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amateurwordbender · 2 years

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Lover & Loner

“I’m not going.”

“Johanna,” Blight says with a mixture of exasperation and I’m-going-to-murder-you written on his face. Johanna’s grown very accustomed to that face; it was with her every step of the way on her Victory Tour. “You can’t skip this party. It’s—”

“Why the hell not?” Johanna cuts in before her former mentor can launch into some lecture about how this is the unofficial opener for the Games season, how everyone who’s anyone in the Capitol will be there, blah blah fucking blah. “It’s not like I’m mentoring. I don’t need to meet sponsors or try and squeeze secrets out of the Gamemakers.”

“Sure, but people aren’t just going to let it slide if the winner of the last Games doesn’t show up. There are going to be socialites who want to meet you for the first time, reporters who want your opinions on this year’s tributes—”

“All the more reason not to go—”

“and,” Blight continues loudly, “the Capitol needs to keep all of them happy.”

That stops her protests in her throat. Johanna crosses her arms, but she hears what Blight isn’t saying. Snow and his lackeys won’t tolerate it looking like they can’t control one of their precious victors.

She hates them all so much that it stains the edges of her vision red. Sometimes, she wishes she didn’t have a sense of self-preservation and could just tell the esteemed president himself to fuck off straight to his face, maybe shoving a spear so far up his ass that he can’t move without slicing his balls for good measure. But you don’t make it out of the Games alive without a deep-seated survival instinct, so she swallows her bitterness and goes down to meet with her stylist.

Another scratchy wig, another gaudy dress, and she’s off to the gala, wading through a smog of perfumes and flummery. Johanna tries to stick it out; she really does, but after one too many hands on her skin and compliments from people who made bets on her life, she gives her micromanager—sorry, escort—the slip and starts looking for an escape route.

The main entrance is out of the question; Blight or Gabinia, who has been frantically searching for Johanna since she disappeared into the crowd, would spot her right away. There are a few other doors accessible from this floor, but there are guards posted by every single one of them, and they give her suspicious looks whenever she approaches. She heads upstairs instead.

It’s quieter on the second level, but that doesn’t necessarily make it an improvement. Here, the air is just as thick, if only with scheming rather than schmoozing. This must be where those deals that can mean life or death for the tributes who haven’t even arrived in the Capitol are made. Johanna recognizes a few faces that pass her by—there’s one of the victors from Two, and yep, that’s the Gamemaker with an atrociously green mustache who scored her last year. She beelines for fluttering curtains that indicate a balcony.

It opens out to a view that is probably fucking magnificent, but she looks down over the railing instead to gauge her chances of making it to the ground. The stone walls are polished so flat that there aren’t enough grooves to serve as footholds. And she’s just high up enough that she wouldn’t be able to jump without breaking something, and she’s not that desperate. Yet.

Johanna leans back, tapping her newly manicured nails against her thigh. At least she’s alone out here, and at least she can breathe without it feeling like her lungs are filling with—

“Miss Johanna Mason,” a smooth voice calls from the balcony entrance.

Johanna doesn’t bother hiding her scowl. She knows that voice. Every person in Panem knows that voice. And while Johanna never had many friends, she did go to school, and she does remember that year Finnick Odair was reaped and became the singular topic of conversation among every girl and half of the boys in the halls.

“Shouldn’t you be off seducing some neglected Capitol housewife?”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” is Finnick Odair’s only answer. He slides up beside her, slinging an arm carelessly over the railing. “As does yours. Quite the impressive victory, by the way. Such… strategic prowess.” Johanna glances over at him. He’s holding a champagne flute, and he twirls it between two fingers without spilling a drop. “I’d be careful, if I were you. They watch the smart ones very closely around here.”

She glares into his easy smile. She should just up and leave, but this is her spot. “That supposed to be some kind of threat?”

Finnick blinks innocently. “Threat? Me? Heavens, no.” He’s adopted a pitch that reminds her of Gabinia, and it nearly coaxes a smile out of her before she remembers how goddamn irritated she is. “Miss Mason, I’m the least threatening person you could meet. Harmless, really.” There’s something sharp in the angle of his mouth, and Johanna scoffs. As if a victor could be anything resembling harmless.

But as she watches him take a lazy sip of his drink, she realizes there’s a bit of truth to his words. Everyone here seems to have completely bought into his charm. They see the sculpted arms, the chiseled jaw, and have somehow entirely forgotten how those arms snared helpless children in nets before plunging a trident into their hearts, how blood splattered that jaw as it twisted in grim triumph.

Then again, it’s not as if the Capitolites have anything to fear. Their victors are beasts, but the ones like Finnick Odair have been thoroughly tamed.

If she gave a rat’s ass about etiquette, it would probably be Johanna’s turn to say something, but she finally gives the view the time of day instead. The city sparkles beneath them, the lights too bright and clustered together in a way that feels claustrophobic. God. There’s really no reason why she has to be here right now. She could be back in Seven, lounging high up in the branches and watching the stars above rather than the vapid people below.

“So,” Finnick continues almost right away, undeterred by her silence. “What are you doing all on your own?”

She sighs. Stupid Snow. Stupid rules requiring victors to return every year. “What do you think?”

Finnick hums. “Well... you wanna get out of here?”

“Oh my god,” Johanna mutters.

“I’m serious.”

“I’m surprised you’re capable of it,” she shoots back. “Even if I wanted to go anywhere with you, there are guards at every door. I checked.”

Finnick grins at her, all teeth. “Oh, darling, that’s not an issue.” He drains the rest of his glass, then practically twirls around. “Come on.”

Against her better judgment, she follows.

Almost as soon as they get downstairs, they walk right into Blight’s line of sight, and Johanna ducks reflexively behind Finnick’s frame. He raises an amused eyebrow at her, but blocks her obligingly all the same, and they reach the nearest exit without any trouble. Finnick steps forward as the guard standing by lifts a gloved hand.

“Sorry, this area’s off-limits.”

“The gardens?” Finnick tilts his head. “I know Ms. Dillia quite well, you know. I doubt she’d mind us simply taking a stroll.”

It takes a minute for Johanna to place the name as the host of the gala, and she quickly hides her disgust before it can show on her face. Finnick’s not much older than her, and that woman has to be well into her fifties. Likely older, given the cosmetic norms around here.

When the guard doesn’t budge, Finnick leans in and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sir, please. We’re not trying to ruffle any feathers here—or disturb any plants.” The guard’s mouth twitches. “You know the folks from Seven. Spend all their days holed up in the woods and far from any civilized company. She just needs a little air.”

Johanna does her best to look dizzy and overwhelmed. It isn’t hard. It takes Finnick trailing a hand up the guard’s arm, but eventually, he gives in and lets them through.

“Not bad,” Johanna says once they’re out of earshot.

“You’ll learn how to deal with them soon enough.”

She manages to bite back a comment about how it must be easy when he is one of them. “Thanks,” she begrudges instead. They reach a pitiful fence at the edge of the grounds, and she hikes up her dress to climb over. "Anyway, see you."

“Oh, at least let me walk you back. There are creeps all over the city at this time of night.”

Johanna rolls her eyes. They both know she’s hardly defenseless. “Fine.”

She doesn’t bother trying to make small talk on their way to the City Circle, but Finnick doesn’t seem to mind and chatters enough for the both of them while they walk, pointing out this building or that like the perfect little tour guide. Johanna tunes him out until they get to the entrance of the Victors’ Tower, and damn, he’s still blabbering on. She frowns.

“Why did you help me?”

Finnick doesn’t show a sign of being fazed by the interruption. He shrugs. “Dunno. Guess I got bored.”

“Do you want to come up then?” The offer slips out before she can think better of it.

“Sorry, I would, but I’ve actually got a date I need to get back to,” he says, just shy of sheepish.

Oh. She hadn’t meant it like that, but that’s on her for forgetting who she was talking to. She spares a moment of pity for the woman who bored Finnick so much that he decided to walk Johanna back to her quarters. “Suit yourself.”

“See you around, Jo.” He gives her a wink that would probably make anyone else swoon but honestly looks dorky as fuck to her, then heads back towards the party.

Johanna figures that’s the end of her stint with Finnick Odair, at least until the next Games. After all, she doesn’t plan to leave her apartment much while she’s forced to be here. But for some reason, almost every time she does, she finds his infuriatingly cheerful self at her side, cracking a joke or dishing rumors about victors and Capitolites alike.

She mostly puts up with him because he clears the very low bar of being more fun than Blight, so it’s a surprise when before long, he really is joining her on Seven’s floor. The other victors probably think they’re sleeping together, but his visits never go past sampling Capitol snacks together or exchanging stories about home. Johanna can’t blame the assumptions—this isn’t at all what she would’ve expected either, and she starts realizing pretty fast that there’s a distinct difference between how Finnick acts in public and in private.

Which, well, duh. But it goes beyond putting on a face for his adoring fans. At first glance, Finnick’s sense of humor consists entirely of innuendo and flattery, but Johanna soon learns of a cynicism that is far more bearable. Plus, he’s supposed to be some sex-crazed playboy. It’s possible that she only sees less of it because they never spend a night together, but it’s almost like that part of his personality is fully switched off as soon as they’re in the Victors’ Tower.

The more time she spends with him, the more the layers peel away, to the point where Public Finnick and Tower Finnick seem like two completely different people after a while. Honestly, he plays the Capitol puppet even better than the patsies from One. She doesn’t know how he stands it. Johanna’s a good actor, too—it was literally how she won, but she hated every moment of playing the whimpering coward, and it was a relief to show her true colors—doesn’t Finnick ever get fucking tired?

She’s never been one to choose her words carefully, so she asks him about it straight up while they’re taking a walk through the nearby arboretum one day. Finnick just turns to her with a smirk.

“I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, sweetheart.” He offers her a plucked flower, which she slaps out of his hand.

“Call me that again and you’ll find an axe buried in your chest,” she purrs, mimicking his smile.

“Ooh.” Finnick shudders in a mocking way that really makes her fingers itch for a handle. “Noted. I wouldn’t want to know what it’s like being on your bad side.”

“As long as you don’t try and make me your next plaything,” she says without any real malice. But Finnick's step falters, and a shadow crosses his face, and something in her chest twinges in regret. Which makes no damn sense. The gibe was harsh, but she’s always harsh, and she didn’t really say anything wrong; Finnick is very publicly the Capitol slut—though the actual citizens of the Capitol might frame it in airier terms, like eligible bachelor or lover. She’s even seen him acknowledge it with a gracious laugh and blushing change of subject in state-sponsored interviews.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he says after a beat, and maybe she imagined the weight in his eyes, because his smile is as clear and unbothered as always when she glances again.

It isn’t until days later, when the Games are nearly over, that she finally understands the truth behind that look.

Snow summons her personally to tell her what she needs to do, and Johanna is so stunned that she doesn’t have time to protest before he’s showing her live footage of her family, of her one brainless friend who refused to be driven away, of Mom and Dad and Jordan and Theo, and it’s impossible to say no.

It makes sense, she thinks bitterly to herself as her stylist paints her into a concubine for the evening. It makes so much sense that victors are routinely sold to the highest bidder or given away for political favors, because they’re all slaves from the moment their names are drawn. It makes perfect sense, and yet her palms are still sweaty and her legs are still numb all the way to the manor of her companion for the night, and she’s clammy with dread in a way that she never was in the arena.

At least in there, she could do something. Trapped in her buyer’s dark bedroom, there’s nowhere to run. With his hand too low on her back and pushing her to the mattress, there’s no one to fight.

She’s ready—well, she isn’t, but she’s willing to shove down her pride, to endure the thread of horror barely stitching her breaths together, to cooperate if it means the people that she loves will be safe.

But it seems the man she’s been sold to isn’t satisfied with mere cooperation. He wants a struggle—and fuck, this makes sense too, since he picked her—and when he hits her and sneers, grabbing a fistful of her god-awful dress, that thread in her chest snaps, her mind goes blank, and she doesn’t realize what she’s doing until it’s too late and the man’s blood is dripping from her hands. His body lies motionless at her feet, drenching the carpet in red, still warm. Johanna is cold.

Mom. Dad. Jordan. Theo.

She collapses beside the corpse.

—————

also on ao3 (where future chapters will be posted! please heed the warnings there—nothing is going to be worse than what is in canon, but future chapters may explore darker themes in more detail)

#the hunger games #thg #finnick odair #johanna mason #this is a fic nearly two years in the making i'm so happy the first chapter is finally out there now i'm gonna go take a nap #my writing #she speaks

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yanderenightmare · 3 years

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uhm, yandere Katsuki with a small reader... like idk how to explain but fluff fear? like waking up together but all she can think about is how loud he sleeps and how BIG he is, also him being a total bitch about how small she is?

yandere kidnapper ! BAKUGO KATSUKI

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goodiebag WARNINGS: dubcon/noncon mentions, kidnapping, abduction, abuse, degradation

PUFF

Waking up warmer than usual was something she’d gotten terribly used to.

It had only been a couple days. A couple days in a foreign house without anything to do except prance around in what lingerie Katsuki bothered to give her, or sleep the hours away. Where which the latter was undesirable, because she’d be risking getting snuck up on by the brute predator once he returned. So, she was left walking about, dragging tired limbs through barren hallways, stopping to take in the space of each impersonal room, half-naked and cold in the marble mansion, doing nothing but dreading the time her hero came home.

And in the absence of things happening, those moments where she was in fact preoccupied with something became so much heavier and longer than what they were in reality. Expanded, to the degree where she could pinpoint almost every single detail within the moment.

This was one of those moments.

She wanted to focus on the bed, soft material, caky and cloudy beneath her, but it was difficult to ignore the mass behind her. His nose poking into the top of her head, nuzzling in her hair, a good measurement of knowing how close his teeth were to her neck as heavy breaths ran down her neck like a chilling breeze, ticklish and disturbing like crawling mites. His chest, rising, pushing into her back, the beating of his heart rattling her ribcage. His hands, large and so very warm, warmer than they were supposed to be, scathed like sandpaper as they scratched in their presence by rubbing her hip, arms slung around her body haphazardly, caging her, suffocating her, pulling her close, holding her steady, trapping her.

Like a dragon protecting his treasure, she thought, but quickly discarded of the notion. It sounded too sweet.

Katsuki wasn’t sweet.

He’d come home yesterday, coated in smog, droplets of blood flecked on his sand-skin in no particular pattern. He didn't shower, he’d only grabbed her and walked off to bed. No words shared, only whimpers and dark, disturbing chuckles. She’d struggled, as much as she could against the brute, but it felt as though he enjoyed that more. Tightening his hold until she swore she began to hear her bones ache, bristle as he squeezed the air from out of her lungs.

She was happy she was spared his painful cock that night, but she was sure it would be a short-lived mercy.

His hold; though still strong, wasn’t as tight in the morning. She took it as an opportunity to create more space between herself and the fever-heat and blinding smell of caramel. She almost wished she could smell the blood and smoke instead, something bitter to disrupt the sickening sweet. She wished she could smell anything else, but even the smell of herself was overcome by him. She’d walked around the house thinking of it the other day, how it was almost as though he’d scented her, as though they were animals.

He didn’t take lightly to the disturbing of his slumber, grunting and growling, stirring that overbearing sense of fear inside her gut, her stomach folding in every possible way. She didn’t want to stop, she wanted to fight, she wanted to roar. He tightened his arms around her, squeezed her hip, planting her ass better against his crotch and she froze.

He smacked his tongue against his teeth. “Now what?” He coaxed. She expected his voice to sound groggy in the morning, but she’d learned in the past days, it never shed its ugly tone. “You gonna cry?” His voice sounding almost hopeful as he bit down on her earlobe, earning a gasp that along the way turned into a delicious little whimper. She tried clawing at his hand, his own nails digging into her skin. “Do yourself a favor and relax” All his taunting, patronizing overbearing words, dismissive to her discomfort, rather enjoying it, if only she could see the cracked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. She kept struggling despite the obvious futility. “Yer’ not going anywhere, yer’ exactly where you need to be... exactly where you belong.” His tone was casual as he sucked in a breath, sighing with a grumbling growl, still sleepy, yawning behind her, comfortable when squeezing her plushie little form, keeping her close like child with a teddybear.

But he wasn't enjoying how her legs were kicking, despite the rest of her struggles being teasingly pleasurable.

Pushed down on her back, manhandled into position, he made to move himself between her thighs. Now, with more mistaken freedom, she tried pushing him away. Foolish fists hit against the stiff muscles of his chest, until he grabbed them by the wrists and pinned them above her head. His face so much closer now, but he didn’t kiss her, still longing to hear her speak up, to beg, to plead, to scream. But he remained close, knowing how every one of his words made her heart beat that much faster, and how those especially crude words made her quiver or better yet bleat, like a little lamb beneath him.

“Come on…” He hauled out. She barely made out the words, as far hidden in the growl as they were. His voice tickling her burning ear, his head resting its heavy weight on her arm. “I know I’ve been busy, but…” He spoke as though she wanted to spend more time with him. “It’s my day off.” His voice in singsong, as if she’d be excited, the tone sounding dreadful and wrong when coming from him, dark as it was. But it earned him what he’d been wanting, that soft and struggled sniffle, breath caught in her throat, an uncontrolled shiver breaking the sweet feeble noise.

Content with what he’d reduced her to, he rested his head on the pillow beside her face, his weight laid down upon her in a lifedraining fashion. He hummed, closing his eyes, enjoying her small frame beneath him. In her rightful place, he snickered. Eyes fluttering to look at her pretty face, hand covered in dried blood and smoke as it ascended to tug a lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb stroking over her lips when he made to retract it. The state of his skin made him cringe when he touched the fairness of her complexion. It felt wrong, he admitted.

They needed to find an even ground.

“Let’s shower, I’m dirty.” She could feel his lips on her ear now, but she was too shell-shocked to snap her head away, knowing what was coming.

In all honesty, she wouldn’t mind a shower. She’d been there a while and didn’t exactly feel clean with him spread, smeared all over her, inside her. But, he’d insisted on being so very close at all times, she was sure the same rules would apply in the shower.

She tried her best to fight, but it was all so easy to simply grab her arm and pull her with him, yanking on her like a child with a toy. Throwing her inside the large bathroom, with strength that almost had her falling to her knees.

“Take yer’ clothes off.” He commanded, having her backed up against the cold tiles of the walls. “Or… they’re not really your clothes.” He tugged at the black fabric of his shirt, one she’d put on after realizing her own clothes were far from wearable anymore, singed as they were.

Towering over her petite shape, enjoying how she had to tilt her head a drastic degree to stare up at him.

She was so tiny, it sent pleasurable shivers down his spine to look at her, small like a little pet. His shirt hung around her in the same way you’d expect a tent would, reaching all the way down to her knees, only barely fitting on her narrow shoulders.

She wanted to sound strong. “N- no.” It came out weak.

Snickering, he placed a hand on the wall beside her head. “I was hoping you’d say that…” His smile was so feral, she began wondering if smiles were ever a nice gesture in the first place. Katsuki seemed to do it simply to show her those large teeth stored in his mouth, teeth that could rip her throat out if he were dedicated enough. “Better you learn sooner than later just how helpless you are to stop me getting what I want.” He leaned in closer, stepping further into her space, threatening to crush her toes under the soles of his feet, his much too hot breaths striking her face on repeat. “Weak.” He spat the word, as though it were venom on his tongue. “Defenseless.” It disgusted him, distaste clear in the growl lacing his tone. “Fragile.”

He’d not gotten exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to scream, whether it was of rage or of fear, didn’t really matter. The tears were no less satisfying though, dribbling down her cheeks, eyes glossy and sparkling.

He grabbed the collar of the t-shirt. She felt the pull, but the tear still came as a surprise. The ripped fabric, now reduced to useless singed rags, pooling around her ankles, and she found herself regretting her wish to smell smoke because the burn of the textile at her feet was not the type of bitter like morning coffee, but bitter in the way that made her eyes sting. Her knees almost gave out when his hand neared her again, his other hand placed above her head, meaning to cage her in between his warmth and the freezing wall behind her.

Her nipples perked at once when he made contact, which made him smile, hand still hot, much too hot. He cupped one breast in his hand, much too small to fill it entirely. He didn’t seem to mind though.

“So soft…” The disdainful tone was gone, but she found herself missing it as opposed to what lingered in his voice now. “So delicate.” Lust was so terribly more frightening than his distaste. “So…” He licked his lips, a hot breath fanned over her face and goosebumps sprung to the surface of her skin. He hummed in response and she was sure she might just faint. “So sensitive.” She yelped when he pinched. “Mine.” His voice was low and rumbling, hot like raked coals. Tugging down her bottoms as well, she did little to prevent it.

Not that it would have mattered if she did.

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#yandere katsuki #yandere katsuki x reader #yandere katsuki bakugou #yandere bakugo katsuki #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere bakugo #yandere bakugou

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magicman111 · 3 years

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A Moth to a Flame - Chapter Three

Plumes of thick smoke billowed above the guard tower, blotting out the dusk sky with an ugly, brown smog. Burning red embers danced and flickered in the air, a single stray spark singeing Sasha’s right cheek.

Two girls stood, a dirt clod’s throw apart from each other. They stared each other down. The squeaky toy and Grime were already engaging in a battle of their own, leaving the two former friends alone on that tower. It did little to make the tension any less palpable.

Anne held her sword firmly in both hands, and the rage-filled scowl etched on her face made it clear she was itching for an excuse to ream the blade through her ex bestie’s chest cavity. The sheer hatred boiling inside her veins could not be overstated. Sasha, however, was a different story. She remained cool and kept both open palms raised, a sign of her peaceful intentions. Already a hard sell considering less than an hour ago, she’d ordered her flunkies to lock her and her family up in the dungeon after using and backstabbing her for the fifteen thousandth time.

She knew perfectly well what was at stake here. She knew the consequences not for them, but for this entire world if she failed. Convincing Anne to believe her now was going to be an uphill battle and the rematch she’d spent months prior fantasising about now seemed inevitable.

The irony surrounding both those things was not lost on her.

“Anne, I need you to listen to me!” she shouted over the hot gusts of wind whipping her face. “There’s something wrong with this Andrias guy! We should—”

Anne was having absolutely none of it. “You expect me to believe you?!” she asked her incredulously. “After all the lying and manipulating you’ve done?!” Sliding the sword back into its sheath, she turned her back on her in disgust. “Sorry, Sasha, but you’re out of chances.”

Why didn’t she take a photo? This would’ve been so much easier if she’d just thought to take a stupid photo! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Or maybe if she’d given Anne any reason to trust her.

The gates were now drawing close to slamming completely shut as Anne resumed pushing the lever. If Sasha squandered any more precious time, their fast-approaching army would be locked outside the city. She felt her twin swords weigh heavily on her hips; the tips of fingers twitched.

Whelp, in for a penny, in for a pound. She took a deep breath.

“I think Marcy’s in on it.”

“Yeah yeah!” scoffed Anne. “Blah blah bla—what?”

It was a hail mary that paid off. Anne froze in place and glared back at Sasha as if she’d caught her in the act of stomping on Domino’s tail.

“What... what did you say?” she asked, her voice fittingly ice-cold.

“Anne, look... I get it, okay?” Sasha gutsily stepped forward, closing the gap between them. They still had a glimmer of hope in ending this without a fight, so she knew she had to cobble her thoughts together and choose her next words carefully. “You don’t trust me a-and I don’t blame you, but I swear I’m telling you the truth. Grime and I found these—these weird pictures hidden in the throne room. They... one of them was showing the king with the music box. Th-then there was also something about Marcy’s family, I... I don’t know exactly what it all means...”

Amazing how they’d spent the past months going on wild adventures, escaping dozens of near-death experiences with the many monsters infesting the place, yet this was the one thing she struggled to make sound plausible. Of all the times for that natural charisma and confidence to falter. The way Anne was looking at her like she’d sprouted a third arm out her forehead told her it was going about as well as expected.

“All I know is we shouldn’t be giving either of them the Box. Not right now.” She finally lowered her hands back to her sides, adding, “Just come back to the throne room with me and I promise I’ll show you everything.”

A silence fell over the guard tower, punctuated only by the th-thunk of hundreds of armoured boots rising in the distance.

Now the ball was back in Anne’s court. She’d been rendered speechless by everything she’d been told. All she could do was stare the other girl square in the eyes. Dumbstruck.

Relief washed over Sasha as the tension appeared to simmer down, to the point she felt confident enough to move in closer, stopping when they were only feet apart. Tentatively, she reached out and brushed her fingers against her friend’s knuckles.

“Anne. Please.”

This snapped Anne out of her stupor. Reacting as if she’d been touched by something filthy, she broke her hand away from hers. Her expression turned on a dime from bewilderment to one of unadulterated hatred.

“... how dare you.”

Instead of withdrawing herself, Anne shoved Sasha away so violently it nearly sent her off her feet.

“I cannot believe I almost fell for that again! I mean, wow! Seriously, Sasha?! You’re gonna try and save your skin by throwing Marcy under the bus?! HOW DARE YOU!!”

Another jab to the breastplate silenced Sasha before she could respond. Anne was advancing on her dangerously, every step she took forcing her to back up. The only other instance she’d legit felt intimidated by her was back when she’d stood up to her at Toad Tower and even then, a secret part of Sasha was also impressed.

Now she’d touched upon what was already a frayed, raw nerve and it was scary.

“Let me tell ya something, Sash!” yelled Anne. A third strike nearly caught Sasha in the throat. “Marcy’s been more of a friend to me than you ever have! Marcy hasn’t lied to me! She hasn’t pushed me around! And she definitely hasn’t tried to kill my family! Unlike YOU!” She gripped the hilt of her sword, the menace in her eyes daring her to give her a reason. “She’s not only a real friend, she’s my best friend! And so help me, if you ever talk about her like that again, I will personally stick this thing right in your—”

The sounds of stomping boots and clattering armour had grown so loud they became impossible to ignore. Anne looked to her left to witness the sea of helmeted toads congregating outside the city walls.

How could she have let herself get distracted? They were coming. They were practically here.

“You were right; I am better off without you.” She hissed at her with so much venom it practically poured over her lips. “We both are.”

With that parting diss, Anne sprinted back to the lever. She had a job to do and she’d wasted way too much time and oxygen on this cretin already.

Sasha was left standing there stricken, feet glued to the floor. Anne might as well have slapped her across the face to achieve the same effect.

A determined scowl of her own soon spread across her features. You can’t say she hadn’t tried.

She drew the twin swords from her belt and assumed her dueling position.

“Anne, I can’t let you close that gate!”

“Oh yeah...?”

Anne roared, leaping through the air, sword unsheathed and aimed at Sasha’s head.

“JUST TRY TO STOP ME!”

Any swordsman worth their salt should know better than to leave themselves exposed like Anne just did. Sasha had a clear open to cut her in two instead of blocking her strike with both swords if she had so chosen.

To Anne’s credit, she wasn’t nearly as foolhardy as she had been when she first arrived in Amphibia. Right now, however, as they flew around the tower and did battle with the ferocity of dueling birds of prey, Sasha could plainly see it was Anne’s anger guiding her sword.

Anne was hostile, her moves unpredictable. Toad Tower didn’t have nothin’ on this. She wasn’t an exceptionally skilled fighter, neither of them realistically could be when you consider they’d both only first taken up the sword months ago. Still, there was underlying talent between them, and in Anne’s case, hers was currently being amplified by a seemingly bottomless well of passionate fury, which encouraged every last nerve to screw her courage to the sticking place.

She was actively going for the kill.

Narrowly dodging a plunge from her sword and, holding both her own in one hand, Sasha reached the other between Anne’s arms to grip her by the shoulder.

“Anne, stop this!” she begged through gritted teeth. “Marcy—”

“SHUT YOUR LYING MOUTH!!”

Anne freed herself by kicking Sasha in the chest with her socked foot. The collision of her unprotected sole against the metal breastplate hurt like all get out, but she wasn’t going to allow a trivial thing like pain stop her from taking a fatal swing at her opponent’s golden head.

Cat-like reflexes were what saved Sasha from getting scalped. If there was any hope in her mind that Anne couldn still be reasoned with, it was surely dashed now.

None of the paths leading out of this graceful dance of death were great. Simply keeping up her defenses and waging a war of attrition until Anne’s wild attacks inevitably tired her out wasn’t going to work. Whatever it was fueling Anne’s rampage, she didn’t look to be running out of it any time soon. Every parry, thrust and dodge drained a little bit more of Sasha’s stamina. She couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

Frog knows she couldn’t rely on those toads to drag their warty butts through the stinking gate already!

Unless she was able to disarm Anne and fast, the only other option was to meet her viciousness in kind with expectedly grime results. Her training with Grime had taught her that every sword fight was already a potential life or death situation, regardless if you lacked the intent to harm, but however much they’d literally been at each other’s throats, Sasha was not prepared to have Anne’s blood on her hands.

An idea hit just as she arched her back away from a swing that easily could’ve taken her head off. Muscle tissue developed over years of cheerleader practice kicked into gear and in those vital seconds, Sasha flawlessly pulled off a handstand and kicked the sword out of Anne’s hand. The blade plummeted to the city streets below.

That should have been the end of it. With her opponent disarmed, Sasha felt the adrenaline rush sustaining her crash. Her lungs were on fire. Pink and Green suddenly felt ten times heavier in her damp palms. She truly couldn’t have gone on a moment longer.

Unfortunately, Anne was nowhere near spent. In an act of near superman-levels of varsity athleticism, slid behind Sasha, grabbed the hem of her cape and jumped over her head.

Before Sasha was able to register what in the ever-lovin’ Frog just happened, Anne had already tied the cape over her eyes. She barely even had a chance to flail like a dizzy ballerina when Anne’s fist smashed her in the face!

It was a blow powerful enough to send her spinning across the tower. She landed flat on her face, not an ounce of strength left in her muscles to pick herself back up. It was miraculous she didn’t black out then and there.

All that happened around her next was a mad din of noise. She made out the slam of what must have been Anne finally closing the gate. Then someone somewhere sounded a horn, followed by a voice she dreaded to hear more than anything else.

“Royal Newt Guard! Assemble!”

Oh Frog! They’d already freed the king! Anne must’ve sent the rest of her frog family or worse, Marcy to free him from his cell. She’d been so focused on stopping Anne, she didn’t even factor in what the others were doing.

Anne’s smug tone reached her ears, “End of the line, Sash.”

Sasha crawled up to the ledge on her belly. She tore the cape off her head, scattering it to the wind.

What she saw only confirmed her worst fears. Sprig standing atop a knocked out Grime on the roof below. Newt guards were rounding up her soldiers left and right; the tadpole’s giant robot was holding a bunch of them in its mechanical arms.

Then she saw her, a perky smile plastered on her face, shooting a ‘mission accomplished’ thumbs up at Anne.

“Oh no.”

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slashbitch2 · 3 years

Text

A Snippet of Life with Agatha Harkness

I have no idea how to use tumblr so I hope this works

--- Salem 1693 ----

Chaos reigned in the forest that night. Even before you had any inkling as to what had transpired between Agatha and the elder half of the Coven you could feel the imbalance in the air. It came in the form of an ominous pressure weighing down on you, a heightened sense of urgency that had you rushing toward shelter.

The forest had never scared you, not until that night. Shadowy figures seemed to move in your peripheral, gradually drawing nearer as you grew closer to your house, to your sanctuary. For once, you were cursing the remote location in the depth of the woods as upon arrival, you'd find yourself completely isolated, yet trapped by the thick rows of trees.

Although, as the heavy wooden door slammed behind you, the tension dissipated ever so slightly. Despite what your intuition was telling you, there was still a sense of safety to be found here. You exhaled, calming your erratic breathing and turning to lock the door.

"You know that flimsy lock wouldn't work, right?" A voice called from the back of your house, hidden in darkness but revealed by the person's tone.

Without turning, you answered. "It would against humans."

This wasn't the first time Agatha had sought refuge in your house. When she was younger, and would argue with her mother, she'd come running to your door begging for a bed for the night. Your own mother, a much kinder woman, would never turn her away. It was how you became such close friends.

She chuckled in response, though there was no real humour behind it. In spite of how tired Agatha sounded, she commanded a certain amount of fear. You could feel the dark power radiating round the room that was accustom to her presence. The other witches were not attuned to her malevolent abilities, but you'd always known.

The energy was almost audible, crackling as it came into contact with your own powers. Most would be threatened by it, but as her closest friend, the magic welcomed you into its obscurity. Tonight, however, there was a certain hostile hesitance to it.

You gulped, refusing to turn around in fear of facing the truth. "Are you staying for the night?"

"No." You heard movement, imagining that Agatha was gradually walking towards you. Your suspicion was confirmed as her breath hit the back of your neck. "I need you to come with me."

A chill travelled throughout your body at the notion. She'd always hated living as part of the Coven and used to share her dreams of running away with you. Now, for some unknown reason this fantasy had become a possibility. You remained quiet, trying to put two and two together.

At your silence, she sighed. There was more movement, and then her hand was outstretched in your line of vision, palm flat presenting a broach. Her mother's broach. Your breath hitched. If the broach was in her possession, than that could only mean one thing.

"They held a trial against me." Her voice barely breached a whisper. "Tried to have me killed." Her other hand rested against your shoulder, causing you to flinch. "I couldn't have done anything else."

You inhaled a shaky breath, tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. Years ago when your own mother had died, you blamed yourself, but Agatha had been there for you. She saved you from spiralling further into depression, dragged you out of the bleak captivity and promised to never leave.

You owed her everything, and had promised to do the same if anything ever happened to her. Now was the chance to repay for her loyalty.

Without another word, you turned, wrapping your arms around her form and tugging her closer. She was taken aback by the sudden contact, but soon reciprocated the embrace. She leant into the crook of your neck for a moment, then placed a kiss along your jaw. It served as an unspoken agreement, sealing your pledge of loyalty.

You knew in that moment that Agatha Harkness would probably be the death of you, which was something you were more than willing to accept so long as you could spend eternity in her arms.

--- London 1852 ---

Since the turn of 17th century, you'd been inseparable. On the very same night Agatha had grown fully into her potential powers, you'd run away together. It fulfilled childhood ambitions while simultaneously throwing you into independence earlier than you'd been prepared for, meaning that Agatha was all you had, not that you were complaining.

Had your mother been alive, you liked to believe she would've approved, although, sometimes you missed your home amongst the forest. The house and Coven had been your last true connection to her, severed that night as you left without a proper goodbye. Even now, over a hundred years later, the loss still caused you grief.

Agatha had never related to your attachment to Salem, or to family. From her perspective, you were all she needed. As long as you were by her side, anywhere could be home. Which is how you found yourself living in London, of all places, trapped amidst the seemingly endless industrial revolution. The houses were crammed close together, the streets overcrowded with miserable people.

Out of all the places you'd resided, this was by far your least favourite. Though, you'd never mention your misery to Agatha, who you could tell secretly loved the chaos of the city.

Your house was one among an identical row, so undifferentiated from the others that there had been several occasions when you'd accidentally entered the wrong one. Though thankfully, this evening you did not repeat that particular incident. After a long day of work, which you insisted on doing to maintain some sense of normality, your feet were aching, and your lungs filled with the smog that encompassed the city.

As the door shut behind you, the bustling noise was slightly subdued. You sighed in relief, taking a moment to observe the current layout of your home. While you spent the day working, Agatha would practice spells, and often you'd arrive to find the house either in disarray, or in a state of luxury that didn't match the appearance of the building. Today was the latter.

The living room had been transformed into something you'd expect to find in a manor house, featuring a rich wooden floor and furniture that looked to be the most comfortable you'd ever seen. New exotic decoration was scattered throughout, though you didn't take the time to appreciate it upon noticing the lit fireplace, instead collapsing in the armchair in front of the crackling fire. You basked in its warmth while savouring the comfort the chair provided.

You closed your eyes, appreciating the silence until it was inevitably interrupted. "Evening, dear." Agatha's enthusiastic voice called out as you heard her walking upstairs, most likely leaving the basement. She spent most her time down there, pouring herself into the books she'd accumulated over the years, dedicating effort to gaining more power.

"Evening. " You greeted upon hearing her footsteps grow nearer. "I like what you've done with the place." Opening your eyes, you were met with the unexpected image of Agatha wearing one of her usual dresses, only it was now an intense purple. "Nice dress."

"Oh, this old thing. Just an experiment." She dismissed with a wave. "Now, come with me." She stepped forward to grab your hand, impatiently trying to pull you up.

You groaned, reluctant to move from exhaustion. "Let me sit for a minute." The complaint didn't deter her, and you finally relented as her magic began to surround you, lifting your body as though you were weightless. "This better be worth it." You mumbled, being lead down to the basement.

It in fact was worthwhile. She'd spent the day working on a counter to a binding spell, and required you to be the test subject.

First, she walked you through how it worked, explaining in great detail that you shouldn't immediately oppose the spell, but rather let yourself fall deeper into the trap. And then she, without warning, bound your hands together, assuming you were willing to participate.

Unfortunately, her guidance hadn't been as clear as she intended, leaving you stuck for the following half hour.

"Please, Aggie, can we just give up?" You shifted around, seeking room to stretch your cramped limbs. "I obviously can't do it."

"Well, not with that attitude you can't." She clapped her hands, seemingly reinvigorated by your surrender. Then she began to amble around you in a circle as though observing from every angle.

You rolled your eyes, ensuring that she saw the display of impatience. "Why don't we pick this up tomorrow? Or when I haven't just had a full day at work, at least."

"It's your choice to work." She reminded you. "We have no need for the money." Agatha halted behind you, concluding that a new approach was necessary. She stepped closer, starting to rub soothing circles on your back. "You're overcomplicating it. Just- think about the disadvantage you're at right now. All the things I could do from this position."

You could practically hear the smirk in her voice, so decided to play along. "And why would I want to stop you?"

She laughed loudly, or rather, incredulously at that. "Oh baby, you sure you could handle it?"

Finding yourself at a loss for words, you simply nodded. Agatha usually flirted at any given opportunity, which was initially for her entertainment, simply to make you blush. But as you spent more time together, you became immune to her words. You'd quickly learnt that they carried no real weight.

Except now her tone was insinuating some sincerity behind the claim, which left you speechless.

"Can't even get out these binds." She murmured, her breath hot against your ear, her body pressing against your own.

"That's- unfair." You faltered, distracted by the close proximity.

"Then prove me wrong."

Tearing your mind away from Agatha's annoyingly smug insinuations, you focused on the binds in front of you. Purple magic looped around your wrists, erratically swerving around, but firmly holding your hands in place. Taking her advice, you almost entirely cleared your mind, concentrating only on the feeling of confinement. Slowly, the purple was overtaken by a sea of blue, replaced by your own magic.

"Atta girl." She praised, watching as your magic began to work. In encouragement, her mouth brushed against your neck, trailing up to behind your ear.

The binds suddenly snapped. Your mind overwhelmed by her teasing touch. You were grateful for the freedom nonetheless, sighing in relief as you massaged your wrists. Agatha backed away.

You turned to face her, already missing the contact. She was being unusually quiet, and only smiled awkwardly at the eye contact before busying herself with something else.

So much for being serious.

--- London May 8th 1945 ---

Despite living rather detached from the events of everyday, the World Wars had been rather hard to avoid, especially now, as millions of people flooded the streets to celebrate victory. The party had really begun the night before, requiring a noise cancelling incantation to be placed upon the house. Although it only resulted in a restless night spent lying in bed imagining what was happening outside. You had sworn to yourself that you'd join the celebrations the following day, regardless of whether or not Agatha wanted to join.

Living for such a long time, you'd come to realise that events truly were once in a lifetime, so you certainly weren't going to miss out on this one. Throughout your unnaturally long life, you'd grown wiser in some aspects, while with others you remained equally clueless. Dealing with your emotions, for one.

Almost three centuries of life spent with Agatha, yet you still hadn't confessed how you felt. The feeling had crept up on you slowly, strategically taking root deep within you. At first, you'd reasoned that perhaps it was the endless amount of flirting, or the shared experiences that made you care so deeply for her. But as you were currently walking through the city, passing couples sharing in their jubilation, you admitted that it was entirely her.

You loved everything about Agatha. You loved her at her best, and at her worst. Stuck by her side through prosperity and calamity. From the time she accidently transmuted you both to the middle of a jungle (which was then proceeded by a long hike and a tense week in which neither of you spoke to the other) to moments like these.

Through a gap in the crowd, you'd spotted her a few paces ahead, frantically looking around for you.

Sometimes the most memorable moments with her were when she was oblivious to you, in a world of her own. One of her weaknesses had always been her inability to truly relax with other people, and despite having spent so long together, you were no exception. Though the scarcity of these moments only made them more special, which is one of the reasons you loved to watch her work. There would inevitably come a point when she was so lost in her thoughts that she'd completely unwind, and the rare but real Agatha would take over.

Carefully pushing past the hoards of people, you caught up with her. Admittedly, the 40s were serving her well. Somehow she was able to perfectly blend in, styling her hair to be shorter and donning a deep purple dress, while simultaneously being eye-catching. You were certain that you'd be able to find her in a crowd of any size.

You reached out to tap her shoulder and were almost knocked over by the pace at which she swung round. At first glance she appeared concerned.

"There you are." She exclaimed, smoothing her expression into one of disinterest.

For all Agatha may try to act nonchalant, you'd learnt to recognize when she was uncomfortable. In this instance, it was the slight disdain in her voice that gave it away. "Behind you the entire time." You lied.

She looked sceptical, but dropped the subject in place of grabbing hold of your hand. "I hate crowds." She half whispered, half shouted, shooting an exasperated glare in the direction of a group that had just bumped into her. "Don't wander off again." She scolded, switching her focus back to you.

"Lighten up, Aggie." You tugged her forwards, re-joining the pace of the procession. She followed obediently, keeping her eyes down. "Don't ya know," You mimicked your worst American accent. "wars over doll!" The attempt at cheering her up earned a small smile, but she remained otherwise distracted.

A few more minutes of walking in a rather solemn silence and you relented. "What's on your mind?" Pulling her to a stop, your hand automatically slid to her waist. "If you don't want to be here, we can go home. I don't mind."

She shook her head, opening her mouth to speak, but never got the chance.

Behind you, someone from within a group began yelling out a countdown. You turned to see what the commotion was just as they reached the end, then watched as everyone in the group grabbed a partner and kissed them. The display was followed by cheering, and a round of applause as several other couples followed suit around you.

Perhaps it was the celebratory atmosphere, or the continually increasing intensity of your feelings toward Agatha, but you only had one goal in mind as you turned back to her.

But she must've been thinking the same as she beat you to it.

Her hands found their way to your face, yanking you closer. In the split second before your eyes fluttered closed, you caught sight of the abnormally vulnerable way she was looking at you, and quickly sought to reassure her by reciprocating the embrace. As soon as your lips met, everything faded around you. Agatha was all you could feel. She became everything.

Neither of you wasted any time in deepening the kiss. Soon your lips were parting, her tongue brushing against your own causing a rush of heat to suffuse across your body. Her hand shifted to caress your jaw, the softness of the action contrasting to the insatiable desperation with which she was pressing herself as close as possible.

You reluctantly pull away for a second. "We should-" You're trying to speak between kisses as Agatha refuses to stop. "go home now?"

There's no need to elaborate any further as she, without halting her path down to your neck, teleports you both home in a cloud of purple smoke.

You've never been more pleased with her improved accuracy in transmutation.

--- 1986 ---

Somewhere in the distance an awfully cheesy song was playing, one from one of Agatha's mixtapes no doubt. She loved the recent music style, stating that this would be the peak, though she'd said the same during the 60s and 70s. You had to agree, listening to trashy ballads with her had been the highlight of every decade.

"What are you thinking about?" Agatha's voice was low and husky, almost a whisper. You turned to see how she was staring at you, eyes roaming across your face as though for the first time. You were undoubtedly doing the same, but who could blame you when she only grew more bewitching everyday.

"Nothing." You sighed, sinking further into the pillow behind you. The room was faintly glowing, illuminated by both blue and purple strands of magic floating through the air. It was strangely comforting, like watching lightning crackling from afar. Lazily, you reached up, swirling a strand of blue round your finger.

"Your magic is darker." She commented, admiring the sapphire colour. She was right, while her power had taken on its purple colour earlier, yours had gradually darkened from the conventional light blue to a deep sapphire.

"Probably from spending too much time with you."

She chuckled, drawing your body closer to her chest and resting her head against your shoulder. "You love it." Smirking, she pressed her lips on your collarbone, then lightly bit down on the flesh. She shifted impossibly closer, her mouth tracing a path across your neck.

You revelled in the attention she was indulging you in, the sensations that accompanied her affection. Having Agatha's complete devotion was something you'd never get used to. During your friendship, she'd strived to be as close to you as possible, but being in a relationship with her provoked a whole new level of dedication.

"I love you." Though not the first time you'd told her, the repeated phrase still carried the same weight.

However, perhaps it was even more meaningful on this occasion, because as soon as the words left your mouth, Agatha froze. An anxious minute followed in which neither of you spoke, let alone moved. You didn't dare say anything else, rather lay there in silence, wondering what had warranted the sudden change in atmosphere.

Then she, without lifting her head, murmured against your skin. "Marry me."

Initially you believed your hearing had deceived you, that in reality she had said something else entirely. But judging by the way her whole body tensed, the way her magic pulsed dangerously as if it were guarding her, you knew, or rather could feel that it wasn't a deception. She had just proposed.

As another minute passed, you could almost feel her retreating into herself, insecurities inducing regret. You snapped back into reality, already loathing yourself for delaying the obvious response. "Yes. Of course I will."

Finally, Agatha dared to look up, tearful eyes meeting your own. She smiled shakily, then leant back down into a demanding kiss. "I love you, so much." She practically purred against your lips, before continuing to pepper any available skin with kisses.

Being loved by Agatha Harkness was bliss.

--- The Battle of New York 2012 ---

Another devastatingly loud crash shook your apartment, the gradually increasing volume indicating that the conflict was drawing nearer. Unlike the rest of the building's inhabitants, neither you nor Agatha had fled yet. But with each deafening rumble, or ear-piercing scream, you found yourself a step closer to ignoring her demand and leaving to help.

Upon waking up that morning, you'd sensed something was wrong, or rather, would be wrong very soon. The inkling had nagged strongly enough at the back of your mind to prompt you to wake Agatha up, who was quick to confirm your suspicion. However, neither or you could pinpoint specifics, leaving you to continue as though it were a normal day.

At some point, Agatha, being the ever vigilant wife, had gone behind your back and decided to place a protection spell upon the apartment for any worst case scenario that might've occurred. Although not an inherently bad thing, with the eventual discovery of this, you'd come to a couple rather upsetting revelations.

First, the obvious fact that she hadn't told you her plan, and second, the realisation that she'd somehow learnt to hide her magic from you. Of course her actions had annoyed you, but the battle raging outside kept you too distracted to process anything beyond basic surveillance.

Instead of arguing with Agatha, you'd suggested that you ought to help in any possible way. She'd replied with strong discrepancy, stating that it'd be too dangerous, then later admitting that she was afraid of losing you. Under any other circumstances, the confession would've been sufficient to cool your temper, to resign to hiding with your over-protective wife, but not this time.

You'd grown weary of watching people suffer, of the city being destroyed all around you. The large windows surveying the streets below had portrayed nothing but constant violence for the past hour. You were unable to look away, yet hated to watch helplessly. Only you weren't helpless. Unlike the majority of people, you were able to defend yourself, to fight back. The only thing stopping you was the reluctant promise made to your wife.

Avoiding the battle was becoming unbearable, and with no end in sight, you decided it was time to take action. Jumping up from the chair, you set a determined pace toward the kitchen. Agatha had her back turned, nonchalantly making tea while ignoring the chaos surrounding your home. Her indifference only motivated you.

"Agatha."

"Yup." She replied, casually popping the p.

"I'm going out." You tried to copy her apathetic tone, though there was still anger behind your words.

She tensed at the declaration, her grip on the counter visibly tightening, yet was remarkably quiet. Despite being unable to see her face, you could perfectly picture her grimacing. Nonetheless, her silent seething only encouraged you to continue. "Sitting here and doing nothing is driving me insane. I can't just-"

"No. You're not." She slowly turned round, peering at you both challengingly, and curiously. You hadn't seen her like this for centuries, not since the night before you'd runaway together. She had the same demeanour, was harnessing the same barely contained power. It filled the room like a shadow, engulfing you in a sense of dread. She shook her head, an eerily disbelieving smile stretching across her face. "You're not going anywhere."

The statement was commanding, it should've had you at her feet begging for mercy. But you'd spent so much of your life with her that you could see the lie in her eyes, notice the lack of meaning behind the words. She wasn't going to stop you.

"I'm going to help, Aggie." You took a step forward, a pleading attempt to convince her to let you go, maybe even to join you. Instead, she flinched. "Please..."

She was warily watching you in silence, her stubbornness shining through. The lack of compassion she was demonstrating reignited your resentment, had you nearly shaking with apprehension. There was no way she'd join you, but she definitely wouldn't stop you either.

"Here." With unsteady hands, you fumbled around for different valuables about your person, first throwing a watch onto the table, then a phone, and finally your ring. "Look after these."

Without another glance at Agatha, you strode out of the kitchen, flung open the door and descended onto the chaotic streets of New York.

It soon became apparent that your effort would best be spent helping any citizens, while, with much difficulty, staying out of sight. Under no circumstances did you want to be recognised for your endeavour, honoured for something that was general human decency. Besides, there was plenty gratification to be found in the battle. You couldn't recall ever having the opportunity to unleash your powers like this, out in the open with no holding back. It was therapeutic, though draining.

The eventual end to the conflict was a relief, but walking home seemed to require more energy than the entirety of the fighting had. As the adrenaline faded, you struggled to climb the endless flights of stairs, cursing the out of order elevator. However, the journey did give you a chance to think back over the past few hours, which were mostly a blur. Although one thing remained painfully clear; the argument with Agatha.

Pushing open the apartment door, you decided that your first priority was to apologise to her. You didn't regret your decision, but hadn't intended to upset her either. Then, only after could you relax, treat the few injuries sustained.

Strolling into the entrance, a palpable silence followed. You certainly hadn't expected to be welcomed back with open arms, but the lack of any greeting was concerning. The sound of your footsteps continued to be the only noise, echoing round the apparently empty flat. Your pace quickened as you explored the last few rooms, finding them all to be empty also.

At first glance, everything appeared to be exactly where you'd left it (except Agatha herself). It wasn't until your third walkthrough that you noticed something else was clearly missing. Your ring. The pile of valuables remained where you'd left them on the kitchen counter, save for the small silver band, which was no longer there.

Dropping to your hands and knees, you frantically began to search the floor, checking it hadn't fallen anywhere. Even at the lower vantage point, the ring was still no where to be seen. Upon giving up, you then searched through the apartment in greater detail, basically tearing the place apart. It didn't take long until you noticed that more was missing. Specifically, most of Agatha's things.

She had left you.

--- Westview 2023 ---

The red wall crackled ominously before you, the noise it emitted strangely similar to that of TV static. There was something inherently terrifying about the large structure engulfing the town. You could almost hear it transmitting a warning to stay away, not to venture past the boundary, but you'd come too far to surrender now.

Stretching forth a hand, you were met with little resistance. You'd dedicated the last ten years to improving on your magic ability and finally the progress was paying off. However, a large majority of that time had also been spent trying to track down Agatha, who's disappearance had caused nothing but pain. Out of all your mistakes, that one was the worst, and inconveniently, the hardest to fix. Despite your best efforts, there had been no sign of her for the last decade, though you hoped today would be the end to this separation.

Thousands of spells all cast at once, it would be impossible for Agatha to stay away. You could practically feel her presence nearby.

Propelling yourself forward slightly, you were pulled through the wall by an unknown force. While the boundary seemed to intimidate and reject most people, you were clearly an exception. The strength with which you were immersed into the town sent you spiralling toward the ground.

Grunting upon impact, you allowed a few seconds to remain on the ground and recover, only looking up when you heard a distinct but unforeseen sound. Children's laughter resonated from a distance, perfectly wholesome and entirely unexpected. Even more surprising was the completely ordinary suburban town in front of you.

Undeterred by the unanticipated scenario, you stood and observed the town in closer detail. You were situated towards the edge, on a patch of grass facing the last row of houses along the perimeter road. It was night, but the street was illuminated by what looked to be Halloween decorations. A pumpkin was placed outside every house, yet there was no one in sight. Carefully, you approached the signpost reading Ellis Ave and paused for a moment to think of a plan.

You knew Agatha was lurking somewhere in the town. The question was, how could you find her while being inconspicuous enough to avoid whoever had cast this town entrapment? Clearly they were incredibly powerful, perhaps more so than Agatha.

The eerie silence was broken by an advancing car, which parked in front of the crossroads. The entire situation was bizarre, but the uncanny feeling didn't stop you from walking over to the vehicle. Hopefully whoever was inside could shine a light on what was happening here.

You kept out of the beaming headlights, sticking to the shadows as you hesitantly approached. The person sitting at the drivers seat was obscured by the darkness so you hid from them while moving closer, therefore gaining the high ground in case they were someone worth avoiding. It wasn't until you were adjacent from the window that you halted to peer inside.

She was turned away from you, but that didn't stop you from immediately recognising her. Agatha still hadn't seen you, busy adjusting her witches hat, ironic, and seemingly setting a scene.

You had imagined this reunion many times, but not like this. It felt unreal to see her sat barely a few metres away from you, obliviously going about her business. The last decade without her had been the longest of your life, yet you felt like nothing had changed, like you could hop into the passenger seat and continue as normal.

Droning out your anxiety, you stepped onto the road, moving as silently as possible toward the car. Clearly Agatha was completely at ease as she paid no attention to the figure drawing nearer.

You knocked on the window, not daring to analyse her reaction. "Good evening, can I take your order please?" You joked, having no idea how else to handle the situation. For all you knew, she could still be upset, and would order you to leave her alone. Or she could've forgotten the grudge entirely, and welcome you back.

Instead, she sat there motionless, mouth slightly agape. Her lack of response prompted you to continue. "I came to apologise- well actually I tried to ten years ago but you left before I got the chance." Glancing up at Agatha, you noticed she was frowning now. "But if this is a bad time I guess I can come back later?"

She said nothing, but appeared to be fighting her own internal battle. You fought the urge to say anything else, desperate to hear her voice.

The car door swung open abruptly, causing you to stagger back. By the time you'd regained your balance, Agatha had flung herself at you, her hat falling off in the process. You wrapped your arms around her tightly, reluctant to ever let go. Hugging her felt so familiar, yet each time was as memorable as the last.

You felt tears begin to form in the corner of your eyes and let out a watery laugh. Agatha invoked so many different emotions, you couldn't keep up. Simply being in her presence pacified any worries you'd had, quelled the betrayal you'd felt after she'd left.

"This is a bad time," She muttered. "but it doesn't matter." At her dismissal, you separated, seeing how her expression matched your own. "And I'm the one that should be asking for forgiveness." She smiled sadly, brushing back a strand of your hair.

"How about we both take the blame and move on?" You suggested, eager to move past this stage of your relationship.

"Sounds good to me," She nodded, her hands slipping onto your arms as she backed away. "and I will catch you up on everything that's happening, but right now I need you to hide in the trunk."

"God I've missed you." Sighing contently, you looked over to the car, accepting your imminent fate. "And fortunately I do still trust you."

You went to leave, but were stopped by her grip on your arm. "Hold on." She reached into a pocket, producing a silver band. Your ring.

"You've been carrying that round the entire time?"

"Just in case." She winked, grabbing hold of your hand and slipping the ring back on.

A warmth travelled through you, starting from the tip of you finger and diffusing across your entire body. She held onto your hand, bringing it up to meet her lips while maintaining eye contact. At the gesture, you tugged her into a kiss, the contact saying what you currently were unable to.

You knew there was a lot you'd have to work thought together, but right now, all that mattered was the feeling of her lips against your own.

"Next time you want a break, please tell me instead of vanishing."

She chuckled. "There won't be a next time." Then pulled you into another chaste kiss. "You're not getting rid of me that easily, dear."

#agatha harkness x reader #agnes x reader

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lucky-bucky-boy · 4 years

Text

Cruel Summer

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

Summary: Based loosely off of Cruel Summer by Taylor Swift; You shouldn’t have given in, shouldn’t have caved to him. But what could you say? Some people were just too irresistible. But one too many bad choices lead to tension that even the worst of the worst couldn’t bare.

Word Count: 5473

Warnings: Angst, smut, dom/sub elements, daddy kink, dirty talk, very slight age gap, please let me know if I missed any

A/N: Tags are at the bottom. Please please please let me know what you think, this writing style is a bit out of my comfort zone. I’m trying some new things out before writing my book and really need all the feedback possible. Positive and constructive please. NO spoilers, taking place before the events of Knives Out, age difference of Meg and Ransom was skewed to fit timeline/idea // Read on AO3 here

I do not own these characters. Do NOT repost my writing and/or fics anywhere without my written permission. Reblogs welcomed and highly appreciated!

The wintery chill of the evening Massachusetts air threatened to seep in, blowing harshly against the windowpanes and spinning it’s way through every bare branch and thickly coated pine tree on the property. A typical monthly gathering of family and those like family, a gun show and jab contest dressed up to look like a quiet evening around the fire with loved ones and good food.

Gazes darted around the room, a tension so palpable it made even the Thrombey family uncomfortable. No one could quite place why though, or even which pair was causing the air to thicken. A typically thin lipped, on edge, cut throat monthly dinner was somehow even more treacherous this time around.

But no one would have guessed that it involved you. Usually revered as the quiet one, the one who steered away from trouble and left before the tension boiled over, the girl who brought bright smiles and a sharp mind, Meg’s best friend since diapers, your father’s accomplished author for a daughter; not one person would have even thought to have blinked an eye in your direction.

But no one in that room knew why the air was so thick you could taste it, why the sound of the metal knives scraping against expensive glass plates was more bearable than breathing in the smog of tension. One wrong move and-

“So, what’s got everyone’s knickers in a twist, huh?” The smug, faux caring, intoxicating drawl that got you in this mess.

The flood gates were open now. Everyone talking over the other, talking louder and louder, unknowingly looking for the cause of the uncomfortable feeling that sat low in their bellies. It didn’t last too long, maybe over a minute before it fell silent enough that you could hear the wind whistling outside.

Even with your gaze downcast to your plate you could feel everyone turn to look at you, eyes judging and calculating, picking apart every move, ever wrinkle in your clothes, and twitch of a muscle.

“You’ve been quiet,” it was your father speaking now, and for the first time you were thankful for that, “What’s new with you, dear? How’s your third book coming along?”

A shrug as you met his gaze, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s coming.” Your tone was practically unreadable, unamused and almost annoyed.

A snicker from the other end of the table had all of you snapping your heads in the direction of the noise. A shit eating grin was plastered on Ransom’s face, eyes glinting with mischief. You tried your damnedest not to notice how the ruby color of his scarf brought out the ocean blues you got lost in too many times, or how the cream color of his worn sweater was practically taunting you with every memory of you in that sweater. But you knew him, you knew him too well for your own liking, for your own good. And you knew he did things with a purpose.

“What’s so funny?” His mother snapped at him, his lips pulling into that smirk that had you at his will one too many times.

“Just never thought I’d hear little ol’ (Y/N) say something along those lines again.”

Pin drop. Silence and shock coursed through every fiber of every person sitting at that table. Confused glances between the two of you, unnerved and in disbelief.

“What the hell, Ransom? Why do you-” Meg started, voice loud and higher than usual in agitation.

But you cut her off, staring back at the man who seemingly was doing whatever he could to get under your skin. “Hugh, if you’ve decided you’re going to tell a story, at least make sure to tell the fucking truth.”

A few hushed gasps echoed around the table as Ransom matched your stare. “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You know that’s not what I like you calling me.”

You scoffed, “You lost the privilege of me calling you what you want the day you told me to leave.”

“As if you didn’t want it just as badly. I seem to recall rather clearly you begging for me.”

“And I seem to recall rather clearly you telling me to get my shit and get the fuck out.” You snapped, feeling your skin heat with embarrassment and agitation. No one was supposed to find out like this, no one was supposed to find out at all.

Ransom stood suddenly, stalking over to you, eyes never leaving yours. He towered over your sitting figure for a moment, trying to melt your resolve before he leaned down, face only inches away from yours. The musky vanilla and cedar scent of his cologne, the mintiness of his breath with a hint of whiskey, the warm scent of clean cotton from his clothes, it was all almost too much. “Let’s get this straight, baby girl,” the nickname was taunting you like a schoolyard insult, “we had an arrangement. That arrangement didn’t involve feelings. You ruined that.”

“Yeah, because me loving you is the worst thing you ever heard.” You stood as well, at your wits end with this situation, with him, “Dumbest mistake of my life was thinking how you felt when you were drunk was how you felt when you were sober. Fuck you, Ransom."

He stood back some, moving out of your way as you grabbed your jacket off of the back of your chair, storming out of the too warm mansion and into the freezing cold. Ransom’s voice followed after you, "Don’t forget you already did, sweetheart.”

Notification after notification, endless vibration making you want to pull your hair out. A long drive home with a clenched jaw and a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel. The day couldn’t be over soon enough, an escape from the embarrassment and misery of that excuse of a dinner much too far away for your liking.

The hope that your apartment would have been your ticket to peace and quiet was quickly destroyed when there was banging on the door. A huff as you trudged out of the blankets on the couch to the door, swinging it open to see a distraught Meg.

“What the hell was that about?”

There it went, any bit of resolve and composure went out that front door when she took a step in. Tears quickly welled in your eyes, falling in little streams down your face. The agitation on her face was quickly replaced with worry as she wrapped you in a hug, “Hey, hey, no need for that. Come on. Let’s get you something to drink and then I want you to tell me what that was all about, okay? I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on, alright?”

She walked you through the kitchen, making you both a cup of hot tea and grabbing a handful of snacks before steering you back towards the couch, sitting the both of you down. Meg’s eyes filled with relief as she watched you sip at the warm liquid, sniffling softly as you calmed yourself down.

“Okay, start from the beginning. What happened?”

Warm, low lights, a soft thumping from the outdated speakers, a happy, giddy atmosphere floating over the table. A small, cheesy banner sat taped to the edge of the booth, bright tacky colors spelling out “Congratulations”. Two of your friend sat with you in the rounded corner booth, your leg sticking out to the side and bouncing with slight anticipation. Even though you requested a small thing, your beloved friends Shelby and Laura had a hard time doing things small.

But they insisted it wasn’t a lot. Meg was off studying for finals and wouldn’t be able to make it so instead Shelby invited her boyfriend Jay and told him to bring a friend or two along. And not to forget the cake. Their last phone call twenty minutes ago consisted of reiterating the confirmation over and over again. You’re on your way? Awesome great. Who’d you bring? Okay. Did you get the cake? Okay. Don’t forget the cake. Okay. Don’t ruin the cake. Okay you’re sure the cake is okay?

Laura and you couldn’t help but giggle at her, anxiety and anticipation evident in her features as she checked her phone again and again, eyes darting to the entrance waiting for her boyfriend and his friends to enter the hole in the wall bar with that god damn cake.

Excusing yourself to the bathroom seemed to speed up the time because as you returned you nearly tripped over yourself. There was Shelby, cuddled up next to Jay. And Jay had two men sitting next to him, one you didn’t recognize and one you knew all too well. Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

A man you hadn’t seen in easily a year or two. He had began to skip out on family dinners, tired of the endless drama and bore of it all. Even when the family took their yearly vacation together and during the holiday parties he somehow managed to not be anywhere insight, despite his mother insisting he was there.

“Look at you, little (Y/N), all grown up now.” His eyes shamelessly raked over your figure, taking in how your body had changed over the years, “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, brat. Since before you published the first book.”

You huffed out an anxious laugh, nodding as you took your seat at the end of the booth, opposite of him. “Y-yeah, it’s been a while. You kinda stopped coming around.”

“Can you blame me? My family would make anyway go insane. I’m surprised yours has stayed around as long as they have. But enough about me, sweetheart, from what I’ve been told we’re here to celebrate you-”

Shelby squealed some, “Yep! And that’s why,” she hung onto the end of the word as she lifted the lid of the box that was now sitting in the center of the table. Once the top was off, the sides fell down, revealing a cake decorated to look like a book with the title of your second book you had just published on it. The whole reason you all were here.

Your heart swelled at the gesture, “Aw! Shelbs! Thank you so much!” You gave her a small little pout, “God I’m gonna cry. I can’t believe I actually did that. Twice now!”

Laughter erupted around the table, the group continuing to shower you in drinks, gifts, and affection. Jay bought you a drink and some food, Laura had gotten you a customized journal with your favorite quote from the book on the front of it, Shelby kept giving you little cards with her favorite things about the books you’ve written in them. It wasn’t long until the group started to dwindle though. First Jay’s other friend who probably felt awkward, then Laura who had to work in the morning.

Ransom and Jay decided to play a round of pool before Jay and Shelby headed out for the night, and Shelby took the time to interrogate you.

“Oh. My. God. He is so fucking hot. How the hell do you know him? You never leave your apartment.” She fawned over Ransom, who currently had his back to the two of you at the other side of the bar.

You sighed, shaking your head in disbelief. “First off, you have a boyfriend,” your reprimanded playfully. “Second, that’s Meg’s older cousin. He’s like 4 or 5 years older than us. Spoilt brat. Never worked a day in his life. Third, before you even suggest it because I see that look in your eye. I’m not sleeping with him. I didn’t even let him buy me a drink when he offered let alone going home with him.”

She pouted at you, “Come on, (Y/N/N), you’ve been so stressed with the editing and the publishing. Just have a little fun.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning over and grabbing a nacho to throw into your mouth. “The only fun I need after all this is my handy dandy blue vibrator under my bed. No need to go home with him.”

She scoffed. “Fiiiine, whatever. I still think he’s hot.”

The two men came back a few minutes later, laughing loudly and teasing one another. It was odd, rare even to see Ransom genuinely laughing, whole chest vibrating with the motion, genuine happiness seeping off of him. Jay collected his things as did Shelby, both bidding you a goodnight, Shelby throwing a wink in as well as they exited.

“Then there was two,” Ransom drawled, smirking lazily at you as he finished off his drink. “Come on, (Y/N/N), let me buy you a drink.”

You smiled, huffing out a small laugh as you shook your head. “I’m good, Ransom. Really.”

“After all those years of you stealing my stash I’m actually willing to buy you a drink and you’re telling me no?”

You rolled your eyes, butterflies beginning to swarm inside you. “I’m telling you no because I still have at least a thirty minute uber ride home and don’t want to be overly intoxicated. The only thing I want right now it a plate of pancakes and some greasy hash browns.”

“Then let’s go get some,” he offered, a somewhat uncharacteristically sweet smile replacing his smirk. “Look, I haven’t seen you in a while and you just accomplished something so let me at least try to do something nice.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. “You? Hugh Ransom Drysdale? Do something nice? Oh I must be dead.” He pouted at you, the slight disappointed look in his blue eyes sending you reeling. “Fine. I won’t pass up on an offer like that. Just make sure you take me somewhere good."

Thirty minutes later you sat in a small diner that was essentially in the middle of nowhere. The name GiGi’s was in neon pink light on top the structure that looked like it was plucked out of Grease. A few semi-trucks littered the parking lot and only a couple of faces of customers sat in the diner.

Ransom had already threw you for a loop, opening doors for you, turning the music down to ask you about your book; and not just what it was about, but what inspired you to write it, what was your muse. He had let you pick the seat and even ordered for you when the waitress came over. Two breakfast samplers with extra crispy hash browns, and two strawberry milkshakes because ‘why not? It’ll be just like when we were kids’.

You were beyond shocked at how comfortable you felt around him. No awkwardness or anxiety that had hit you earlier. It was simple, felt easy, felt right.

"So, I have to ask, why are you suddenly being nice to me?” The question was simple enough, lips wrapping around the straw of the milkshake after you asked, watching him and waiting.

“Was I ever not nice to you?” He asked, bemused and quirking an eyebrow at you.

Swallowing down the cold liquid you scoffed. “Seriously? You’ve been a dick to me since I was like 12 or 13. Whenever you started hanging out with that one guy in high school - Chuck? I think. Anyways, it got even worse after you turned 21. You pretty much outright refused to acknowledge my existence."

He pursed his lips as he thought about it, "I- okay yeah, you’re right. I did do that- but in my defense I stopped acknowledging you because I thought you were hot and I was older so it was creepy and just easier to ignore you.”

You blinked a few times, shocked and processing what he had just said, “You what?”

He shrugged, taking a bite of his food. “Yep. And Chuck thought you guys were annoying so I dunno, guess I thought being a dick would keep you guys from pestering me.”

You couldn’t help but glare at him softly. “Then why did you come out tonight to celebrate my book? And offer to buy me drinks and food?”

Ransom suddenly looked a lot less relaxed, stern and serious as he kept his gaze on you. “Do you really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” You challenged back, heart thumping in your chest.

He broke out into a huge grin, chuckling some, “Still not the one to ever back down from me. God, I love it. The reason I came out tonight was because, whether you believe it or not, I’m actually a fan of your writing. I have two copies of your first book and I already preordered the second. The reason I stayed out is because I realized how much I missed you. Most of my favorite memories from when I was younger involve you.”

“Really?” You inquired, munching on the food in front of you. “Like what?”

“Should’ve known you wouldn’t have let that one slide.” He chuckled softly. “One of my favorite memories is when I was probably 10 or 11, I think you and Meg had just started school. And you guys were learning about the stars and space and for some reason I was really obsessed with astronomy at the time. So one night, Meg, you, and I decided to camp out back of granddad’s and mom set a fire up for us and we sat there for hours roasting marshmallows and me teaching you guys about the constellations.”

A bright smile spread across your lips, so big it practically hurt. “I’m surprised you even remember that.”

“Hey, what can I say? I’m a man full of surprises who aims to please.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Once the bill came, Ransom didn’t even let you see it, immediately pulling out some cash and handing it to the waitress, telling her to keep the change. He watched as you pulled out your phone, opening the uber app. “What’re you doing?” He asked quizzically.

“Calling myself a ride.” You answered, not even looking up.

“Nuh uh,” he shook his head, reaching over and grabbing the phone from you. “I’ll take you home.”

“But my apartment is like 45 minutes away and your house is down the street,” you protested.

“Then stay at my house tonight and I’ll take you home in the morning. I’ll sleep on the couch, you can take the bed.”

You quirked an eyebrow, obviously not believing him. “You sleeping on the couch? Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.” He promised, offering you a warm smile. “Now, am I taking you home or are you staying at my house?”

“…I’ll stay at your place,” you mumbled.

Something about Ransom’s house felt oddly comforting. The large window at the front of the living room let the moonlight stream in, the darker colors that the walls were painted contrasting beautifully with every sleek modern piece of furniture he had. It was obvious his family influenced his taste some. The intricate designs on the patterns of the throw pillows something you could very easily see Halarn buying, while his kitchen was practically black, white, and silver - looking like it popped out of the modern section of an HGTV magazine. But it all flowed and melded together beautifully.

He showed you to his room, grabbing himself a change of clothes before heading out and leaving you alone. You couldn’t help but stand there and take in your surroundings. Being in there, even without him, felt intimate. Like he was showing you a secret page in a book he loved. A few pictures were on his dresser, various ones or him at parties with friends, one of the family which was smaller than the others. It was neat, clean and tidy but most likely because of a maid and not because he took the time out to clean up his mess. And it smelled of him, everything in the room just breathed Ransom.

Sitting down on the bed, you kicked your shoes off, sitting them down by the end before lying down and attempting to get comfortable. But to no avail, you tossed and turned for a few moments, and despite the softness of the mattress and sheets below you, you felt uncomfortable. Jeans too tight, bra irritating your skin, face feeling oily and heavy. You needed a shower and a change of clothes if you wanted to even think of falling asleep.

Hesitantly you made you way back downstairs, where Ransom was currently sitting in a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt, book in hand. You didn’t even have to say anything, his eyes moved from the book to you, cocking an eyebrow, “Guessing you need a shower and some comfy clothes?"

You nodded sheepishly. "Yeah, kind feel blah after the bar and greasy food.”

“That’s okay. Towels and wash rags are in the standing closet in the bathroom. Both bathrooms with have them but the master bathroom has better shower pressure. Just take something out of my closet to wear for the night.”

You nodded a thank you and headed back upstairs, grabbing the first sweater you saw in his closet and heading into the bathroom. A part of you felt as if you were dreaming, that this wasn’t actually happening. Any residual crush you had on Ransom from your childhood was coming back full force, and doubling all at one. A quick shower you hoped would calm your slightly growing nerves, but drying off and slipping on the damned creme colored sweater you knew you were hopeless. It smelled like him, was warm and soft.

Before you could stop yourself you were padding back down the steps, not caring that the sweater barely covered your ass and that you hadn’t bothered with any underwear. Ransom was staring at you before had even looked at him, eyes taking in the sight of you in nothing else but his sweater, jaw set tight with a slight tick. “Whatcha doing there, sweetheart?” He urged, trying to keep his composure.

You sat on your knees next to him on the couch, staring at him for a moment. “Debating if I should do something I’ll probably regret in the morning.”

He smirked, “I promise if you’re gonna do what I think, you won’t regret it. You can hold me to that.”

“Then make sure I don’t-” you leaned forward, closing the distance between the two of you and pressing your lips against his. The fullness of his pouty lower lip slotted between yours, kissing you in a way you had never been kissed before, completely and utterly stealing your breath and any logical thought from you.

His hands were on your hips, pulling you into his lap, groaning softly against your lips at the feel of your smooth skin in his hand. It was a battle of tongues for dominance, which you quickly surrendered at the feel of him gripping your ass, kneading and pulling before spanking the plump flesh.

He pulled away first, a wild look in his eyes. “Get your ass upstairs, baby girl. Daddy’s gonna make sure you don’t regret a thing.”

A shiver went up your spine and you squealed softly before giggling, high on adrenaline and him. You stole another kiss before running upstairs to his room, heart pounding and mind racing.

Ransom came in a few moments later, quickly discarding his shirt and tossing it in the direction of the hamper before stalking towards you. He moved to hover over you, lips dancing along the skin of your neck. “God fucking damn it, baby girl, seeing you in my clothes - fuck you’re gonna drive me crazy.” He pressed a few kisses to the sensitive skin before biting down on the junction where your neck met your shoulder.

The whimpers and moans that left you spurred him on, lips continuing their worship of your skin as his hands traveled along the outside of your thighs and up to you hips. Fingers traced along to curve to your waist, up and over your breast as your nipples prickled at the sensation. He felt every movement, every time you squirmed, every time you squeezed your thighs together, every time you rutted.

“Can I take this off you, sweetheart? Make you feel real good, promise, baby.” A nod was all he needed and the moment you leaned up some he pulled the sweater off, tossing it aside. Ransom moved to lean back, moving to sit on his haunches, moving your thighs and spreading them to be on his clothed ones.

“Fuck, princess. You’re so fucking perfect. So fucking wet for me, I can already see it. You my little whore, hm?” He leaned down, pressing kisses against the skin of your chest.

A sudden slap to your thigh caused you to gasp. “What was that for?” You whined, moving to card your fingers through his hair.

“Speak when you’re spoken to or I’ll have to punish you.” The thought riled you up even more. Being splayed across his lap, hand coming down on you as you squirmed relentlessly, taking every bit of the 'punishment’. But that was for another time, hopefully. Right now you wanted, no needed him.

“Sorry, daddy.” Your voice was so soft and innocent, absolutely driving him wild.

He wanted nothing more than to ram into you, make you scream. But not yet, he wasn’t done teasing. Ransom’s lips moved from the skin of your chest to you nipples, pressing a chaste kiss on one before moving to the other and back again. Back and forth as the motions increased. A kiss to a flick to a suck to a nibble.

His lips begin to move south, nipping at the soft skin along the way. “Absolutely stunning.” He hummed, “Better than I could have imagined, pretty girl.” Soon he was situated between your legs, breath fanning over your soaked folds. A soft groan left Ransom, kissing at the skin of your thighs. “Smell so good, gonna taste even better I guarantee it.”

“Stop teasing,” you whined, tugging on his hair.

He looked up at you, “Baby, that’s not how this works,” he tsked softly. “You want something, you need to beg.”

Another deep throaty whine ripped from you. “Please,” you whimpered, squirming. “Fuck please, need you."

He chuckled softly, "I’ll let you off this time - Wanna taste this pretty little pussy.” Without any other warning he delved into your cunt, licking a stripe from entrance to clit before suckling on the little nub. He licked and sucked and nibbled, two fingers prodded your entrance before pushing in to the second knuckle, curling and immediately finding that spot that made you see star.

Ransom basked in your mewls, the feel of you tugging on his hair before your grip would loosen as your eyes rolled into the back of your skull. Talented was an understatement and a part of you hated how good it was, how good he was treating you.

He didn’t stop, determined to coax an orgasm out of you. Fingers moved swiftly, in and out, scissoring and curling. Lips worked in tandem, listening to your cries of pleasure to determine what you really liked and kept at it. It wasn’t long before your toes were curling, back arching off the bed in a loud moan, his name like a prayer on your lips.

“Ransom,” you whimpered as the aftershocks rolled through you, his lips never leaving your core, “fuck, Ransom, daddy please. Want your cock.”

He pulled away, pressing one last chaste kiss to your clit before moving to kiss you, letting you taste yourself as he pulled his sweats down and kicked them off. Your hands quickly moved to his length, stroking softly and moaning against his lips.

“You’re so big,” the little whine caused him to chuckle softly as he pulled away, leaning over to pull a condom out of his bedside table.

“Yeah? Think I’m big, baby girl? Want me to split you in two?” The cockiness in his voice only added to how much you wanted him.

All you could do was nod, looking up at him with a pouty lip and wide eyes. “Please, fuck me, wanna cum on your cock.”

He growled softly, pulling the condom on and lining himself up with your entrance. Ransom teased, moving the head to hook your clit a few times, loving the little jolt and whine that would come from you. He pushed in, slow at first to let you accommodate to his girth, then a quick thrust to bury himself to the hilt, feeling as though he was hitting your cervix.

If you had ever wondered why Ransom was a playboy, why he was so cocky and self assured, you knew why now. He pulled out almost fully before slamming back in, angling his hips to hit that spot that had your legs quaking every time he pushed back in. Each push and pull had your head reeling, moans falling freely from your lips as you scratched helplessly at his back for purchase. One of Ransom’s hands snaked between the two of you, flicking your clit in time with his thrusts.

With his face buried in the crook of your neck, he growled out words into your skin, pushing you closer and closer to the edge;

“Such a good girl for me.”

“Perfect fucking pussy, squeezing me so good.”

“You were made for this, made for me. Weren’t you baby girl?”

“Come on, princess. Cum on Daddy’s cock. Show me how much you love it.”

One particularly rough thrust paired with a bite to your sensitive skin had you tipping over the edge, mouth open in a silent scream as your toes curled and thighs squeezed his waist. A few more sloppy thrusts and he emptied himself in the condom, groaning and moaning low in his chest.

A few moments of breathing, neither of you bothering to move as you came down from your highs. Ransom pressed a few kisses to your neck before taking what little breath you had away as he kissed you, an obvious heated passion still boiling beneath the surface. He pulled out while he lips where still on yours, swallowing down your whine before pulling away.

Ransom left the bed, your body quaking ever so slightly with aftershocks as he disappeared into the bathroom. He returned a few moments later, condom gone and holding a damp wash rag. He handed it to you, letting you clean yourself up as he slid back under the comforter, taking it from you when you were done and tossing it into the hamper.

Without as much as a word he pulled you into his side, pressing a quick kiss to your hairline. The two of you stayed quiet for what felt like forever, never quite falling asleep and taking in what exactly had just happened. Just as the sun began to break the night sky, he moved so he was facing you, lying on his side. Crystal clear blue eyes searched your face, a look of contemplation evident.

“Would you want to do that again?” He asked, voice almost hushed as if he was telling a secret.

You hesitated your answer, nodding softly, “Yeah, actually. I would.”

He smirked softly, “We’ll discuss the details after we sleep. But let’s just make sure no one finds out. Our little arrangement, okay?”

Meg stared at you, a look mixed between confusion, disbelief, and a little bit of disgust. “That was-” she sighed, shaking her head and running a hand through her hair, “That was a little more than I needed to know. Is he the mysterious guy you were seeing last summer?”

A small nod as you sipped at the tea more before looking at her, giving her a look that could only be compared to that of a kicked puppy. You watched as puzzle pieces fit together in her mind, slowly seeing the big picture.

“He’s the guy who bought you all that jewelry. And the guy that got you a dog - he hates dogs - The guy who took you to Maldives and Paris? What the-” her brows furrowed some, nibbling at her lip as you nodded in confirmation, “The guy that got drunk one night and told you he couldn’t live without you? That you were his everything?”

Her words sliced deep and you sniffled to keep yourself from crying again. “Yep,” your voice was still hoarse with emotions. “It was all Ransom.”

Meg sighed softly, her sympathy evident in every move and noise she made. “I’m so sorry… Do - do you still love him?”

Time seemed to freeze momentarily, every single memory whirling through your mind. With tears brimming your eyes again you looked at Meg, feeling utterly broken and lost. “I’m scared there won’t ever be a time where I don’t love him.”

Tags: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @et-lesailes @necromaniackat @dramaticsassmaster @bval-1 @writingoneficatatime @lokilvrr

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ddullahan · 3 years

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hadestown au 1

HI SO My anxiety has been through the fuckin roof for the past few weeks and in a fit of stress I deleted the first look of the bees hadestown au that I posted a few weeks ago. I’m feeling much better now and I wanted to repost it because I really am super excited about it >< Anyway, second verse, maybe same as the first, here we go! ---------------- it’s an old song As all tales begin, there comes a moment of question. The precipice we all stand at, toes hanging over the edge, eager to take the plunge. The question, different for every eye and ear turned to the story, starts as a feeling. It buoys us through the long swathes of paragraphs ahead. It seeps into our minds, and pushes us off the edge. We have that moment of freefall. Of realisation. We have to trust in something to catch us. Like most fairy tales, it begins with once upon a time. There laid a railroad track. If you've ever heard the rails sing on a good, windy day, you'd know the sound sticks to the back of your mind. There to stay until the dark of night, when it creeps up to whisper wanderlust into your bones. The song of the rails is a low and resonant thing, humming into the willows scattered along the railroad sides. They used to say the rails were the Fates groaning in your ears. Urging you along. Waiting in anticipation for the train to come to call. Waiting for the story to start its freefall. The metal likes to wail beneath blackened wheels on hot, summer days. Days much like the one in which our story begins. Once upon a time - Metal chatters under the weight of an ancient, scorch-marked train. Decorated with blacked out windows. Panes of glass soot-stained, like they’d been brushed with fire one too many times. Coal smoke bursts from its chimney with a grudge, flooding the gray skies in the type of black smog that you can taste in the back of your mouth, long after the train’s disappeared. It was painted white once, a long, long time ago. A gift from the boss man down below for his flowering wife; but it’s one of those gifts you shove in the back of your drawer. One of those things that you spend your nights lying awake in bed, thinking in guilty chords. The train still runs, but the old white sides are now black and cold. Like the panting of dogs on the skin of your heels, the wind still blows hot behind it. The only thing it tows are souls to their final destination, but it won't take you if you ain't got the gold to board. It’s a fact almost everyone knows. ‘Cause the old legends say the road to hell could lead you out of poverty, but you gotta pay the toll to get that good money. The wind cracks and snaps after the train; sends the short ribbons of inky black hair whipping. Snapping into the brown-skinned face of a hungry young woman. Blake Belladonna’s eyes glint like knives with a debt to pay, and her steps are sure footed against the rolling rocks under her boots. She wears a weathered bag slung over her shoulder, and a once-warm leather duster now worn to shit and hole-y. She seems small among the billowing willows and smoggy skies. She doesn't know where she's going or how she got to the railroad at all - but she knows how to turn her collar against the wind. And she knows how to run. Metal shrieks, pulling her eyes up like a hand to the chin. She’s left to watch as the ruined, black omen of a train screams past a small, dilapidated station. It’s the only structure for miles. The cicadas are screaming along to the wailing of the tracks in a symphony, until the locomotive vanishes over the curve of a distant hill. The station's dry, mud-caked windows send silt drifting to cracked, rotting floorboards. The coke-bottle thick panes rattle angrily in their fragile frames, and then come to find their peace once more. Damn this is a dump, the young woman thinks, approaching the station. But it'll have to do. The sun's rays sink into her skull and turn her warm brown skin hot to the touch. It's far too hot for April. Stepping into the shade is an immediate relief, until the hot wind kicks up again. It blasts in her face as if to remind her it's there. As if she could ever forget. She's used to the way it whispers starvation in her ears. She throws the door open and escapes from the wind; stumbles her way into the empty station. Small and dusty like it’d been forgotten, filled with only two benches facing each other and a single door hiding behind them in the gloom. There's a sign on the door that reads "End o th line Caf ". Faintly, she can hear music behind it. Blake doesn't hesitate, and heads for the door. The knob breaks off in her hand, but it feels familiar and solid so she pockets it and heads inside. Follows the hallway and the pull of her feet to the music. The walls grow darker and thicker with polished wood. Her steps don't seem to echo and the music has since paused. The quiet starts to make her anxious. She doesn't like dark hallways. She's dreamt of them enough for a lifetime. The further she goes, the more her unease starts to grow and the more she starts to wonder if she's been here before. It's ridiculous, really. This is the farthest south she'd ever gone. Or was she in the east? Her anxious heart speeds up for a reason she can't see, and it's like her feet already know where to go. The hallway turns suddenly and she finds herself standing at the rim of an amphitheater of sorts. The music fades back in. There's a band jamming to soft jazz in the stands, people crowded and conversing at tiny tables scattered about the flat floor at the bottom. There's a man at a piano playing a diddy, there's a flicker of gold in the kitchen beyond. It's alive in a way that she hadn't seen in a long time, and she finds her feet eager to join the dancing 'round the tables below. She takes a step and nearly runs into another woman, decked out in a crisp white and red suit. She’s older, maybe late thirties or mid forties - has this eternally kind, yet melancholy smile. Her features are fair, but tired. Her black hair is pulled back like Blake’s, but tipped with red like the ends had been dipped in paint. Blake apologises immediately - "E-excuse me, sorry," and starts picking her way down to the tables. "No worries dear," She hears faintly behind her, the older woman's face already blurred from her memory. She blinks and suddenly she’s on the bottom floor, with the movers and shakers rattling cups with their stomping jive. She wants to move with them, but she's already reaching for an empty chair, like her hand was following its own storyline. The flash of gold catches her attention again. Her feet slip into a shallow groove in the floor, and she is rooted. Something crashes, and her eyes follow the clattering sharp shards of porcelain. One piece with purple trim bounces off a brown boot. She notices a hole near the big toe. Blake looks up, and her heart decides to freefall. All the way across the floor stands a young woman in an apron. A bucket of newly broken dishes lay at her feet. Her eyes are so pale and pretty they have their own orbit amidst the aging lights above. Her blonde hair ripples into liquid gold, twisted messily into a bun. Broad shoulders are cinched into position with suspenders and there's an off-white shirt rolled up to her elbows, the hem tucked into a pair of trousers. The skin of her strong forearms are tanned and riddled with freckles, spreading constellations all the way up her neck and across the gradual slope of her nose. Oh, there's something familiar about all of this. Blake feels it in her bones. There’s something familiar in the ‘o’ of her startled mouth. Something about the empty hands she hovers, still holding an imaginary bucket of plates. She's got those sharp lilac eyes pinned on something in front of her. It's a jolt to realise she's staring right at Blake. Though suddenly, that older woman in the white and red suit sweeps by that freckled face, and it's with a smile and a wave that their staring contest ends. No one claims the victory as the spell breaks. The older woman asks something that Blake can't hear, but she knows her voice is soft and sweet. Her feet move like she’s skating on air, and Blake decides to focus on that. She focuses on that instead of the heartbeat in her chest. She doesn’t think about how her pulse no longer feels like it belongs to herself. The golden woman nods stiffly and turns. Follows the gliding woman to the back of the house, and Blake is left with a heart migrating into her throat. The hungry young woman quickly tears her gaze away, uproots her feet from the grooves in the floor, and sits at the table she'd claimed. Her skin feels clammy. Her body is buzzing. She shrugs off her bag and coat, then pulls her bag into her lap. As if there was anything in there worth protecting. It could be minutes, it could be hours. She's really not sure, when a shadow falls over her table, and the sight aches like an old friend. A bottle of some fizzy drink is set gently before her, the bottle cap rattling towards her side of the table. Sunflower Pop, it reads. She looks up. The poor young woman, with her liquid gold locks wrapped in a messy topknot, stares right back. They're both struck speechless. If there was ever a moment where destiny fills the lungs, it was then. Anticipation strings itself between their ribs, the cords like telephone wires humming their universal tune. I found you. I found you. I found you. But neither of them say a word to each other. The anticipation feels closer to a noose than a cup-and-string, the longer they spend breathing in the other's presence. The hungry young woman with hair black as night, just couldn't look away. Couldn't make her voice work right. The gold haired woman's jaw seems to work, but there was still no sound to be heard. Eventually the woman just turns around and walks away, toddling and tripping like her knees were unsteady. Blake sits where she left her, feeling much more than sympathy. She feels like her chair would collapse with her if she tried to follow. And again, there are voices whispering in the back of her mind. The wind already found her inside this place, its voices groaning and hollow. It always finds her, and she knows. She knows it always will. But as her slender fingers wrap around the neck of the bottle left on her table, Blake tastes the fizz and hums. Feels the crackle of carbonation all across her skin as she tracks the tall blonde with her eyes. The wind doesn’t feel like a whip in this vibrant, lively place. That has to count for something. Maybe she should stick around, just for one day. Maybe she would stick around and wait for the band to play.

#rwby hadestown au #rwby fanfiction #bumbleby #bumbleby hadestown au #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #i'm still waiting to finish the whole thing before posting it on ao3 #but the more i reread it #the more excited i am #i fucking love this au #thank y'all for your patience T.T #and thank you yangsbandana #for encouraging me to post it again i appreciate you v much T.T #rwby

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katehuntington · 3 years

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Title: Ride With Me (part 24) Fandom: Supernatural Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader Word count: ±9400 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family. Summary part 24: John’s presence at the horse show flips Dean’s world upside down, sending him a tailspin that could have serious consequences. Will Y/N and his friends be able to get through to him? Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak, slowburn. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: How Do You Get ‘Em Back - David Ramirez. Follow ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @atc74, and @winchest09 for helping me. Also a special thanks to @jules-1999, who has offered me her knowledge about rodeo events like these, and @squirrelnotsam, who knows Arizona like the back of her hand. Guys, this is going to be a heavy one. 9.3K of angst. If you are invested in this story, I suggest you’ll have the tissues ready before you start reading. Godspeed.

Ride With Me Masterlist

“Hello, son.”

Only two words, but it’s more than Dean has heard his father say in a long while. The simple greeting lingers between them, like smog polluting the air, stealing his breath. A force of habit the cowboy assumed was long forgotten has him square his shoulders. After all, if there’s anything John taught him it's that men can’t be weak.

What does he call him? Dad? Sir? The cowboy isn’t even sure and so he decides to keep his mouth closed. Instead, he measures the man before him. He is but a ghost of the parent Dean remembers - or at least idolized for so long. His boots are dusty and worn, the leather tearing at the creases. His clothes are dirty, stains on the white t-shirt he’s wearing under a camel jacket. He grew a beard, the tough hairs grey now. A black cowboy hat hides most of his slick hair, but they don’t conceal the dark circles under his father’s eyes, nor the tale of pain and sorrow that are still apparent. Nothing has changed, really. He just got older.

Dean can feel his knees weaken as his breaths come out shaky, but he is able to stand his ground. He sets his jaw, gritting away the frustration that continues to build, his fists clenched, nails digging into his palm. But it’s more than just aggravation that courses through him; it’s joined with an overwhelming sense of panic and fear. He wants to run, far away from confrontations and the dull blade that is tearing open old wounds. What he would give to go back in time, just an hour or so, to prevent this moment. What he would give to be able to live the life he naively pictured, with his family, with Y/N.

Meanwhile, John watches him, eyes glossed over and wearing a small smile. “It’s good to see you.” Still, Dean can’t speak. He just stares at his father. Even the gentle words falling from John’s chapped lips don’t lift the tension. Where Dean was thankful that the stables were empty just a few minutes ago, he now wishes it was swarming with people, because being cut out from the public eye is not a position the cowboy wants his girlfriend to be in. When John steps closer hesitatingly, Dean moves in front of her, one hand back to make sure she stays behind him. It’s instinct, a reaction that is fed by years of doing the same for Sammy. He did everything possible to protect his brother then, and now he has to do the same for her. Dean has to get her out of here. Now.

The cowboy turns his head slightly, addressing Y/N without letting his old man out of his sight. “You should get Joplin warmed up. I’ll be right there.” “Dean? Are you s--” “Go,” he insists, wincing at the strict tone of his own voice.

John has halted and watches the exchange, his gaze following the cowgirl who moves to the box on her right and takes off the halter of a black horse inside the stable. Without a word but with concern and confusion evident in her eyes - which flick to his before she averts them quickly - she takes the Quarter by the reins and guides the mare out of the stable. When she’s out of earshot, Dean’s father returns his focus to his son. “That your girlfriend?” he wonders. “No,” the wrangler claims, wanting to keep her out of this at all costs. John doesn’t have to know about his relationships with her or with his friends. It will make them vulnerable to his influence. “She’s just an intern,” he adds.

Believing the statement to be true, he dips his chin, nodding slightly, and Dean is able to exhale. At least he got Y/N out of harm’s way, now he just needs to somehow prepare himself to take the fire. It’s been a long time coming, but it’s time to face the faults of the past. He allowed the family to fall apart on that dreadful night when the bond between the Winchesters was shattered to pieces. Dean destroyed it all.

Carefully, his old man moves closer once more, and involuntarily the young cowboy steps back. He doesn’t want to. He intends to stand tall and hold position, but trepidation has him back up before he can stop himself. Apparently aware of the effect he has on Dean, John ceases his attempt to close the unbreachable gap between father and son.

Leaving a safe distance between them, he speaks again. “You’ve grown up to be quite the man, Dean. Your aunt and uncle must have taken good care of you.” More than you’ve ever done, Dean thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it out loud, too apprehensive for the reaction it might trigger. “They have.” “Well, I’m glad,” John smiles at the ground. “I’m glad you landed on your feet. Do you know if Sammy did too?”

Dean’s eyes fill to the brim before he can blink. He doesn’t know. The big brother who was supposed to look out for him, who was supposed to give everything to provide his younger sibling the safety and care that he deserved, doesn’t know. The question is a punch in the gut, a verification of the fact that he has failed Sam like he has failed so many others. “I don’t,” he admits, doing everything in his power to keep his voice steady. “I haven’t seen him since.”

John sighs, sniffles slightly and glances up, as if he’s mad for a prayer that has been left unanswered. The news does a number on the old guy, and suddenly Dean feels sorry for the man standing before him. His father was already lost when their mother died, and it only got worse when Sam disappeared. The agony it triggered has never left him, just like it never left his son. That loss will always remain, a piece of their heart cut away violently, leaving a hole that bleeds to this day. They both had to settle for a life without Mary and the youngest Winchester in it. As much as Dean wants to hate his father, he simply can’t. He wouldn’t want to wish that kind of torture upon anyone, let alone his dad. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes he has made.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I hoped that maybe…” John pauses, shaking his head slightly. “I hoped you boys at least found your way back to each other.”

Dean swallows with difficulty, his bottom lashes barely clinging to the tears that threaten to roll down his face, but he manages to keep it together. He wishes the same, because life without his sibling feels incomplete. God, he misses Sam. And all that guilt, the sorrow, and the uncertainty of his well-being come rushing back to him in a magnitude that he can’t cope with.

John watches his son again, a grown man now, yet still his boy. “I was wondering if maybe we could sit down someday. Have a drink or something, y’know? Try and put this all behind us?”

Astonished, Dean stares at him. A part of him wants to mend this broken relationship, but John must be aware that rekindling the father-son bond will never undo all the trauma their family endured. There’s no going back to how things were, there is no returning to the time the Winchesters were happy. Mom died, and her death set them on a course of total ruination. And yet, Dean can’t answer. He can’t tell his father ‘no’.

“John Winchester!” Hasty footsteps echo between the stable walls, and when the conflicted cowboy glances past his father, he notices Bobby, moving closer with determined strides. A shuddering sigh of relief escapes Dean, and he’s glad the man opposite of him turns around to face his former brother-in-law so that he doesn’t witness the sign of weakness. With his uncle here, he instantly feels safer, knowing that even if this conversation develops into an argument, he has back-up now.

The elder man holds a fury in his eyes that is visible even in the shadows of the worn ball cap he always wears. “You better walk away,” he warns. “We were just talkin’,” John assures, calmly. “I don’t care if you are holding a family reunion,” Bobby sneers. “If you don’t leave right now, I will get my gun and blast your sorry ass so full of buckshot that you will never sit in a saddle again without scratching the leather.”

Dean’s gaze bounces between his father and his uncle, weary of the clash that is about to kick off, as the two older men keep their eyes locked on each other, tension rising by the second. But then, against his expectations, John gives in to Bobby’s request and steps aside. He glances back at his son one last time, giving him a sad smile, before he breaks away and strolls off, shoulders slumped and defeat obvious.

Collecting himself by taking a breath and blowing it out as slowly as he can, the younger cowboy makes eye contact with his uncle, who approaches him until he’s in arm’s reach. He puts his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, gently encouraging the troubled young man to look at him, hoping the touch will ground his nephew. “You alright?” Bobby asks, the lines in his forehead deepening as he frowns. Dean swallows down the lump in his throat and nods, his lips pressed together in a firm line. He can’t speak and has to break away from his uncle’s observant gaze. Bobby’s grip loosens; he’s aware that Dean isn’t ready to expose his true feelings about this unfortunate run-in. “I’m gonna make sure he leaves the premises,” he assures. With those words, the man - who once again has provided him safety - turns away to follow John, committed to matching action with his words if the guy doesn’t take his threat seriously.

Finally alone, the unsettled cowboy tries to inhale again, but his diaphragm seems to have risen to chest height. He can feel anxiety like he has never experienced before in his adult life get a grip on him, and whatever he tries, he can’t stop it. Afraid that his legs might give way, he takes a step to the side and holds on to one of the stable bars, but he still can’t breathe. Unable to hold the frontline in the battle he’s fighting with the overwhelming sense of distress, the tears break through his defense, spilling down his cheeks. Suddenly, he feels sick. He needs to get out, he needs fresh air.

Feeling the bile creeping up from deep inside him as he stumbles outside, he quickly turns the corner behind the tent before he heaves this morning’s partly digested breakfast into the grass. He throws up everything he has been holding, hoping the anguish will leave his body as well, but it doesn’t. When his stomach is empty, he is still left with the same misery. “Fuck,” he chokes out, steadying himself against the steel corner pillar of the stable. He wipes at his runny nose and his tears, sniffling. Get a hold of yourself, Dean, he lectures, you need to keep it together now. He straightens his back, looking down at the mess he made, closing his eyes for a second as he pulls in a careful breath.

“Dean?” Recognizing his friend’s voice, the cowboy turns around. Benny stands behind him, worry in his clear blue eyes. Manning up and finding his footing again, Dean walks up to meet him. The Southerner hands him a bottle of water, and even though the receiver is thankful for having something to rinse his mouth with, he wishes it to be something a whole lot stronger.

Taking a swig, he lets it wash away the sour taste before he spits it onto the ground. After another attempt he realizes that it’s no use and takes a careful sip this time, swallowing it down to put out the fire inside his chest. He glances at Benny, giving him a nod. “I - I’m good,” he says, not just trying to convince his companion. “I’m good.”

Knowing him well, his best friend doesn’t contradict him, even though it’s clear as day the statement is far from the truth. Dean’s eyes are bloodshot, his hand trembling when he moves the bottle to his mouth. “You might wanna get to the warm-up,” Benny reminds him, handing him the headset. The wrangler grimaces. “Shit, yeah. What time is it?” “Two-thirty. Her starting time is in twenty-five minutes,” the Southerner says. “I gotta get goin’,” Dean realizes after cursing again, moving past him to make his way to the arena. He holds up the water bottle as he jogs away. “Thanks.”

Hoping his friend will understand that he’s thanking him for a lot more than just the drink, he hastens away. Right now, he has someone else who needs his support. Y/N has left the stables well over fifteen minutes ago, so he hopes she’s not nervous because of his late arrival. When he finally reaches the fence, he spots her amongst the other riders, warming up Joplin. He can tell she’s focused, or is she upset with him for not being on time? Finding it hard to read her from a distance, he sums it up to a mixture of both. Without disturbing the other competitors, he bends down to duck under the barrier, approaching her and her horse. But when she ignores him completely and continues to work the Quarter on a small circle, he hesitates.

“Y/N?” he calls out, not sure if she saw him from inside her bubble. “What?” she snaps. Taken aback by her reaction, he watches how she keeps circling, slowing down to a walk, but still not stopping to take the headset or even grant him a look. “C’mon, let me help you,” he ushers, holding up the device for her. But when she looks him in the eye, the coldness they behold frightens him. “Why do you even care?” she wonders. “I’m ‘just an intern’ anyway.”

Like she just slapped him across the face, Dean stares at the cowgirl, the daggers she’s shooting at him with her powerful gaze stabbing him right in the heart. No no no, he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes. She wasn’t supposed to hear him say that to his father. He labeled her as an intern only to make sure John wouldn’t be able to get to Dean through his girlfriend. Of course he didn’t mean a word of it! He has to make her understand. “Yankee, I’m sorry. I--” “Forget it, Dean. I can handle myself,” she snarls. “Leave me alone.”

With that, she moves away from her boyfriend, riding Joplin to the other side of the warm-up ring, as far from him as possible. Regretful, her trainer saunters back towards the fence, making his way out of the ring. When he straightens himself, he is met by Jo, who has her arms crossed in front of her chest as she narrows her eyes at her cousin. It’s clear as day that she’s about to rip him a new one as well. “What did you do?” she demands to know, sternly.

Dean looks at her, opening his mouth to answer, but unable to even utter a word. I fucked up, that’s what I did, he realizes. Like he has fucked up everything else that was ever good in his life. He doesn’t reply, though, and instead shakes his head, admitting his loss. “Here.” Dean hands her the small device with a microphone attached to it, his fingers still trembling. “Help her if she needs assistance, alright?” Perplexed, she watches him walk off. She at least expected a counter with a claim that he didn’t do anything wrong. “You’re not gonna even watch her ride?” she asks before he’s too far gone. “I’ll watch from the bleachers. I don’t wanna distract her,” he returns, sadly looking into her eyes before he carries on.

Observing her cousin, an uneasy feeling settles in her stomach. The guilt is oozing from him in great amounts as he disappears in the crowd, his head hanging, the usual upbeat attitude nowhere to be found. What has gotten into him? Something must have happened, something bad. She can’t recall the last time she has seen him this troubled, not since… Jo’s eyes grow a little larger, her brows that were knitted together a moment ago now rising. Suddenly it dawns on her; she hasn’t seen him so thrown into disarray since he arrived at the ranch at fourteen years of age. She might have been only eight at the time, but those memories lingered. The sight of a kid so scared, so depressed, and so broken left an impression. Even as a little girl she knew he had been through hell, and by the looks of her cousin now, it seems like those dark days are catching up with him.

Jo wants to go after the poor guy, but she knows she can’t abandon her best friend. When the steward calls out Y/N’s name, announcing she’s up next, she focuses on the rider again. Right now she is her main priority, because whatever happened between the intern and the wrangler, Jo knows she’s Dean’s priority too.

“Ready?” she checks while quickly drying Joplin with a towel before they head towards the gate. “Yeah, I am,” Y/N assures, pushing Dean from her thoughts. “Remember that it’s fine to pick your first cow from the side of the herd, okay? Don’t set the bar too high. It’s your first time,” the blonde cowgirl offers. “I know,” she assures, even though she’s not planning on playing it safe.

The frustration has morphed into determination, a strong will to prove that she can manage just fine and that Bobby has every reason to dote on her. She much rather feels aggravated than insecure, so she allows the anger to flood the worry, shutting out her usual insecurity. She’s not going to let anyone down, especially not herself.

Concentrated, she goes to the gate, eye for the prize. Joplin already has her ears perked towards the cattle, knowing it’s game time. The clock starts to tick, and with confidence, she guides Joplin through the group of heifers, picking one dead in the middle to single out.

She doesn’t know Dean is watching from the sidelines, and intense sadness filling his soul. She doesn’t know how proud he is when she makes two amazing cuts and she scores 73 points, outclassing him. She doesn’t know that he’s very much aware that his girl doesn’t need him anymore.

Swift strokes brush the dirt out of Joplin’s dark coat. Dust particles dance in the air, illuminated by the orange rays of the setting sun that fall through the window of the stable. The mare allows the pampering, on hindleg resting on its toe, her head hanging low. Big, brown eyes are half closed, falling shut every once in a while. Sleep almost taking the normally feisty horse, the grooming having a relaxing effect on her. It’s almost as if she realizes she’s about to go on a new adventure, and she’s taking this moment to recharge after her run.

Jody has matched Joplin with a great family. A sixteen-year-old girl will be riding her. The teenager and her parents came to meet her new horse right after the great performance, absolutely beaming, knowing this wonderful animal was now theirs. In about fifteen minutes, Joplin’s new owners will be here to take her to their farm in Alamo, New Mexico. The family promised to give the Quarter a forever home, and they showed Y/N pictures of the beautiful barn where the little dark horse is going to live. She’s going to a good place, but the farewell remains bittersweet.

Once the Joplin is thoroughly cleaned, her rider takes her by the halter, raking her fingers through her mane. Y/N has never been good at saying goodbye, but it’s time now. “Be good, okay?” she whispers, letting her hands gently run down the horse’s neck. “And don’t pin your ears back too much. People are gonna think you’re mean, but I know you’re a softy.”

Joplin breathes out a sigh through her nose as if answering the person who has been her companion for the past month. It’s peculiar how fast a bond between human and animal can form. There has been a connection between them since the first time Y/N saddled her up for a trail. The thought of buying the beautiful Quarter herself has crossed the cowgirl’s mind ever since she learned Bobby planned to sell her, but no matter how difficult, this is also an aspect of the business that she needs to get used to. When she will finally have her own stables in a year's time, horses will come and go. She can’t keep every one of them, and so she needs to set Joplin free.

Judging by the hollow sounds under the tent’s roof, the new owners are on their way. She can distinguish Jody’s voice, and Bobby’s too. A girl with long, brown hair and bright eyes peers over the stable door, already glancing at the beautiful horse lovingly. “I bought her new transport boots,” she announces enthusiastically. “Wouldn’t want her to get hurt on the trailer. I also got a rug for when it gets a little colder during the night. Do you think she will like that?” The teenager holds up a red, woolen rug, which matches the leg protection perfectly. Y/N chuckles at the sight. Joplin is going to get so spoiled. “Those look amazing.” She reaches for one of the boots. “Here, let me help.”

They strap on the protective wear together while Bobby, Jody, and the parents close the deal on the other side of the alleyway. After the money is counted, the ranch owner hands over the horse’s passport together with a certificate of ownership, shaking their hands once more. Y/N waits for her boss to look her way, wondering if he - as owner - should give Joplin away, but the old man gives her a friendly nod, telling her without words that she will have the honor.

“Well, I guess this is it,” she says, fumbling with the leadrope. “She’s yours now.” “Thank you,” the young cowgirl returns. “We will take good care of her. Promise.” Not trusting her voice, the Y/N smiles warmly, but there isn’t a doubt in her mind that the family will. She doesn’t want to get emotional, it wouldn’t be professional after all. And so she does her very best to blink the mist from her eyes when she offers the leadrope, handing over Joplin to her new owner.

The family who just gained an additional member exits the stables, heading to the trailers to start their journey home. The rider, the trader, and the rancher watch them leave, all with smiles on their faces. Everyone involved in this sale wins. Y/N can’t help it, though, and has to wipe a lonely tear from her cheek. Jody, who notices, wraps an arm around her shoulder, sheltering and comforting. “Sorry,” the cowgirl excuses, a little embarrassed. “Don’t be sorry, honey,” she dismisses sweetly. “Caring matters, especially when money comes into play. Someone who cares has far better judgment than someone who’s greedy. Remember that.” Y/N smiles at the wise words, storing that piece of advice with all the others she has picked up along the way.

“Pretty good ride,” Bobby compliments his intern, in his own way trying to cheer her up. “Especially at your first cutting class.” Jody glances aside at the ranch owner, not impressed with his choice of words, before pulling the cowgirl closer into a side hug. “Pretty good? Are you kidding me? You absolutely slayed it! If you’re not giving that girl a rider’s fee, I will.” “Oh, that’s really not necessary,” Y/N objects. “No, you deserve it,” he insists while leafing through the hundred dollar bills in a large envelope. “Bobby, it’s okay. I am already super grateful for everything I’m learning and the experiences that I’m gaining. You have already given me a room and a stable, not to mention Ellen’s cooking. You really don’t have to pay me.”

Y/N shortly places her hand on her boss’s to seize his actions, wanting him to stop counting. The Gold Canyon Ranch might have made good money over the past three days, yet that doesn’t mean a financial disaster is avoided. She doesn’t want a share. The old man holds her gaze and she can tell he’s wondering if either Dean or Jo have spilled a little too much information. Maybe it is because of that assumption that he settles and lets it go. “At least lemme buy you a drink, huh?” he offers before he turns to his business partner. “I just have to round a few things up with Jody here.” “Alright, see you in a bit,” Y/N returns.

As the two business partners walk off to look for a private place where Bobby can give the woman who has made the sale possible her commissioner’s fee, the cowgirl slips into the tack room. She decides to start packing, since the crew presumingly will leave in a couple of hours. She has to keep busy, but Dean breaks into thoughts straight away. Sighing deeply, the cowgirl tries to wrap her head around her boyfriend’s reasoning. His words, which had her freeze to the ground for a second as she left him with his father, still ring in her ears. She’s just an intern. Why would he say such a thing? Why hadn’t he expressed that she is his girlfriend? Why did he never mention his father to her? And if he isn’t even able to talk to her about his family, what else is he hiding?

Her train of thought is interrupted by Jo, who hastily rushes around the corner, her restless eyes searching the tack room before she checks the stables. “Have you seen Dean?” she asks, concerned. “No,” Y/N bitterly answers. “Okay, enough.” Jo places her hands on her hips, shifting her weight to one leg. “What the hell is going on with you two?” “You tell me,” her friend responds coldly. “I was under the impression we were doing just fine until Dean wasn’t even able to introduce me. Clearly, I value our relationship more than he does.”

“What are you talking about? He’s crazy about you,” the blonde cowgirl reminds her. “Is he?” Y/N spins on her heels, finally looking her in the eye. “Because for someone who claims to care about me, he sure keeps an awful lot of secrets.” Jo sighs. “Look, I know Dean isn’t the guy who’s very chatty about those kinds of things, but what makes you say that he doesn’t care?” “Because he couldn’t even tell his family - who he failed to tell me about, by the way - that I’m his girlfriend! He told his father that I am just an int--” “Whoa whoa, wait. His father?” Her best friend stares at her bug-eyed, needing a moment to process the information. “His father is here?!” “Yeah, he showed up in the stables earlier to visit him, before I got on Joplin,” she confirms, somewhat confused by her shocked expression. Jo steps towards the intern, grabbing both her shoulders and looking at her intensely. “Are you absolutely sure?” Y/N shrugs a little, not understanding the earnesty. “He looked a lot like Dean, and he called him his son, so I’m assuming.”

Her best friend just gapes at her, her cousin’s demeanor by the warm-up ring suddenly making much more sense. If he had an encounter with his father, his entire world just got turned upside down. Judging by how messed up he was when his only living parent left him to rot when he was still a child, she can only imagine what his return after all that time has set in motion.

“We need to find Dean, now,” she says, grabbing her friend by the wrist and pulling her out of the tack room. “I’ll explain along the way.” Unsettled, Y/N fastens her pace to jog next to the ranch owner’s daughter. “Jo, what’s going on?” “Dean didn’t lie to you when he said that he hadn’t seen his family in a while. In fact, the two haven’t been in contact for fifteen years,” she explains as they exit the stables.

Stunned by the revelation, the cowgirl next to her tries to make sense of it all. Fifteen years? Why would he have cut all ties with his dad for fifteen years? She can’t possibly imagine doing such a thing. Something horrible must have happened, something beyond comprehension. “That still doesn’t explain why he described me as anything else but his girlfriend,” Y/N brings up. “Listen, you don’t know John. He is a manipulative son of a bitch who has played dirty mind games before. If Dean let on that you were just someone working at the ranch, he was trying to protect you.” Y/N stops dead in her tracks, her hand which is still entwined with Jo’s causing her friend to spin around. “He w - what?”

“You need to talk to him,” her friend insists, dragging her into motion again. “My guess is that he found a place to be alone or he’s liquoring up. Either way, your man is spiraling out of control and he's gonna need his girl in order to get out of that vicious circle.” “He - he won’t talk to me,” she stammers. “Not after how I was with him before my run. God, I can’t believe I was so self-absorbed. I thought he didn’t want me there because he was embarrassed of me, and you’re telling me he was making sure I was safe?”

Jo wishes her companion wouldn’t put herself down like that, because the blonde cowgirl honestly gets why she reacted the way she did, being unaware of the family drama. She never thought the day would come, but here she is, defending her cousin’s honor.

“Like I said; he’s crazy about you, Sis. He has never been like this with somebody else, so if there’s anyone who can through to him it’s you. He might try to--” “- push me away, I know. That’s kind of his thing. I won’t let him,” Y/N promises. Jo nods at that, glad she was able to convince her. “Good, now we just have to find him.”

They arrive at the square where all the shops are situated, most of the stand holders packing their unsold products into cars and onto trailers. The sun has disappeared behind the horizon, the skies painted with red. There are a few people around, music coming from the tent further up where the after-party is in full swing. They meet Benny at the crossing, though, who is looking for his friend as well. “Have you seen him?” Y/N asks the farrier, who has the same worried frown on his face as the girls. “I tried the trailers, but no luck,” Benny says. “Stables?” But she shakes her head. “We were just there.”

The three glance aside when a group of young guys stumbles out of the tent, alternated colored beams in their wake, coming from the disco lights inside. The concern that has Jo’s intestines in knots worsens, because if Dean has hit the bar, reasoning with him is going to be problematic.

Y/N enters the tent, backed up by the other two members of the Gold Canyon Ranch. The band plays a happy, upbeat country song that contradicts the alarming anxiety and dread that is riding her nerves like a racetrack. Frantically, she looks around, trying to identify her boyfriend amongst the crowd. She doesn’t see him in the booths on her right, nor around the dancefloor which she and Dean owned two nights prior. Once she convinces him that she understands why he said those things and that he did nothing wrong, she can wrap her arms around him again, comfort him with a kiss and ask him for another dance. He can continue to be the wonderful, supportive boyfriend, making her laugh and making her smile, lifting her up and making her feel appreciated. They can go back to how things were.

Trying to convince herself that everything is going to be fine, she moves through the mass of people towards the beer taps, when she stops suddenly, the wind being knocked from her lungs by the sight in front of her. At the end of the bar, she finds Dean. Not nursing a beer, sad and alone like she expected to find him, but in company of the same girl who was all over him on Friday night as well; Jamie. The cowboy, already intoxicated, leaning into her when the blonde whispers something in his ear, touching his arm as she does. A blind man would be able to see the chemistry, their conversation easy and carefree. The beautiful girl seated on the stool next to her boyfriend doesn’t show a sign of insecurity, her cheerful and confident personality matching Dean’s perfectly. She is everything Y/N isn’t.

Unable to move, she watches the film play out before her, a story of fun and romance that will push her story with Dean to a tragic end. Tears begin to fill her eyes, her breath hitching in her throat. A part of her hopes that he will turn around and see the devastation that his actions are causing, but he doesn’t, occupied by the gorgeous old flame which seems to have ignited something new. He doesn’t even see me, she realizes. He doesn’t see her, because once again it has been made perfectly clear she’s not worth holding on to. That has always been the case whenever it came to love, hasn’t it? So why on earth did she think that with Dean it was going to be any different? And just like that, she’s back to being invisible again.

Abruptly, Y/N turns around, desperately needing to get out of the buzzing atmosphere, but she collides with Jo the second she does. “Woah! Where are you--” Jo steadies her friend when she almost falls over, holding her by her arms. Stunned, she stares into her eyes, noticing how they are glazed over with absolute heartbreak. “What’s going on?”

But Y/N just shakes her head, moving past her hastily; she can’t stay here a second longer. The upset girl struggles towards the exit and ignores Benny, who watches her departure, perplexed. When he straightens himself again, he glances at Jo, as much confusion on his features as on hers. But when his focus locks on his buddy at the bar, his face falls. “That son of a bitch,” he mutters, his remark triggering the blonde cowgirl before him to turn around as well.

Jo’s jaw falls slack, observing as the two order another round of shots. She can’t believe what she’s seeing. She can’t believe she’s witnessing the man who she thought had made a change for the better, now making a turn for the worse. Frustration boils inside of the petite yet feisty woman, who is biting down hard on her bottom lip when she faces Benny again. “You talk some sense into him before he really crosses the line,” she directs. “I’m gonna go after Y/N and see if I can repair the damage.”

The broad-shouldered wrangler nods and watches Jo take off before he goes in the other direction. He pushes through the mass of people who are enjoying the last party of the event, all oblivious to the dramatic scene they are all a part of. He senses that the drama might become a whole lot worse if he doesn’t manage to pull Dean’s head off his ass.

“What do you think you’re doin’, brother?” Benny claps his hand on his friend’s shoulder, interrupting him before he downs the shot waiting for him on the bar. He scoffs. “What does it look like?” “Seems to me you’re about to get a lil’ too friendly with a gal that ain’t yours,” the farrier says with a lowered voice, hoping it will enlighten him. “We’re just having a drink,” Dean counters, annoyed, reaching for the glass in front of him, but Benny pushes it out of reach. “Do you think that’s what Y/N saw too when she was here just now?” Now he does get the cowboy’s attention, common sense finally pushing to the forefront. “She was here?” he questions, dumbfounded. “Yep, and you’ve got somethin’ to fix. Let’s go,” Benny suggests, his large hand flat on his companion’s back calmly pushing him off the chair and onto his feet, both men giving Jamie a short nod before they leave the party.

The fresh air slaps Dean in the face when he exits the tent, sobering him up enough to realize how bad he screwed up. He knew it was a horrible idea to do the one thing his dad always did when the pain got too much to bear; hit the alcohol and drown his sorrow. But that’s the thing, isn’t it? No matter how hard he fights, no matter how different he aspires to be, he will always be just like his father. The same ego-centric, selfish and spineless dick that breaks everything he touches.

When the two men stop in the middle of the square, Benny looks around, trying to find the girls. He doesn’t spot them sitting at any of the outside tables, nor by the restrooms. “It don’t matter, I already fucked it up anyway,” Dean mutters when his friend glances between the market shops. The farrier pauses his search and gazes at him superciliously through half-lidded eyes. “No disrespect, Chief, but what the hell is wrong with you?” “You really want me to get started on that list? Because if so, we’re gonna be here for a while,” the wrangler returns snarky, avoiding his friend’s blue eyes, taking a few steps away with his hands on his hips. “John showing up here is not y—” “Don’t!” Dean interrupts with venom in his voice, spinning around and pointing a firm finger at Benny. “Don’t you dare bring up my father.”

He’s trembling, the anger that ran in John’s blood for years now raging through his veins. Fire sets alight his insides, flames dancing in his pupils that glare at his comrade warningly. The Southerner takes a tentative step towards him, realizing he needs to get through to Dean, but has to handle the subject as carefully as possible. “You are not him. I know this,” he speaks slow. “I know you love Y/N, too.”

But Dean scoffs and shakes his head, not just denying that he does, but refusing to allow himself that kind of fulfillment. He was stupid to even think that he ever had a chance with her. It was just a matter of time before it all would come crashing down on him, ruining everything that he never deserved in the first place. He can’t love her, because if he does, she will fall victim to him, just like he did to his dad.

“Listen, brother. You’re not seein’ straight right now, but you can still make this right,” Benny continues. “You care too much about her to just throw in the towel. Remember when she first came to the ranch? You were smitten the second she walked through those doors. You called dibs on her for a reason.”

The cowboy’s shoulders rise as he inhales deeply and fall again when he blows out a breath. Of course he remembers. He remembers the first time he laid eyes on her over his poker cards, how she responded to him from across the saloon. He remembers how she gave him a run for his money when he came on too strong. He remembers how he panicked when she didn’t seem interested and the idea of her being with someone else had him strike an agreement with his best mate. He remembers the rides, their first kiss, the moment i-- “You called dibs on me?”

Stunned by the unexpected voice, both men turn to where it came from. Benny gulps thickly when he notices Y/N stepping from under the awning of one of the food trucks, Jo in her shadow. Even in the dim glow from the overhanging strings of lightbulbs, he can see her eyes shimmer with despair. “Y/N, it ain’t as bad as it s--” But the cowgirl cuts him off immediately, shooting Benny a glare. “You can stop with the Southern smooth talk. I need to talk to Dean alone.”

After exchanging looks over the course of several uncomfortable seconds, both Benny and Jo step aside, sauntering away from the couple. Once their friends have disappeared behind one of the trailers, Y/N returns her focus to her boyfriend again, her judgemental stare boring into his soul. “I asked you a question,” she repeats, managing to prevent her voice from trembling. “Did you make some kind of pact with your buddies?”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he sets his jaw, the muscles flexing under his stubble. He lifts his eyes from the ground for a moment, glancing over before he averts them again. The woman standing a few feet away from him chuckles cynically; she knows enough.

“So what, women are like cattle to you? This is a funny bet?” The cowboy frustratingly shakes his head once. “You know it’s not.” “Do I?!” Y/N returns, her tone sharper and higher than anticipated. “Because if this isn’t just a game, then why did you shove me aside for some blonde broad--” “For fuck’s sake, we were just having a drink! We had this argument already!” Dean snaps, throwing his arms to the side.

Taken aback by the hostility, Y/N stares at him. She has seen this anger before, but just a glimpse of it. It was when Ash lost his job and blamed them, in particular Dean, who took the acquisitions hard. That evening it was mostly guilt that triggered the cowboy to lash out to her and the second he realized he had upset her, he apologized. But now an apology doesn’t even seem to cross his mind that is clouded by darkness far greater. At this point, she’s not sure if she would be able to accept it anyway.

“Well, it didn’t make much of a difference, now did it?” she returns after using the dreadful silence to recover. “Apparently not,” Dean scoffs, shifting his unfocused gaze aside. Mulling over the chain of events that have led to this moment, he swallows with difficulty, indignation taking off the heat for a bit, stopping it from boiling over. The calm gives Y/N enough courage to step closer. “Dean, I know today was a whirlwind. I know - I’m aware that what happened in the stables earlier has sent you into a tailspin,” she sympathizes, careful not to mention his father after witnessing his outburst with Benny when he did, “but this isn’t you.”

The disheartened guy before her huffs again, sardonic and hopeless. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? Because it’s exactly who he is. This is who he was always destined to be. It’s how he was raised, it’s in his DNA. For two months he allowed himself to hope that maybe he could change, that maybe he could be better than the poor excuse of a man his father was. Y/N gave him that pipe dream, and even though it’s unreasonable to be upset with her for seeing the good in him, it’s amongst one of the many frustrations he’s experiencing.

“It is. This -” Dean points at himself, his upper lip twitching with disgust. “- this is who I am.” She shakes her head, not ready to give up. “It’s not. You are kind, loving, your heart is--” “You don’t know me!” He exclaims, running a hand through his hair and trapping the light-brown locks between his fingers before he gestures wildly. “You think you do, but you don’t have a fucking clue! I haven’t told you anything about my life--” “Then talk to me!” Y/N yells back as he turns away from her. “I CAN’T!!”

Dean is facing her again, vexation flaring in his emerald green eyes. His heart beats so vigorously that it has his entire body pulsating. He takes her in, the beautiful young woman who he fell for, and he can see that her hope is fading. It pains him to hurt her, but he’s left with no choice. Being angry with him will make things easier, though. It will help her move on. If she is going to feel sorry for him, the pity would only prompt the caring girl to hold on and try to piece the shattered shards back together, and he can’t let that happen, simply because it’s useless. He refuses to take her down with him, to burden her with the same demons that he has to live with. He can’t do that to her, not to the one he loves. She’s way too good for him, so pure, so selfless and gentle. She’s everything he shouldn’t have, everything he isn’t worthy of. It’s better this way, it’s better to end it now.

“I can’t. Who you think I am, it’s not me. I’ve been lying to you, pretending. I can’t be the person you need me to be,” he claims, calmer now that he knows what he has to do.

Y/N’s breathing picks up slightly, the air leaving her with a shudder each time. His words seem so definite already, but he can’t possibly believe that they are not right for each other, can he? All those moments they shared, all the affection he offered; that was real. That was him. Why can’t he see he’s exactly the man she needs? “And what person is that?” she questions, hoping that whatever argument he fires back, she can turn around.

Dean is quiet for a few seconds, thinking about a fitting answer. The profound fondness he feels for her begins to resurface and it’s tearing him apart. She needs to understand that the fairytale they have been living is a facade he can’t continue to maintain. Dreams never last forever, this is where they wake up. “You need a guy who is honest, who you can trust. Look at us; I can’t even bring myself to tell you about my family, my past, or anything for that matter,” he reminds her. “I knew what I was in for, Dean. I don’t expect you to spill every dark secret you think you have. You don’t have to spell out everything to be with me. We can work it out!” she argues desperately. But the cowboy shakes his head, feeling the sorrow brim in his eyes. He wants her to be right so bad, but he knows he can’t live a lie. “You don’t get it, okay? I’m a fucking mess. I did things that are unforgivable. I don’t have my shit together, but you do,” he says, a sad smile barely pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You know exactly where you wanna go in life, what you want to achieve.” She steps closer, praying that if he lets her, she can eventually bridge the space between them. “We can do that together,” she pleads with all the hope she has left. “We can’t,” he returns, having gathered every bit of strength to look at her before he pronounces the words who he knows are the truth. “This isn’t gonna work.”

The tears that have gathered become too much even for a dam to withhold roll down her cheeks now. An already unbearable ache gets worse, her heart physically hurting and taking up so much space that Y/N feels like she can’t breathe. He can’t be doing this. He can’t pull the plug, not after all the epic moments they shared. Every warm look, every gentle touch, every loving kiss; every blissful memory. How can he possibly let go of that? Refusal has her reach out to him, one last attempt to repair what is already broken. “Dean, stop… Why are you hurting me like this?” she cries.

The cowboy drops his gaze while fighting the tears and the grief for what he’s losing. He wants to reach out too, take her hand in his, but he can’t cave now, he can’t be selfish. He has to do this for her. “Because if I don’t, if I allow this to go any further, it’s gonna hurt a lot more.” Dean fixates on anything but Y/N, no longer able to endure the sight of her falling apart in front of him. It’s dreadfully quiet as if the world stopped turning, and in a way, for the two individuals in the middle of the square, it just did. “So - so what? This is it?” she stammers, her voice barely a whisper. “You’re breaking up with me?” Biting his lip now, he focuses on what this decision will offer the woman at arm’s reach. An uncomplicated life in which she can pursue her dreams without having to worry about someone dragging her down. She can be free to do whatever she wishes and that’s all he can ask for. But in order to provide her with that opportunity, he has to let her go. “Yeah. We’re over.”

Like a bullet fired from a gun, the defining words rip through her chest and pierce her heart. The silence after the shot is deafening, canceling out the sounds of their surroundings. The streaming pathways of desolation gather at the end of her chin and drip down on the dry soil, enough to darken the dust. Her eyes are glued on him, though, but he doesn’t return her gaze. The conclusion of their relationship sinks in with every passing second, leaving her soul in ruins. It’s over. They are over. And there is nothing she can do to change the course of history.

Unable to be in his presence, she forces her feet to move, turning away from the man she is no longer with. Dean can’t watch her leave, fixed on the dark earth where her tears fell just moments ago. From his peripheral vision, he notices Jo rushing by to go after her friend. Good, he thinks to himself, she’ll have someone to lean on.

After standing there for what feels like an hour, he takes a few hesitant steps towards one of the trailers, placing both hands flat on the metal, searching for something to ground him while he closes his eyes and lets his head hang. He can’t find it, though, not in the cold steel, not in his reasoning behind this brutal decision. The resentment builds again, and Dean pulls his right hand back, balls his fist, and almost puts a dent into the barrier before him. The action only confirms what he deep down knew to be true all along. All that rage, the self-hatred; he can’t bottle it up forever, so it’s for the best that Y/N will no longer be there to witness it.

Dean bends his elbows, his forearms now pressed against the iron and his forehead resting between his clenching fists, as he struggles to pull in a shaky breath. He feels like he’s imploding, the outer frame of his structure caving in on itself. His mouth falls open, his bottom lip trembling, then he allows the tears to cascade down his face.

He can sense Benny by his side, but Dean is too wrapped up in his own destruction to really acknowledge him. The comforting hand on his shoulder is a touch he barely registers, his body is already rebuilding its emotional walls, caging away his ability to feel and casting it in a permanent shadow. That’s where it will remain, encapsulated in darkness, cut out from the light that his girl had to give. Benny stays by his side, though, letting him know that he is there for his friend, as much as Jo is there for hers.

“Sis, wait,” the ranch owner’s daughter tries desperately, following the woman who just had her heart broken into the stables. Her request remains unanswered, Y/N only stopping when she has reached Meadow’s box, her hands shaking while she tries to unlock the door. When she’s unable to, Jo quickly steps in and opens the gate, holding it for her companion. The bay horse has lifted her head, alerted by the commotion in the alley, but clearly recognizes the person stepping inside. She seems confused by her owner’s frail state of mind, though, pricked ears and concerned eyes taking in the situation.

The cowgirl folds an arm around Meadow’s neck while she buries her face in the Quarter’s brown coat, then she breaks. She breaks into a million segments, lost in the mixture of wood shavings and straw underneath their feet. The air is too thin to breathe and sobs wreck her entire form.

Never in her life has she felt so unwanted, purposeless, and vulnerable as she’s feeling now. Dean let her in and she trusted him to handle her with grace, yet the second she was comfortable with this new way of being, he pushed her out. She thought she knew the man she felt such a strong connection with. Yes, she realized very early on that it was going to be difficult to get through to him. The soldier with thick armor had stacked the barricades high, but that never intimidated her. After all, she had climbed mountains before.

She gave Dean her all, but in the end, it turns out it was useless. Y/N isn’t even sure what’s real and what’s not, if the cowboy has been wearing a mask all along, or just now turned into someone that he isn’t. It doesn’t matter, though. He has made himself perfectly clear; she is not the girl he wants to be with.

The only one stopping her from collapsing is Meadow, who holds still like a statue, aware that if she moves, her owner will fall to the ground and might never be able to get up again. The horse senses exactly how to handle Y/N, the usually so spirited mare now timid and calm, picking up on the despairing energy.

Jo, who had silently slipped into the tack box to get a bottle of water and some tissues, comes back into the stable, tearing up at the sight of the two who have such a strong bond. The thousand-pound animal has curved her neck around her human, resting her large head on the cowgirl’s shoulder. As if trying to comfort her, Meadow twitches her lips, gently rubbing them against her owner’s back, her way of showing affection. People can be cruel sometimes, to others, to horses. Jo has witnessed it, and she knows Dean has too, which has ultimately led to his dreadful decision to cut Y/N loose, and by doing so he has hurt her in terrible ways himself. But at least the girl has her horse.

Meadow, who is oblivious to the reason behind her owner’s sorrow, offers solace nonetheless. Quietly, she waits until the cries die down and the tears begin to dry, and even then she stays close to her person, having a better sense of direction than most humans do. Y/N’s four-legged friend is honest, treats her with kindness, and loves her unconditionally. It’s a special connection no man can ever steal away, yet many can learn from. This incredible being is her soul horse, a term Dean has taught her, the one who she thought was going to be her partner in life until he decided otherwise. He is right, though; it is over between them. She has lost Dean’s heart, but at the end of the day, no matter what happens, she will always have Meadow.

That’s that then. They are over...

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part twenty-five here

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witcher-and-his-bard-archive · 4 years

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Under Your Skin || on ao3

Geralt realizes his mistake the second he's made it, but it's too late to do anything about it now. The gash on his thigh stings like hell, but he's still got a succubus to kill and she's putting up one hell of a fight. He'd tried to talk her down, get her to move on and out of the city, but this one is particularly stubborn and is having none of it. She charges him and Geralt reminds himself he has three dead villagers to avenge, putting his focus on them instead of the rising temperature of his own body. He has to act fast; faster even than he normally would with a succubus and she isn't making it easy for him.

He ducks right and rolls out of her path, hopping back up behind her. But she's quick and when she turns to swipe at him, Geralt only narrowly dodges the blow. His reflexes are slowing, the relentless heat seeping in and filling up every crack and corner, slowing him down and making him vulnerable. But Jaskier is barely out of sight and Geralt won't risk letting a succubus have her way with him. Especially when he'd make such an easy target. It’s with him in mind, that Geralt pushes through the sensations and keeps moving.

He side-steps just out of her reach, calculating. He has to finish this quickly and he has to do it without making a mess; it's hard enough to be welcomed in town without being covered in succubus blood. And as soon as he's done here, he needs to get himself to the brothel before the feeling under his skin gets any stronger.

The succubus lunges again and nicks him, but Geralt is quicker this time, tripping her up and pushing her to the ground. He doesn't hesitate before plunging his sword into her chest. She resists, kicking him in the shin and grappling with the blade, but Geralt's brute strength wins out and she stills under him. Geralt leans on his blade for a moment, catching his breath before withdrawing it again and stumbling away from the body.

He needs to bring proof of death to the town mage, but right now he can't even think about that. He needs to get away from her, away from Jaskier and toward someone who can get him through this before it gets any worse. But he is getting worse. Heat sears through him like too much sun on a hot summer day and already his mind is getting foggy. He needs to get to town before he loses control entirely. But he can't get into town without walking past their camp and past Jaskier and he can't be near Jaskier like this, so he's going to have to do something about it first.

Stumbling toward the closest tree, he braces himself, that familiar tug of arousal taking hold. He splays his fingers against the bark, shifting his weight to balance himself as he works open the buttons on his trousers. He's rock hard and aching and he barely gets the top three buttons undone before he's shoving his hand into his trousers, taking himself in hand.

The initial touch is good, and Geralt has to bite back a moan as he strokes up to the head of his cock, twisting his fingers around. The pleasure doesn’t last. It's good for a minute, but the feeling doesn't build and despite every fantasy he pulls up, every past affair he recalls, nothing helps. The feeling plateaus and the heat under his skin burns hotter.

Jaskier finds him like that, leaning against a tree with his cock in his hand and Geralt is too frustrated to care. But he smells him, the spicy-sweet scent drifting on the breeze and Geralt growls low in his throat because this cannot be happening to him. Anything else, anyone by Jaskier.

"Geralt-?" he asks and Geralt's cock jerks in his hand, interested at last. But Geralt shuts his eyes and grits his teeth, ignoring the voice in his head that reminds him of what he really wants. It tells him Jaskier could help, reminds him that this is what he’s wanted after all, at night when the fire burns low or when Jaskier’s fingers massage knots out of his muscles in the bath.

Geralt steadfastly ignores it, assuring himself that it’s just the spell working its way through him and he’ll get through this some other way, he just has to get to town. He just has to get past Jaskier first.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks and the most bitter part of Geralt wants to ask if he can’t see what’s wrong, but he keeps his mouth shut. “I could help?”

No, Geralt thinks, but his body hasn’t quite caught up with that decision. He doesn't like being watched, less so by Jaskier, but when Jaskier speaks the burning subsides and Geralt can feel. This is the last thing he wants Jaskier present for, but he lets him stay, though he doesn't let him get close. And Jaskier knows something is wrong, so he stands there like he's on the other side of a door, stepping from side to side anxiously.

"Talk to me," Geralt rumbles, stroking himself with jerky motions.

"What should I say?"

"Anything. Sing." He regrets the words almost as soon as they're out of his mouth because he can feel the change in Jaskier's demeanour without having to look at him and he knows he's not going to get out of this one easily. Because Jaskier's voice does all sorts of filthy things to him at the best of times and right now he's overwhelmed and out of his own control.

And Jaskier sings. Geralt can't even hear the lyrics through the haze of lust, but Jaskier's voice fills his head and Geralt drowns in it. He works himself quick and hard, focusing on the scent and sound of Jaskier and he comes on a high note, dropping forward so his head presses against the tree trunk. He catches his breath and, without skipping a beat, he wipes his hand on his trousers and buttons himself up around his still-hard cock.

When this is over with, he's going to be sat down and forced to apologize about every awful thing he's ever said about Jaskier's singing. But for now, the ache subsides and Geralt is thankful for small mercies. And after this, Jaskier deserves whatever praise Geralt can give him.

Jaskier hurries over to him, but Geralt still doesn't let him get too close. Even as they head back to camp, Geralt keeps his distance. His mind swims with shame and guilt, but even as he regrets getting off to Jaskier's voice, the need resurfaces. It's thicker, like a smog all around him and he can't breathe. It's worse now and Geralt isn't an idiot - he can pick up on a pattern. He does nothing, steadfastly ignoring Jaskier's voice and the feeling it encourages.

He focuses on packing, getting his things together while he can so they can make their way back to town. Town means brothels and brothels mean relief so Geralt focuses on that.

But even before he can finish, the heat returns worse than before, searing up the back of his neck. Geralt breaks out in a hot sweat, fingers clenched tightly around the fabric in his hand. He doesn't even know what it is anymore, doesn't remember what he was doing before the heat crept up on him again and he crouches down, pressing his free hand to the ground to steady himself.

Jaskier slips up behind him, calm as always and rests a hand on his shoulder. It's probably intended to be comforting, but his touch is like a cool river in the dead of summer and Geralt moans at the relief.

"Again?" Jaskier asks, not nearly as concerned as he should be, but he probably doesn't know a lot about sex magic. He slips up behind him, smoothing his hands up Geralt's back and pulling him back against him.

Geralt wants to pull away, to spare Jaskier the humiliation of having to deal with him like this, but he can't fight the cool press of his hands and the intoxicating scent that fills his head once more. Jaskier rubs his shoulders like he's done countless times before, but when he starts pulling at his armour, undoing clasps and ties, the heat in Geralt’s belly swells.

"You should go," he huffs but Jaskier just tuts at him as he pulls his chest piece over his head. Geralt feels lighter without his armour, but no less hot when Jaskier's fingers slip under the collar of his shirt - an accident, he's sure - Geralt doesn't have the strength to push him away. He moans at the first touch of Jaskier's skin against his own and hates how desperate he sounds.

"I'm not going to leave you here like this," Jaskier hums, and Geralt flops back against his shoulder, whining as Jaskier's hands slip from his skin. "Tell me how I can help."

“Please just go,” Geralt whispers, a last-ditch attempt at saving them both the humiliation, but it comes out aching and desperate and if Jaskier hears, he doesn’t show it.

Jaskier’s hands run down his chest and Geralt’s mind is laser-focused on that, like the only thing that matters in the world is Jaskier's hands. And right now that's what it feels like. He arches into the touch, rolling his head on Jaskier's shoulder and gods it feels good, but it's not enough and he can't ask Jaskier for more. He won’t.

He shifts in Jaskier's arms, his hips twitching with every touch, every puff of breath against the top of his head. It's too much and it's not enough and Geralt feels like he's going to rip out of his skin before he gets through this. Realistically, he knows exactly what he needs, but maybe he can get through it like this, maybe he can just-

Jaskier's fingers brush over his nipple and Geralt's body jerks without his permission, arching off of Jaskier and pushing against him. The moan that fills the air is wild and wanting and Geralt refuses to believe it came from him. He writhes in Jaskier's lap, fingers clenching hard around Jaskier's thighs to keep from doing something he'll regret. He aches to touch, but he's already let this go further than he'd have liked. Even if Jaskier is offering, he's not a willing partner, not really.

But Jaskier is patient and his hands feel so good and when he tips his head down next to his ear, he breathes softly against his ear. "Do what you need to," he breathes and Geralt groans in response.

He doesn't want to. It's bad enough that Jaskier saw him before, he doesn't need a repeat performance. But now that the thought is in his head, his cock aches. It's pressed painfully against the front of his trousers and he longs to wrap his hand around himself, stroke himself off right here in Jaskier's lap. A new wave of heat prickles at the back of his neck just thinking about it.

He moves his hands as slowly as his body will allow, fumbling with the buttons on his trousers. His hands are shaky, his movements stilted, and he growls in frustration, shoving a hand into his trousers with only one button undone. It feels good, even if it's not his own hand he wants wrapped around him and he thrusts against his palm, snapping his hips up hard and fast.

Jaskier's hands slide down his stomach and lift from his body, much to Geralt's displeasure. They hover above his groin and when he focuses hard enough, he can feel the heave of Jaskier's chest against his shoulders.

"Can I-?" he asks and Geralt grits his teeth to keep from blindly allowing him whatever he wants.

"What?" he groans. He needs to know what he wants, exactly what he wants because he can't bear to have Jaskier touch him like this, not this way.

"Your buttons," he breathes and it only occurs to Geralt belatedly that he sounds very out of breath. He nods, turning his head against his chest to keep from seeing Jaskier's hands so close to his cock.

He feels every tiny movement as Jaskier carefully gets his trousers undone and Geralt sighs as his cock is freed, squeezing a little tighter around the base. He's vaguely aware of Jaskier mumbling something in his ear and then he's being hauled upright again, which seems to take far too much effort and he doubts it was worth it.

But as he shifts, Jaskier presses closer against his back. He slides his hands up Geralt's sides, tugging his shirt up over his head and breathing heavily against the back of his neck. And he's hard, the length of him pressing into Geralt's lower back.

This time, when he comes, with Jaskier's hands running up the insides of his thighs, there's no feeling of satisfaction. There's no rise and fall, just more of the same and he knows he's running out of time to get to town. Any human would be beyond their control now and Geralt is trying so hard to hold on, not to lose himself to the lust coursing through his veins. He has to go now.

But Jaskier's fingers creep up, pushing down into the vee of his hips and Geralt doesn't even try to stop him. He doesn't have the energy. When Jaskier takes him in hand, he tries to tell him no, that he can deal with this on his own, but Jaskier's touch is the only true relief he's had.

Jaskier gets him off twice like this, but it's still not enough to satisfy the burning lust within him and Geralt realizes he's not getting to town without getting through this. Jaskier presses his face into Geralt's shoulder, breathing against his skin.

"You need someone else," he realizes. And Geralt can't even speak. "I'll give it to you, anything you need, you just have to let me."

As far as Geralt is concerned, this has already gone on for far too long and he wants to say no, but Jaskier's fingers slip loosely around his cock and for some gods forsaken reason, he wants to help.

"You don't want this," Geralt mumbles, but Jaskier brushes the hair out of his eyes and leans over his shoulder.

"I do," he says, "I hate to see you suffer."

When Geralt shifts, Jaskier's cock presses into his ass and the sharp intake of breath against his ear nearly sends him over the edge again. The feeling is too much, too close to what he really wants and as he moves he catches the scent of him and groans. And underneath the heat and the unrelenting want, a hint of genuine arousal slips through, strong enough that he can smell it even amidst the sweat and the stink of magic. Jaskier wants him. He refocuses himself, bracing himself on Jaskier's thighs and relents, nodding his assent against his shoulder.

Jaskier is enthusiastic, giving him everything he can with his hands and his mouth - and gods, he can do some sinful things with his mouth. He touches him everywhere, never lifting his hands from Geralt's skin, even after he's come again and he's shaking with the effort of it. But it's still not enough. It's still not what he needs and Geralt still isn't willing to ask that of Jaskier, he'd rather suffer all through the walk back to town than put Jaskier in that position.

He bucks up into his own hand, groaning in frustration as it gets him nowhere. Jaskier's hands slide down his stomach, wrapping around him and gently pushing Geralt's hands aside.

"Let me," he breathes. Geralt isn't in any position to argue with him, so he drops his hands to Jaskier's knees, gripping firmly as his hips jerk up.

The worst part is that he knows Jaskier would say yes because sex isn't a big deal to him because he knows Geralt needs this. And that's why he can't ask. Because he won't suggest something that takes away Jaskier's choice. But he thinks about it, eyes clenched shut as he pushes back against Jaskier's cock. He shouldn't touch him, but Jaskier isn't stopping him and most of the time it's accidental anyway. Geralt can't keep still with hands on his cock and sliding down his thighs and he pushes back against him in the moment.

A couple of times he grunts out a stunted I want- or I need- but he never finishes what he's trying to say. The urgency just increases, spreading liquid heat through his entire body and Geralt is helpless to do anything but squirm in Jaskier's lap and take whatever is given to him. He reaches back behind him, curling his arm around the back of Jaskier's neck and pushing his fingers into his hair. Jaskier tips his head, nuzzling against Geralt's temple.

"Geralt," he breathes, "this isn't helping, is it?" Geralt doesn't respond, but Jaskier knows anyway. "You could fuck me." His voice is steady, not revealing any hint of fear or hesitation and the thought rips through Geralt in a rush of lust. But he can't, as much as he might want to. He can't control himself like this and the last thing he wants to do is hurt Jaskier while he's just trying to help. He can't.

"What do you need, Geralt?"

Geralt shuts his eyes and drops his chin against his chest. He doesn't want to say it because he knows it's not how he's supposed to be; he should be the strong one, the dominant one. But he can feel the swell of Jaskier's cock against him and he wants it so badly that he knows it can't just be the spell.

"You can trust me, darling." Jaskier's wrist gives a flick at the head of his cock and Geralt whimpers at the friction. "Tell me what you need."

Jaskier leans in, kissing his neck and Geralt knows it's intended as a comfort but he can't help but lean into it. He doesn't want to give in, not like this but he's too far gone now to make it to town and he probably couldn't find someone to help him in this state anyway. And there will already be repercussions for what they've done, so maybe he should-

The hand he has fisted in Jaskier's hair tightens and he tips his head down, forcibly ignoring the sharp intake of breath from Jaskier as he does. He tugs Jaskier down close enough that he can feel his breath against his cheek.

"Fuck me," he whispers, just loud enough for Jaskier to hear. And Jaskier hesitates long enough that Geralt tries to pull away from him, but Jaskier doesn't let him. He pulls Geralt toward him, laying him down on his back and coming around to sit next to him. He runs his hand up Geralt's thigh and further to curl around his cock, stroking him slowly again.

But it's still not enough and when Jaskier pulls away to undress, Geralt gets a hand around himself, working himself quick and hard despite the lack of relief it gives him. When Jaskier returns to him, he bats his hand out of the way and positions himself between his legs. Geralt holds his breath but Jaskier doesn't care about anything other than getting him through this and if Geralt was in his right mind he would be incredibly grateful for it.

Jaskier doesn't waste any time getting the oil and as soon as his fingers are slick, he presses back between Geralt's cheeks. The first press is cold and unfamiliar, but Jaskier rubs against him, presses just firmly enough to push through the muscle, and Geralt's body adjusts. As Jaskier presses further, Geralt drops his head back against the dirt, giving up any pretense of watching what's happening. The burning need hasn't subsided at all, but Jaskier's fingers feel incredible, sliding around his rim and pressing into him. When he pushes a second digit into him, Geralt finds his body is quite receptive.

It feels... good, like all of Jaskier's touches feel good, but this is different in a way he can't quite explain. He feels open and exposed but it doesn't feel wrong like he expected, he likes it, and he's fairly certain that isn't an effect of the spell. Jaskier takes his time, working precisely and never neglecting Geralt's cock long enough for the need to overwhelm him. He doesn't give Geralt long to adjust to the third finger before he starts moving and Geralt understands, but he wants more and he wants it now. Jaskier crawls up over him, leaning against his chest as his fingers work slowly in and out.

"Is this okay?" he asks and Geralt nods, his eyes slipping shut as Jaskier pushes deeper. "Fuck, do you like that?" He sounds so breathless and Geralt just groans as another wave of lust rolls over him, but Jaskier gets the idea. He doesn't wait any longer, slicking his cock with oil and pressing up against him.

As Jaskier pushes into him, Geralt is aware of nothing but Jaskier’s cock and the way it opens him up as Jaskier presses closer. He looks up once to see him but Jaskier is oblivious. He's got his eyes clenched shut, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth and o a regular day, the sight would be enough for Geralt to get off to - even without feeling him as well.

When he finally sheaths himself, Jaskier pulls Geralt's hips up, holding them steady as he slowly withdraws and presses in again. He's being cautious, but right now Geralt doesn't need kindness and patience, and he hauls Jaskier down over him, shoving his hips back with a growl.

"Fuck me," he snarls, and Jaskier does. It takes him a little bit to adjust to the fact that he's not going to hurt him and that what Geralt needs right now is to be fucked ruthlessly, but he gets it.

And gods, Geralt is barely conscious, floating somewhere between ecstasy and pain, but Jaskier is very good at what he does. Geralt thinks vaguely that he understands why so many people risk their marriages and more to have the bard in their bed. He moans and whines under him, arching off the ground and groping at whatever part of Jaskier's body he can reach to hold on to. Blunt nails dig into Jaskier's shoulders and he'll feel bad about it later, but Jaskier doesn't even flinch, driving himself deeper and switching up the position so Geralt feels like he's choking on his cock.

Geralt's hair is plastered to his face, his body shudders with every thrust, yet it burns for more and Jaskier never once lets up. When Geralt desperate, meekly, asks him to fuck him harder, he does without so much as a second thought, leaning over to brush his hair back and press hot kisses into his throat. Geralt feels like he's going to combust before he ever gets through this, but Jaskier is calm and his touch is Geralt's only respite.

He moves with him, keeping Jaskier inside him as much as he can and he squeezes around him. He can tell the second his orgasm starts building and he wraps his legs around Jaskier instinctively, hauling him down against him. His cock is trapped between them and Geralt thrusts erratically, all sense of timing gone as Jaskier's cock slams into him, sending him over the edge.

He comes with a cry, arching up against Jaskier's body and grinding against him. It's barely satisfying, but the burning need retreats and Geralt is left sweaty and panting in the dirt. His body is dead weight, sinking into the ground and he knows he shouldn't want this, shouldn't let himself linger, but Jaskier is warm against his cooling skin and he can't bring himself to move.

But, he realizes, Jaskier never came. And while he may be doing this to help Geralt, it's hardly fair that he's left unsatisfied for his troubles. Especially considering Geralt wouldn't blame him if he wanted to leave for good after this. The least he can do is send him off happy.

He shifts, winding his arms around Jaskier's waist and slowly sliding his hands down to cup his ass. Jaskier exhales a shaky breath, his hips following the motion set for them. His arms shake and he leans down, resting on his elbows so his nose is barely an inch from Geralt's.

"Relax now, you don't have to do anything for me."

Geralt frowns as he meets his eyes. "You didn't come." Jaskier doesn't respond, but the faint blush that rises in his cheeks tells Geralt that he did and Geralt finds that, despite everything, he’s sorry he missed that. "Oh."

Jaskier disentangles himself quickly after that and Geralt regrets making things awkward. Not that this was ever a comfortable situation, but he'll remember Jaskier's hands on him for many nights to come. He lets his arms fall to his sides, exhausted, and watches as, above him, Jaskier rises to his feet and walks away. There was no other option, he tells himself, and Jaskier offered, but without the screaming urgency burning through his skin he doesn't feel the same conviction he did earlier.

He should get up and help Jaskier get his things together, then ride into town in case this gods awful thing flares up again. But he doesn't get further than sitting up before Jaskier returns, tutting at him and wrapping a blanket around him. He settles behind him, leaning against a tree trunk and pulls Geralt up between his thighs, brushing his hair back out of his face.

"You're not leaving?" Geralt asks and Jaskier stiffens against him, just for a second.

"Of course not. What kind of friend would I be to leave you like this?" Oh. He hadn't considered an outcome where Jaskier wasn't disgusted. That... changes things.

"It might come back," Geralt manages, half-ashamed, half-hopeful that Jaskier is genuine in his offer to stay.

"And if it does," Jaskier breathes, "I'm here."

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #fuck or die #rex writes #The witcher #and now #i'm off to play video games #bc this took AN HOUR to post #plus editing time #bc i am a disaster #oop

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ecrivant · 3 years

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the station | annie leonhart

(annie leonhart x fem!reader)

that night, one marked by abject sin and rapture: annie’s single, inescapable memory. she, forever haunted by this painfully raw thought of you.

c.w. – homophobic slurs

word count: 2.2k

a.n. – this is technically a reader insert but it’s honestly just an exploration of annie’s repression and sadness. also, in general, i’m very wary of assigning gender to the reader, but the lgbt+ themes are important to this story, so annie’s love interest is a fem!reader. i’m sorry if this excludes anyone, next piece will return to the usual gn!reader.

very much an au + me experimenting with style.

At the world’s marge lies a service station—carburant siphoned long ago, insides, bare. Its skeletal façade abuts a backroad, a display of collapsing substructure succored by gusts of vagrants and drifters, cataracted from history’s view. At one time, when you entered, the clerk would greet you from the left with a gaze that conveyed a hesitant familiarity—the type of trivial recognition that was unimportant in the moment but retrospectively haunting. The lights within, garish halogen, were ceaseless, always alight, and only dared to die out once the ceiling caved, and the walls peeled, and the vinyl floor cratered like some artificial topography. The edifice now no more than a nebulous memory only existing in the minds of those who ever once visited it.

A memory nonetheless in the mind of the woman who fucks for the first time in a sedan parked behind the station, where the smell of sex and summer air and gasoline is seared into her brain as she breathes hard, lightheaded and high on ecstasy and fear. She feels her own death, a quiet specter which guides the touch of her lover. Her burning skin; the eroticism of demise, destruction. The nocturnal breeze gasps with her.

She offers to drive you home. You—flushed and debauched, breasts exposed. Eying her intensely. You refuse.

“I can walk.”

She laughs. Your name on her lips, a carnal, depraved prayer, “We don’t even know where we are.”

She is corrected. Curt.

“You don’t.”

She is gored, laid open and vulnerable and bare for this stranger who parts without another word. She watches you go, ambling towards the unlit dirt road, swallowed by a beastly darkness. The vehicle, suffused by an amorous smog, windows opaque. Her organs all but spill onto the floor, mixing with dust and dog hair and garbage and an old takeaway cup that was always there no matter how many times she threw it away.

She slinks into the station and asks for a pack of cigarettes. She pays in coins, a button among them, but the cashier never notices.

At home.

“Mama’s been askin’ ‘bout you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re gonna get an earful tomorrow.”

She’s already halfway up the stairs. They moan beneath her.

“She thinks you’ve been spending too much time with that Eren boy. Is that where you was tonight?”

The stairs sound like you. Everything sounds like you—the gasp of a closing door, the sordid exhale of a creaking bedframe. The sweat on her face: a lover’s curious tongue.

—

“Pull off here, ya’re low on gas.”

Prick prick pricks of fear smart on her skin. Mama knows. The station, the unholy consecration. Mama knows. This car, this place. Mama knows. Her brother in the back, resting on the shadow of his sister’s bare figure. The pop of the fuel door says dyke. The crack of the gas nozzle trigger says fag. The unseen eyes that bore through her say queer. She enters the station to pay. The clerk, a gaze of recognition—the only one who knows of her transgressions.

—

She is married. Cheers to the happy couple. She cries on her wedding night, tears staining bedsheets—her own virginal blood. He touches her, stagnant, pale skin collied by bereft contact. She only comes when she thinks of the station.

—

She could tell. She could tell him and free herself, and then the kid’ll wonder why Mommy’s never around and Daddy’s a druggie and a drunk and never leaves the house anymore and the kid’ll make his way through the social services system until he’s beaten and cracked and broken like Mama’s old doll collection smashed against the wall and he puts a bullet in his head before he turns eighteen. No, she could never tell.

—

Thanksgiving. She stares at her sister-in-law—a city girl, with heavy lids and blush-dusted cheeks and a pronounced cupid’s bow. The eyes of a hunter, the lascivious gaze of a she-wolf. Her husband comments on how well they seem to get along.

—

A loneliness begotten from her own bones, born from emptiness and the inimitable way she and death caressed all those years ago. She only has a name to utter, breathless, when thoughts of you tenant her mind. The first and the only fuck was truly a stranger, all but nameless in memory.

—

Her mother’s funeral. An apathetic and unfamiliar affair. People she doesn’t know. Her brother, his wife, their child. Her husband, her child, her. She could not be more distant.

Her childhood home smells sweetly of tobacco and cardamom.

Indifference during the wake mistaken by the others for numbness. She feels no need to mourn—her mother lived and died uneventfully, and that was it.

“Mommy, are Grandma’s dolls going away?”

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

“Do you think I can keep one?”

The boy has his eyes fixed on one in particular, his implicit selection. The one that has your eyes. The one whose gaze makes her squirm. Mama knows.

“I don’t know, we’ll see.”

—

She sneaks away from the house with a pack of her mother’s cigarettes, the box crumpled and stained at the edges and the tubes inside wrinkled and mildewed, emitting a stench that filled her with inexplicable nostalgia. It brings to mind her unshakable compulsion to eat cigarettes, to feel the flakes of tobacco coat the inside of her mouth like the ground dregs in a cup of cheap coffee. She lights one instead, pushing the thought aside—if she was to ever eat one, she fears she would not be able to stop. The low hiss of her inhalations on the ember briefly joins the sonic ambience. She sits in her car and smokes and occasionally flicks ash outside of her window with shaking hands. Rancid and familiar aftertaste. Thick dust clouds kicked up by her car tires coalesce with her hazy exhalations as she drives nowhere. Not nowhere. She needs gas.

—

The station still stands as it had before, insusceptible to time. Always seemingly aged. Covered in an ever-present grime. She gets out and leans against her car and drags on her cigarette, the virulent inhalations scratching her lungs. The road on which you disappeared all those years ago looked profoundly unremarkable during the day—just a long, dirt road in a town wholly comprised of long, dirt roads. The heat shimmers above the ground, and the afternoon sun drapes itself across her skin, and the hot breeze drags its fingertips through her hair like a lover you’d meet behind a bar—the same who would abandon that perpetually lit cigarette between her lips in exchange for her mouth on yours.

Her last drag—she drops the butt and crushes it underfoot.

She sits in her car and smokes the rest of the pack—in her eyes, the final remnants of her mother.

She waits in the parking lot. As if her presence alone would invoke some bygone wraith.

Her hand reaches under her dress, between her legs, and she is touching herself to the pervasive miasma of summer breeze and carburant, and the darkness of closed eyes almost feels like the night, and her frantic digital movements are arrant pleasure until they’re not; she stops and is suddenly crying, and her thoughts are occluded by her mother’s pale, dead face, and she realizes that Mama’s death, mundane as it was, represents the furthest she’s been from that singular night years ago which was so verily marked by sin and rapture; the one that has haunted her and will continue to haunt her until she herself dies an uneventful death after an uneventful life, and her child thinks of her passing as she does her own mother’s: a nonevent among nonevents.

She is met with understanding eyes as she returns to the wake crying.

—

She moves to the city with husband and child. Suburbia forgone. The apartment is small and cramped and reminiscent of her sister-in-law’s. The adjacent view from the living-room window is an identical high-rise—ten stories of the same brick and dirty-white AC units. She is filled with an ineffable sadness as she stares at the spare greenery in streets below, confined to plots of dry soil surrounded by cracked and potholed pavement.

Her sleeplessness often leads her to the living room long after the apartment falls to silence. One night, she watches, captivated, as a couple in the adjacent apartment fucks on a couch, curtains wide open and shame forgotten. The man, hovering above a body obstructed, is suddenly flipped on his back and mounted by his lover, and she swears this woman, breasts bobbing, and face marked by a concentrated intensity and unusually devoid of pleasure, looks like you.

—

Two years in the city bypass her as if she were already dead. The tenant who resembled you moved out the year prior.

—

She sits in a booth sequestered in the corner of a dark and begrimed barroom. Alone for the night. Her husband no longer questions her bouts of silence and absences from the house and disdain for intimacy; her child, accustomed to fissure.

She ignites a cigarette, her lukewarm liquor no longer of interest, and no one stops her. She is indifferent to the other patrons, who were, at this point in the night, nothing more than hazy and incorporeal forms populating the shadows.

The chime of the door—jarring and tangible—cuts through the muted atmosphere and demands the attention of those there to give it. Another specter drifts to the bar. A woman shouldering something—a fact elucidated by a hunched posture and a quiet request for three fingers of scotch.

And then the woman turns, and Annie sees her face.

And suddenly she is collapsed on the scum-covered tile of the bar’s bathroom floor, hurling upchuck into the toilet. That woman had your face—she is not you, at least not anymore, as Annie is no longer the girl who fucked and died in that gas station parking lot years ago. But that woman had your face. And she looked at Annie with your eyes, melancholic eyes which held no recognition for her, and turned away in the same movement. Less than a look—a glance. But that woman had your face. And Annie had not seen it again before she hied to the bathroom to regurgitate four drinks and years of accrued and bilious agony.

The bathroom door swings open. Groaning hinges. She knows it’s that woman who has callously co-opted your likeness.

She enters the stall next to her and pisses and flushes the toilet whose water drains slowly and weakly, and the sounds of the sink are harsh and cacophonous against the tile walls. Steps towards the exit suddenly pause. A knock on the stall door. Your voice asks if she is alright—a voice unheard for decades, last encountered in a low, debauched whisper against her skin.

She heaves, again, but nothing is left to expel; she coughs and spits and does not answer.

“Can I at least help you get home?”

The question looms above her, looped and tied like a noose.

“I can walk.”

A laugh. Dry, unfamiliar, never heard. It’s harsh and barking; a warning.

She is corrected, curt: “You can barely stand.”

She had long been unacquainted with fear, now more often than not consumed by a vacant numbness, and she admittedly did not miss it. It was ugly and pervasive and bore deep within her with debilitating potency. She could do nothing but sit on the disgusting tile floor with body supported on yellowed porcelain and wait.

She imagines she allows herself to believe this woman is you—you, as you were, unchanged—and opens the door. And you, being unchanged, ask if she would like to come home with you. And she, apparently the same as well, says yes. And back at your apartment, cluttered and cramped yet simultaneously vacant, you spare no time backing her into the bedroom, lips tethered to hers in lurid predation. Touches that are lustful and intimate and familiar only to her. She cannot bring herself to care that you do not remember her—your breath on her neck and your incursive touch efface all thoughts, good or bad. She wants you on top of her, around her, within her, and you oblige like some prurient altruist. Her coming is purgative and cathartic, and the pleasure of that night at the station feels archaic and antiquated in the face of this wholly new gratification, heighted by an immense and prolonged yearning. And this time, after you are both finished, you do not part and neither does she, and she embraces you in a way that feels intrinsic, and you ask her to stay the night. And she does not think of her husband and child as she says yes. And she does not think of her husband and child as she agrees to spend the next day with you, as she dances with you in your living room, finally and only feeling held and loved. Finally, finally, finally.

—

But Annie says nothing. And the woman—not you, but an apparition—softly and finally knocks on the door with the side of her fist, unfazed, and walks out of the bathroom. And even now, as she slumps further and shuts her eyes and clutches her head, Annie can only think of that fucking gas station.

—

hi there! thank you so much for reading; i hope you enjoyed this piece. it’s a little different than my other stuff, not drastically so, but still different. i think i like it, though.

thank you to the anon who suggested I write something for annie, i really appreciate the request. i have another request in the pipeline for reiner, so expect a piece for him soon.

as always, feedback and criticism are very much appreciated! feel free to drop in and request something if you want.

taglist: @flam3bird

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot imagines #aot x reader #annie leonhardt #annie leonhart #annie leonhart x reader #annie leonhardt x reader #annie leonhart imagine #writing!

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mourntheantagonist · 3 years

Note

I’m sorry about your exams mine are coming up soon and I’m about to shit a brick about it ngl but at the end of the dad tests can be made up or classes retaken. grades don’t define you and tbh they’re not a measure of success either. I’m sure you’re a good student who tried.

Prompt:

Meet ugly: billy likes to jog at the park but his run is cute off went this huge ass wet dog all muddy and shit cuts him off and weaves between his legs. He trips right into a muddy puddle and twists his ankle. Steve runs up to him all apologetic and billy is yelling at him about keeping his dog on a leash, but billy has no choice but to accept the guys help cuz he can’t walk on his own.

Thank you so much for the kind words and thank you so much for the prompt. I loved this idea and got a little carried away and it’s not 100% what you asked for but I still hope you enjoy it :)

read on ao3

Billy loves the rain. Living in California meant a good rainfall was few and far between. He hated to praise Hawkins, Indiana, but he loved that it rained.

Rain in Hawkins was also very much unlike the rain in California. Down in the southwest corner of the country, rainfall was less like a shower and more like a sprinkle. The rain was only ever powerful enough to form little droplets in his hair. Never enough to cause soaking wet clothes or windshield wipers past the lowest setting. It was nothing like that in Hawkins. Instead it was heavy showers. Soaking his clothes until they were dripping. Needing to drive carefully to avoid hydroplaning. But not too carefully. He had to take advantage of those curb-side puddles that were perfect for splashing pedestrians.

If he had to say anything good about Hawkins, it would have to be the rain. But one thing that was just slightly better than when it was raining, was when it stopped. When the roads were still wet, and the sky still cloudy, but not a single drop of water falling to the earth. It was a weirdly nice feeling. The post rain smell filling his senses. It always seemed to be the perfect temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. Refreshing was the best way to describe it.

It’s perfect jogging weather. It was always far too hot in California to actually jog the way he wanted. The heat sucking every bit of energy out of him. And trying to breathe in the California smog was just a bad idea in general. Running in the post rain bliss was something else entirely. Taking in only the freshest air. He felt rejuvenated after every run.

That’s how he turned into the guy who stared out of his window every weekend as raindrops fell upon the pane. Looking up at the grey sky waiting for the clouds to part and the rain to subside so he could go out for his run. This was another good thing about Hawkins rain. While it rained often, it didn’t rain for long. It was a perfect balance the way Billy sees it.

This was how he got to know Hawkins a little better. He ran through surrounding neighborhoods, he ran to the high school and on days he felt really good, he ran into town.

Weirdly enough running was a lot like surfing. Not so much in the activity itself, but for the purposes that it served. Because it was more than just exercise. It was a nice way of escaping everything. His dad, Susan, hell even Hawkins. Because just like surfing he was able to put himself into a different zone. Enter a separate reality from the one he was stuck in. He could put on his Walkman and run like he had no destination.

But sometimes he got into the zone a little too much. If the town hadn’t already known him as the bad boy from sunny California, they surely knew him as the punk kid with no respect that was constantly bumping into them on the street. Jaywalking in front of their cars. Splashing carelessly into puddles of fresh rain water. It’s not like he planned to stay in a small town in Indiana. Billy was not the small town type. Some nice rain wasn’t going to suddenly change him into that type of person. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t find rain elsewhere. The Pacific Northwest has both heavy rain and beaches. Maybe he’ll go there instead of going back to California. But the point is, he doesn’t care about what his reputation is. It doesn’t matter. So he pisses off the locals without hesitation and just tries to make the best of it while he’s trapped here.

But maybe Billy should have paid a little more attention. While some humans have the common sense to move out of the way, some animals are lacking in that area.

He’s running through this trail he found in the woods surrounding Loch Nora. In his defense he has no reason to be expecting any company while jogging through the middle of the woods. Perhaps he shouldn’t only be worrying about the company of people and rather whatever wildlife lurks in this part of the country.

Thank fuck his only run in was with that of a disheveled golden retriever covered in mud and not some seven foot tall bear. Billy doesn’t notice the dog until it begins weaving in and out between Billy’s legs. The dog is damn lucky Billy didn’t step on her tail. She’s got a leash hanging from her collar with no owner on the other end. But Billy only knows that part because the same leash had managed to wrap around both of his ankles, bringing him to his new position of being face down in a muddy puddle with an apparent ache forming where the leash had bound him.

So there he lies. Face down, ankles wrapped, a dog licking the mud off his face, and to top it all off, the owner has finally decided to make an appearance. Something in Billy is not even surprised to find that when he rolls over onto his ass he discovers that the owner is none other than Steve fucking Harrington. Because of course it’s Steve fucking Harrington. The universe can’t allow Billy to have even one normal day.

Billy notices Steve before Steve actually notices him. He’s about fifty feet away looking in the other direction shouting what he assumes is the mutts name. “Trixie!” Billy is trying to untangle himself from the leash, but not before Trixie makes a run for the human calling her name and yanks herself free, tugging at his right ankle before breaking loose. Billy doesn’t contain the shriek in pain as it almost dislocates the bone. Shit. Something is definitely wrong.

Steve hears him of course. Hears the girlish scream that Billy would never produce voluntarily. Billy is trying to hoist himself up to maintain some of his dignity, but to no avail. Once Steve has made the distance and is standing at his feet, and billy has succumbed to his spot in the dirt, he fires first.

“Keep your damn dog on a leash.” He spits. If he can’t be at eye level, or even stand up, he has to assert his dominance somehow.

It’s only then that it actually clicks for Steve that Billy hasn’t just parked himself there in the dirt for fun.

“Oh shit dude! Fuck I’m sorry about that. There’s not usually anyone around here so I thought I’d let her do her business y’know? Also she’s not my dog, I’m just pet-sitting for my neighbor. What am I doing? You don’t care about that. Are you okay? She didn’t bite you or anything, right?”

Billy should be mad. Like his ankle might be broken because this idiot doesn’t know how to take care of a dog. But all that rambling and profuse apologies was kind of… cute? Nope. Nope! Billy shut that thought down immediately.

Billy gestures down toward his feet. “Fuckin’ took me down by the ankles. You could learn a thing or two from the bitch. Seeing how you play basketball and all.”

Steve brushes off the comment and lends a hand to help Billy up from the ground. He winces when he applies pressure. Still through the pain he slowly tries to walk away.

“Wait! Dude don’t you live on Old Cherry? That’s like a mile from here.” Billy is just comically limping away from the scene. Logically he knows he’s not getting home on his own. But the last thing he wants is to accept charity from Steve Harrington.

“I don’t need your help Harrington. I’ll be fine. Go back to your castle.”

Steve just ignores him and throws one of Billy’s arms over his shoulder. “Look, my house is like a block away. Let me drive you home so I don’t have to hear about the news of your body being recovered from the Eno River.”

Begrudgingly, Billy accepts the support, huffing out a ‘fine’ before letting Steve guide him and the dog towards the Harrington household.

Steve was right. It was definitely closer than his house was. He could already see between the trees the nice looking two story building. Billy had passed by it before on his drives, but only ever in the dark. It looked much different in the daylight. Somehow it looked even more abandoned. Like everything was still kept up. There weren’t vines growing along the side. It looked clean, but it gave off this strange feeling of loneliness. Like few people had ever passed through it.

The only thing about the house that wasn’t up to code was the pool. The water was green and filled with dead bugs and fallen leaves. Looked like it hadn’t been cleaned out in months. He vaguely recalls hearing about the story of that Barbara Holland chick. Died in his pool. He figures there’s some correlation there.

By the time they make it to the Beemer, Steve finally gets a good look at his ankle. In only the matter of a couple minutes it’s swollen dramatically and he can see a faint purple forming underneath the skin. He also sees some blood stains forming at his knees, seeping through the grey material of his sweats. And Billy is filthy. He’s got mud on his face and all over his clothes. His hands are all scraped up, most likely from the fall.

Steve’s brain is working hard. Steve has every reason to let Billy go on his own. Not even three months ago the guy was on top of him, beating him nearly to death. Why should Steve be showing him any kindness? But then he remembers back to him and Jonathan. Sure the fight wasn’t nearly as brutal. But Steve has said some fucked up shit to him and Jonathan never held it against him. Sure, Steve actually apologized, but in his own way, he thinks Billy had too. Not so much with words but with his actions. He had left Steve alone ever since that night. He was still aggressive when they were on the court, but the trash talk had dissipated. So maybe there was some remorse there. And look, it’s Steve’s fault his ankle is fucked up so the least he can do is help him get fixed up and get home.

“Okay look. I have to get the dog settled inside before I can take you home. How about you let me take a look at your ankle and then we can both go our separate ways?”

Billy crosses his arms, balancing on one leg now that he’s no longer being supported. “That wasn’t the deal.”

“Actually the deal was I’d drive you home. That hasn’t changed. Just come inside. Your ankle looks fucked up and I know a thing or two about first aid.” Steve goes back towards Billy and puts his arm back in the same position it was before. Doesn’t give Billy time to protest before he’s made it through the front door. He guides him to the kitchen table where he instructs him to sit down. Then Steve leaves him there along with Trixie.

Billy scans the kitchen. He’s kind of surprised to see that it looks pretty typical for a kitchen. Nothing too fancy about it aside from the clearly new appliances. It’s just average. Oak cabinets. Basic granite countertops. Doesn’t match the exterior at all.

Steve comes back without the dog and with a first aid kit in hand.

“You don’t have to do this man, just take me home.”

Steve just ignores him and kneels down in front of him and works at the laces of his shoe. “It’s my fault you look like you were just mauled by a bear so let me fucking do this alright?” Steve pulls off his shoe frustratedly which probably wasn’t the best idea.

“Ow! What the fuck dude?!”

“Sorry.”

“Look, I’m not here to help you feel better about yourself.”

Steve pulls his sock off anyway. This time with slightly more care. “Just shut up and let me finish this so I can get you out of here.” Billy slumps back and Steve takes a closer look at his ankle. It looks bad. Clearly broken. “I think you need to go to a hospital. This looks like more than just a sprain.”

Billy's eyes go wide and he gets a little shaky. “No hospitals” he says bluntly.

“Billy I really think you should consider-“

“Did you not fucking hear me? I’m not going to a hospital.”

“Why not?”

Billy scoffs. “Your pretty little head couldn’t handle it.”

“Try me.”

“No. We’re not doing this Harrington. Fix me up and take me home.”

Steve rolls his eyes and gets up from where he was kneeling. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

“Not like there’s anywhere I can go.”

Steve comes back with a pair of sweats and a plain black t-shirt. He tosses them onto Billy’s lap. “Think you can put these on without my help?” Billy is puzzled. “Look I’m not going to let you get mud all over my car so put on the damn clothes.”

Billy is currently in grey joggers and a long sleeved navy hoodie. It’s honestly the most covered up he’s ever seen him. While Billy is dressing himself, Steve is preparing a wet washcloth and grabbing an old package of frozen peas from the freezer. Steve manages to catch a glimpse of Billy with his shirt off. It’s not even close to the first time he’s seen the guys shirtless. Hell he’s seen the guy fully naked. But this feels different. This time feels more vulnerable. This time it’s not a decision he’s making himself. This time Billy has several belt marks running across his back. The shirt is on just as soon as he makes the realization. Steve just tries to act natural.

“Okay. I’m going to wrap your ankle. You’re going to ice it while I clean up your knees. Then I’ll take you home and we never have to talk to each other again. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“Good,” he hands Billy the wet washcloth. “And wash the dirt off your face.”

Steve pulls up a chair so he can sit in front of him. He gently brings Billy’s right leg up to rest on his thigh and places the frozen peas so that they hug his ankle. He slowly rolls up Billy’s pant leg and inspects the damage. Luckily it’s just some minor scraping that a couple bandaids should fix. He grabs some cotton balls and antiseptic from the kit and begins dressing the wound. But he can’t stop thinking about the belt marks.

Any other kind of injury and he could brush it off as Billy going out and picking a fight with someone. But these are unmistakably not from that and Steve doesn’t like entertaining what it actually means.

Ever since basketball season had ended Neil had been less careful with leaving marks.

Because he’s in a t-shirt now, Billy can see as the belt marks wrap around his upper arm.

“That why you don’t want to go to the hospital?” Steve points to the markings.

“Leave it alone Harrington.”

Steve just keeps his eyes focused on Billy’s knee. “Who did that to you?”

“I said drop it.”

“Was it your dad?”

Billy quickly jerks his leg forward kicking Steve in the chest. Not a good idea considering that probably hurt him more than it did Steve.

“You proud of yourself Harrington? Finally cracked the code? Glad to finally have something to hold over my head so you can take back your precious crown?”

Steve is still recovering from the blow to his chest. Didn’t really hurt. Just knocked the wind out of him.

“I didn’t mean to-“

“Cut the shit alright?”

“No! You cut the shit. Fuck I don’t give a shit about some stupid fake crown.” Steve heaves a sigh. “Look I don’t understand this exactly. But I get shitty dads.”

Billy is kind of just staring at him blankly. The prior rage seems to have disappeared but he can’t exactly tell for sure. It’s like for the first time in his life he’s actually carefully constructing his next words instead of spitting out whatever comes to mind first.

“Your Dad take away your allowance?” Nope same Billy as always.

“More like he’s never around. Cheats on my mom and my mom cares more about her reputation. I haven’t seen them in weeks now and if you asked me where they are right now I couldn’t tell you.”

Billy bows his head. “Shit. Sorry.” This is a different Billy than he’s used to.

“Can I get back to fixing your ankle now?”

Billy brings his leg back up and Steve carefully situates it back on his thigh. He picks up the package of peas that had fell to the floor and continues his work.

“Can I ask you one question?” Steve asks.

“One.”

“Is Max safe?”

Billy turns his head away. “Yeah.” It comes out a little raspy, like he’s choking on air. “He won’t touch her as long as I’m there.”

Steve’s starting to actually piece it all together. The little details he’s picked up on ever since he made his first appearance at Hawkins High in his loud blue Camaro. Suddenly there’s more nuance to every action he’s taken since then.

“He shouldn’t touch you either.”

There’s a pang in his chest as he says it. As he watches Billy actively avoid eye contact. He can feel that he doesn’t believe him. That he thinks he deserves it. Because Steve has allowed himself to believe that he was just never good enough for his father. Never understanding that his father was just incapable of showing love.

Billy doesn’t respond to that. Steve finishes wrapping up Billy’s ankle and patching up his knees, and now he’s helping Billy out to his car. With all this new information in his head he really doesn’t want to drive him home. But they had a deal.

As soon as Steve turns the ignition, Duran Duran starts blaring over the speakers.

“Figured you’d have shitty music taste.”

“Oh shut up. Unlike you I actually like to hear what they’re saying. Not all the noise.”

“Still. Duran Duran is a different kind of awful.”

Steve lets himself smile. Even though he’s being berated about his ‘shit taste in music’, he likes this kind of Billy. He’s not saying it to hurt him. It’s like a friendly jab. Maybe Billy Hargrove isn’t exactly who he first thought he was.

The trip is rather short. Old Cherry isn’t too far from Loch Nora when traveling by car. Hungry Like the Wolf hadn’t even ended by the time Steve pulled up to the curb.

Billy doesn’t move to get out of the car. Steve momentarily forgets about his ankle and let’s himself think he’s staying put for another reason. Maybe it has nothing to do with his ankle. He hasn’t said anything.

Billy wants Steve to say something. Because something weird happened back at the house. The moment Steve said ‘he shouldn’t touch you either’ felt off. He felt something and he needs to know that Steve felt it too.

Steve turns the car off and slumps back into his seat, both hands now tightly gripping the steering wheel. He’s staring past Billy at the house with a look of worry.

“Look. If you ever need to get away, my doors always open.”

Billy goes to look back at him. Steve is still entranced by the front door.

“We’re not friends, Harrington. You don’t have to act friendly.”

“We could be.”

“What?”

Steve is looking at Billy now.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if we didn’t spend all this time hating each other and became friends? Forget crowns and keg stand records and fucking Tommy H. and just try to get along? We got two months left until we’re out of here so why not make the best of it?”

“You want to be my friend Harrington?”

Steve puts his head in his hands and groans.

“We don’t have to be friends but we could at least be civil with each other. Just,” he takes another look at the house. “please come over when shit gets bad.”

Billy hesitates, but he nods assuringly.

“You gonna be alright in there?”

Billy scans the exterior of the house. “He’s not home yet so I should be good.”

“And your ankle?”

“I’ll be alright.” He seems unsure, but Steve chooses not to push the issue further.

“Okay.”

Steve unbuckles his seat belt and goes around the back side of the car to the passenger side and helps Billy up out of his seat. As soon as he slams the door shut, rain starts to dump all over them.

The two are facing each other and Billy has half of his weight resting on Steve’s shoulders. Billy catches a glimpse of Steve’s eyes. Droplets forming on his eyelashes. His hair is already dripping fresh rain water onto his cheeks. It’s disorienting.

Billy isn’t one for sappy shit but this is some freaky sign.

“I don’t want to be your friend Steve.”

Before Steve has a chance to respond his lips are pressed to Billy’s. It’s a quick exchange. Blink and you’ll miss it kind of thing. Billy has both his hands on Steve’s shoulders and is looking at him questioningly. Like he’s waiting for him to punch him or kiss him again. Steve chooses the latter.

Steve surges forward and crashes into Billy. It lasts longer this time. Still quick. But there’s enough time to appreciate the taste of each other’s mouths mixed with fresh rain drops. Steve pulls away first and is quick to offer a reassuring smile. They both look up at the rain coming down, and back to each other.

“Let’s get you inside.”

Billy has another reason to love the rain.

#harringrove #steve harrington #billy hargrove #fanfic #stranger things #mandi writes tresh

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