simply born with talent, and Kazehaya was one of them. His brother relented and continued to update the Son on his progress. 

Despite the Son knowing his brother’s name, Kaname Tojou, his brother did not know his, instead choosing to refer to him only as “Onii-chan,” a word that grated on his ears. He was not a cute older brother to be looked up to and in fact he’d rather be doing anything else than be there, and yet. He stayed calm. Once Kaname debuted and got on his feet, the Son would fade back into the background as if he never existed. That was the plan, anyway. The Priest had told him that he would be free to do as he pleased away from his watchful eye if everything went according to plan. 

After a year of guiding his brother in the ways of being an idol, the Son wanted to see how he was progressing. Kaname hadn’t said anything about a performance, but since the Son was very good at keeping an ear to the ground, he had found out about a performance between Kaname and Tatsumi to be put on for the entire school. He wasn’t entirely sure what the purpose of that was exactly, but it would be a good time to gauge Kaname’s progress and how well he had followed the Son’s instructions. The Son made his way through the crowd, finding a spot near the front but not where Kaname could see him and he watched the empty stage, waiting for any sign of life.

The projectors came on and a video began playing, a video about the exact secret that the Son had been safeguarding even from his brother. It was a video about Kaname’s mother and how she had ruined the career of one of the best idols that had ever existed in Japan. The energy in the crowd was agitated, vibrating with anger as they waited for the two aspiring idols to take the stage. The Son wanted to run backstage, warn his brother of the impending danger, but could only watch in horror as the curtains raised and the crowd rushed forward. The Son looked on as the two young idols were yanked from the stage, a scream lost to the noise of the crowd, unable to do anything. 

When it was over, he had found himself in the hospital waiting room, pacing the length of it as he went over the potential outcome of the surgery. His brother had suffered greatly, that much was obvious to the Son as they loaded the two boys into the ambulance, but how much damage was done had yet to be seen. 

Someone approached the Prodigal Son while he was pacing and placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Thank you for coming home. 

#shay writes #enstars #ensemble stars #himeru #OKAY OKAY. IM JUST POSTING IT IDC I NEED TO GET THIS OUT OF MY SYSTEM #HIMERU BACKSTORY BUT I HAD TO WRITE IT LIKE SARAMAGO IDK IT JUST KINDA HAPPENED #BUT I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING IN THIS STYLE YOU HAVE NOOOOOOOOO IDEA #i edited about 3 pages of this and then was like. fuck it i cant do this anymore #hate reading my own writing hate hate hate it but yeah. oremeru backstory #theres more that i want to maybe expand upon eventually but i need more time to rotate those ideas in my mind #so like. runaway meru and then with the priest. but only a little with the priest #also idk when priest died. i know it happened slightly before the current era but idk by how much so. #to me? he was the one who got oremeru in contact with kaname and then died some time between that phone call and the current era #ik they mentioned priest being dead in one of the 1.5 tours i think the mayoshino one but blegh #or maybe it was a scout story idr its not super relevant i'll read it eventually but yeah. #okay enjoy 2.3k words of me just throwing things at the wall

[justagalwhowrites]

Lavender - Ch. 7

You realize something major just as the world ends. A continuation of Lavender Ch. 1-6, found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Length: 6k

Warnings: TLOU Canon-typical violence, attempted suicide, mention of sex. No use of Y/N. Overall fic is 18+ Minors DNI

A/N: Y'all, this is the outbreak chapter. Apologies in advance.

Tuesday, September 2, 2003 

You’d been throwing up enough the last few days that you knew the signs. When your stomach started turning on your drive to work, you groaned. 

“Goddammit,” you muttered, spotting a Walgreens on the corner. They’d have a bathroom. And maybe something you could use to kick this stupid stomach bug. You parked and all but sprinted for the bathroom, knocking once on the door before yanking it open. You barely made it to the toilet, throwing up everything you’d managed to eat that morning. Not that much sounded good. It had been a struggle finding anything worth trying to eat every day since you either got food poisoning or caught the stomach flu or whatever the hell was going on. 

Once you were sure it had passed, you sat back on your heels, groaning. This was getting so old. You rinsed your mouth out in the sink and ventured down the aisles of the store, grabbing a travel container of Listerine before going to the pharmacy counter. 

“Can I help you?” The cheery woman in a white coat said. 

“I hope so,” you smiled sheepishly. “I don’t know what’s been going on with me but I either got some crazy food poisoning or caught some stomach bug, I’ve been doing nothing but throw up for three days. I’ve tried Pepto, I’ve tried Dramamine, I’m hoping you have another idea…” 

“Could you be pregnant?” She asked, her eyebrows drawing together in a slight frown. 

“No,” you laughed and then paused, doing the math. 

You hadn’t had your period since June. That wasn’t super odd for you, you’d never been particularly regular. Some months it just didn’t show up. But it’s not like you’d been having tons of crazy sex since you got dumped last month… You’d just had lots of crazy sex when you’d last seen Joel seven weeks ago. Like the time in the pool the morning you flew home, where he came so deep inside you it felt almost impossible. Your hand drifted to your lower stomach. 

“Pregnancy tests are on aisle eight,” she pointed, giving you a sad half smile. You just nodded, leaving the Listerine on the counter and walking in a daze for the tests. You almost blindly grabbed a pack. There was a smiling woman on the package, like that positive test was the best thing had ever happened to her. You carried it back to the pharmacy counter. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, still dazed. “Can I buy these here? Even though I’m not getting a prescription?” 

“No problem,” she scanned the tests and the Listerine and you paid before walking to the bathroom. You weren’t sure when you’d last blinked. 

You peed on the stick, washed your hands and paced, checking your watch every few seconds as if that would make time go faster. But when the time was up, you didn’t want to pick up the test and see the result. Didn’t want to know what the answer was, like you’d rather not know a damn thing and then deal with whatever comes when it comes. 

You picked up the test. 

Two pink lines. 

“Oh God.” 

You didn’t remember driving to work. You didn’t really remember walking in, either. The first thing you were aware of was stopping at Louisa’s classroom door, poking your head in as she set up for her first class of the year. 

“When’s your planning period?” You asked. 

“Third,” she said. “Same as last year.” 

“Good,” you said. “I’m coming by.” 

“Not a great day for it,” she said absently. “I’ve got so much crap to do…” 

“Louisa,” you said, pleading. She looked up at you and frowned. 

“Yeah, OK,” she nodded. “See you third period.” 

You were on autopilot the first two periods. You doubted you’d be able to pick any of your students out of a lineup your mind was so full of other things. 

Pregnant. You were pregnant. In 15 years you’d have a kid this age. Oh God, you were going to have a kid. Were you going to have a kid? Were you going to do this alone? 

You didn’t even knock on Louisa’s door at the start of third period, just letting yourself in and closing it behind you. 

“So what’s so urgent?” She said, sitting at a lab table and cracking open a Diet Coke. “You look like death.” 

You wordlessly pulled the Walgreens bag from your purse, getting the test out and setting it on the plastic. 

“Oh fuck,” Louisa stared at it for a second, her mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah.” 

“Oh Honey,” she leaned forward and hugged you. It took you a moment to hug her back. She sat back down. You still felt numb. “When did you find out?” 

“This morning,” you said, staring straight ahead. “I kept getting sick, went to a pharmacy to see what I could get, they asked if I was pregnant and…” 

“It didn’t occur to you otherwise?” She asked, brows raised. “Hon, you teach bio. You’re getting ready to go to med school.” 

“I know, I’m a fucking idiot,” you groaned. “I don’t know how this happened…” 

“Please tell me this is the product of some fling you had that you never told me about and not the guy who broke your heart so bad you were basically catatonic for a week,” she said. 

“Cute that you think I’m capable of having a fling,” you muttered. She groaned. “I know. This is the worst case scenario, I don’t know what the hell to do…” 

“Do you know if you want to keep it or not yet?” She asked gently. 

“I don’t know,” your hand drifted to your lower stomach again. “You’re a single parent, what do you think I should do?” 

“I can’t answer that for you, Hon,” she covered the hand that was resting on the table with hers. “First of all, I was 29 when I got pregnant and happily married - or so I thought. Yeah, my husband was screwing around on me but I was none the wiser then. You’re, what, 23?” 

“I’m 24,” you stared at her hand on yours. 

“You’re basically a kid yourself,” she said. You snorted. Kid. Joel’d always seen you as a kid, even after years together. “And you’d be on your own from the get go. That’s a lot to consider.” 

You just nodded slowly. 

“Have you told the asshole?” She asked. 

“Can you not call him that?” You frowned. 

“He broke my friend’s heart, I should call him a lot worse,” she said. “But fine. Because of your delicate condition…” you smiled and she smiled back. “Have you told Joel?” 

“No,” you said. “And I don’t know that I should. Ever. Even if I decide to keep it.” 

“You’d really keep his child a secret from him?” She frowned. “Honey…” 

“He’s just…” you felt like you were about to cry. “He’s the most dedicated father on the planet. The second I told him he’d uproot his whole life. All for something he doesn’t want. He already gave up everything once for a kid he didn’t plan for, I’m not going to make him do that again. He doesn’t want me, I’m not going to force it on him. I live far enough away now, I could never see him again. It’d be easy to never see him again, he’d never have to know.” 

You looked down to the hand against your stomach, covering the place where part of him was growing inside you. 

Part of you loved the idea of having a piece of him with you forever. But it seemed cruel, putting that on a child. And bringing a child into the world without their father’s knowledge. 

“Fuck,” you sighed. 

“I’ll support you, whatever you decide to do,” she said. “Want a clinic ride? I’ve got your back. Want tips on getting a crying baby to quiet down? I’ve got those. It’ll be OK. Whatever route you choose, it’ll be OK.” 

Thursday, September 25, 2003 

“That’s really still all you can eat,” Jessica, Louisa’s 13-year-old daughter was leaning across her mother’s kitchen counter at you. You broke off another piece of Clif bar and popped it in your mouth. 

“Unfortunately yes,” you said. “Don’t get knocked up, it’s no fun.” 

She cocked her head. “Can I try one?” She asked. You made a face. 

“Why.” 

She shrugged. 

“It looks good,” she said. You looked at her skeptically. “You make it look like it would be good. Because you’re so pretty.” 

You narrowed your eyes. 

“What do you want.” 

“Can you get my mom to let me go to a party tomorrow?” She asked quickly. “Everyone’s going…” 

“You can’t go,” Louisa cut her daughter off. “Stop trying to get your aunt to help butter me up, it won’t work.” 

“Mom,” she groaned, dragging the word out. “Please! I’ll clean the house for a month!” 

“Gotta put in that work beforehand,” she shook her head. “Not happening.” 

“Ugh!” Jessica stomped off to her room and slammed the door. Louisa sighed. 

“See what you’ve got to look forward to?” She muttered. 

“Counting the days,” you broke off another piece of Clif bar. 

“Know if you’re telling him or not?” She asked, sitting next to you at the breakfast bar. You sighed. 

“I’m leaning towards telling him,” you said. “It doesn’t feel right to have his kid and have him not know about it.” 

“It would be a rough situation,” she nodded. “I think telling him is right. He should know there’s a little human that’s half his wandering around out in the world.” 

“Did I tell you my friend Cassie from college got engaged?” You asked. She shook her head. “Well, she did. To the guy she’s been dating for less than a year. I probably should have figured this wasn’t going to stick when we were still just dating after three years… Anyway. Her engagement party is in October in Austin. I was thinking I could fly down, I shouldn’t be showing much yet. Could always just wear a flowy dress or something. See if he’ll talk to me and decide then.” 

“That will give you a bit more time to think,” she said. 

“I’ll have time to come up with a plan,” you nodded slowly. “That’s what I really need before I have this conversation. A plan for him to not need to be involved. We can play pass the baby once they’re old enough if he wants, ship them across the country to visit Dad for the summer. Alternate Christmases. But I’ll have a plan so that he doesn’t need to do anything. No child support, no obligation to me, nothing.” 

You sighed, taking a sip of water. 

“You know what really sucks about all this?” You asked. 

“What?” She said. 

“I really fucking need a glass of wine.” 

Louisa barked a laugh. 

“Yeah,” she said. “You really do.” 

“His birthday’s tomorrow,” you said, staring at the wall. “Think I’ll text him. See if he’d be OK seeing me in October.” 

“Have you talked to him since…” 

“Nope,” you ate the last of the Clif bar. “Not a word.” 

“Fucker,” she muttered. 

“It’s a clean break,” you shrugged. “He wanted out. I don’t blame him.” 

Louisa sighed. 

“I’m sorry you’re going through this but I think you’ll be happy this way,” she said eventually. “You’re going to be the fucking best mom. And for all the asshole’s…” 

“Joel’s,” you interrupted her. 

“For all Joel’s faults,” she corrected herself. “He will be a devoted dad. Even from afar.” 

You leaned your head on her shoulder. 

“I know you’re right,” you sighed. 

“You’ll get there, Kid,” she said. You smiled a little. You’d never told her what Joel used to call you. It still made you happy to hear it. “You’ll get there.” 

Friday, September 26, 2003 

It was a nice night. The air was cool, crisp. Cool enough that you’d thrown on a sweatshirt before going to lay in the grass in your grandmother’s back yard. 

You couldn’t be happier that the week was over. Pregnancy was exhausting, you were tired all the time and the steady diet of nothing but Clif bars had gotten old really fast - though it was better than the constant vomiting. The cashier at the camping store in town had looked at you like you were crazy when you’d ordered several hundred of the damn things but, at a certain point, you were tired of going to the store for the same stupid thing every week when they had the half life of plutonium. You’d just picked up your stash earlier in the week and you’d been rotating through the flavors, pretending that made it so you were eating something different. 

When you’d had lunch with Louisa that day, she told you she’d caved and told Jessica she could go to the party. Jessica was giddy. But Louisa had texted you just after you got outside, asking if you could watch for a text from Jessica if she needed anything later. She wasn’t feeling well, needed to lie down.

Something was probably going around. Nan had gone to bed early herself, complaining of a headache and just generally not feeling well. You were giving it until Monday, then you would call her oncologist. See if the cancer was back. Fuck, you hoped it wasn’t back. But you’d just have to cross that bridge… 

You’d managed to text Joel earlier, too. It had gone better than you’d expected. You wrote and deleted the text four times before you sent it. “Happy birthday! Hope you’re doing well, old man.” You just hoped he’d respond, give you an in to see if he’d meet you in October. He replied almost instantly. 

“Thanks, Kid. Hanging in there. How’s life up north?” 

You hesitated. You didn’t want to look too eager. 

“Not bad. Already ready for the school year to be done. How’s Sarah?” 

He replied quickly again. 

“Good. Loves her classes so far. Made me eggs with shells for breakfast.” 

You laughed. 

“Crunchy. Cassie got engaged. I was thinking of coming down for the party in October. Would you want to get coffee?” 

There was a longer pause this time, but he eventually replied. 

“How about dinner?” 

You smiled. You doubted you’d be able to eat much but dinner with Joel sounded like heaven. 

“Dinner works! I’ll let you know when I know details. Try not to break a hip, old man.” 

“Take care of yourself, Kid.” 

The sky was clear and wide and you wished you knew more about the constellations. You knew the big dipper and the north star, but otherwise were at a loss. You tried to invent new ones when the soft sounds of crickets and the breeze was broken by the roar of jet engines. Two small planes streaked overhead, flying low. You frowned, sitting up and turning to watch them. 

They looked… military? Like something out of “Top Gun.” Which didn’t make any sense, you’d never seen planes like that near you. They disappeared from view and you were about to lie back down when the scream of engines returned. This time, there was a huge plane, flying lower than you were used to seeing. You could see the red, white and blue paint on the side. The smaller jets flew alongside it for a moment before falling back and you saw something launch from one of the smaller planes, streaking across the sky until it collided with the bigger plane, exploding on impact and sending the bigger plane crashing to the Earth. 

“Oh my God!” 

You didn’t remember standing up but you were on your feet, running toward where the plane would come down. The smaller jets tore off, engines roaring, and you felt as the larger plane hit the ground, the force of the impact shaking the Earth and knocking you down. The plane landed in the field of the lavender farm, an orange fireball casting the farmhouse in a ghoulish silhouette. 

You just stared for a second. It didn’t make sense. Why would fighter jets shoot down a fucking passenger plane? Would anyone have survived? Was there anything you could do? Was there another terrorist attack, were people crashing planes into buildings again, was that why? 

Your hands shook as you went for your phone, just staring. You were fumbling with it, trying to open it to call 911 when the screen lit up. It was Joel. You managed to answer. 

“Joel?” Your voice shook. 

“Baby,” he sounded frantic. “Thank fuck, are you OK?” 

How did he know? It couldn’t be on the news yet, how could he know? 

“I’m OK,” you said. You were in a daze. There was so much fire… “What’s happening? I was outside, there were jets… they shot down a fucking plane, Joel, are we under attack?” 

“Has anyone tried to hurt you?” 

You tried to make sense of the question. Aside from almost having a plane shot down on your head? 

“No,” you said. “Joel, what’s happening, why are you asking me that?” 

“Somethin’s happening,” he said quickly. “I don’t know what the fuck it is but people are going crazy, one of the Adlers just tried to kill Sarah…” 

“What!” You screamed it. “Is she…” 

“She’s OK. But they’re not the only ones, there’s somethin’ happening,” he said. “Baby, I need you to listen to me, do exactly what I tell you, OK?” 

“Joel…” 

“Remember all the gear we got for our hiking trip last year?” He asked. You just nodded for a moment before you remembered that you’d need to talk. 

“Yeah,” you said. “Yeah, I remember.” 

“Good,” he said. “Go get that. All of it, pack your backpack and only take what you need to survive. Get food you can live off of for a bit. Your grandma still have that shotgun?” 

“Yes,” you were still watching the plane burn. 

“Good,” he said again. “Get that, too. And all the ammunition. Car have gas?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good. Try to make sure you can carry everything you need and have it ready to go but load your car. Try to get to Martha’s Vineyard, OK?” “Martha’s… why?” 

“Sounds like it might just be the cities,” he said quickly. “Get there. Far enough from the cities but enough rich people that they’ll keep it safe. I’ll come get you, OK? I’m coming to get you.” 

“Joel,” your voice broke. 

“You kill anyone who comes near you, you hear me?” He said. “It’s going to come down to you livin’ or them, make sure it’s you.” 

“I can’t just kill people, Joel…” 

“Yes you can, Baby,” he sounded so desperate. “Yes you can. Protect yourself, keep yourself safe, that’s all that matters. I’ve got Sarah and Tommy, we’re coming to get you. I love you. I love you so much, don’t let anyone take you from me, do you understand?” 

“I love you too,” you breathed. 

“I’m coming to get you, Baby,” he said. “Stay safe. Please, please, Baby, stay safe.” 

“Dad!” You could barely hear Sarah’s shriek before the call dropped. 

“Joel?” You knew it was useless but you yelled into the phone anyway. “Joel!” 

You tried to call again but just got the dissonant sound of a call failing to connect. 

“Martha’s Vineyard,” you said to yourself, forcing yourself to run for your house. “Martha’s Vineyard.” 

You went to the basement and found all the gear from your hiking trip, packing it as quickly as you could while keeping things somewhat organized. You still had a fair bit of room left in the large hiking pack when you lugged it up to the kitchen. You grabbed all the Clif bars plus some of the protein drinks your grandmother’s doctors had told her to drink. You grabbed water, too. 

“Nan!” You yelled, tucking the shotgun below your arm as you headed upstairs. “You awake?” 

You were sure she was, there’s no way she slept through the plane crash. 

“We have to go, Nan,” you called as you went to your room, grabbing a few pairs of clean underwear, socks and a waterproof jacket. There was still a bit of room in your pack, so you grabbed your quilt off your bed. You could always ditch it if you absolutely needed to later, but for now you had the space and you wanted it with you. You pulled the pictures you had of you, Joel and Sarah from their frames and stashed them in a pocket on the pack. You grabbed your favorites of you and your grandmother, too, and the one you had of you and Becca. You grabbed your phone charger. 

“Nan?” You took one last look around your room, hoping you’d see it again. You weren’t so sure you would. There was a scraping sound behind you and you turned. Your grandmother stood in the doorway but she didn’t look quite right. Her head was cocked, her arms dangling. Her eyes looked dead. 

“Nan?” You frowned, walking over to her. “Are you feeling OK? We have to go…”

You never had the chance to offer to pack her a bag. A horrific snarl ripped from her throat and she lunged for you, fingers reaching and grasping. 

“Nan!” You caught her by the shoulders, her teeth bared. “Nan, stop it’s me!” 

Her nails dragged down your neck, ripping through skin. She pulled back from you just enough to launch herself at you again, knocking you prone. “Nan!” 

It was like something else had taken over her body, her clawing hands and gnashing teeth straining to reach you. “Nan, please!” 

You shoved her as hard as you could, sending her slamming into your dresser. She hit her head, blood splattering on the flowers you’d painted on the drawer fronts. You scrambled to your feet, grabbing the pack and slinging it on your back before picking up the gun. You tried to back out of the room, not wanting to turn your back on your grandmother. She snarled and rose onto all fours, pulling herself toward you. 

Time slowed and you heard Joel’s voice in your head. “Don’t let anyone take you from me.” His child was inside you. He was coming for you. You had to live to get to him. 

You raised the gun and fired, the recoil sending you stumbling back as your grandmother’s body flew away from you with the force of the blast. She lay sprawled on the ground, a horrible screaming sound all but deafening you. It took you a moment to realize that it was you making the sound, a choking sob cutting it off. You aimed the gun at the ground, cautiously approaching her, hoping that the blast had somehow killed whatever has possessed her but left her intact. Your shot had caught her in the chest, a gaping hole in her rib cage. You dropped to your knees beside her body, her eyes staring emptily up at the ceiling. 

“I’m so sorry Nan,” you choked out, smoothing her hair back. “I’m so sorry, I love you, I’m so sorry…”

You almost didn’t see it through your tears, the creeping, fibrous tentacle sliding through her lips. You scrambled back, gasping for breath through rasping sobs as it reached and groped. You forced yourself to your feet and staggered from the room, feeling almost drunk. 

It almost didn’t feel like you were safe to drive but you had to keep moving. You grabbed your keys, leaning on the counter in the kitchen for support, and stumbled into your driveway. Another fighter jet shrieked overhead and you instinctively ducked, but no other planes fell out of the sky. The horizon still burned, the air smelling like smoke. You put your bag in the back seat and the shotgun in the passenger seat, some extra ammo tucked in your pockets. You took a second and reloaded the gun, holding the wheel for a moment. You had no fucking clue how to get to Martha’s Vineyard and the only maps in your car were for New York State and NYC. Just as you were trying to come up with a plan, your phone rang. 

“Joel?” You said quickly. 

“It’s Jessica,” she was sobbing. “My mom, there’s something wrong with my mom, I don’t know…” 

“Get out of the house,” you said quickly. “I’ll come get you, don’t touch her don’t try to help her, just run! I’m coming to get you, just run Jessica, do you hear me?” 

“OK,” she said, breathless. “Don’t leave me…”

“Not leaving you,” you said. “Just hanging up for now. Avoid people, avoid anyone who isn’t me. I’m coming for you.” 

You were almost thankful for a direction to go in. You had to get away from your house, from your grandmother’s body and the thing inside it, from what you’d done there. Jessica was a place to go, a purpose. You drove fast. 

Louisa and Jessica’s place was a townhouse and the area around it was chaos. Several cars had crashed near the entrance to the neighborhood and one was burning. People were scrambling to load cars. One man was boarding up his windows with a rifle strapped to his back. As you got closer to Louisa and Jessica’s unit, there were bodies, splayed on the ground in unnatural positions. You parked haphazardly in front of their place, grabbing the shotgun and locking the doors as you left the car. 

“Jessica!” You yelled, gun up and ready to fire. “It’s me, where are you?” 

There was an inhuman shriek from behind you and you spun, gun up. A woman who looked vaguely familiar - you were pretty sure you’d seen her walking her dog when you sat on Louisa’s porch with a beer in your hand - was running for you, her arms outstretched. You didn’t hesitate this time, aiming for her stomach, the shot knocking you off balance and sending you stumbling back over a body on the ground behind you. You fell but the woman did too, her going immediately still. You shook, breathless, staring at her. You’d killed her. Your hand went to your lower stomach. You’d killed her. She might have been gone before you shot her but you’d killed her. 

You leaned over and threw up, what little you’d eaten that day coming up. 

“What’s happening?” 

You looked behind you. Jessica was shaking. There were scratches and blood on her knees and it looked like Louisa had gotten her the same way your grandmother had gotten you, long scratches that looked like they were from a human hand down her arm. 

“Hey,” you tried to smile reassuringly and then remembered that you’d tripped over a dead body. You scrambled back. 

“My mom…” her eyes were wide, wild. 

“I’m sorry, Jessica,” you said softly as you got to your feet. You brushed her hair back, holding her face in your hands. “I’m so sorry but she’s gone, whatever is inside your house isn’t your mom anymore.” 

“What?” Her eyes went wider, she started hyperventilating. 

“I know,” you said, trying to keep your voice calm. “I know. But I have a plan, OK? And part of the plan is getting out of here. You and me. We’re going to get through this.” 

She just nodded, still gasping for breath. You put an arm around her, the gun in your other hand, watching for whatever might come running for you. But nothing did. You made it back to the car without an issue, putting Jessica in the passenger seat. You reloaded the gun and grabbed the compass from the side pocket of the backpack, giving both to Jessica. 

“Just keep the gun handy, OK?” You said. “Don’t shoot anyone, just give it to me when I ask you for it, OK?” 

“OK,” she nodded quickly. 

“The compass is going to be what I need you for most,” you said, driving slowly back the way you came through the neighborhood. “I don’t have a map for where we’re headed. I can get us there but I’ll need some help navigating.” 

“Where are we going?” She asked. 

“An island,” you said. “Where there’s hopefully less of… whatever this is. We’re meeting Joel there.” 

“Joel?” She looked at you. “The guy my mom says is a douchebag?” 

You laughed a little even though there was nothing funny about this situation. But Jessica reminded you of her mom and it was what you needed. 

“He’s not. Well, he’s not all the time,” you said. You passed the burning cars, pulling slowly onto the main road. “What matters is, I’m going to keep you safe. OK?” 

“OK,” she nodded, swallowing hard. 

You immediately went for the back country roads, hoping there would be fewer burning cars and possessed people. And there were, for about an hour. It was almost eerily quiet, you driving slow with just the running lights, wanting to avoid drawing attention to yourselves. But as you got closer to another town, you heard the faint sound of a helicopter. You pulled off the road and shut off the car. 

“Stay put,” you ordered Jessica. 

“What’s going on?” She asked. 

“I don’t know what that helicopter is doing here and I don’t want to find out,” you said. “So we’re just going to lay low.” 

“But what if they could help?” 

You shook your head. 

“We can’t afford to trust them,” you said. “We don’t know who they are or what their job here is…” 

As if on cue, there was a spray of gunfire down the middle of the road, the chopper flying overhead. You ducked down low, grabbing Jessica and tucking her head down, too. You heard bullets hit your trunk and glass break behind you. Jessica sobbed. You held her down until the helicopter left, trying to not hyperventilate. “Don’t let anyone take you from me.”

You tried to start the car again but the engine wouldn’t turn over. You realized it must have been shot. It was sheer luck that you’d been missed. You pulled your sweatshirt over your head and handed it to Jessica. She just looked at it. 

“It’s chilly,” you said. “You dressed for a party tonight, not to go traipsing through the country side. We’ll find something that fits you tomorrow but for now, you’ll need this.” 

She took it, holding it in her hands for a moment, staring down at it. 

“Whose blood is it?” She asked. “I saw it, earlier, when you picked me up. Whose blood is it?” 

You hadn’t even realized there’d been blood on it. 

“Probably my grandmother’s,” you said softly. “She… She was like your mom.” 

She nodded, pulling it on. While she did, you tried calling Joel one more time. It wouldn’t connect. 

You got your backpack out of the car and clung to the gun. 

“We’re going to get through this,” you said, as much to convince yourself as it was to convince her. “We’ve got this.” 

She nodded at you. You took a deep breath. 

“Let’s go.” 

***

Saturday, September 27, 2003

The sun was up. It didn’t feel right that the sun was up. How could the sun be up. 

“Joel.” 

Tommy’s voice felt very far away. Everything felt very far way. 

“Joel, we have to keep moving,” he said. “C’mon. If we stay here much longer, trouble’s gonna find us, we have to go.” 

He got up. Part of him was aware that his body hurt but it was hard to actually feel it. Any pain in his body was a relief. It was better than burning, stabbing, gaping wound at the center of him. Anything, anything to take away from that was a blessing. 

They’d already passed dozens of bodies. They kept off the highway, sticking to tree lines where they could, Tommy’s head on a swivel when they couldn’t. 

Joel couldn’t bring himself to care enough to watch for anything. Every body they passed was a reminder. Sarah was gone. He’d held her body, she was gone, he’d never hear her or see her or touch her again. He’d been right there, right there and he couldn’t save her. She was gone. 

The dead made him think of you, too. There were so many bodies. He hadn’t been able to save Sarah. There had been no one there to save you. 

You were a lot of things. Brilliant. Funny. Beautiful. You weren’t a killer. You were too kind, too sweet to survive something like this. You’d have taken pity on someone who turned on you, someone who slit your throat for your pack or shot you to take your car. Or you wouldn’t be able to hurt someone who came at you in that foreign, inhuman way. You’d wait a second too long and they’d rip you to pieces. God, he hoped it had been quick for you. He hoped that they’d just killed you and hadn’t done worse to you first, just because they could. Whatever had gotten you, he hoped you hadn’t felt it. That it hadn’t been like Sarah, gasping and choking and in pain. 

“Joel.” 

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been walking. The sun was low in the sky again. 

“We should stop here,” Tommy said. “Good vantage points…” 

Joel didn’t say anything. He just stood there. 

“You hear me?” Tommy said. 

“What?” Joel asked. 

“I said stay here,” he said. “Saw something down that hill, looked like a truck for a grocery store. I’m going to see if I can grab some food for us.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Joel.” 

He looked up. Tommy looked like he was in pain. 

“Just sit tight, OK?” He said. “Just sit tight.” 

Joel watched him leave, standing and staring at nothing. 

There was nothing left for him here. Nothing. Without Sarah, without you, it wasn’t worth it. Life before whatever was happening wasn’t worth it without Sarah, without you. Now? How could it be. 

He sniffed and pulled out his gun. 

He thought, for a moment, about the last time the three of you had been all together. It was the day you flew back to New York. The two of you had woken up early, decided to have coffee by the pool, go for a swim before Sarah woke up for the day. She was a teenager, she slept late. He made love to you in the water. You tasted like coffee and cherry chapstick. You smelled like lavender, even with the chlorine. You were soft and warm and felt like home.

When Sarah got up, you and Joel had already dressed for the day. Your bags were by the door. Sarah asked if you’d make French Toast and you’d agreed, as long as she helped. He watched the two of you in the kitchen, Sarah picking egg shells out from the batter because she’d never quite gotten the hang of cracking eggs. She was singing some pop song that grated on Joel whenever it came on the radio but he liked it when Sarah sang it. You bobbed your head along to it, using the spatula as a drumstick on the stove top. The coffee was hot and smooth. The world felt right. 

He held onto the moment in his mind, pressing the gun against his head. He wasn’t sure he believed in an afterlife but he hoped it would be like that. Just that one morning, on loop, over and over and over again. Just him and Sarah and you, until the end of all things. 

He started pulling the trigger when he heard your voice, so clear it was like you were standing next to him. 

“I’ll always love you, Joel. Til the day I die.” 

He flinched. 

#fanfic #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #tlou hbo #tlou fic #joel miller x original character

[lithiag]

Drawn together - part 3 (Derek Morgan fanfiction)

Hello, it's been a while.

I'm trying to write a bit more, but it's been rough lately. I'm hoping to write more the the next few weeks, so hopefully I'll be able to upload more.

For now, here is part 3 of my Derek Fanfic.

Word count: 4.25K

CW: there is smut. Apart from that, regular CM murders. Let me know if i missed anything

Hope you enjoy

Melony read through the file one more time while the others got settled in their seats on the jet. This was going to be a rough one. They were called in to help on a case in Arizona, where an Unsub had abducted and murdered four boys between the ages of 3 and 5 years old in the span of a month. Always boys with dark brown hair, all Caucasian. Two boys were abducted on the same day, both from a playground they were at with their mother or babysitter, with about 30 minutes between the abductions.

“Let’s get started,” Hotch said once they were up in the air. Everyone gathered together and they set up a connection with Garcia through a laptop, “So, we have four little boys, ages 3-5 dead in Tucson, Arizona.” Hotch started.

“This unsub seems to have a type; they all have similar features and backgrounds.” JJ said, “Are we thinking paedophile?”

“Not very likely,” Spencer flicked through the file to the autopsy reports, “There was no sign of sexual assault. Though, it could be possible the UnSub uses these boys in a different way to satisfy his sexual urges and is still a paedophile. It would be unusual, but not impossible.”

“Either way, we need to stop this guy before he takes and kills more. The police are getting nervous, as it has been a week since the last abductions.” Gideon sighed.

“Why haven’t they called us sooner? Why did they wait a week before contacting us?” Melony asked, “Wouldn’t it have made more sense to call us right away?”

“It would have,” Hotch said, “But unfortunately, I know the person in charge of the investigation, and he is quite proud and arrogant. He probably thought he could solve this case on his own. He can become a nuisance to our investigation.”

They all nodded in understanding.

“Once we land, I want Morgan and Reid to check out the place the last two boys were found. JJ, Pearson, go talk to some of the families. Garcia, see if you can find anything about these families that would make them a target. The rest of us will set up at the station.” Hotch ordered and they got ready to go.

~*~

Melony rang the doorbell of the house Hotch had sent her to.

A young woman opened and let them in when they showed her their IDs.

“Is there anyone you can think of who would want to hurt your son?” JJ asked the young mother once they sat on the couch with a bit to drink. The mother wiped away a few tears and shook her head,

“No. We moved here only a few months ago. We needed a fresh start.”

“Can I ask why you decided to move?” JJ said carefully.

“My, ehm, my ex-husband. He was drinking a lot after Jaime was born. After almost two years of trying to help him, I had had enough. I moved back in with my parents for a while, then we saw this house, and my boss was willing to transfer me here. The divorce isn’t final yet, but close.” The mother explained. She kept moving her teacup around in her hands for warmth, even though the tea had long gotten cold.

“Could it be possible he came to find you?”

She shook her head, “No. He was so deep in his drinking problems that he barely realised we had even left. Last I heard his parents forced him into rehab after he drank himself into the hospital. He can’t leave the facility, let alone the state.”

“How about his family? How did they react to the divorce?” Melony asked.

“Most of them supported me. They weren’t thrilled of course, but they understood and tried to help me where they could. Only his brother told me I was abandoning him in a rough time, that I should have stayed and helped him, I shouldn’t have taken his child away, things like that.”

Melony nodded in understanding and gave JJ a little look. JJ returned in and excused herself before leaving the room to make some calls.

“Did your ex have custody? Or maybe a family member?”

The mom shook her head, “No. I filed for emergency custody and got it. Legally, I had sole custody. I did have an arrangement with his parents where they could visit Jaime and they had him over for a couple of days once every two months. They knew that was a privilege and they would never have allowed my ex or my brother-in-law near him, they knew they could be a threat.” She explained and frowned slightly, “What does this have to do with my son’s killer?”

“We have to look at all the options.” Melony explained, “The more we know about the background of the victims, the more we can establish a profile. If the other families have similar backgrounds, for example, it could tell us something about why the killer went after you, and it could help us find him.”

The mother nodded.

“Is there anything suspicious you noticed before your son was taken? Perhaps someone following you or watching you. Anything at all?” Melony asked. The mom thought about it for a bit, then she looked up at Melony,

“I did notice a man lurking around the playground. I told the police, but they dismissed it at the time. They said I was making things up to process my grief.” She said and looked down for a few seconds, “I know I really saw him. He gave me the creeps at the time, and when he tried to talk to Jaime, I picked him up and left.” She looked back at Melony, desperation in her eyes, “I’m not crazy.” She said, silently begging for Melony to believe her.

“Perhaps he had something to do with it. Can you describe him?” Melony asked and she pulled out her sketchbook and a pencil. The mother nodded, and Melony drew what she described; a tall man with gangly features. A slim, slightly fallen in face, brown eyes and dirty blond hair under a cap. He had some heavy stubble and a slightly crooked nose. Once the woman stopped describing him, Melony showed her the sketch she made, and the woman confirmed that was what he looked like.

Melony thanked her for her time, gave her her card in case she needed anything and wished her the best before she and JJ left the house and went to the next family. Each family had a similar story to tell, a mother had left her husband and moved to Tuscon for a fresh start. Some already lived in the area, some came from a different state. When asked about a man lurking around the playground, all mothers confirmed they also saw someone, and either gave descriptions that lead to the same sketch Melony already made, or straight up confirmed that was the man they saw as well.

~*~

After having visited all the families, they went to the station to tell the others what they found.

Reid had worked on a geographical profile based on where the victims were abducted and where the bodies were found.

“Any luck?” Derek asked Melony when they came in.

“Yes, we have a sketch that all the families recognized, so that is probably worth something. You?”

“There wasn’t much that was useful. There were some signs of remorse, the unsub had put them there gently. And based on the locations and how he must have gotten there, it is probably someone who’s a loner and lives somewhere outside of town.” Derek said and looked over at the board Spencer was working on, “Reid said he wanted to know quite precisely when the kids were abducted so he could establish a more detailed geographical profile. He is now working on possible routes he could have taken between two abductions.”

Melony nodded and walked over to Spencer, “Hey, did you find anything useful?”

Spencer turned to her, “I have. Based on where the kids were abducted and the amount of time between abductions, I have come up with a few possible routes he could have taken to go from one sight to the other,” He explained and pointed out where he drew out possible routes, “The abductions took place around busier times, and with the routes he could have taken it does seem like he was in a hurry, so it could be worth looking into speeding tickets in this area. We are most likely looking for a van or bigger car that wouldn’t stand out to the general public, think muted or dark colours.” He looked at the rest of the team and the cops who had also started listening in, and one of the cops said he would take a look before walking away.

Hotch came to the team and told JJ they would be holding a press conference soon, as the press was bombarding them with questions wherever they went. JJ went to prepare and also took one of Melony’s sketches to show the general public and warn them about.

~*~

Soon after the press conference, calls with tips were coming in by the dozen. A lot of calls were from concerned citizens who wanted to know more about the investigation, who the man in the drawing was and where they could find him. The officers taking the calls did their best to explain the situation to the callers and wade through the useless calls to get to people with actual useful information, but it took a long time.

After a few hours one of the officers went to Melony,

“Hey, are you sure about that sketch?” He asked with a slightly raised brow. Melony frowned,

“Quite sure, yes. Why?” She asked him, now getting a little insecure.

“I got like a dozen calls from people telling me they saw him somewhere, but a number of them said he had a scar.

"Oh? What type of scar?" Melony grabbed a copy of the sketch and a pencil, "did they describe it to you?"

“Yeah,” The officer said, “Most said it was like a claw mark on his right cheek.”

Melony flipped the page her sketch was on to the other side, so she had a blank piece of paper, “Did you write down the names and addresses of the people who gave these tips? I would like to talk to them.”

“A few wanted to remain anonymous, but I do have two who were willing to talk to the police if necessary.” The cop said and gave her the information.

~*~

After talking to the people who gave the tips, and making some new sketches, Melony revisited some of the families of the victims to talk to them a bit more about the man’s appearance, his behaviour and other things they might not have thought about at first.

After hours of talking, sketching, driving, talking, and more sketching she went to the hotel the team was staying at. After the second time she talked to everyone, something felt off. During dinner with the others, she couldn’t focus on the conversations or her food, and she decided to go to bed a bit earlier than usual. Maybe a good night’s sleep would help her take her mind off things and help her take a fresh look in the morning.

She took a hot shower and crawled in bed but couldn’t fall asleep. She kept going over everything in her head and she tried to find out what she was missing.

After hours of tossing and turning, she gave up on sleeping and got up, turned her light on and grabbed her notes and sketches. She looked over her sketches again and thought back to how the unsub was described to her. Something felt off. She wrote down all the things people told her about his appearance.

After she listed everything, she started putting them in different categories. Eyes, mouth, neck, skin. Per what family gave the descriptions, even per person, then one big list with all of them together. She looked it over a couple of times but couldn't figure out what was bugging her.

Then there was a knock on her door.

"Come in" Melony said. The door opened and Derek came in,

"Hey, i noticed your light was still on. Can't sleep?" He asked and closed the door behind him, then walked towards her.

"Not really. I don't know what, but something is bugging me about the description. I have looked it over a bunch of times, i have redrawn sketches, but it just doesn't feel right." Melony looked down at her list and her sketches.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked and he sat down next to her on the bed. He looked down at all the papers Melony had laid out on the bed, trying to see where her mind was at.

“I don’t know for sure. Something just feels off. Things people have described to me don’t really match, but they aren’t really opposites either.” Melony said and held her face in her hands, “I want to take a fresh look in the morning, but I just can’t get myself to stop working on this.”

"Can i help with anything?" Derek asked. He took another look at the papers she had laid out but couldn't find anything useful to say. He noticed what she mentioned when he took a look at the lists, but like her, he couldn’t find the missing piece.

"I don't know. I know I should probably just sleep on it, have a look in the morning when I'm more rested, but I just can’t." Melony rubbed her face slightly before putting all the papers in her sketchbook and putting it on her nightstand.

"Perhaps. Do you need a distraction?" Derek asked with a little grin and rubbed her arm softly, “I think I can help you with that.” Melony smiled a little bit,

"So you came here with an ulterior motive?" She asked teasingly

"Maybe, sort of. I went for a walk to try and clear my head. It didn't help. I also feel like something's off, like we are missing something. When I walked back to my room, I noticed your lights were still on, so I thought maybe a different kind of distraction could work." Derek said and grinned at her.

"You are the worst" Melony teased him,

"Oh, I know." Derek said before pulling her into a kiss. Melony wrapped her arms him and held him close. Derek pulled her close, slightly picked her up and lay her down on the bed so he could lay on top of her. Melony grinned at him,

“I like it when you take control like that.” She said softly, and Derek grinned,

“Oh, do you want me to take controle?” He asked and he grabbed both her hands, then pinned them above her head, “Like this?” He said and kissed down her neck. Melony let out a soft pleasured sound alongside an ‘uh-huh’ before she wrapped her legs around his waist. Derek moved his lips back to hers and kissed her deeply before pulling back and looking at her face. He felt himself getting more turned on when she saw the lustful look in her eyes, and he leaned down to place a soft kiss just below her ear.

“I would love to draw this out,” He groaned, “But we should probably not risk getting caught.”

“I agree. I would rather have you take me quickly, than have you take your time only to get caught.”

Derek kissed her again and let go of her hands, which she wrapped around his neck almost instantly. Derek deepened the kiss and moved a hand down her sides to the hem of her shirt,

"Did you wear this for easy access?" He asked lowly, commenting on her only wearing a tank top and panties. Melony just gave him a grin and kissed him again. Derek pulled up her shirt slightly, then moved his hand back down her body to her panties, he moved the fabric to the side and started to rub her clit. Melony bit her lip to keep herself from moaning out. She moved a hand down his body to his pants. She pushed both his pyjama pants and his underwear down enough to pull out his cock and she started rubbing him up and down. Derek let out a pleasured sigh and softly groaned as she moved her hand. He moved his hand further between her legs and pushed two fingers inside her,

"You are already so wet for me, baby." He softly said in her ear, to which she only replied with a soft moan. He kissed her right below her ear and worked his way down her neck, but Melony stopped him,

"Don't bother. I want you. We don't have much time." She said. She was right, this wasn't the time to take things slow. Derek just got caught up in the moment and wanted to make her feel good.

Derek shortly pulled back so he could put on some protection, but he was back on her in moments. He moved in between her legs and rubbed her a little more as he positioned himself,

"Hhmm, I love feeling how wet you are for me, baby." Derek commented. He used some of her juices to coat his cock before he pushed the tip into her. They both let out a moan, but did their best to not make too much noise. The walls were fairly thin, and they didn't want anyone to hear them. Derek pushed in further and Melony wrapped her legs around him. As he started thrusting into her, both of them had trouble holding back their moans. Melony pulled him into a kiss, hoping that moaning against each other would help with staying as quiet as possible. Derek moved one hand under her shirt to her breast. He found her nipple and pinched it between his fingers. Melony bit her lip and let out a little high-pitched squeal in her attempt to stay quiet. Derek grinned and thrusted faster and a bit harder. Hearing her moans so close to his ears and feeling her moan against his lips got him closer to the edge fairly quickly. Melony roamed her hands across his body. She slightly pulled up his shirt to feel his abs tense and relax as he thrusted into her. She spread her legs as wide as she could to make it easier for him to push in deeper, and each time he did she let out another moan. She felt the knot inside her tighten with each movement, and she kissed him to silence her moans as she got close,

"Derek," she moaned softly against his lips

"Me too, baby" Derek groaned and with a few more thrusts he pushed into her as he climaxed. Melony pulled him closer by his waist as she climaxed at the same time. Derek thrusted a few more times to help her ride out her orgasm, and he grinned as he felt her move her hips with his to help him too. When he pulled out, they both let out a moan, missing each other already. Derek kissed her deeply, and Melony wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer.

~*~

"Mind cleared?" Melony asked as they cuddled in bed after cleaning up.

"Yeah, it helped a lot. Thanks, baby."

Melony smiled at him, "happy to help."

"How about you?"

"It did help to get distracted, but now that i have time to think again, it is coming back." Melony said with a little sigh.

"Can you show me what your’re struggling with? Maybe I can help enough so you can sleep." Derek said and he sat up. Melony followed his lead and she grabbed her book. She pulled out her lists and sketches and laid them out,

"Something doesn't make sense. I wrote down exactly what people described to me. I make one big list, i made lists per person we interviewed, i did it per feature. I made drawings based on everything these people told me. Some things just aren't adding up." Melony said, getting a little frustrated when she looked at the amount of paper she used and saw the amount of time that had gone into this.

Derek grabbed some of the lists and looked them over.

"It does sound like they didn't get a good look at him," he said when he read through a few lists, "a lot of the things they describe sound similar, but then there are some details that are off."

"Exactly. I guess they didn't get as good a look as they thought," Melony rubbed her face a bit, trying to stay awake.

"I mean, dirty blond of brown hair could be mixed up. But how could one guy both have a scar, and not have one. Some of them must be misremembering." Derek said with a little sigh.

"Wait.... what did you say?" Melony asked as she started piecing some things together,

"They must have misremembered things"

"No, before that."

"How can one guy have a scar and not have one?" Derek said. Melony looked at him and her eyes went big,

"There's two of them," She said softly. Derek thought it over,

"You're right," He said once it clicked for him too.

"Based on the timelines that we have, two kids are always picked up shortly after one another. With traffic and everything considered, we said it was possible for the unsub to do this. But he would have to be very quick." Melony said,

"Which wouldn't fit the profile,” Derek continued her thought process, “This guy hangs around playgrounds for hours. Why would he take his time with one kid, then rush to a different spot to quickly snatch another? It makes no sense," Derek continued, "Unless there is two of them. That would give them both time to hang around and pick a target."

"They probably planned it like this, leave some time in between so it would look like only one person did it. But how do they both use the same van?"

"They just have one person pick the other up, or even just the kid. That way one person takes the children-"

"And they have one person out and about where we can see him on cameras so he can give them an alibi." Melony smiled, "we need to tell Hotch."

"It's 3 am"

"I know, but this can't wait till morning." Melony said firmly, "People are off, they are going to bring their kids to playgrounds. If we get one unsub, we fall right into their trap if we let our guard down. They want us to think there is one. If one is caught, the other will just change his MO a bit and continue somewhere else. We need to catch both of them."

Derek sighed, "You're right. Let's go."

They got out of bed and quickly put on some more clothes. Melony grabbed her lists and sketches and they walked to Hotchner's room. Derek knocked on the door. There was no answer for a bit, so he knocked a little louder.

The door flung open, and a sleepy yet annoyed Hotch looked at them,

"This better be important."

"There's two UnSubs." Melony said. Hotch looked at her, quite confused and very sleepy,

"What?"

"The descriptions didn't make sense. Some described features others were adamant weren't there." Melony started to explain, "And the second kid was always abducted very soon after the first one. It is possible for one person to do so, but it doesn't fit the profile of someone who hangs around the playground for hours."

"But then," Hotch yawned, "then how do they do it with one car?"

"The first could pick the second up. Or they use two vans with the same plates." Derek said.

"So, you think they have similar enough features to trick people into thinking there is only one person doing this?"

"Yes. Some families said the UnSub has a scar. It is probably small enough for us to either dismiss those who have seen it as it being made up, or dismiss those who haven't seen it as not having seen enough of the face." Melony said.

"So they must be brothers"

"Yes, perhaps twins"

Hotch rubbed his face as he thought about what to do, slowly waking up a bit,

"Alright. That would make sense with the profile. We established he is a loner, but working with your brother or twin could still work with that. Ehm," Hotch yawned again, "send Garcia your findings and let her send us a list of brothers, preferably twins, that live around here to us first thing in the morning. I will notify the others then as well. We will discuss a further strategy in the morning. Get some sleep." He said. He closed the door, but then opened it up shortly and mumbled a sleepy "good work" towards them before closing the door again and going back to bed.

Melony smiled a bit at Derek,

"That went better than I expected." She said and they made their way down the hall towards their own rooms.

"Yeah. But Hotch is right, we need to get some sleep."

"Okay. I'll see you in the morning" Melony said, looked around to see if there was anyone around, then gave him a quick kiss,

"Good night" she said and went into her room.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #derek morgan #derek morgan fanfiction #derek morgan smut

[kirklandsheartsecrets]

Having an adoptive son like Alfred and him finding out that she's an awesome swordswoman, he would probably gift her a toy- maybe even real lightsaber for Christmas or for her b day.

And since swords became old fashioned, she's probably ecstatic about it and start doing tricks with it.

england x reader || married au || bonus, water park fights

this made me think about that skin in league of legends with a really good dualist. I will mention it later.

🤍 It started at the water park, you were with Alfred, Arthur and Matthew. 

You hid your face from the sun, your hand over your skin and roots of your hair still damp from the pool.

Walking with Alfred towards the main entrance, you two went to walk around in need of the warmth.

Being in water for hours, swimming around  and often sleeping on the fake plastic grass where you found a spot in the shade this morning occasionally made you cold.

The warm water from the special pool wasn’t warm enough anymore and neither Arthur’s body and his embrace could warm you up.

Even with a beautiful blue sky and a mid day sun, the wind occasionally gave you chills, only your towel as coverage.

So now you’re walking around with the American around the water park. You carefully walk bare foot over the designed path so the travertine tiles being exposed all day to the sun would bring heat to your feet and bodies.

As your feet take every step it burned, but rapidly the heat became comfortable.

The same heat earlier absolutely burning your skin now feels incredible against it.

You notice the main pool facing the entrance, few life guards standing around the fake rocks and high chairs surrounding the different areas, all connected to the same pool. However only random lines separated the areas, many people just walking over them to jump in another pool.

The lifeguards, mostly students on their summer jobs have been the same ones over a week now. They were really nice to you  and Arthur. They occasionally talk to families or say hello to the kids asking them random questions. 

“Is there an event today ?” 

You stopped, making the blue eyed American next to you also stop, few steps after. 

Alfred looks up at the main pool and takes a step closer to the fake orange-pink rocks. Many people were sitting down in the pool, with aqua bikes below them.

“Aqua bike event— I think”

Alfred’s head turns to you.

“I didn’t know, I thought it was only around 11 in the morning.” You said.

“Maybe they changed, happens” Alfred added.

You two put your forearms over the rocks, the heat radiating from their fake materials making the most uncomfortable place in the park suddenly the best spot to lay on. 

You two leaned, watching curiously the group, it just looked interesting to watch people do aquabiking, specifically when you were facing-laid against this warm rock.

“Your birthday is tomorrow Alfred— do you want me to sign you up to the aqua bike morning session ?” You joked, still looking over the kids, older people and many randoms trying to follow the instruction of their “coach”.

The woman keeps screaming, instructions from her bike, out of the water and blasting electro, dubstep songs for people to get into the activity.

You were amazed by how the instructor skin was glowing under the sun, her job being, biking under no shade, almost in a full gym outfit, only sunglasses covering her eyes, screaming over the blasting electronic music and doing the same amount of exercise as the people in water, but outside from the pool. However, when the music became a bit less louder from a minute ago, your heard clicking sounds.

The clicking sounds could be anything. You didn’t turn around at first, thinking that it could just be someone fighting with their beach umbrella and the wind, or trying to hold their whole’s family umbrella and bags in one trip. Casual family water park problems you experienced in your life already, specifically with all the colonies, and still with Alfred and Matthews sometimes. 

The clacking sound sounding like plastic kept going, you didn’t notice Alfred leaving your side silently as you were fully staring at the people biking in water to the music beat.

It’s only when you noticed his silhouette missing from your side that you turned around, looking for his familiar figure. 

Quickly you did notice him, arms crossed over his chest looking at kids, fighting with plastic light sabers, known from their design in the movie Stars wars. 

Kids aged around 6 to 12 were in pairs, fighting for fun. 

You approached the American, three steps away from you, now concentrated by the kids activity.

Yoh kept your towel tightly around your body, noticing the families around the kids laid on their towels sleeping, tanning or just sitting there watching over nothing. 

Alfred sees the woman giving the light sabers to kids coming up to her, she walks over to the him and you.

“What’s happening there ?" Alfred asks, pointing to the light sabers and kids,

“We just got these for people who wanna play around, we can teach you quickly how to fight with those, obviously it’s all for fun,” the woman says, looking behind her to the pairs fighting around, nothing serious.

“Do we have to pay or something?” The American asked,

“ Absolutely not, it’s all fun and games, just don’t run and hit the people laying around—“ she laughed, earning from you and Alfred childish smiles.

“Can we try?” You blurted out, the woman nodding, handing you light sabers.

“Don’t hit your eyes or the head of course— you should be fine!” She warns, but her vibe becoming more friendly as she looks at a dad playing with his daughter behind.

“Thank you,” you and Alfred thanked the woman before walking in an empty spot, near all the pairs but not too far away from the people laying around. 

“It’s just like fighting with our pool fries—“

Alfred teased, starting to make moves with the green lightsaber in his hands.

“I did beat you with those, lightsabers are no different—“ you commented,

“You have more experience and did fought with real swords— it’s not fair—“ Alfred fake cried, still hitting your lightsaber lightly. 

You two were barely fighting, keeping it playful, to not go overboard and hurt a someone.

Alfred was smiling, really happy to be able to share this moment with the woman he saw as his mother figure. 

He was happier then, he was a child, but he is happy and grateful now. 

This smile over his face gives him a glimpse of memories he has with you. When you would fight for fun with Arthur in the living room or telling pirate stories before bed to him and Matthew playing the fights described in the stories. 

He remembers the costumes Arthur would take out from his special closet, how he would love with amazement your fake duels. Furthermore, your feet work and how each of you would dodge the others swords. 

When you thought it was time to go back to Arthur and Matthew, probably either sleeping on the plastic grass with two towels on top of their heads, laid over their stomachs. Alfred told you he’ll join you in a few minutes. Saying he wants to check out something.

“I’ll be back with them then, at the towels.” 

You announced to the blonde, earning a nod from him as he walked away.

You walked back to your husband and the Canadian next to him, chuckling over their tans forming on their skin, when you could clearly see from their swim trunks their original skin color. 

“Alfred says he is coming soon,” you announced, now sure that they knew about your presence next to them. The towels over their heads did block their views, plus they couldn’t really know from the sound of your steps if it was you or any other stranger walking around instead of taking the right walking path.

Later on, Alfred came back, hurriedly walking to you. By then, Matthew sat back up, his back against the wall behind him, phone in hands looking at pictures you took of them.

You noticed the plastic grey package in Alfred’s hands immediately,

“What did you bought again ? We already have pool fries and water guns—“

“Happy early birthday—“ he cut you, shoving the object in your hands.

“Oh well, thank you but what is it— ? A lightsaber— why ?”

You smiled as you asked and looked up to Alfred, his talking figure in front of your sitting on, hiding the sun perfectly.

“You’re the most amazing swordswoman I met, plus the old man right there,” he points to Arthur, still head fully under his towel and mumbling insults to his own “son”,

“Said you didn’t have any lightsaber from Star Wars— so I got you one!"

Alfred finished,

“No need to Alfie, oh but thank you— I’ll try it now if you want—“ you thanked and opened the plastic package, trying the lightsaber in your hands. This one being bigger and heavier than the ones the woman gave you earlier, obviously for kids. 

You felt the lightsaber in your hands, the sounds coming from it and vibrations, faking the movie effects. When done doing pretty tricks with it and turning it back off, you hugged your older son. Thanking him again for the lovely gift, it wasn’t much, but the thoughts and memories associated with this plastic toy meant more than a real sword and meant more duels with your boys.

#aph england #aph england x reader #hetalia x reader #hetalia #hws england

[triplesilverstar]

Quick draw? or a bit of soul searching

Rating: PG

Pairing: Vash X F!Reader

CW: Shooting, no sense of direction, proposals, 

Word count: 4036

A/N: Chapter 4 of Bounty hunting 101: You should be good at this

A month after the saloon incident things were not looking so good for you, you’d spent two weeks in a hotel room fighting off a cold. The time wasn’t what bugged you though, no, getting sick like that was sadly the norm for you since the incident. The problem that you now faced was almost age old. You were strapped for cash. 

The hotel room and having meals delivered to you had done a number on your wallet. Two weeks of not even turning in small bounties was taking its toll on you. However the option for some quick cash came the day you were finally well enough to leave the hotel. A notice for a quick draw tournament in a nearby city, not one of the major cities but hey. You sure as hell weren’t going to turn down the chance for a quick influx of cash into your wallet. 

Selling your toma had been kind of hard since the bird had been with you for almost a year now, but their upkeep while you’d been sick had also been a strain on your wallet. You could always buy a new one once you weren’t down to almost your emergency cash. Hoping on a bus, bag in tow you groan hoping it won’t take too long to get there. Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch a bounty or two before the tournament starts. 

Well maybe lady luck was a little on your side, just as you’d pulled into town a lone bandit had been trying to hold up the bank. A butt plate well placed between his shoulder blades and he was down and you were a few thousand double dollars back in the black. 

Unaware as you spoke to the town sheriff that you were being watched by a certain blond in red. “She is one stubborn woman” he whispered under his breath before ducking back into the alleyway. 

After a short discussion with the sheriff you had directions to sign up for the quick draw tournament and a loner revolver attached to your hip from a gunsmith at the edge of town. Agreements made that you could return in the morning to practice, you were pretty handy with a handgun but you knew you needed the practice to see how off the revolver could be. 

Signing into the hotel register you find yourself seeing a name that looks familiar. A Mr. John. P. Smith. An itch in your brain that you’ve seen that name somewhere recently, but can’t figure out where. Heading up the stairs you rack your brain trying to remember, bag dropped off. 

The young lady working the front desk had suggested a local restaurant nearby for you to eat at and you fully intended to body still reeling from being sick a few weeks ago. Once you enter the small restaurant and sit down you find conversation with the woman that introduces herself as the owner. Asking her how business had been, and telling her you didn’t care what was brought out. 

While you’re sitting there you listen to the town around you as it goes about its day to day things, a loud bang and crash from the kitchen doors draws your attention as you watch them swing. Certain you’re looking at them with your brows drawn and eyes narrowed. 

When the owner comes back a soft apology on her lips you just try to nod in return, thanking her for the meal. At the first bite you feel your eyes light up, tastebuds dancing in your mouth. It takes no time before you have it finished, the meal is the best thing you’ve tasted in years. 

“Whoever your cook is, tell them I'd marry them in a heartbeat.” A gentle laugh as she takes the plate from you. 

“What if they were a woman?” 

“I stand by what I said.” Another laugh as she asks if you want a dessert, telling her you’d rather another helping of anything else they’ve cooked. 

As the owner steps into the kitchen she grins at the tall man with his apron on and shades on top of his head “You got a marriage offer based on your cooking.” A flinch of his shoulders while Vash gives a pan a flick. 

“Was it from the lady with the big rifle?” 

“It was” 

“Once she realized it’s me that’d change real quick.” A toss as the owner heads towards the sink placing the used plate in the sink before grabbing a clean one. 

“Oh do you know her? She looks serious but so far she seems nice.” Clean plate passed to him, another serving of food dished up. 

“Sort of. If you don’t mind, can you keep the fact it’s me out of the conversation?” 

A raise of her eyebrow. “Sure Vash. Does this have to do with what I think it does?” 

“Yea” his voice is soft and eyes downcast as he keeps working on the food in the frying pan. The owner doesn’t push the subject just nodding, Vash has been helping her in her husband's absence even offering to join the quick draw tournament to get a bit of extra cash before he had to leave. 

As the owner returns with a soft smile on her face as she slides the plate in front of you. “I told them, but they shot you down. Sorry.” 

“Ah well, guess it wasn’t meant to be” you answer, once more digging into the dish which tastes as amazing as the first one. When you get the bill, even if you are tight on cash you leave a few more double dollars behind. That cook and owner deserve it after that meal. 

Leaving you head back the exact same way you left the hotel. Or so you thought, somehow ending up at the edge of town. This is getting real old, as always for your sense of direction and lack of it. “Damn planet with no nav connections” you grumble trying to find your way back to the hotel.

From the rooftops Vash is following along, shaking his head at you and your wanderings, but still watching you from afar he does have to admit to himself you really don’t carry yourself like most bounty hunters he’s met. So many of them just shoot first and ask questions later. Treating people in towns like they’re nothing but punching bags at times.

Yet, he’s seen enough to know that’s not how you present yourself, you treat everyone like they matter. Even if he’s seen you shove the butt of your rifle between someone’s shoulder blades or your foot between their legs. You seem to have the same respect for everyone, that they are a person. 

Even now as you lower yourself down to speak to one of the kids asking if they know how to get to the hotel. Sure the kid looks terrified, but Vash can attribute that to the resting look on your face, because you do have a resting bitch face. 

The one thing he can’t quite put his finger on though, was your comment in the saloon, the dead can’t fix their mistakes. In his long life, Vash has never met someone besides Rem who thought people should be given the chance to learn from their mistakes. That people could learn from their mistakes. 

Watching you thank the kid and giving them a short wave before disappearing into the hotel he sighs. “You’re starting to take up a lot of space in my head, Ghost Sniper.”

You have one more day before the quick draw tournament is set to start, and you’re going to make the best of it. Getting one of the locals to help take you back to the gunsmith and his small range.

A couple hundred dollars of rounds bought and you start practicing, glad you did as the borrowed revolver needs to be sighted in. The first shot which had been for center of mass on the target barely hits the lower right hand edge. Adjustments made you start to see the familiar handgun grouping you know you’re capable off. 

Moving your aim from the center of mass to the hand and starting to practice firing as if to disarm from the quick draw. 

As the day draws on you find the practice was great, feeling more than confident in your abilities for tomorrow you head back to town after buying a few more rounds. Not much, and the gunsmith did say he’d buy back what you didn’t use after the tournament and a few wishes of good luck. 

Walking with another customer you find yourself back at the same restaurant as the day before, hoping it’s the same cook again as you take a seat. “Hello again” you whisper to the owner at her approach seeing the gentle smile on her face. “Is it the same cook as yesterday?” 

“It is” you notice while it seems a little busier it's still just her and what you assume is the cook working. 

“Is it just the two of you working? Seems to be a bit of a small staff for a restaurant as busy as yours.” Keeping your tone neutral as you ask, trying to not come off as being too nosey about the woman and her business. 

“It is. My husband has been out of town for a while so things have been tight with money, the cook is actually just helping me out before they leave town.” Nodding, its nice to hear that some people can just help others while passing through a town. Though you don’t miss the pause as if she had something else to add. 

As violent as this world is, it's a good reminder to you not everyone is out to make a buck. Like when you first arrived and the saloon owner that let you work in the back before everything with Gasback had happened and suddenly you were in that damn magazine with that stupid nickname.  

“Well in that case, I'll take whatever's available again.” 

Heading to the kitchen you’re oblivious to the fact Vash is working there, and the one making the meal that you swear is somehow even better then the one from the day before. 

As you do your final check in for the tournament you hear a name being called “Mr. John P. Smith?” Turning you feel your blood pressure skyrocket, a familiar blond in a red coat heading towards the official that had called the name. 

Stalking towards him you can’t contain the venom in your voice “you!” Both the official and Vash jump at your approach, a line of sweat running down the officials face. “I should beat the ever loving snot out of you right now you slippery noodle!” 

Vash has a sheepish grin on his face as you grasp his collar, your tirade interrupted by the official “Miss! Unless you want to be disqualified please unhand this gentleman!” The comment might have had more of a punch to it if his voice hadn't cracked several times and their knees weren’t shaking like a newborn toma. 

Yet, you need the cash, releasing Vash from your hold “This isn’t over.” You hiss in his ear before stomping away closer to the official. 

“Felt the fury on that one!” A line of sweat and a wave of his hands in front of him as if it could deescalate the situation. 

Glaring at the official you turned your gaze towards Vash annoyance how once again he was just within reach and yet so far out of it. “Miss, once the tournament is over you’re welcome to deal with whatever grievance you have with that man any way you want.” The official's voice is still quaking like he expects you to disregard the rules and do something to the man in red anyway. 

Letting a grin grow on your face, unaware it’s making those that can see you feel a sense of unease at how psychotic you look “oh I will be.” It’s a promise made to yourself. This time you are catching him.

It doesn't take long for the competition to be whittled down to sixteen of you, and the whole time you’ve been watching Vash, finally seeing him shoot yourself, you have to whistle in appreciation. He’s an expert marksman. 

As he joins you in one of the tents set up for the final rounds to keep you out of the noon day sun you can’t keep your mouth shut “Well at least you do deserve the title of legendary gunman”

“Huh” he’s looking at you with one of those dumbfounded looks, like he’s clueless as to what you’re talking about. 

Annoyed you huff out at him “don’t think I didn’t see that shooting, or the way you disarmed that guy.”

A hand running through the back of his shave undercut, something you’re starting to realize is a nervous tick of his “I have no clue what youre talking about.” 

Bullshit, but for now you’re not going to call him out on it. Crossing your arms in front of you. “I get that playing dumb seems to be a theme, but I'm not that stupid.”

Frowning back at you and letting the carefree expression drop from his face before sighing “so why are you in a tournament and not bounty hunting?” 

“Nice deflection, but I'm low on cash, not that it should matter to you.” At the back of your mind, there’s a small voice whispering to you, asking why the hell you’re even sharing this information with someone you plan to catch and turn in. “Why are you in it?” If the two of you are going to talk then you might as well see what kind of information you can get out of him. 

He’s silent for a few moments, both of you watching the next two competitors fire and you don’t miss the slightest change in the bullet's trajectory that happened as Vash seemed to toss the smallest of pebbles. “There’s a family that needs help keeping their bills paid up. They..” Turning to give him your undivided attention you can see the sadness on his face, like he’s carrying the weight of the weight of the world on his shoulders. A swallow and he continues speaking “They lost a family member and it’s been hard dealing with keeping themselves from going into debt.”

A short snort from you, shaking your head trying to hide the wistful smile on your face, what a sap. “Who’d have thought you were such a softie.”

“Very funny.” Both of you are silent for a while, watching another round of competitors take the starting point and walking away from one another before turning and firing. “Why haven’t you said anything about who I am?” 

His voice was so low, you’d almost missed it. Glancing at him to see him looking down at the ground in front him. “Why would I?” His head pops up to look at you, eyes hard and narrowed. “People are terrified at the mention of your name. And a lot of these other competitors are either outlaws or other bounty hunters.” You shrug your shoulders, all of this making sense to you, and from what you’d seen of him you thought he would have come to the same conclusion. “I don’t see a reason to cause a blind panic.”

The look he’s giving you reminds you of when someone is giving an object a second look, like they’ve gone back and realized they missed something critical the first time. “I guess that’s a good enough reason.”

One of the officials is calling out for Mr. Smith to join the line, both of you freezing when you remember it’s the name Vash is going by. Standing and dusting his knees off, “Sorry to cut the conversation short.”

This time as you watch him fire, you’re certain of it. A smallest flick of his fingers and the bullet that was aimed for his center of mass veered off missing him, while his own hit the barrel of his opponent sending the handgun flying. 

You hadn’t expected to have Vash rejoin you under the shaded cover, he could have gone to one of the other tents and as he takes a seat you call him out on it. “Alright now I'm really curious” Keeping your voice low, knowing just outside the tent is a throng of people. “How’d you change the bullet trajectory? I thought I saw it a few times but now I'm certain it was you.” 

This time he’s the one shrugging his shoulders, taking a sip from his water canteen before answering you. “I don’t like seeing people die.” Well that’s not an answer, or something you’d expect from a man with a bounty like his to say.

“That's not what I asked” 

 A smirk firmly on his face as he looks at you, eyes full of mischief which for some reason just pisses you off more. “And I’m choosing to change the subject. Wanna tell me why you don’t kill people either?” 

You hadn’t expected him to turn it around on you, once again ignoring that little voice in the back of your head. Snorting before answering. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s not my first choice. I will kill if it comes down to my survival over anothers. But why cut a life short if I don’t need to?” A very different outlook then the one you carried as a young adult, but hey, lessons learned. 

It’s silent for a while again between the two of you, and you think it’s the end of your conversations. When Vash next speaks you feel the hackles along the back of your neck raise. 

“Is that why you told Gasback people can’t rob a ghost?” Voice soft and wistful, like there’s a piece of the puzzle he’s been trying to figure out.

That question leaves you pissy rolling your eyes and crossing your arms once more, looking down at the sand and kicking a pebble away. “That’s not what I said. Why does that story keep growing and changing?” You take a long inhale, trying to calm yourself. Gasback. It always seems to be the question most people have, how they view you on this planet and it pisses you off. The start of this entire stupid nickname. “He said he was gonna rob me of my life if we met again. I told him you can’t rob from the dead once they’re killed. He’s supposed to be some kind of robber that gets off on bigger and bigger robberies. If you kill people, you can’t rob them a second time. Wouldn’t that make it more challenging to see if you can overcome them a second time?” 

You’ve spit out the words like venom, honestly what kind of screwed up logic did he have, you can’t steal a life by ending it. His entire attitude had left you reeling after you’d turned him over. Missing the look Vash is sending you, like you’re far more aware then he thought at first glance, thinking back to Jeneora Rock and the bar.

“That’s an odd outlook” turning to look at him, you want to smack that grin off his face.

“Am I wrong?” It comes out more like a hiss, thinking he’s just making fun of you. A reason you try to not travel with people for too long. Well. A much smaller reason then the main point. 

Laughing lightly, still grinning at you “no you’re not. You’re one strange lady, you know that?” 

“Sure do.” This time the officials are calling you to the starting line and Vash is looking at you with an eyebrow raised.

“You hate the nickname but you use it in a competition?” You shrug walking backwards to look at him. 

“I’ll make use of the infamy if I need it.” 

As you take your own position, you know it won’t take long to win this round. Your opponent is a small-time outlaw, and you can see the shakes from iles away. One shot and he’s disarmed before he even had the chance to pull the trigger. After winning this round, the official near the board showing the final four names is calling for a short break. Based on the names, it’s going to be you and Vash in the final showdown. A part of you itching to see just who is better. It’s been a long time since you felt something like that, that competitive streak in you as you return to the same shaded tent. 

Vash is still sitting there fiddling with something in his pockets. “So, are you as good of a shot with the revolver as you are with your rifle?” 

His tone reminds you of the bar, and you smile, looking back it was easy to see why Rosa thought the two of you had been flirting. “I’m a good shot with everything.” 

“How boastful.”

This time it’s you grinning at the sarcasm lacing his words “it’s not when it’s the truth. Since we seem to be getting pretty buddy buddy here, wanna tell me if you actually deserve that bounty of yours or not?” It has been eating at you for a while now. 

Vash doesn’t seem to be a bad guy, and you’re wondering if his bounty is all because of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’ve seen that before, some people just have the misfortune of Lady Luck casting a terrible die their way. With the way he gets tangled up in trouble you could see the blame for the incidents being pinned on him. 

This time as you look at him, he’s wearing that sad smile again, the same one as earlier and for some reason it makes your heart clench. “I do.” His voice is so somber, like he’s just been told his entire family has been killed, eyes ardent on the sand in front of him. At the calling of his name, the break over you see something almost break before the smile is back in place. “I deserve it far more than you know.” 

Watching him walk away you find your eyes narrowing, the way he carries himself, for the first time seeing something you had missed. He walks like a man searching for penance, knowing he’ll never find it. Something you can relate to deep in your soul.  

Watching as Vash fires, winning once more you sigh, running your hand through your hair. This blond seems to be always throwing your conceptions about him out the window, it’s been awhile since someone has been holding your attention for this long trying to figure them out. A voice very different from the usual one at the back of your mind telling you there’s a reason for it, but as always, you smother and force that voice back down. 

Walking up to the field, and walking your steps, firing once more and winning. Now it’s just time to face Vash, and a part of you feels pretty giddy over it. A sense of nerves that has you shaking, feeling your heart rate jump and muscles twitch. 

Until you see one of the officials heading towards you. “Congratulations miss, Mr. Smith has dropped out. You’ve won.” 

“That sneaky son of a bitc-” just about every head in the main street is pointed towards you, and you pause. A light switch going off in your head, the restaurant owner, she was the one who lost a family member and Vash was in the tournament for her. A lead weight dropping in your stomach, knowing Vash has already bolted you move quickly. 

By the end of the day, every outlaw that had a bounty had been rounded up and turned over to the sheriffs’ office minus Vash. Wallet fat again and the prize money handed off to the restaurant owner, who knew of Vash and said he asked her to try and keep him working there a secret. 

Another enigma you need to figure out, wondering if maybe it was time to stop trying to catch the Humanoid Typhoon.

#vash the stampede x reader #vash the stampede #trigun stampede #trigun #twink writes #enimes to lovers #Bullets Bandits Ghosts & Typhoons

[femmesandhoney]

I don't wanna have to be a feminist.

I don't know how to explain this but like I didn't contribute to women's oppression, I'm a victim of it so why is it on me to solve an Issue I didn't create in the first place.

I'm just so tired. I'm so jealous of men, they can just do whatver they want, but everything I may do or say is scrutinized and seen a as a statement.

Ugh I just idk at this point I feel like trying to survive in a patriarchal society is easier than trying to enact change .

I feel like there's this pressure on me like if I'm not a feminist then I'm a gender traitor of some ssorts which I guess isn't totally wrong but like I didn't ask to be a woman I didn't choose this.

Long post warning! I don't wanna put any of this under a cut so deal with it and scroll if you don't wanna read lmao

Sorry for the wait for the response I've been a bit tired this week from the surgery and my school work. And not gonna lie I've just been doing a lot of reading for my peace studies class so my perspectives on complacency is a bit skewed right now towards dislike. In the drama of peace studies and peace leaders, you'd honestly be looked at as a bit of a coward. I mean, really? Everyone knows it's easier to just stick with the status quo, when has change ever been easy, especially social changes and fights against oppression and the misogyny that's so deeply rooted in our cultures. Of course it's not fucking easy. Of course there's times it feels bleak.

My favorite professor once asked us if any of us had been to one of the local protests that had happened. None of us raised our hands. She looked a bit shocked as she took in the fact that in a class of roughly 30 adults, all working on moving final projects all semester about commemorative practices about deeply horrible oppressive governments, genocides, and wars, that none of us could even find the strength to go to a local protest. She asked if any of us usually go to protests or supportive demonstrations at all, ever. Again, no one raised a hand. She said, "none of you are activists?" and we all sort of looked around a bit embarrassed. If she were to ask this question a few decades ago, hell the 70s were a moving time to be on a college campus especially, you'd never guess the state of so many college students nowadays being so uninterested in social movements and social changes. So many of us look at the strives we've made in recent decades and go "that's enough for me, I'm content with that" or "I'm tired, no one is listening" or just plain old "why bother?".

And here's the thing: not everyone is an activist. I'm sure not, I find other ways to support women and don't often enjoy large gatherings just because my city isn't the safest. To be a feminist you have a multitude of options and ways to engage with feminism than standing in a group waving a sign, though that's a very important area of social change too and it's important to recognize when it's time to stand together openly and go "listen to us".

You say women are always scrutinized and that everything we say is taken as a political statement, which online at least is often true. We can't necessarily escape people viewing everything we do and say online as neutral, some people just have distorted ideas about others. I would try to remind yourself that the internet is full of dumbasses and you know better than strangers what's in your heart. But at the same time, if you're engaging in political speak and movements, there will be times your own behavior and statements will be reflected back on you for good or bad. It's just up to you how you feel about yourself. I personally think no one is a perfect feminist, there's always gonna be something that another could call you out for. So same can be said for those who try to scrutinize your every statement or move. At the end of the day, what matters is how much you understand and care about feminism and the women in the world and do you actually try?

Trying will look different for everyone. In our peace studies class, we're talking about how peace is not an easy and straight forward process and that while the goal is peace, you shouldn't get so bogged down by the end goal that you ignore or ruin the path to get there. In most cases, reaching a pure feminist world is not likely in our life time, which is why it's necessary for us to engage in female consciousness raising, creating for and leaving behind theory and books and evidence and music and art for our friends and daughters and sisters and grandchildren and women we'll never know. In our daily lives, do we try? Do we live in a way that reduces the harm that patriarchy and a male dominated culture has had on us? Do you not wear makeup, wear comfortable clothing, speak kindly to yourself when you look at your own reflection in the mirror, do you workout and take care of yourself, do you speak to your female family and friends, do you watch and engage with female created media and art, do you love and have hobbies, do you donate to women's charities and shelters, do you work with women in your jobs and how do you treat and support them, do you make sure the world is safe for the girls and women in your communities by voting in local elections, do you go to protests and board meetings and engage politically with feminism, do you share feminist theory with others, do you read the news and stay informed about world affairs especially vital towards transnational feminism, do you try?

You're right none of us chose to be born women into a world that wants to kick us down at every chance. With that mentality, though, you're only gonna depress yourself. There's more to feminism than sadness and despair, you're just looking at it from the wrong angle. The pressure to be a feminist isn't on any one individual, but you gain the benefits of trying to live a life in a way that recognizes the harm a male dominated culture has on us as per many of the examples above. I'm not sure who you feel is pressuring you, whether that be people online or just yourself, there's not necessarily a wrong way to be a feminist if you just fucking try. Trying is literally more than enough, but not trying at all makes someone a complacent coward. To look at the world and to see for what it is and not even feel the urge to go, "fuck it, I'm at least gonna live my best life in spite of that" is one of the most un-feminist things ever, yeah. I wouldn't call you a gender traitor unless you're up there touting conservative traditional ideology bullshit, but I'd say you need to connect to yourself and the women around you more. You're in a headspace where feminism rests solely on you and that unless you're out in the streets with a mic you're not doing enough, which is far from what many people are doing anyways. Do we need more active groups? Yeah, for sure. But right now the climate is difficult. Right now it seems the work is laying more foundation towards class consciousness and feminist theory and undoing the harm so much liberal feminist theory has wrought. Go support local charities and shelters, go hang out with your friends, go shop at a women run store, go just interact with the women in your life and try to center them and yourself. None of us want to be fighting for our damn rights, but that's not the end goal of feminism either.

To steal from peace studies theory, negative peace is just the absence of war. Positive peace is the absence of war and any and all oppressive institutions, violence, and is considered a "just" society. In my eyes, feminism is sort of like that. A negative feminism is just the absence of the patriarchy, or in terms of liberal feminism, a society in which men and women are equals. Positive feminism would be a society in which there's no patriarchy and where men and women are not just equals, but that women can live their lives to the fullest, where women are not bogged down by gender roles and norms and sexist institutions, where women are encouraged to love and befriend each other and not focus on men, where women aren't just legally equals, but are fundamentally happy and afforded opportunities to live rich and fulfilling lives apart from men. That's the end goal of feminism, really. Many of the examples I raised are to lead women down the path towards that positive feminism as well as negative, since both are vital for women in the long run.

Anyways, I love you anon and you're not a gender traitor for being tired. It points to you needing to go look for some peace and happiness. We all grow weary if we spend all our time huddled in the dark trying to picture the light instead of just stepping outside and seeing the sun.

#radical feminism #radical feminist #radfem safe #radfems do touch