#wanted it to look like an old postcard or somethin)

[wuntrum]

old the lighthouse painting from 2019 that i finally scanned in

#the lighthouse #robert pattinson #my art #(i did also digitally edit it a bit... #wanted it to look like an old postcard or somethin) #this is craft acrylic paint on mixed media paper if youre curious :)

[emwritesstuff]

as the world caves in | ch. 9 | bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: You are a ghost story. A former Air Force pilot who had her plane shot down by Germany in 1945, but here you were in 2023, alive and frozen in your 25-year-old body.

You haven’t seen Bucky since the 1940’s, before his fall, before you went on a suicide mission only to come back alive. You aren’t sure reliving those memories – and being a living memory of everything the man has lost – is the best for him.

But you and Bucky won’t be apart for long.

This will loosely follow the plot of TFATWS - so spoilers ahead, specially regarding episode six (finale). Thread carefully!

masterlist | AO3

notes:  thank you everyone for your patience with this chapter. I'm dropping this lil shortie so we can get the story moving. Let's go! (warnings: lil' fluff, lil' angst) (word count: 3K) nine: records

Bucky knocked on your door a few weeks later.

It was late, and you were snug in your pajamas, winding down after a long day. With your identity no longer a secret, the government was in the midst of transferring you to something more… hands-on, and definitely less diplomatic, you were assuming; so much for retirement, but you figured 30 years of it had been more time than you could’ve anticipated.

You almost didn’t hear the soft rapping on wood over Vera Lynn’s mellow singing.

When you finally opened it, you found him standing there, wearing tired eyes and a dark coat. “I’m sorry, I know it’s late, but I started walking and I—"

“When I said you’re welcome anytime, Bucky Barnes, I meant any time.”

A tiny fraction of a smile was offered your way, and you grasped it tight against your heart at the same time you do his hand, pulling him inside.

His fingers lingered on yours, but before you could start thinking about it he pulled away, taking a seat at the edge of your couch. “I finished it. The book.”

Bucky answered your question before you could ask it. “I just came from there. The last one– the last name.”

“Well. Are you alright?” You sat next to him, your knee knocking against his, and his gaze went from the floor, to the spot where your legs touched, and then to you. He knitted his eyebrows, seeming a little incredulous you were even asking.

“I will be.” His hands intertwined on the space between his knees, and you placed a hand ton his shoulder, getting him to look at you again.

“Yes, you will. Do you want to talk about it?”

One corner of Bucky’s lip raised up, and he shook his head. “Is that Vera Lynn?”

You smiled, turning to look at your record player as if Vera herself was sitting next to it. “It is. Takes me back, I guess.”

“It’s all we’d listen to at the front.”

Nodding, you wondered for a second if Bucky remembered dancing to We’ll Meet Again the night before he was shipped off. Even if you weren’t the only girl he had danced with then, you still asked yourself if that memory was burned on his mind as it was on yours.

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when. A short-term promise, made back then by hopeful lovers, friends, family members; you had no idea that those lyrics would prove themselves so literal when you and Bucky mouthed them at each other in the middle of a dancefloor.

You let out a breathy chuckle, standing up and beckoning him to where you kept the rest of your vinyl. “Come on. Vera’s starting to feel a little too nostalgic to me.”

Your record collection was pretty extensive, ranging from things of the good ol’ days from the special editions that were still being released nowadays. Bucky joined you on the floor, and together you started to make your way through decades eternized in discs.

“Marvin Gaye.”

You look up from The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, finding Bucky making a face at the album he was holding. “It’s really good. Do you want to—”

“No. No more Marvin Gaye.”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “You don’t like him?”

“I like Marvin Gaye! Jesus. Marvin is good—Marvin’s jus’ fine,” Bucky rubbed his eyes with his thumb and middle finger, and you finally understood.

“Sam’s been preaching you the word of R&B to you too, huh?”

You giggled at the tired look he gave you and silently took Trouble Man out of his hands, stuffing it back with the rest of the 1970’s.

Years ago, Bucky would be delighted to dive headfirst in the new – your trips to countless science fairs and expositions were enough proof of that – but looking at him now, knowing him as you were starting to once again, you figured that just a dip of the toes was more than enough.

You pulled Frank Sinatra from the 1950’s section.

“I know Sinatra.”

“Do you now?”

You put the record on your player, and Vera Lynn’s longing gave way to Sinatra’s swagger and jazz.

“Do you?” Bucky teased, frowning at the most recent items in your collection. As soon as Frank’s voice filled the silence, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s nice.”

“I do know him! Or did. Met ‘im in 1962.” You plopped next to Bucky, who was shaking his head. “What?”

“Show off.”

“No, just been around. Met people on the way. And, you asked.” Your smirk grew into a grin as Bucky mouthed your words back at you. Then his face fell for a second, and your amusement was quickly replaced by worry. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I guess – I guess I just missed a lot.” The same way one of the corners of his lips tug on his cheek again in his attempt of a smile, melancholy tugs at your heartstrings. “I missed out on everything. And I missed out on you.”

Bucky’s head was low as he spoke and you could see the tremble of his hands, even though he clutched one of your records tightly. Nina Simone, 1960’s.

“M’not going anywhere, you know.”

“You still lived an entire lifetime—”

“I did, yes, thank you for constantly reminding me that I’m over 100 years old.” You shook your head at him, sighing softly when he chuckled.

You couldn’t blame him, for clinging to every bit of past he’d missed while he was in HYDRA’s clutches – you knew that was inevitable, but you wished that such sorrow wasn’t so related to you.

“What are you doin’?” He asked as you summoned a small stool from the side of your shelf and stepped on it.

“I want to show you somethin’.” The thing you were looking for was stored at the very top: a heavy, brown leather suitcase that almost made you lose your balance when you pulled it from the spot it had been sitting in for—honestly, years, many of them.

The contents of the suitcase rattled as you climbed down and sat next to Bucky again. Sinatra still playing, telling his lover I've got you under my skin, I've got you, deep in the heart of me;

You almost laughed from the truth and irony of it.

I'd tried so, not to give in

I said to myself this affair never will go so well

You unlocked the suitcase, revealing the gathered memories inside. Pictures, movie tickets, theater playbooks, receipts, trinkets. All souvenirs of the 80 something years of your life Bucky hadn’t been there to see.

Not organized in the slightest, the keepsakes of your life were tossed together and out of order just as in your memory: photographs of you in uniform, and sometimes in party dresses; of when you bought your house; of the few times you had pets. Posing next to famous people and other important ones whose names weren’t as well known by the world.

As you and Bucky went through each of them, you added a story or an explanation, sometimes both, to fill him in on the details of your life events. He laughed at some, frowned at a lot, stared at you intently for all of them.

“Is this Berlin?”

You hummed, nodding. “1989. That party was great.”

“Party?” Bucky knitted his eyebrows in surprise.

“The city was unified, the wall was being taken down, and everyone was celebrating. I’ve never seen that many bottles of vodka in one place.” You laughed, taking a good look at yourself in the picture.

The 80’s were definitely not your best decade, looks wise. You had tried a perm the year before, and the poodle look was only then starting to dial down. The beginnings of a bruise were starting to creep on your left eye, from the mission you had completed just a few hours before.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been that drunk.”

Bucky’s surprise intensified, his eyes wide. “We can’t get drunk.”

“Yes we can.”

“No, no we can’t.”

“We can, in fact. It’s all a matter of quantity and, well, speed.” You giggled as Bucky’s mouth gaped more.

“And the hangover?”

“Horrible. Like getting shot on the forehead. Comes quickly, too.”

He grimaced, and with one last look – certainly to register your peculiar appearance on his mind – gently put the picture back inside the suitcase. A stack of papers seemed to call out to him and he picked it up, releasing them from the band that held them together carefully.

Postcards of the places you’ve been: a small note to James Barnes and Steve Rogers on the back of each one.

Bucky’s voice faltered. He let out an anguished little sound, probably something that was supposed to be an Oh, or a What, but had no strength to crawl up his throat.

You brought your knees to your chest as you waited for him.

“You—you wrote to us?”

“I did. You can keep those, they’re addressed to you.”

After all this time, you could barely remember the words you wrote in those postcards; all you knew was that some had longer messages, others a simple Wish you were here.

“After we met in Baltimore, I thought that— that you’d have moved on from us.”

From me.

As if that was possible.

“Well, I stopped writing by 2003, give or take. But really,” You sighed. “It’s hard to forget someone when you’ve always been expecting them to come back to you.”

Bucky flipped the postcard from Rome, read the writing and smiled wistfully at it. “And, I did.”

“You did. And staying away was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but—”

“But you’re annoyingly stubborn.” His jaw tightened, then relaxed when he smirked. “I mean, I get it – If the roles were reversed, I’d leave you rebuild your life without me like a self-sacrificing idiot too.”

Alright. That was fair.

Shaking your head, you watched as he slipped the postcards in his pocket, an amused expression on his face.

“That was… a big mistake. Something a self-sacrificing idiot would do,” You screwed your eyes shut in shame, opening them when Bucky chuckled. “but now, I’m right here. And so are you.”

His stubble scratched the soft skin of your palm when you reached for him, and you continued. “We’re a little out of place in this century, that much is true, but if I’m being honest… I’m getting tired of yearning for the past, Buck.”

Good old times – sometimes really good, sometimes bad, every one of them old – tucked away in your heart like your records were tucked in neatly in their shelf, organized by year. As you went through the decades, your enhanced body eternizing you like marble, your heart seemingly stayed at that army camp overseas. Or maybe Sergeant Bucky Barnes had taken it with him, only for them to be frozen together, leaving you with an empty hole in your chest.

You lived your life longing for that missing piece, the one with blue eyes and the dashing smile and the skilled feet.

The one that in many other stories was the one that got away, the one who now believed he was somebody else, but had brought your heart back with him all the same.

The very heart that nearly leapt out of your chest when Bucky rested his forehead against yours.

You’ve never been this close – there isn’t an ounce of past in the gesture. His eyes being tightly closed kept him from seeing the surprise on your eyes and then how they fell to his lips for a millisecond. Then, those lips brushed against yours in a featherlike touch.

I would sacrifice anything, come what might

For the sake of having you near

He pried himself off you when you exhaled, as if your very breath had electrocuted him.

“M’sorry. I—I didn’t—” He said as you stared at the back of his neck, and the shock gives way to disappointment.

I didn’t mean to. Or maybe: I didn’t want to.

“That’s—it’s okay.” You clapped your hands on your knees, still feeling the prickle of his facial hair on them, and got up to change the music.

There was no doubt Bucky was touch starved, and that he probably craved the closeness that comes with a lover. He sought that for a fleeting second in Sam’s sister, and now in you. No point in dwelling on what it might have meant.

Right?

Looking at Bucky, his expression was overcast, furrowed eyebrows as he watched you from his spot on the floor. You offered him a gentle smile, and the crease on his forehead eased up slightly.

Right.

Don't you know little fool, you never can win

The record player made a scratching sound as you replaced Frank Sinatra with your go-to jazz compilation. Instrumental.

No lyrics.

There was one thing you’ve always been good at, regarding the infatuation with Bucky Barnes that has taken over your heart for almost a century now: locking the feelings away and stepping into the shoes of the best friend.

Besides, you’ve said it yourself: no more yearning for the past. Hopefully you and Bucky would be able to do that soon enough.

At that moment, however, you needed to feel the burn of whiskey down your throat and pretend it’ll heal the calcinating rejection spreading through your chest.

The guilt you found in Bucky’s eyes as he watched you sweep around your hardwood floors made you pour a glass for him.

He took it gratefully, frowning when you bottomed the whole thing up.

“There’s a lot in here.” He tapped the edge of the suitcase, skillfully steering the conversation in the direction of the more palatable, calm territory it was in before.

The sight of your autobiographical collection made you smile.

“An entire lifetime,” You said, fishing your dog tags from the bottom. “I suppose that’s where it started. Or at least, where thisstarted.”

Bucky took them reverentially, running his thumb over the imprint of your name and numbers.

He reached for his neck, producing from under his Henley the same type of metal chain he was holding in his hands. The fact that he still wore his like that sent a sharp blow to your lungs, almost knocking the air out of you.

His face softened, a smile so beautiful spreading across his lips, so much that your chest clenched in protest because it was simply not fair, how he still had you entirely.

He deposited both of your dog tags in your hands, and that’s when you saw it, and remembered it.

“Won’t we get in trouble for this?”

“Do you care?”

“Well…No.” You sighed, already resigned. And a little excited.

Bucky knew you well: it had been too long of being a good little soldier when all you were used to was the rush of being a hellion.

“And that is why, sugar, that I’m doing this with you, and not with Steve.”

The words made your heart soar, but you were sure to recapture it before it could fly away too high, still too attached to the sensation of the take-off to clip its wings.

You liked flying.

“And because Steve hasn’t been successful in his enlisting efforts. Yet.”

Bucky looked at you from behind his eyebrows, a reprimand hiding in his eyes, but he decided to shove his uniform hat on your head instead. You grumbled, calling him a jerk under your breath.

It was the night before Bucky was drafted to England. He looked handsome in his uniform, a shining, polished star, brighter than the sun even under the dim streetlight you two stood under.

After bringing his and Steve’s dates home (yours was lost to another boxing match along the way – not that you were crying about that) Bucky had decided he was going to stay up all night, because, in his words, he could sleep when the war was over. Or, more realistically, in the ship on the way to England.

So there you two were, illuminated by street lamps and moonlight, visiting the façades and front windows of your favorite places in Brooklyn like drifters in the night.

Bucky still concentrated on his task, his shoulder hunched slightly to block your sight.

“Let me see! Bucky!”

“ ’Sposed to be a surprise! I’m almost done.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “It’s not like I haven’t seen ‘em before.”

“You gotta be more patient. Here.”

He dropped your dog tags on your hand. You displayed the small steel plates on your palm, scanning your eyes over the two. One of them, of course, had your name, number, blood type, next of kin – an aunt you’ve never met – and address.

The other had Bucky’s.

James B Barnes. 32557038.

He slipped his own chain over his head, the plate with your name clinking against his.

You brought the tips of your fingers to your lips, feeling a smile begin to form onto them.

“I forgot we did this. I haven’t looked at these in so long.”

You had stopped wearing your dog tags the day the war had ended – Bucky was gone then, Steve too, and the weight of his dog tags slamming against your chest was too much to bear – your heart was already heavy with its own engraving of their memories.

“Steve had a lecture prepared when he gave mine back.” Bucky chuckled when you looked up at him, incredulous.

You shook your head, half exasperated and half amused. “Good grief, Steve.”

“Y’know how he is. Was,” He trailed, lips twitching as they formed a thin line.

You reached for him, your hand hovering in the space between you for a second before Bucky took it, lacing your fingers. Scooting closer, you let your cheek rest on his shoulder.

“He’d be glad we’re reunited.” You said, raising your head to peek at him and the newfound upwards curl of his lip. “And mortified we’re still bickering.”

Bucky smiled and squeezed your hand. “Old people. Old habits.”

Laughter bubbled out of your chest, and you realized a few things.

In that moment, it didn’t matter – the heartache, the unrequited side of your love. It was just a fact, a fact of life, of your life, that you a lot of the times loved him as more than your best friend. You loved him. And that was the core of it, the most important fact.

And you knew he loved you – you had each other – in this big, ever-changing, modern world, you had Bucky and Bucky had you.

You sat in comfortable, familiar silence until your eyelids grew heavy and you felt yourself drifting in and out of consciousness.

“You dozin’ on me, sugar?”

“It’s been a long day.” You said with your eyes still closed, feeling him chuckle beside you.

“Tell me about it. I can go—”

“You know damn well you should stay.” You patted his arm and hoisted yourself up from the floor. “I’ll get the pull-up ready for you.”

As you sauntered towards the office, ignoring his pleads and protests that he’s got it, he doesn’t need sheets or anything, you put your dog tags back on.

They jingled lightly against your heart.

Maybe you didn’t have to leave all of the past behind to start building something good and new, after all.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes imagine

[the-blind-assassin-12]

The Legend of Jade from Jacksonville

A/N: So this came from an ask meme I posted a few days ago. One of the items on the list was “write a few paragraphs about...” and then the prompter was supposed to send a character, situation and an object. Like always, I got carried away and wrote way more than a few paragraphs, so I decided to post it separately from the other two requests (which I am trying to play by the rules for.) Anyway, this turned into one of my favorite Ryan HCs, so THANK YOU @suchatinyinfinity​  for requesting this!  

Request: Ryan Brenner -- at a gas station -- $2 bill 

Word Count: 1,077

Ryan hopped down from the bed of the dark green pickup, brushing the salt dust and dried mud that stained the vehicle’s side panels from his hands after lifting the tailgate back up. Finally off of wind whipped I-25, he realized that it was roughly ten degrees warmer where they were than it was when they left the city. She was right, ‘course she was. He unzipped his sweatshirt, shedding it and tugging down the tee underneath, one he’d picked up recently when a mishap at a laundromat in Iowa left him down a handful of shirts. He smiled at the white letters reading Le Claire against a navy background. It was one you’d chosen from a souvenir shop set up right beside the riverboat museum, the Mississippi wide and full just behind it. 

Purchasing souvenirs from his travels wasn’t something that Ryan did often. I’m not on vacation, this isn’t… He’d send postcards, but that was more to stay connected to people than it was to talk about what he’d done in Albuquerque or what the weather in Shreveport was like. But a shirt from a tiny gift shop outside of a museum he did not set foot inside of somehow held enough meaning to remind him of the slight bite in the air that day on the river as you tossed him the garment with a wink, teasing him about being more careful with this one in the wash. Don’t worry, I will be.

The sound of Georgie’s voice thanking the couple who’d given them a ride made him blink and look back up. They’d offered to take the two of them all the way down to Pueblo after they got to talking following Ryan and Georgie’s set at Jake’s. But we got… I got plans in the Springs. “Thanks again Fern,” he nodded at the woman, shaking her hand as her bangles jingled around her wrist. Turning to her husband, he shook his hand as well. “Drew, I really ‘ppreciate it. You two have a safe rest of your trip.” They assured him that they would, and promised to come see them again if they ever caught wind of Ryan and Georgie playing in the area. They’re nice people, glad we met ‘em. He watched the truck pull out of the gas station and back onto the dusty road as he stretched his legs and arched his back. 

“Alright Brenner, I need a coffee, an’ I’m gonna grab a sandwich or somethin’ cause I’m-” Georgie hoisted his bag and case over his shoulder and Ryan did the same as the two of them strode towards the convenience store attached to the Phillips 66 station. “Starvin’ man, I didn’ really eat last night I guess? Just had some beers’n-” But Georgie’s rambling faded as Ryan felt a vibration from his pocket, one hand diving in to retrieve his phone. He couldn’t help the rush of adrenaline that he felt when he read your name. Nothin’s even...we haven’t really even...damn. 

“Hey, Georgie, I gotta,” he held up his phone as it rang again in his palm and Georgie immediately started in on him for being lovesick. No that’s not it, nothin’ like that it’s just- “Just grab me a coffee, wouldya? I’ll watch your stuff.” He rolled his eyes as Georgie agreed, pointing to the sign on the window to remind Ryan that a coffee was $1.19. Shaking his head and wearing a full on grin, he flipped open his phone and answered. “Hey, I was just about to text you...yeah, we just got to Colorado Springs, we’re close to the park, you there yet?” 

“Hey yourself Ryan.” He took his hat off, squeezing the brim as you spoke his name before settling it back down over his hair. “Yeah, I just got off the bus and I’m in the welcome center.” He could hear the soft murmur of a semi-crowded space behind you. Can’t wait to see her. It had only been three days since you’d left Denver early with your friend Missy and he’d stayed behind to play a few days longer with Georgie and Max. But still. “Can’t wait til you guys get here.” 

“Yeah Junebug...I can’t wait either.” He ended the call, letting you know that they’d be there in about fifteen minutes, then dug out his wallet. Georgie wants his $1.19? He’s gonna get it. With interest. Fingers nimbly sifting through the few items tucked between his ID and the new card he’d gotten from Caribou Coffee, he found the $2 bill that had been in there for several years. I coulda given him this in Utah after...but I didn’t… 

It was a bill he’d carried with him that Georgie had asked him for repeatedly since the last time the two men were down in Jacksonville and a stunning young woman named Jade had written her number on it and thrown it into their tip jar with a wink. They decided to split the tips blind, and it had ended up in Ryan’s pile. Though he hadn’t used it that night, he vowed to hold on to it until the next time he was in the city, maybe give her a call then and see what happened. He and Georgie had brought up Jade from Jacksonville more than a few times in drunken conversation, the story about the woman behind the phone number on a wrinkled old bill becoming more intriguing to Ryan than what he could remember about the real Jade. He did enjoy how badly his friend wanted the number though. He’s about to get his wish. I don’t think I’m gonna be callin’ Jade. 

Georgie came out carrying two coffees in one hand, a half wrapped sandwich in the other. “Got your money right here George,” Ryan told him, trading the $2 bill for one of the coffees in his hand.   

Ryan took a sip of his drink, whiskered lips smiling as he watched Georgie’s eyes double in size. He finished chewing the large bite of his sandwich, swallowing quickly. “Jade from Jacksonville?” Ryan nodded as the other man grinned. “You ain’t been back to Jacksonville though, Ryan. Thought you were holdin’ out ‘til you-“

Ryan laughed and took another sip of his coffee as Georgie folded the legendary Jade’s number and stuck it in his back pocket. That’s what I thought, too but… “I dunno Georgie,” he shrugged. “Things change.”

.

.

.

Thanks for reading!! If you would like on or off of this train (pun entirely intended) please feel free to let me know! And if I left you on or off and you’ve asked me to change that...please ask again because I am highly disorganized on this blog. 

@something-tofightfor @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @malionnes @gollyderek @thesumofmychoices @suchatinyinfinity @songtoyou @with1love1anu @dearmarii @traeumerinwitzhelden​ @luminex3​ @obscurilicious​ @pheedraws​ @beautifuldesastre​

#the legend of jade from jacksonville #ryan brenner #ryan brenner x you #ryan brenner x reader #passing through #brenner and the bug #oh and georgie too #$2 bill #gas station #i loved this request thank you so much #suchatinyinfinity

[thekadster]

santa fe (prologue) (a newsies songfic)

Fandom: Newsies (All Media Types)

Word Count: 1,975

Trigger Warnings: None!

❝He yelped as his foot slipped off the ladder, one of his hands luckily grabbing hold of a metal rail. Jack quickly rushed to him and pulled up his arms. “You wanna bust your other leg too?!”

“No, I wanna go down!” cried Crutchie.

“You’ll be down there soon enough! Take a moment!” replied Jack. “Drink in my “penthouse”, high above the stinkin’ streets of New York.”❞

also read it on ao3!

Crutchie didn’t know what time it was when he woke up. Was it two, three, four in the morning? He didn't know, and it didn't matter. Even if the sky was definitely still dark, he stood up from his blanket, shaking away the heavy weight of sleep. He put on his vest and his cap.

“Hey- where you goin’?” a voice softly called. “The mornin’ bell ain’t rung yet; go back to sleep.”

Crutchie looked down and found familiar eyes sleepily squinting up at him. “I wanna beat the other fellas to the street,” he replied, straightening his collar. He glanced at his crutch that stood in the corner. “I don’t want anyone should see I, uh, ain’t been walkin’ so good.”

“Oh, quit gripin’,” the voice groaned, gathering a few papers scattered around the floor. “You know how many fellas fake a limp for sympathy, right? That bum leg a’ yours is a goldmine.”

Crutchie sat down at the entrance of the fire escape, legs dangling off the edge. “Well, if someone gets the idea I can’t make it on my own, they’ll lock me up in the Refuge, for good,” he said. “Be a pal, Jack; help me down-”

He yelped as his foot slipped off the ladder, one of his hands luckily grabbing hold of a metal rail. Jack quickly rushed to him and pulled up his arms. “You wanna bust your other leg too?!”

“No, I wanna go down!” cried Crutchie.

“You’ll be down there soon enough! Take a moment!” replied Jack. “Drink in my “penthouse”, high above the stinkin’ streets of New York.”

Crutchie chuckled as he stood up. “You’re crazy.”

“What, ‘cause I like a breath a’ fresh air? ‘Cause I like seein’ the sky and the stars?”

“You’re seein’ stars, alright.”

Jack leaned on the railing and looked out into the early-morning city. There were hundreds of buildings, probably thousands, if he counted. It was a magnificent skyline he knew well, and yet it was one that he was getting rather tired of.

“Them streets down there sucked the life outta my old man,” he sighed. “Years of rotten jobs, stomped on by bosses…And when they finally broke him, they tossed him to the curb just like yesterday’s paper. But’cha know what? They ain’t doin’ that to me.”

Crutchie paused, watching his best friend’s downcast eyes. Jack never talked much about his folks, and when he did, it was only between the two of them. “And yet everyone wants to come here.”

“New York’s fine for those who got a big, strong door to lock it out,” he responded, shaking his head. “But I tell ya, Crutchie - there’s a whole other way out there, somewhere that ain’t like this.”

His eyes were distant for a brief moment. “Y’know, my old man always wanted to go to Santa Fe."

“Your dad?” asked Crutchie.

Jack nodded. “He wanted to take us there, me and my Ma; wanted us to start new out west.”

“You been there before?”

“Nah,” replied Jack. “He probably heard about it in the papes or somethin’, but he always said it was real sweet.”

He pulled out a folded postcard from his pocket. The edges were slightly worn away with time, but the picture in the middle was still clear. Crutchie leaned over his shoulder to get a better look at it, but Jack quickly pulled it away.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Crutchie gave him a look. “What?”

Jack repeated the phrase. “Why?” Crutchie tried snatching the postcard from his hands, but Jack already shoved it into his pocket.

“Just do it!”

“Why?”

“I want you to see it,” replied Jack.

“Then gimme the postcard!” exclaimed Crutchie.

“It’s just a piece a’ paper!” he explained. “I wantcha to see it. Really see it.”

Crutchie stared at him strangely. He still didn’t understand what the other boy meant, but he figured that the conversation wasn’t going to get any further if he didn’t comply. He rolled his eyes and smirked. “Fine, fine.”

“No peekin’,” Jack added.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

When Crutchie didn’t flinch when Jack waved a hand in front of his face, he knew that his eyes were shut tight. Jack put a hand on his shoulder.

“Okay so,” he began. “Imagine a place, somewhere that ain’t like New York. Imagine a city made of clay, but there ain’t no tall buildings like what we got. A place that’s clean and green and pretty, where there’s clean air and deserts and mountains. At night, you can see the stars, but it ain’t just a handful; there’s thousands of ‘em! Thousands! You don’t even have’ta go up high; you just walk out into town, and there they are.”

A smile began to creep on Crutchie’s face. Jack carried on.

“Nobody’s out hawkin’ papes,” continued Jack. “You can see people plantin’ crops, splittin’ rails, even swappin’ tales around a fire. Oh, ‘cept for Sunday, ‘cause nobody’s up workin’.”

“Nobody?” asked Crutchie. “Nobody works on Sundays?”

“Yeah!”

“Then what do ya do if you ain’t workin’?”

Jack paused. “Nothin’,” he said.

Crutchie raised his eyebrows. “Nothin’?”

“Yeah,” replied Jack, grinning. “You just lie around all day, I guess. Do whatever ya want.”

Crutchie’s smile began to grow. “And?”

“Oh, and the folks there are real great, too,” Jack added. “As soon as ya get there, everybody’s smilin’ and happy. It don’t matter who you are or where you came from; they’re gonna take you in like you’s one of them. Soon, your friends are more like family, and they’s gonna be beggin’ you to stay.”

They took a moment, drinking in visions of a place that was so different from where they were. For them, it sounded like a dream, like something straight out of a storybook. But as Jack spoke, his wonderful words soared on the chill breeze that rushed by. It was almost like Crutchie could walk through a door in his mind and step into that sunny desert town. It was almost like he was there.

Crutchie opened his eyes, noticing Jack’s long silence. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the inky horizon. Amidst the silence that stretched between them, Crutchie could feel the deep, far-off longing that filled his best friend’s eyes, the aching for something greater than the life that he led. It was something that he rarely saw from him, let alone from anyone he’d ever met, but that didn’t make it any less real.

“You got folks there?” he asked, finding his voice.

“Pssh, ain’t got no folks nowhere,” answered Jack, pulled from his trance. “You?”

Crutchie stopped, then turned to the other boy. “I don’t need folks,” he said, gently punching his shoulder. “I got friends.”

Jack felt a warm smile creep on his face and a warmer feeling form in his chest. He turned to look at Crutchie. “Hey, how’s about you come with me? No one cares about no gimp leg in Santa Fe! You just hop a palomino, you’re ridin’ in style!” he excitedly spoke.

Crutchie giggled as Jack playfully galloped like a horse. “Pfff, yeah - feature me, ridin’ in style,” he remarked, rolling his eyes.

“Hey, I bet a few months of clean air, and you could toss that crutch for good!”

Crutchie’s face lit up at those words, words he never thought he’d ever hear. “Really?”

“Really, kid!” Jack exclaimed.

The grin on Jack’s face was almost enough to make Crutchie forget that he couldn’t walk on his own two feet. He exhaled, half-laughing in disbelief. “Imagine that…”

Those words, that promise - it echoed in Crutchie’s head for miles. He wasn’t sure if such a thing was possible, but the way Jack spoke about it was more than enough to prove that it was. Never had he smiled so wide when talking about anything else. Never had he talked about anything else with such joy, with such passion, with such hope.

Crutchie knew that people had dreams. Every single man, woman, and child on the street had them. But dreams don’t always come true, he realized. No matter how many pennies you’d throw into a well, no matter how many shooting stars you’d wish upon; no matter how optimistic Crutchie had always hoped to be, he knew that some things just aren’t meant to happen.

Jack looked at him, who leaned forward on the rails. There was no discernable emotion on his face and his eyes now had grown distant. “You okay, Crutch?” he whispered.

The other boy hummed in response, though it sounded like his mind was elsewhere. Jack followed his gaze, ending up at one tiny dot in the early morning sky. “You lookin’ at the stars?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Crutchie.

“Whaddaya see?”

He paused. “I’m wishin’.”

“For what?”

Crutchie took a few breaths, watching the small, flickering light. There were thousands of them out west. “Jack, if ya don’t mind me askin’,” he spoke, quickly changing the subject. “Whatcha said, is it true?”

Jack blinked. “What I said about what?”

“About Santa Fe, that it can fix my leg.”

He paused. “Well, yeah, it’s true,” he nodded. “Why?”

Crutchie looked down and shook his head. “I just wanna make sure that this is real.”

Jack silently stared at his best friend. As much as he always tried to look on the bright side of things, Crutchie wasn’t one to ignore the present. Neither of them were. In reality, they were just two kids living on the street; just specs of dust in the ever-changing world that was New York City. This town was the kind that can beat you to the ground and drain even the happiest people of their last ounce of light. There were even times when they saw it happen firsthand.

And so, Jack vowed to himself that, for as long as he could, he would never let that happen. Not to him, not to his newsies, and especially not to Crutchie.

“Hey,” he spoke, giving a gentle look. “When I leave, you’s comin’ with me, alright? You and me, we’re gonna get on that train and leave this town together. We’s a family, Crutch. We're brothers, and I ain’t never gonna letcha down. You know that, right, knucklehead?”

Crutchie chuckled as Jack ruffled his hair. "Ain't nothin' happenin' to you, as long as I'm around."

"Me too," added Crutchie. "I know I ain't much of a fighter like you or the fellas, but I's gonna watch your back as best I can."

Jack's heart softened. He smiled sincerely. "You's a strong kid, Crutch; as strong as me or anyone else. Probably more."

Crutchie grinned at his brother, his brother with whom he'd just made a lifelong promise. A new hope began gleaming in his eyes. “Who’s gonna take care of the newsies when you’re gone?”

“Probably Race,” replied Jack.

Crutchie smirked. “You’re givin’ Manhattan over to him?”

"He's my second; he’ll be fine." Jack cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders. "But if he don't square up, I'm gonna ‘ave to teach him a lesson or two."

Crutchie's eyes grew wide. After a few silent seconds, Jack couldn't hold his composure any longer and the two burst out into laughter. For a moment, they didn't have to worry about the world below or whether they'd make enough money to eat. For a moment, the two of them could just be kids.

Their laughter died down and they grinned at each other. Their conversation was interrupted by a distant, resounding chime that echoed off the city's brick walls. The morning bell.

“Time for dreamin’s done, eh?” Jack happily sighed, and Crutchie nodded. He grabbed his shirt and leaned over the railing of the fire escape, yelling to his boys down below. “Hey, Specs! Racer! Henry! Albert! Elmer! Get a move on - them papes don’t sell themselves!”

#newsies #newsies forever #newsies fanfiction #fanfiction #newsies drabble #drabble #jack kelly #jack kelly newsies #crutchie #crutchie morris #crutchie newsies #santa fe (prologue) #songfic #fluff #novelization #plootosart

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Dangerous (Part 1/2)

Description: It was your best friend’s bachelorette party in one of London’s best clubs when two men had closed a bet if they would be able to seduce you. And in the end, the night ended up way better than you originally anticipated.

A/N: Oh, we're back. For this two-part one-shot, I approached both of the idiots very differently - I wanted Sam to have this sexual hotshot energy while Cutter had more of that mysterious daddy vibe. And I think that somehow, it really suits both the boys. Enjoy.

Pairing: Charlie Cutter x reader x Samuel Drake (We stan a threesome in this house)

Playlist: Idiot sandwich that stole my heart™

Tagging: @missdictatorme​

Part 2.

It was just another night in downtown. The sunlight was slowly fading away, ladies wore tight and short skirts, and gentlemen were sipping whiskey in the nearby bars. And London was no different. It was one of the most favorite tourist locations since it was mostly colder in there during summer and it was the crown jewel of England. Soho and Chinese street looked especially magnificent at that time of the year.

Yet the clubs were especially full of people as well. Swedish and European students, you gonna love this, mate, as Charlie said Samuel a million times. Cutter and Drake, formerly known as Morgan, were two gentlemen in their best years. They weren't some boys who would bend you over the nearest bed without knowing what to do. No. They both were quite tall, one of them would even say fairly handsome - and skilled in the first place.

Drake, the definition of a small bitch according to Cutter, was rather persistent with choosing some warmer locations like the Bahamas or the Canary Islands, let alone Cuba, for their summer vacation. But Cutter, who was born and lived his whole life in England, told him to go fuck himself and that this year, he’ll show Drake the European hospitality and girls. Samuel had to say that these young kittens looked magnificent, from both up close and from the distance.

Norwegian girls had the dirties eyes he had seen, French girls could whisper them some sweet nothings the whole night, Hungarian girls were fiery enough to show them who is the boss, Czech and Slovak girls knew well how to handle alcohol and Russian girls were both tough and sweet as candy at the same time. Yet Samuel didn't stop bitching about London being the color-less, boring city he always saw on the postcards. What did it matter that the Queen was living there when the only location which tingled Samuel’s senses was the Tower? Yet Cutter told him that Sam hadn't seen shit yet.

And bloody hell, as British men would say when they walked into the club, Samuel knew what was the boy talking about. That was the energy Sam needed to feel alive since he was rotting in hell for God knows how long. Alcohol being poured in gallons, tight pairs of jeans, and laughter all around. And this wasn’t some boring-ass club either, as Samuel would say. People were dancing, which he hasn't seen in ages. Cutter most took him to poker tournaments or to play darts.

"Bee’s knees, I love this bloody place." - Cutter sighed and took the bomber off, walking stairs down to walk to the bar of the place itself. - "Come on, you prick, don't just stand there!" - He called at Samuel with a raspy voice, laughing out loud. Sometimes, Sam looked like a small boy in a toystore. Especially when he was looking at so many lovely bottoms and tits.

"One Pimm’s Cup and a Sex on the Beach for this lady over here." - Cutter winked at the barmaid who smiled back at him, already holding the shaker to prepare some of the best drinks in London.

"What are we? Fucking ladies to drink cocktails?" - Sam asked back, leaning his back to the bar, looking around. His eyes were doing their best to see it all - the girl with afro trying to kiss the soul out of her partner's body, the boy who had his hand in his girl's panties and the twerking group in the middle of the dancefloor.

"Mate, you hadn't learned shit while you were in London. You need to start slowly before pouring down vodka and other shit." - Cutter told him, smiling at the barmaid who brought them the drinks. She was sweet - her blonde hair was in a high ponytail and her face was full of freckles. She was just the type of girl Cutter liked. Sweet, innocent, and pretty. - "Thank you, darling." - The bald man smiled at the barmaid before she ran off to serve another customer.

"And you still think that you're attractive enough to get under a young girl's panties. Who is dumber here? Cheers, mate." - Samuel answered with a dramatic British accent, toasting to Cutter before taking a sip through the straw. Yet Cutter's grin was making him sure that he had just bumped into an interesting topic.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Samuel. Both American and European chicks go crazy for a British accent. All you have to do in the bed is talk and they cum on their own." - Cutter looked around with a shit-eating grin. He knew very well that he's right. A good portion of women was into a thick British accent and his raspy voice. The voice alone could work wonders between girl’s thighs, so being tall, muscular, and having this bad boy vibe was just a bonus usually.

"I think you're lying, brother, but what can I know? I usually put my mouth to use too, but we ain't talkin’. And this mouth can show you the universe, I tell ya." - Samuel answered with a nasty grin as well, his Boston accent being fully put to use at that point. Cutter started to laugh out loud, having Samuel clueless.

"Nice to know, I will remember that, mate. You wanna show me or what?" - Cutter asked, sipping another sip of his ice-cold drink.

"You're such a douchebag." - Samuel laughed as well since Cutter knew how to turn every single situation into a stand-up.

"You see the chick at three o’clock?" - Cutter mumbled from sipping, still looking in front of himself. Samuel carefully checked her out. Not that she would notice a man staring in a club full of people, yet Samuel didn't want to come across as a creep. She was... Pretty. As a lot of women inside the club. She was yelling something at the barmaid so she would hear her, standing there in some old sneakers. Her clothes didn't reveal that much, it was just a normal white top and a pair of blue jeans. Yet something about that face made both the idiots grin when thinking about showing her the edge of paradise.

"Yeah, you bet your fucking British ass I do see that girl." - Samuel returned to the previous position, grinning into his straw just the way Cutter did. Both boys liked girls who had that little spark about them. You never could quite put the finger on it, yet it was there. You couldn't name or label it - it was the flame of the unknown, a promise of fun or... See? Neither of them knew what it is, but she had it.

"And since we’re in this bloody town for the last night, I wanna bet, mate. Since I know that British accent is a hit with the ladies and you keep telling me about some magical Boston mouth, whoever gets the girl, wins something." - Cutter put the empty glass on the bar, grinning at Samuel, having the man grinning back. Timber was yelling all over the club and it felt 2013-ish. The barmaid automatically brought both men a shot of their finest vodka since Cutter came to the club pretty frequently.

"What’s the somethin’ we talkin’ ’bout?" - Samuel bit his lower lip when the girl got her drinks and ventured back to the back of the club where the tables were. Both of them poured the vodka down their throats at the same time, both of them having that face.

"I don't know. Maybe some expansive liquor?" - Charlie asked, but after that, he started laughing. - "Oh, I know, when I get her down tonight, you owe me a ride on your motorbike baby and night with this beautiful lady." - He offered Samuel his palm, watching Sam slowly shaking it.

"When I win, your best bomber is mine. Who goes first?" - Samuel crunched the knuckles and to his surprise, Charlie motioned for him to go.

"Ladies first, mate, ladies always go first." - Charlie smiled, asking for two bottles of beer. When Samuel got his beer, he shook his head but started walking in the direction of your table.

***

It was your friend's bachelorette party and for a reason, she chose a club in London from all the destinations, like France or Italy, she could choose. You were not from there, but she wanted something big and fancy, so she decided to go for a weekend to London. You were more of staying put at home person, yet you didn't want to upset her just days from her wedding.  

"Your dinks, ladies." - You yelled, earning an excited yelling of your shit-faced friends back. You’ve been sticking to beer the whole four hours you've already spent in that God-forsaken place, you've been just fine at that moment, being on bottle number four by that time.

"You're my favorite maid of honor." - Your friend Amber hugged you, giving you a big fat kiss on your cheek. You giggled at that, taking another sip of the beer. - "These men here, ugh." - Amber moaned out loud before taking a big sip of her Mochito, watching the dancefloor with her eyes open wide. You chuckled at that, sipping from your bottle.

You weren't that interested in the men there. Like, yeah, they were nice and most of the men you've encountered in England so far were true British gentlemen, but... You weren't the type who would mingle for a one-night stand. You were taking the whole crazy trip as a widening of your horizons. When Amber didn't want to be in a club, you usually traveled around to see the sights England could give you. Stratford upon Avon was cute, Devon too, but London was a blast in your opinion.

"And you're getting married next week, Amber. Don't forget about that you nasty bitch." - Monica yelled from the other side of the table, giggling at Amber's sighs.

"I envy you soooo much, Y/N. These men are everything. Just look at these damn asses." - Amber rolled her eyes, making you both laugh in sync. Suddenly, she got all serious. Her elbow bumped into your ribs making you squeal, her head motioning in a direction of some forty-something dude who was eyeing your table, slowly walking to it through the dancing crowd. - "I think he's coming for one of us, what should I do?" - Amber panicked, looking at her engagement ring.

"You won't do shit, Amber, you're the bride." - You calmed her down, making her lips from a little O in awe. She was like that when she was drunk. The man looked fine, that was true - tall with brown hair, a rough face, and a tall body. You couldn't see him clearly, you just watched him swaying his hips in black jeans and shoulders in a white t-shirt widening with every step he took.

It took him almost five minutes before he finally got there. That was mainly because of the way he was trying to sell that nasty smug. You’ve wondered how it came that he didn't wiggle his hips out. Just when he was about to tell you something, the DJ started playing some banger according to the screaming coming from the dancing crowd, which made you smile. So he leaned in without a problem. Well, at least you knew that he had some confidence inside of him.

"Night, ladies, the name’s Samuel." - He offered his palm to Monica, then to Amber and then to you, kissing your knuckles with a smile. - "How comes that three beautiful ladies end up in a place like this... Alone?" - He wondered, standing next to the empty spot long enough for Monica to scoop a bit further away. Naturally, Samuel sat next to her, giving her a rather nasty smile.

"It’s my bachelorette party!" - Amber yelled at him with a happy smile, making you smile as well when she shoved her ring right in front of that guy's face. At least the confident asshat knew that he won't make a single move at that table. Yet Samuel rose his eyebrows, smiled even wider, and gently caught her palm to look at the ring. Then he nodded and let her hand go. - "He is one of a hella happy fella, I tell you that." - And with that, his eyes hooked on your face. Monica was watching both of you with a vulgar smile on her lips.

"And what about you, doll, you're having a bachelorette party too?" - Samuel smiled, putting his bottle on the table. Before you could answer, shit-faced Amber already started telling him your story.

"She’s been single forever, I swear. It always works or spending time with her family, like, I know she's the most responsible and shit, but I am afraid that she’ll end up alone with twenty cats, and one day, she'll go nuts." - She told him seriously. The mysterious, confident and somehow sexy guy started laughing at her straightforwardness, looking you in the eyes after that.

"I will go nuts if you won't stop, bitch, this was unnecessary." - You sighed, taking a deep swing of your beer. You shook your head with an angry face. Although, Amber wasn’t stopping there, making you even more embarrassed. - "But you are a hell of a guy. Holy fuck, are those tattoos? I always wanted my fiance to get some." - She went for it and let her fingers grace his neck. Samuel had a pleased grin when she has done so.

"I've been living in Panama for some time, got ’em there." - He then proceeded to lift one of his sleeves, showing you another tattoo on his shoulder. These were poker aces. Amber but her lower bottom, looking at the tattoos, gently touching them, traveling down to feel the poor man's biceps at the very end of her exploration. To put it nicely, you were embarrassed. Yet to your surprise, the Samuel man ignored Amber drooling over him and practically climbing over the table to touch his skin. The man sat there and watched you with a small smile. - "And I have a few more on places that ain’t appropriate to show ’ere." - He mumbled and both of the ladies next to you instantly got the horny faces on.

Amber bumped her elbow into your ribs again, doing it way stealthier this time. Yeah, he was a good looking man if you'd have to be honest. He had your girls wrapped around his long finger five minutes after coming there - there was this... Testosterone or some shit like that coming out of him. Amber gave you one of these risen-eyebrows looks and bit her lower lip once again.

"Care for a dance?" - The man asked, standing up. At first, he was looking into the dancing crowd only giving you his palm as if he didn't even care. You sat there for quite a while before Samuel smiled in your direction, assuring you that he wants you to dance with him. Which, no matter how hard you'd try to deny this, it was something that made you smile too. In a gentle moment, you slipped your palm into his, hoping that at least Amber would stop hitting your ribs.

You honestly hadn't heard that song in years. Calabria felt real like a late 2010-ish song. Was this night sort of a retro party? You hadn't heard the majority of the songs in years, yet people danced to them like crazy. And let's be honest, you and Samuel weren't that much different, because as soon as you hit the dancefloor, he showed you some good moves and suddenly, it wasn't that weird or gross to be seduced by that man.

***

To be honest, Cutter was quite in the mood when he saw that Samuel and you dancing along with the other pairs. And more importantly, you two were having fun. Sam started with his most outdated moves, slowly getting to the more erotic ones when you seemed to agree with that. The man didn't want to be punched right into his nose. Yet soon, your pelvis was brought close to Samuels and Charlie could see his friend's lips whispering something in your ear. In the reaction to that, you were laughing and soon enough, you put one of your hands on his waist.

Charlie was quite familiar with the song playing. It had some good basses and the beat just invited you to dance. You were the sweetest when you let go of Samuel, rose your hands above your hand, yelling the upcoming lyrics, that went something like... - "Dangerous? Oh! That sounds good, yeah.

Talk to me baby, like I'm your dude." - It made Charlie chuckle.

He was also quite interested in the tactics Samuel used to relax you like that. The whole time Samuel was gone, Charlie stood next to the bar, thinking about what he should he do. He was choosing a tactic if you will. Every woman was different, so he better has some back-up plan if he wants to win the bet. Samuel undeniably had the charming personality chicks liked, whether he was aware of it or not. He was a forty-something-year-old dude with the mentality of a dude in his early twenties, which was attractive too.

Yet Charlie didn't have that trait. He was a man in his late forties and it could be seen as well. He was bald too. But that was something Samuel didn't quite have - the authority of something like a daddy figure if you will. He met girls who were into that sort of stuff and he hadn't got a single problem with delivering - it was quite fun actually. To say it quickly, he was a guy who was looking mysteriously with a good sense of humor, making the chicks both screaming in pleasure and very with laughter when they wanted that goofy-guy sorta stuff.

So he figured out that it would be best to figure out what you were into and work on that since the first second he introduces himself to you on the bar.

***

"You have good dance moves, Y/N!" - Sam exclaimed happily when he was leading you back to your table. You nodded, still laughing. You couldn't believe that you spend half an hour with a totally strange guy on the dancefloor. Yeah, it wasn't just dancing obviously. Sam proved to be quite handy with his palms, absorbing almost everything out of your body while his mouth was whispering funny stuff. Suddenly, you both stopped and he looked at you with a pretty bold smile. Again, he showed you how quick he could be when his left palm put some hair out of your face. - "This was fun. So... If you would like to have some more fun when you'll be leaving, call this number, deal?" - He asked and gave you a small card.

It was one of the most simple ones you've ever had seen. Samuel Drake - historian, archeologist, and an adventurer. His number was on the other side. After giving him the same nasty grin, you nodded and pushed the card into the back pocket of your jeans, letting him go.

Girls immediately noticed you coming back... All alone without that Sammy boy. But the smile was indicating that you hadn't empty hands. Amber asked you about what happened even before you sat your ass down. - "Well, we danced and lemme say, he's a good dancer and then... He gave me this business card to call him when ill be leaving. Which unfortunately won't happen since I have to lead both your drunk asses to the hotel." - You sighed, playing with the card between your fingers. Monica took it out, smiling at you.

"I'm more or less sober, so I can take Amber home while you'll find that prince charming and have a wonderful night." - She gave it back to you after reading the text under his name. - "I would love to have a cig, anyone going with me?" - Monica asked and mumbled a few curse words while she searched through her purse for a pack of cigarettes. Naturally, you got up and motioned for her to go first, telling amber to sit there on her damn ass until you come back.

It was nice to stand in some fresh air. The night was pretty cold and it was raining a bit, but you didn't care since you were already soaking wet. Monica gave you a cigarette as well and both lit it up at the same moment. She was giving you some nasty grin too, which made you chuckle. - "What?" - You mumbled, exhaling the smoke.

"He seemed to be into you big time. You sure you don't want to call the man?" - She asked and at that moment, she seemed to be pretty reasonable and sober. Your shoulders jolted unknowingly. There was something on that promise of spending a night by his side. Sam was genuinely fun, hot as far as you could say and pretty smart. Also, he wasn't drunk that much, neither were you - so it was maybe really the both-sided chemistry doing the work. A couple of times it seemed that he's going in for a kiss, yet he rather teased you and bit your earlobe gently.

"He seemed sweet and fun and all, but what about you two?" - You asked Monica silently, still smoking on the cigarette with a thoughtful face.

"Oh, shush. We'll take a cab and get to the hotel on our own. I'll look after Amber. She was right about you being all about work or family. He's a stranger and you don't have to see him ever again, and that has some magic into it. Live a bit, come on, sis." - She hugged and you, indeed, felt confident about what Monica has said.

Sam was nothing but a hot guy you met in a club. You can fuck the night away, have some fun, wait for him to fall asleep, and then drive to your hotel, sitting on a flight home tomorrow. You'll never have to see him again.

You were determined that once you'll be leaving, you'll call the man, accepting the offer. When you were inside, you walked to the bar to order some alcohol, because Amber got to drink both your and Sam's beer when you were dancing.

It took you a moment to notice that guy. He was holding a small glass of whiskey, eyeing you with a small grin. He wasn’t exactly your type of handsome, yet there was something about that face. You spotted small stable and very attentive blue eyes. This man was huge in the best meaning of the word. He wasn't fat, not at all, yet it could be seen that there are some muscles under the t-shirt he had on. He was at least twice your age, but you got nervous when you looked into his eyes.

The difference between him and the guy you met earlier was huge. While Sam appeared to be a fairly approachable, exciting, and funny person, this dude... He seemed mysterious and authoritative. Which had woken up things inside of you; things you didn't even know were there. After having your breath stuck for a while, you returned a smile to the man, which was a signal for him to move closer to you.

"Whatever the lady orders, it's my treat." - The bald man told the barmaid, having her smile. Slowly, the man put some pounds on the wooden countertop, still looking at the lady who was serving the alcohol. It was ridiculously more than what you were supposed to pay, yet the gentlemen made clear that he doesn't want a pound back. - "Sure thing, Mr. Cutter."

"And what about you, love?" - He asked, taking your palm to kiss your knuckles delicately. That accent settled inside of your ears, fully attacking your brain. It was hot only to listen to the raspy voice speaking with the fully-blown thick London accent. No matter what you did, that man’s gaze followed you around. You almost felt like you can't escape it. Why Sam was making you feel so good and that was what made you aroused, yet this man was coming across as someone who would bend you over his knee with pleasure and it made you interested as well. - "What about me?" - You asked back, smiling at the man.

"What are you doing here alone?" - Cutter said and leaned even closer, having a smile on his lips when he leaned closer enough to whisper things into your ear. He had a firm body, just like Sam did, yet these two couldn't come across differently. - "I can do something about that, sweetheart."

Was all of this a nice dream? Two attractive men approaching you on the same night, telling you to leave the place with them. Or were they serial murderers? Or did a car hit you and you were in a coma? No, your heartbeat reminded you that this is pretty much happening in front of your very eyes. What the fuck should you do? If you'll leave with Cutter, what about Sam? And if you'd leave with Sam, what about this man? Why couldn't you have them both?

Monica more or less made you swear that whatever happens, you'll leave with Sam at the end of the party. But you felt being in a tight corner at the moment. Both men had some spark in them, one of them promised you a whole night of fun and the other one felt like a total daddy.

"That's kind of you, sir." - You winked at him, not knowing what else to say. The club was slowly getting darker, changing the color scheme as it was getting closer to midnight, now playing some Russian rap songs. Cutter looked at the couples around you, seeing many of them kissing and touching far beyond the line of decency. That was before you felt tips of someone's fingers smoothing your upper arm, gently getting onto your sweaty neck and jaw.

You could turn away from that man, yet there was something that made you push your head even closer, so your lips could meet his halfway. He wasn’t shying away at all, coming in with full force - lip bite, not too long after that, he even used his tongue, holding you close by your jaw. And this man, dear lord, he had some skillful mouth. It even made you close your eyes with enjoyment, making you moan lightly into his kiss.

"So, what do you say, love? Me, you, my place here?" - He whispered once he was done with the kiss, his palm slowly traveling down on your waist and lower. Sam did touch these places, yes, but his approach was more natural than devoting straightaway. Which made you also a bit cautious and aware of the man.

"I need to go back, Mr. Cutter. But thank you for the... Ehm... Invitation anyway." - You took the drinks, hurrying up back to girls. Your heartbeat was off the charts, your whole damn body was sweaty and since there were two rather handsome men trying to win you over that night, you were aroused as well. You couldn't leave with Sam, because you'd think about Cutter and the other way around. But you were sure that you will at least masturbate that night.

"Are you okay?" - Amber yelled into your ear when you finally sat down, gulping down. You couldn't catch your breath ever since Cutter kissed you. Your gaze traveled to her and you shook your head almost frantically.

"Another guy tried to take me over to his place." - You mumbled, gulping down your whole drink at once. Monica smiled and leaned over to you.

"And was this one as handsome as that Samuel before?" - She asked, taking her cocktail out of your hand. You turned your hand to the dancefloor, imaging both the men inside of your head.

"It's hard to tell, Monica. This one was tall and well-built as well..." - You sighed, but Amber stopped you once again. - "How can you know that he was well-built?" - She wondered, taking the last ice-cold drink as well. It was a miracle that she hadn't fallen asleep until that point.

"Because I know he's a good kisser too." - You smiled and each of you started laughing like crazy. - "I mean, he wasn’t the most handsome man I've seen, yet, he had that something inside these eyes." - You shook your head, not believing the things that had happened inside that club. It was just one night you've spent there and two attractive men approached you. One of them was American, the other one was clearly British and you knew that both of them had something to offer. But you knew that you'll leave alone once again.

***

"How did it go?" - Samuel asked Cutter once he walked off the dancefloor again. Cutter was leaning his elbow to the bar, watching you and your girls chatting excitedly. After that, he turned back to Sam.

"I can't tell, mate. First, it appeared that I have her hooked, but she left after that. What about you?" - Charlie finished another glass of whiskey, moving to beer for the rest of the night. From Sam’s smirk, it was apparent that at least one of the men is feeling positive about the whole bet.

"She has my number and when I was on a smoke break, her friend told her that she should have some fun with me tonite if you know what I mean." - Samuel wiggled his eyebrows, making Cutter frown even more. Maybe he shouldn’t go for the kiss just like that, but your body was telling yes. You were attracted to him, so why shouldn't he test the waters? It was too late for these kinds of thoughts. He probably had scared you off.

The two friends were standing there for quite a while and waited for Sam's desired call, talking about nothing the whole time. Sam had to say that he had some fun time and Cutter’s most impressive bomber on top of that. But that was when both men felt someone's presence behind them.

"You two know each other?" - A voice asked them and when they turned around, it was none other than you. Your eyes were looking at both of them and it was clear that you don't know what to think of that. Sam looked at Cutter with panic, not knowing what to say.

"It's not how you think it is." - Cutter tried to calm you down, but you were visibly upset over the whole situation. Yeah, it was a bet, but Cutter meant what he said. He wanted to spend the night with you. This was just a fun way to raise the stakes. If you wouldn't get to know.

"Jesus, I should've known that you two are assholes." - You walked between the men, mumbling something about assholes, dickheads, and shits, preparing money to pay the last drinks of the night. - "How would two men like you saw something on an ugly duckling like me? Funny shit, I tell you." - You mumbled with disgust, ordering cocktails your girls asked for.

"You don't know what you're talking about, love. You're beautiful." - Cutter told you back with a small smile, looking Samuel in the eyes. The other man nodded when he realized, leaning into the bar as well. - "And intelligent as hell, which is a huge turn on. I don't know why someone as pretty as you are even let guys like us talk to you." - The American smiled at you from the other side, lust lingering inside his eyes.

Could that be? It maybe was just a bet, yet these two men seemed to be interested. It could be a game as well - but a perfect solution to your situation too. If these two knew each other, maybe you didn't have to leave the place alone because you couldn't choose between them. Maybe, you could leave with both of them at once. You’ve never done that, but the alcohol inside your veins made you courageous.

"So, you're friends, you know each other, right?" - You asked while a smile grew on your lips. Oh, Cutter knew what is about to come and... It was so nasty that it turned him on in some kind of way. Samuel was completely confused tho. - "That means you can meet me outside the club in ten, probably?" - You asked innocently, taking the drinks, smiling at Charlie. He smiled back, leaving Samuel in the dark for a little longer.

"Which one of us?" - The American demanded. He wanted to win the bet so badly because Cutter’s bombers were the best in the whole world. But when he saw your devilish grin with the shine in your eyes, his heart skipped a beat. Oh. OH. Holy fuck. You had that spark inside of you, but neither of them would ever say that you're a nasty girl as well. At least not this much.

Sam honestly never seen cutter without clothes and he didn't know if he's ready for that, but... Life was about adventure, right? And this way something Sam knew he will say yes to. There was something on having a girl helpless, being taken care of by two men. He loved to worship women, he indeed loved everything about that, but this was exciting as well. And Charlie? He knew how to approach to a threesome. There were occasions where he had joined in and in some, he was only there to watch. He especially loved when two ladies invited him to a bad. But he hadn't a single issue with giving you what you wanted.

"Both of you, silly." - You smiled sweetly before disappearing into the crowd.

#samuel drake x reader #samuel dake x reader #samuel drake Uncharted #samuel drake #charlie cutter #charlie cutter uncharted #lmao #wait for the next part #is filthy #is hot #is sexy #will cure depression #I SWEAR #these two daddies #UGH

[thiswasinevitableid]

For a fic prompt! How about Duck and Indrid are childhood best friends who are college roommates. Indrid has been in love with Duck for years, but when Duck starts dating Minerva it throws Indrid into a deep depression. Ideally Duck and Indrid do get together in the end (though hopefully Duck and Minerva’s breakup isn’t nasty) and you can get as angsty as you’d like! Honestly the angstier the better is my motto! Also I’m all for Indrid still having future sight, if you’d like! Thank you SO MUCH!

Here you go!

Quick content note: it contains trans Duck, including a scene where Indrid takes his side when he comes out in PE and, it’s implied, that coming out is not well recieved.

Indrid Cold lays face down on his bed. His phone is shoved under the black cotton of his pillow case, and he’s drawn the windows shut against the warm August air. 

This is a misery of his own making, he knows this. He can’t decide if the fact that it’s a misery nearly two decades in the making is impressive or pathetic. 

To understand the origins of it, one has to rewind the tape of his life back quite a ways.

——————————————————-

Duck Newton is six years old and hunting for miners lettuce in his backyard, when he feels like he’s being watched. 

Looking up, he finds a face framed with shaggy dark hair, glasses perched on a pointy nose, peeking over the fence at him. As soon as the face sees him, it ducks back down. 

Weird. 

He goes back to foraging, only to find the face watching him again a minute later. This time, when it disappears, he clambers up the oak tree alongside the fence and scoots carefully out onto a limb that sticks out into the neighboring yard. The face, which belongs to a boy about his age, is staring up at him, as if he expected Duck to appear. He’s standing on the edge of the decorative fountain the old neighbors put in the yard. 

“Why’re you watchin me?”

“I wanted to know what you were doing.” 

“How come?”

“I’m bored. My dads are putting the house together and I don’t want to draw anymore.” He points to a stack of pictures, next to some crayons that are melting in the sun. 

Duck thinks; he hasn’t had anyone to play with since school got out. Leo, who lives down the block, is nine, so not as interested in having Duck trailing after him like a little brother as he used to be.

“…You wanna go see a huge crawdad?”

The other boy perks up, “I have no idea what that is.  But yes.”

“C’mon, meet me in the front yard. What’s your name?”

“Indrid.”

“That’s a weird name.”

“What’s yours?” Indrid crosses his arms, eyebrow raised

“Duck.”

Indrid stares at him, wide mouth curling up at one side. His stare is a bit unnerving, and Duck feels the need to explain himself.

“It’s a nickname.”

————————————————————

“I think that’s the same large one from last year.” Indrid peers over his sketchpad, staring down at a crawdad scuttling through the clear creek.

“Told you we shoulda put a colored tape on them or somethin so we could keep track.” Duck looks at the crustacean, and then back at the project he’s working on.

They’re nine years old, hazy and sleepy in the summer afternoon. This part of the creek is shaded, keeps them hidden from passersby and parents alike (they’ve learned to tell at least one parent where they’re going, after Greg, one of Indrid’s dad’s, panicked looking for them). 

“What are you making?” Indrid wiggles next to him in the grass, gnawing his pencil as Duck shows him. 

“S’a reed raft. I’m gonna see how far I can float it down the river.”

“I will draw a flag for it.” Indrid scribbles, and Duck grins at him. He continues, “I’m glad you’re back. I hate when you got to your uncle’s during the summer. I have no one to talk to.”

“You could talk to Dani.”

“She’s busy a lot.”

Duck looks a little guilty, “Did you get the postcards?”

“Uh huh.” Indrid nods, smiling at his friend to show there’s no harm done. He knows it’s not up to Duck where he goes. The postcards are pinned to his wall, along with his own drawings, some horror movie posters, and the postcards from the last two summers. 

“Oh, look at what I found while we were at the lake.” Duck reaches into his pocket, pulling out a smooth, wiggly-striped stone, “Uncle Jeff says it’s agate.” 

He holds it out and Indrid takes it, runs his fingers along the smooth, cool surface. It feels lovely. And it reminds him of what he likes most about being Duck’s friend; Duck can make anything, even a rock, seem interesting and special. 

Indrid is reminded of another reason he is lucky to have Duck the next morning. 

All the adults are down in the living room, talking worriedly. There’s been a car crash on the nearby highway, and one of the trucks was carrying something toxic. The school is closed, and everyone has been told to stay home because the air could be unsafe. 

Indrid is under all his blankets, his sketchbook thrown to the other side of the room.

“‘Drid?” The door creaks as Duck enters the bedroom. 

He wants to beg him to hide under the covers with him. He wants to tell him to go away. 

He sniffs, wipes his nose on his arm, and hears Duck turn towards the bed. The covers slowly lift, and Indrid blinks blearily, tearily up at him.

“Have you been cryin?” Duck looks worried. 

He nods. 

“Did you know someone who got hurt?”

“No. I, I saw it happen. In my head. Over and over last night. I thought I was imagining it. But then it happened. Th-that happens a lot, ever since my birthday. It’s like, like I see things and then sometimes they happen and sometimes they don’t. I draw them but, but I’m afraid if my dad’s find out they’ll, they’ll think I’m wrong, somethings wrong with me.” 

As he’s talking, Duck sits down next to him, rests his arm around his shoulders. 

“Nothin’s wrong with you ‘Drid. This is weird, but it don’t make you bad. You should tell you dads. They’re nice, they’ll help you.” He squeezes Indrid’s arm, smiling at him as he rests his head on his shoulder, “I’ll help you too.” He slips the agate from his pocket and into Indrid’s hands, moves their fingers over it in tandem until the motion soothes Indrid’s breathing down, then tucks it into Indrid’s pocket.

————————————————————————————–

“You okay ‘Drid?” Duck plops down on a cafeteria bench Kepler Middle School, Indrid poking glumly at his fruit salad. 

“We had oral presentations today. I did mine on my moth.” He taps the jar in front of him. A week or so ago it had contained a caterpillar that he and Duck had identified as belonging to a Banded Tiger Moth. Indrid had decided to raise it into adulthood, Duck helping him figure out which weeds to feed it before it went into its cocoon. When it emerges, he and Duck have the perfect spot picked to release it.

“What’s wrong with your moth?”

“Nice glasses, mothman!” A voice yells, two boys high-fiving when Indrid shrinks in on himself. 

“Hey, fuck you, mothman rules!” Duck thanks his lucky stars none of the cafeteria monitors heard him. He recognizes those two; they’re in Indrid’s CORE class with him, meaning the nickname has already spread. Indrid, with his tics and his tendency to finish people’s sentences, his glasses and scraggly appearance, has been pegged as a target for months. It makes Duck’s blood boil to see them turn something Indrid spent time looking after into an insult. 

That night, he grabs a sharpie and one of his grey t-shirts. 

The next day, he turns up with “Mothman Rules” scrawled on his chest. Indrid’s smile is worth the lecture he gets about messing up his clothes. 

———————————————————–

Indrid and Duck sit side by side in the principals office. Their gym clothes in Kepler Middle’s colors, grey and maroon, seem even grimmer right now.

They haven’t done anything wrong, not as far as Indrid is concerned. 

Duck stood in the boys line-up during P.E, that’s all. When he refused to move to the girls line, the teacher told the rest of the boys to line up all over again, elsewhere. They all moved, except Indrid, who insisted that Duck was in the right line and refused to play along with a bid to deny that.

They have been sent to the principal for “causing trouble.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” Duck murmurs. 

“I did. You’re my friend, Duck. And Mr. H is an asshole.”

He thinks, but does not say, that it would take far more than a gym teacher and the threat of detention to leave Duck’s side when he’s in trouble.

———————————————————

It’s Indrid’s 16th birthday, and his dads are throwing a very subdued sweet sixteen. He dyed his hair silver, and they’ve ordered an entire table of desserts from a local bakery, and he, Duck, Juno, Dani, and Barclay have stuffed themselves while watching movies and teasing Dani for being ga-ga over her long-distance girlfriend, Aubrey, who she met playing an online tabletop games. 

Once the other three leave, Duck grabs Indrid’s jacket and hands it to him. 

“C’mon, lets go to the creek. Got somethin to show you.”

Indrid follows him, teasing him as they turn down the creekbed, “We’re not going to have a repeat of the beer incident are we?”

Duck laughs, “No. Learned better than to give that hummingbird palate of yours booze.”

They hit the familiar dirt of their favorite spot, and Duck gets on tiptoe and reaches into the trees above them. Strings of lights, red to match Indrid’s new glasses, and white, snap on. Below them is a blanket, and Indrid sits down with a perplexed smile. Then he checks the futures, and understands. 

“Is this entirely sanitary?”

“Enough.” Duck grins, pulling out a lighter and safety pin, “I did it on mine and I still got the ear.”

“Very well.” Indrid crosses his legs, checks the futures it be double sure this won’t end in infection, and braces himself, “left ear please.”

“Right. Okay, one, two-”

“OWowowowow.” 

“Done!”

“Ow.” Indrid winces as Duck cleans the newly-pierced ear, loosens his grip on the agate in his fist.

“Can’t believe you still carry that thing around.”

“I find it soothing. Ooh, how nice.” Indrid picks up the black moth-shaped earring Duck hands him. 

“Figured it’d be better to start with a smaller one. And now that you’re all done, you can officially burn your list.”

Indrid pulls a worn sheet of binder paper from his pocket. When he, and then Duck, turned fifteen, they wrote out lists of things they wanted to do before they hit sixteen. He crosses out get ear pierced, then mutters, “I’m still missing one.”

Duck looks at him quizzically. He turns the paper around and points to first kiss.

“Wait, I thought you and Carlos-”

“Nope. Never got that far before we broke up.”

Duck sits next to him, gets a mischievous grin on his face, “Think I know how to help.”

“How’s tha-”  

It’s barely a kiss, Duck bringing their lips together just long enough for Indrid to feel him sigh happily. Then he pulls back, still grinning. 

Indrid is certain that if he looked down at himself, his veins would be pulsing technicolor, his body lit up like the cheap neon in their tiny downtown. 

“Ta-dah, list complete.” Duck whispers. 

“Thank you.” Indrid whispers back. 

He doesn’t think much of it for the rest of the night, figures it’s just a meeting of Duck’s goofier side with his desire to help a friend. 

It’s only when he’s laying in bed, playing the kiss over and over again like a favorite song, that he realizes he might be in trouble. 

————————————————————-

Indrid knows the likely outcome, but that doesn’t stop him from leaping up excitedly when Duck bangs the front door open.

“‘Drid, I got in! did you, oh, hey Mr. Cold, did you?”

“Yes.” Indrid grins from the bottom of the staircase. 

“Oh hell yeah! Juno got in too! Maybe we can all be roommates.”

As much as Indrid would like that outcome, the arbitrary housing system of UWV Huntington has other ideas. Duck ends up partnered with an affable if often absent psych major, Juno gets a single in the same dorm, just two floors down, and Indrid is stuck with a frat-boy business major.

That doesn’t stop them from making the most of their first year of college. Indrid crashes on Duck’s floor some nights, and the two of them manage to swing having a film class together during spring semester. They each dip their toes into the wild sea that is college dating, with mixed results, trading advice and anecdotes in the dark of Duck’s room.

And none of that, not one single bit, does anything to dampen Indrid’s romantic feelings for his friend. 

It’s not that he doesn’t try, just as he’s been trying every day since his 16th birthday. He loves Duck as a friend, wants to be in his life forever. He can’t afford to love him any other way. It’s too risky. And so he tries, over and over and over, to quash those feelings. Sometimes they ebb, sometimes Indrid happily dates or hooks up with other people. 

But they always come back, like a faithful hound finding it’s way home. 

Because Duck will laugh in that ridiculous way of his, be vulnerable with Indrid in those private moments, make Indrid feel understood in a way no one else can. And he falls in love all over again. 

(And that’s before he even gets to the moments where Duck will strip his shirt off on hot days, or wander into the room in his boxer shorts, and Indrid feels the urge to plead with him for the privilege of feeling him up).

It’s because of all this that, when Duck asks if Indrid wants to move in together their sophomore year, he almost says no. 

But then he and Duck are sharing celebratory take-out in a half-unpacked apartment and he’s happier than he ever thought he could be. 

It’s not perfect by any means. Indrid can be messy, Duck can be terse, money can be tight. But Indrid is so at home with Duck, all that fades into the background. They have friends over, compare notes on dates, have junk food strewn study sessions on the couch, keep each other company during all nighters. 

Then, in May of their Sophomore year, things change. 

“‘Drid? Oh good, you’re still up. Um, I wanted to tell you somethin. Minerva and I are goin out.”

“Oh. That’s a bit unexpected.” Indrid sets his drawing aside.

“You tellin me you don’t use that magic-eight ball brain to spy on my love life?” Duck teases, plopping down onto the bed with him. 

“Never. So…why the switch from work-out buddies to this?”

“Dunno, just seemed like we’d been spendin a lot of time together. She actually tutored me back in high school, remember, so it’s kinda fun to be around someone who’s known me that long. Y'know, someone who watched me grow up.”

“I see.” Indrid kicks his jealousy until it goes limp and sinks back under the surface of his feelings, “well, that’s awesome then. I’m glad you’re excited Duck.”

And he is. It’s not a lie, goodness knows he’s well aware he has no claim to Duck’s affection or time. And Minerva does seem to make him happy, encourages Duck’s good habits like going to the gym (something Indrid has tried once and will never do again. Yoga and walking are fine by him).

But soon he cannot go anywhere with Duck, including his own apartment, without Minerva there. Duck spends all of his time with her, and Indrid learns it’s not just him; while Minerva is gladly included in their group get-togethers, Juno hasn’t seen Duck in weeks. And has barely heard from him. She is also a bit loud and Indrid, who has always had trouble with over-stimulation from noise, finds himself out of the apartment more and more often. 

Indrid can’t blame Duck for spending time with Minerva rather than him; she’s jockular, active, attractive (even if she does call Duck by his first name). Indrid is odd, reclusive, and well, weird looking. 

It all goes to hell at the end of August. 

“‘Drid! The study abroad program offered me a scholarship. I get to go to Brazil. This is so fuckin cool!”

“Wonderful!” Indrid claps his hands, “I know how badly you’ve wanted to go. You have to promise me to send me pictures of brightly colored bugs for art inspiration. Oh, and now we can tell Dani she has somewhere to stay while she and Aubrey look for a shared place.”

“Exactly. And guess what, it gets even better.”

“How-” he sees the answer coming, tries to keep his face neutral. 

“Minerva’s comin with me!”

“I wasn’t aware wildlife conservation and management was her area of interest.”

“It ain’t, but she’s comin as part of a grad study program. It’s gonna be so fuckin amazin.”

“I’m sure it will be.” The pull between his true feelings and his need to seem supportive renders his answer flat. 

“What’s up?” Duck sits down in the kitchen chair opposite him. 

“Nothing. Or, well, I suppose I’ve just now realized that I’ll be without a good friend for a semester. I’ll miss you.”

“Aw, I’ll miss you too, you big sap. Don’t worry, I’ll write you a bunch, send pictures too when I can.”

Indrid looks at the futures, then down at the table, “No, you won’t.”

“Huh? Why wouldn’t I?” Duck looks hurt.

“In all the timelines, you send me one postcard at maximum. In most of them, you send none. I slip your mind entirely, it seems.” His voice is tight.

“The fuck? How is that pos-”

“Any time not spent in the field, you are too engrossed by her to do anything else.”

Duck’s face hardens, “So that’s what this is really about.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” He lies. 

“You’ve been bothered by her since the start! You don’t think I notice that forced smile you get when she’s around, or the fact you leave the house when she comes over?”

“I get overstimulated when there is too much noise, you know that.” Indrid snaps back.   

“You hardly come out with us anymore, and you make it sound like she’s controlin me or some shit.”

“I, I do not. I just don’t enjoy when she barges in randomly.” He rubs his temples with his hands, trying to keep calm. 

“Christ, you really makin me choose between my best friend and the first girlfriend who’s made me feel this way? Why the fuck can’t you just be happy for me?”

“Because it should be me and not her!” Indrid spits out, hands dropping to the table and gaze meeting Duck’s own. 

Duck blinks back at him, “Really? Really? You had a million goddamn chances to confess how you feel and you choose now?”

“I, I didn’t, I tried so hard to ignore it, but, fuck, I didn’t mean to say it now but since I did: I’ve been in love with you for years. And, and I just, after everything, we’ve been so close-”

“What, you think that what, because we’ve been friends since we were kids and you been pinin after me for however the fuck long, I should just date you? Like it’s destiny or some shit? What the fuck man?” He stands and Indrid mirrors him. 

“Do not put words in my mouth. I never wanted to interfere in your life, I never, you can’t possibly know how I feel!”

“Oh yeah? You think I’m really that fuckin oblivious? I suspected you felt some kind of way about me, and I gave you chances to show me I was right!”

“Name one.” Indrid growls, stepping closer.

“Homecomin, my eighteenth birthday, about a dozen times last year where I asked if you had your eye on anyone and you’d change the goddamn subject,” Duck counts out on his fingers, closing the remaining distance, “hell, coulda used those weird powers of yours to see what would happen if you told me.”

“I was too scared to. And if you were so observant, and apparently not opposed to the idea, why didn’t you make a move on me?”

“What do you think me kissin you on your birthday was?”

“A joke! Goodness, Duck, you know I’m not great with social cues. I didn’t think you’d ever care about me that way.”

“You think I’m that fuckin shallow?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” He growls. 

“So what was your end-game, huh? Just wait out everyone else, circle me like a fuckin vulture until I’d settle for you? Fuck, Minerva was right, you are creepy.”

Duck may as well have punched him. He sort of wishes he had. 

“Fuck. you. Wayne.” He hisses out, stepping around him and towards his room. 

“Nah, fuck you, Indrid. Fuck you for makin me think you actually cared about me when all you were doin was bidin your goddamn time!”

“That’s not, no, nevermind. I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Duck tosses back, “That’s as good as a confession in my book, you creepy, mothman lookin motherfucker,” and Indrid slams the door. 

There’s ten minutes of hurried, angry movement in the rest of the apartment, and then the front door bangs shut. 

He cycles through anger (at himself, at Duck, at these obnoxious powers for not helping him prevent the fight), hurt, and numb acceptance that he has blown his oldest, closest friendship to smithereens. 

When he finally calms down enough to think clearly he realizes that, if nothing else, he doesn’t want that to be the last conversation they have before Duck leaves. 

He faceplants onto his bed, pulls out his phone, and types.

Indrid: I’m sorry for losing my temper, and for not telling you the truth sooner. Even though it would have been helpful if you’d been clearer in the past. Can we talk about this tomorrow, and try again?

The answer is immediate.

Duck: Staying with M until we leave. Don’t text me again unless the apartment is on fire.

He stares at the response, then slides the phone under his pillow, presses his face to the mattress, and lays there numbly until he falls asleep.

——————————————————

“Nope, you are not having a sad hook-up on my watch.” Barclay’s tone freezes Indrid in place, and he slumps back down into the booth at the bar. 

Barclay is only a year ahead of him, but at times he reminds Indrid of a mother hen. A very, very large mother hen. 

“I cannot believe I allowed you to drag me out on Homecoming weekend.”

“Indrid, you’ve been miserable for almost two months, and I’m honestly really worried about you. Plus, this place has super cheap, real good appetizers.”

“Thank you for not saying ‘apps.’’ Indrid sips his soda.

“That word is an abomination. And you’re avoiding the actual topic.”

“I destroyed my best friend’s trust in me, and am wallowing here while he cavorts in the rainforest with his girlfriend. I’ll survive, but there’s no rule that says I have to enjoy it.”

Barclay sighs, “Look, if I give you permission to be miserable while you do it, will you come to trivia night with me, Joe, and Jake? Dani’s usually out fourth, but she’s helping Aubrey get her magic show up and ready to open.”

Indrid blows a strand of hair from his face (the black patches are getting worse, he needs to dye it again), “I can mope as much as I want?”

“You can cry into your beer for all I care, as long as you let me buy it.”

Trivia night turns out to be much better than anticipated, though Joe, Barclay’s boyfriend, is terrifying to behold in a battle of information.

Movie goes better, game night even better still, and soon Indrid is hanging out with the others more days than not. He even helps Aubrey design and draw up some last minute posters for her show. 

It’s the morning after opening night (and the following celebration) that his phone alerts him to a new email. The subject simply says “Bug.”

It’s from Duck. 

All it contains is a photo, clearly taken at night on a phone, of a moth with bright pink wings and red eyespots. 

He types, Neat! Then, after a moment, adds What species?

He doesn’t expect a response. But the next day, another email awaits him.

Dr. Graslie (Entomologist here) thinks it’s Leucanella apollinairei. Here’s someone more familiar

This picture is of a small crustacean. Indrid smiles; it’s a crawdad. 

He replies Careful, maybe it followed you all the way from Kepler. Seen anything else interesting?

This time he waits two days for a response, but it opens with, sorry, internet is real spotty. Big shock, I know. 

This is followed by two paragraphs describing trees. Indrid has never been so happy to hear about root systems. 

Soon Duck is emailing him whenever he can. At first, it’s only about the wildlife, the field work he’s doing, and the terror of trying to practice hygiene in the middle of a rainforest. Slowly, other details appear; the things he’s homesick for, the ways in which he and Minerva are starting to grate at each other (you’d think being in the middle of nowhere’d get you some peace and quiet. Nope). 

Indrid responds with updates from school, pictures of the outings he and the others go on, news about the promo art several places in town have hired him to do after seeing the posters for Aubrey’s act. Says he hopes Minerva and Duck are able to work things out. 

Winter break comes sooner than seems possible, and he assumes the next time he sees Duck will be when they’re home visiting their folks. 

Which is why, when he’s sitting at home reading after his last final, the door opening alarms him (Dani has already moved out). That is, until he glimpses the future.

“Duck?” He calls softly.

His friend appears in the doorway, luggage left behind him in the entryway. 

“Hey, ‘Drid.”

“I, ah, assumed you’d be staying with Minerva until you could officially move out.”

Duck shakes his head, “I ain’t movin anywhere. Unless you want me to.”

“No.” Indrid fidgets with the agate, tucked safely in the pocket of his sweatpants. 

“We, uh, we broke up. Minerva and me. It was, uh, mutual, though she was the one to pull the trigger, so to speak. Just found there were some things we didn’t agree on. Weren’t compatible on neither.”

“I’m sorry.”

Duck snorts what’s almost a laugh.

“I mean it.” He stands, voices earnest and gentle, “I know you were happy with her, and the relationship meant a lot to you.”

“Yeah” Duck sounds tired, “It did. But it turns out another one meant more.”

Indrid stops moving. Also, possibly, breathing. 

“I…well, I sent you that first email instead of apologizin because I was still kinda hurt, but I realized I missed you. I didn’t want you gone from my life. And the longer I was gone, the more times I turned around wanting to tell you somethin and was sad you weren’t there, got excited at the thought of showin you somethin or sending you pictures, I realized I did plenty to fuck things up. And that’s before we get to the fact I was dreamin about you most nights.”

Duck steps awkwardly forward, until they’re toe to toe, “I missed you, ‘Drid. So fuckin much. And I’m sorry for the things I said durin the fight.”

“As am I. I ought to have thought how my confession would appear to you. I’m sorry I did not.”

“I guess, what I’m tryin to say is I feel like a real dipshit for havin to go halfway across the globe to realize what I really want.”

“And what do you want, Duck?”

Duck cups his cheeks, and then Indrid is tipping forward, into a kiss he’s dreamed of for years. His arms close around Duck’s shoulders, his lips taste chapstick and cold night air. He pulls away to breathe and gets only an instant to do so, Duck chasing his mouth for kiss after kiss, his eagerness sending them tripping onto the bed. 

Indrid lands on top of Duck, hears him whimper when his name leaves Indrid’s lips.

“‘Drid, ‘Drid, please-”

“Yes” He kisses his cheek, “whatever it is, the answer is yes.”

Duck giggles into his neck, “You got no idea how bad I wanna make a goof on that. But, fuck, ‘Drid, I can’t, all I want is you.”

“Likewise.” He purrs, hooking Ducks leg around his own, nuzzling up his neck before attacking his lips with kisses. 

“That, that a rock in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” Duck tugs on his lower lip.

“Both. See?” He produces the agate, holds it where Duck can get a look at it.

“Holy shit, is that the one I gave you a million years ago?”

“Indeed. It became a sort of grounding object, because it was pleasant to touch and reminded me of you. Later it morphed into a sort of good luck charm.”

Duck closes Indrid’s fist around the rock and kisses it, grins, “There, now it’s twice as lucky.”

Indrid holds him close, basks in the love radiating from him as he murmurs, “It’s not the luckiest thing in the room, though. That honor, I believe, belongs to you and I.”

#Indruck #indrid cold/duck newton #reader request #college au #duck x indrid

[tothedarkdarkseas]

2Doc Week 2019, 6/6: Birthday

Really wanted to contribute something before the week was over and scrambled to put this together! This is a little day 5, but mostly day 6. Apologies for being a bit short and probably shaky quality! And apologies for… not breaking canon exactly, but bending it. (This assumes that the car from Saturnz Barz was transported back to London before Murdoc’s incarceration, which seems like more effort than they’d probably make.)

Warnings: Smokes ‘n swears, and one UK-specific traveller slur. Moderate angst, but by my standards I’d say this is actually pretty tender.

AO3 Link

Everybody cool down, ev—

Pause. Select channel 3, playback 80%.

—rybody see yourself. Everybody on time, on t—

Pause. 78%.

Murdoc’s sat at the near-buckling desk in his bedroom, overloaded with sound equipment and empty cans, papers and postage cluttered under his laptop. The corkboard hanging in front is stuffed to capacity, with the overflow beginning to pour from the walls to the desk to the floor. It’s not a proper studio, not even close, but it’s got what he needs for now: a mixer open with the recent touring tracklist queued up. He slows the bass track, clips notes, tries to match Ace’s recording more to his own pacing and it just doesn’t work. Accounting for his style throws everyone else’s rhythm off; he’d heard it in every city for that last leg and he hears it now. His mouth sinks at the edges as he bumps it down and plays it again.

There’s an unsubtle shuffling behind him, has been for a minute or two, but he doesn’t bother turning to greet Stuart. He can feel him idling in the doorway and reckons that’s on purpose. It’s gone on past seven now with no “best wishes” or formalities, and Murdoc thinks he’d do well to keep skirting it ‘til midnight. He doesn’t exactly want a conversation, not about them, not today. He doesn’t want a pardon for the day’s sake, doesn’t want an obligation to it from Stu.

He doesn’t really want a birthday.

Stu’s hands fall on his shoulders, almost big enough for the tips of his outstretched fingers to meet over Murdoc’s sternum. His breath is hot and foul against the side of his face.

“Hey.” The stink of sweat is practically steaming off him, and Murdoc’s throat tightens. “Got you something.”

He smirks as he leans his head further on his shoulder, reveling in that awful balmy feeling of skin on sweat-slick skin. “You can leave it in the back.”

Stu huffs a nasally laugh right in his ear and pushes off him, muttering something under his breath. Turning to face him properly, Murdoc notes his reddish face and neck, his unwashed hair, his white tank gone yellow around the edges and stained, overwide jeans.

“Look at you. Is your prezzy coming in my room at night good an' dirty?” He lets his mouth hang open just enough to see him tongue at the back of his teeth in consideration. “S’not the worst you could do.”

Stu cranes his neck and juts his jaw forward, clearly fancying himself a real stud. “I’ve been working on your caddy.”

Murdoc’s brow tics as he pulls a cigarette from the pack on his desk and lights it, his eyes still stuck on the discolored spots beneath Stu’s bony collar.

“Pikey drove up in a brand new Cadillac?”

“Yeah, balls to you,” he quotes back. “Can’t really leave it to sit pretty this long without some engine problems. I cleared out the coolants and the oil, checked the spark plugs, swapped out the coils for smoother suspension in the rear.”

“Mm, now say you stuck your fingers in the tailpipe,” Murdoc mutters around his cigarette.

Stu grins. “You’ve got a little corrosion on one of the belts. I’ll have to fetch another in the morning, I haven’t got a replacement.”

He doesn’t entirely understand the point of this, hasn’t got much need for the car to run in London, but telling his bandmates to fuck off for making efforts is something he’s made efforts himself not to do recently. It’s good that it’s something small and familiar; he’d rather this than something heavier hanging over his head.

“Awful rugged of you. Tell me we’re on the part where I say I’m strapped and ask if there’s any other way I can repay you.”

Stu ignores him and nicks the cigarette from his mouth, then presses it to his own and burns it down, down, down. He stares indiscreetly at his laptop screen and ashes into an old cider can. Murdoc wordlessly minimizes the mixer.

“I’ll fetch a belt in the city tomorrow, was heading out anyway. I rang in an appointment at Snippers ‘round eleven.”

Murdoc pauses his crafty maneuver to grab his fag back and sizes him up. Stu’s shaggy hair hangs nearly to his nape, thinning and unflatteringly wet, the one-time shock of blue faded with sparse silver strands throughout. He’s always been a man who cared for his appearance, but he typically favored looking like he didn’t; either Russ or Stu himself have cut his hair as long as he’s been living outside his mum’s house. He frowns in suspicion.

“Just decided you’d pop in for a trim?”

Stu toes off his trainers, shrugging distractedly. “Yeah.”

“Are you going somewhere?” He hesitates. “Am I going somewhere?”

Stu starts to strip off his jeans, the seams worn to nothing and the waist at least a full size too big, nearly falling to his thighs as soon as the belt’s off. The denim pools on top of his flat socked feet and he keeps silent as he kicks them off, then digs through the wash pile and rummages out a bright red pair of joggers to replace them. Murdoc watches without comment, dread pooling in him. Stuart sits on the bed to keep from toppling as he stretches back past his shoulders and pulls his shirt up over his head, inelegant, the cigarette still dangling between his lips.

He thumbs the damp fabric in his lap, then tosses it aside and sits up a bit taller.

“I don’t know, figured I’d ask first. Maybe somewhere quiet for a bit, somewhere in the countryside. Maybe…” He works his jaw, eyes hooded and downcast, looking at the space between Murdoc’s out-turned ankles more than Murdoc himself. “Maybe someplace in the Cotswolds or somethin’. Or a girlie bar in Soho, topless one. I’d like to look sharp either way.”

Murdoc sits stock-still. He watches Stu smoke and swears he can hear ticking from the space between them.

“…You don’t have to do that.”

“Funny thing about me, I don’t have to do much of anything. ‘Hafta’ wasn’t really the point.”

Murdoc brings a thumb to his lip, tries for indifference as he prods a cracking spot with his nail and makes the split worse. “Can’t imagine there’s much to the synth scene in Gloucestershire.”

“Think I can pull through. It’s not forever, s’just a holiday.”

He fights the urge to look behind him at the corkboard, pinned from corner to corner with tickets and magazine clippings and a single seaside postcard. If he tries he can still remember the shadow of flat palm leaves against a blinding afternoon sky, the taste of rum and seabreeze, the lap of easy waves over soft, warm sand. He remembers the way Stuart laughed, dizzy and near-drowning and too drunk to know it.

But when he looks at it now, that’s not what comes to mind. He thinks of the beach and he hears crashing, and then gunshots, and then nothing. He smells dissolving cellophane and rot, the biting ocean air acrid and chemical and clawing up his nostrils into his brain. He sees pink.

He sees a sprawling, melding, mile-deep labyrinth of pink.

Stu eyes him and takes another pull of smoke.

“You could stand a cut yourself. Your flop’s starting to flip.” He makes a swooping gesture with the cigarette down his forehead.

Murdoc palms his fringe down while he studies Stuart.

“I’m about 20 years past my sell by date, s’not gonna make a difference—”

“Well I’m not,” Stu interrupts. “I’m not, alright? Halfway isn’t the ‘too late’ mark for me.”

For all his supposed cool, Murdoc can’t help but see the exhausted folds above and below his eyes and the red lines lingering across his forehead.

“The fuck’s that even mean, why’m I counting your marks?”

“It means it’s not about you.”

“On my birthday, my present’s not about me? It’s about you?” He almost laughs despite himself. “Now that sounds more like you, Stuart.”

“Your present was me fixing the bloody car you left rusting while you were banged up. The holiday’d be for me.” He’s as near to a hiss as the smoke will let him go.

Murdoc tries to keep straight-faced as he swallows, feeling his tongue and all his excuses too acutely. “Why?”

“Because it’s not staring at another pissing wall in another pissing studio in another pissing country, it’s… you know, it’s quaint. It’s just picturesque bollocks and I really shouldn’t have to explain why regular people might enjoy that.”

“Fuck’re you even saying, Stu? Had a poor time out in Cali, so we should just… what? Run off in a sodding lobby painting? I don’t—” his stomach twists, and he tilts his head nearer to the board. “C’mon. I don’t get that.”

“And I don’t get that,” Stu replies, eyeing the postcard without pretense. “If it makes it easier, I don’t bloody well care whether you’re up at night; point is that I didn’t get to keep it. You owe me that much.”

He sounds harsh, but he doesn’t look it. He just looks tired. Stu leans over and stubs the already burnt-out cigarette on the rug. He rubs his hands over his face, scrubs his dirty fingers against his eyelids and the bridge of his nose.

“M’sorry. It’s—it’s been a long year for me too, Murdoc.”

“Thought you said Hollywood was alright,” he says, knowing it doesn’t help.

Stuart runs his knobby fingers through his hair. Murdoc knows he tries to hide it by keeping his bangs long and scattered, but pushed back like this, it’s clear to see how far his hairline’s receded. Slick with sweat and with grime, it looks like his hair’s being weighted down, just slipping further back on his skull so the ends can pool at his nape. He’s still handsome, of course—still something half-divine in Murdoc’s eyes—but he’s looking his age now.

“A trim would do you good,” Murdoc offers quietly.

“Yeah. I think it would.” He hasn’t got the energy to pull a face, to look like anything but what he is. “I think it might do you good too.”

Murdoc drops his head forward and swipes at his upper lip, back throbbing from his confinement at this desk. He wants to do better this time, but it’s clearer to him than anyone how wrongly the better Murdoc fits with what Stu’s made.

He feels how Stu’s worn eyes stay on him.

“Look, this doesn’t have to mean anythin’ with bells and whistles. It just means I’d like to take a drive and I’d like to stand on a hill and drink whatever shite they peddle, fucking toffee ale or summin'. I’d like to have a different sort of day.”

“It means you want to go inland,” he murmurs like he’s got a right to think it.

Stuart exhales loudly, his already sunken chest deflating further.

“It means I know that you…” Murdoc glances up to catch how he looks at him with a muddled sorriness, an acknowledgment without a reward. “It means I know. And it means the knowing’s fine, alright? I’d just like to see something different. Or at the very least I’d like to see some tits.”

“Go back to the mechanic talk and you can see some right now.” They share a small smile. Murdoc wets his lips, tries to stay present. “Y’really think she’s up for a drive? Car’s older than I am.”

“You doubting these hands?” He spreads them wide and gives his knuckles a cheeky crack, then jokingly winces.

“Only entirely.”

Stu braces against his knees and lumbers to his feet, gaze never wavering as he crosses the distance to Murdoc. He stands in front of him, all peaks and angles and towering shapes, sweat dried to his skin. He just watches him, no posing and no pleading, just stays there with his bare torso level to the other’s face.

After a moment Murdoc reaches out to twist his fingers in his waistband, bunching the red between his wrists and pulling him close. Stu lifts a hand to the back of his head to grab a handful of thick, choppy hair and crane his neck back. He stares at Murdoc’s chin against his navel for another beat before bending, kissing Murdoc hard and brief.

Their hands keep their place after they separate.

Every word that occurs to him to say feels like running, or wallowing, or something devaluing to what Stu’s willing to let them be. It all just feels too big—feels like more than it needs to be, like it makes it matter less.

“Yeah,” is the best he can manage.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

#2doc #2docweek #2docweek2019 #niccalpot #ficpost

[arthurmango]

told u i'd write this >:)

i love it so much. i already love this kid. Arthur? Being a dad? Sign me the fuck up.

based off this post by @reddeaddenial ty for letting me write it!!

"Alright, kid," Arthur Morgan sighs, leading the 9-year-old with one hand and his horse with the other. He was muddy and tired, having saved this child from some of the locals after he had been caught stealing from the general store. Never did he anticipate beating a man over a loaf of bread.

"You get yourself in there and stay warm, alright? Make sure to wait for your Mama." The child is quiet. He gently removes his hand from Arthur's cautious grip and stands on the porch of the Valentine Sherriff's Office. His wavy blonde hair partly shielding his sad blue eyes.

Great. Now Arthur felt like an asshole. More than usual this time.

"You'll be alright, I promise." Arthur ensures as he climbs atop his saddle, adjusting his weight for comfort. "See you later, kid."

His ride back to the camp is quiet. He takes in the scenery; the birds chirping, the deer prancing about, the god-rays through the pinetrees. He was mentally locking this image in his mind for later, to draw when he was bored, or when he couldn't sleep, or both.

As he approached the camp, he spotted Bill, taking his shift for guard duty.

"Who's there?" Bill shouts.

"It's Arthur, dumbass."

"Welcome ba-....who's that you got behind you?"

Arthur freezes and doesn't dare turn. His first instinct is to reach for his sawed-off shotgun. He exchanged a glance with Bill, who was just as suprised...until-

"This your home, Mister? You live out in the woods?"

Goddammit.

"Kid-?! Didn't I-"

"Yeah, Mister, but it got real lonely and I didn't wanna wait!"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, then rolled them promptly as he slid off his saddle. He gave his horse a pat on it's rear in thanks, then turned his attention to the boy in front of him who fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt. He glances back at Bill who watches with a grin, enjoying every minute of this dilemma.

"Follow me." Arthur takes his horse's reins again, leading it to pasture with the others. Upon turning around, the boy had remained where he stood.

"C'mere, kid!"

The kid didn't respond.

Arthur put his hands on his hips, then sighs once again. He walks over, picking up the child with one arm. The kid is horizontal through his arm, holding him against his hip. "Abigail!"

"What is it-" Abigail pauses, looking at Arthur. "My," she smiles as the boy is put to his feet, huddling close to Arthur's legs shyly. Abigail bends to his level with a gentle smile, "what's your name, darlin'?"

His puppy-dog eyes look up to Arthur as if to ask permission to speak, then to Abigail. "James," he whispers.

"James?" Abigail reiterates. "That's a nice name. I'm Abigail, and this here is Jack," she gestures to her son, and he waves. "Where did you come from? Don't you have parents?"

James shakes his head, inching closer to Arthur.

Abigail stands, giving Arthur a look. She begins to speak, until Hosea greets the two.

"Well, what do we have here?" The huckster chuckles, kneeling to the boy. "Where'd you find him, Arthur?"

"He found me, more or less," Arthur grumbles. "He was caught takin' bread from the stands in the general store in Valentine. Some feller tried to give him a hard time, so I defended him and I thought I dropped him off at the Sheriff's Office. I guess he followed me here. Didn't even notice."

"Quiet thing he is, isn't he?" Hosea gives James a warm smile. "Have you eaten, son?"

"No sir," James replies meekly, "I haven't."

"Arthur, would you show him to Mr. Pearson for a nice supper? Mrs. Grimshaw-"

"I'm already working on it!" Susan replies hastily, adding an extra blanket to Arthur's tent.

"Hosea, I don't-"

"You can't just take him back, Arthur." Hosea replies quietly, "he followed you here, almost like a lost puppy, and like a puppy, he's gonna be your responsibility, lest the ladies get to him first. He's a handsome young man."

Arthur mumbles under his breath, knowing Hosea was right. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he left James alone. In a few ways, James reminded him of his own son, Issac. Maybe, he felt, maybe this could make things right. Maybe this could fill that aching, emptiness and loneliness he's felt for so long. The only downside is that he has another thing to worry about, another, innocent child to shield from the horrors of his life. It's almost, in a way, cruel to keep him around. He deserves better. He doesn't need this life, but what was Arthur to do? Parent the boy, he guesses. Not that he's much of a father in the first place.

Over the next few minutes, the gang meets and greets the new kid. He sits at the card table, eating sheepishly as everyone takes their turns asking him questions, not that he had many answers.

"Give the boy some space!" Dutch commands, tapping the ashes off of his cigar. "Arthur, may I speak with you for a moment? Just a moment."

"Sure," Arthur complies, "I'll be right back, okay?"

He follows Dutch to his tent, where Dutch promptly turns to him, taking a drag off his cigar. "You didn't kidnap nobody's son, didya?"

Arthur squints. "Wh-no! What kinda question is that, Dutch?"

Dutch chuckles, patting Arthur's shoulder, then wiping his hand on Arthur's jacket once he realized that his hand had touched mud, "just makin' sure." He begins to lead Arthur, walking with him. "You couldn't find his folks nowhere?"

"The boy was stealin' bread, Dutch. I think it's safe to say that he has no folks," Arthur replies, thumbing his belt.

"He reminds me a lot of you when you were a boy," Dutch smiles, "he was quiet like you were, too. That is until I broke you outta your shell. I think it'll be good for you take after Hosea and I and teach the boy what he needs to know to survive."

Arthur shrugs. "I was plannin' on it. I'm just worried that....I don't know....maybe I'm not cut out for this."

"Sure ya are!" Dutch turns to Arthur, halting their walk. "It'll be good for you to have somethin' to do other than draw in that journal all day."

Arthur shakes his head, and Dutch winks, putting his cigar back between his lips.

Arthur meets back with the boy, where Charles had taken his spot. Beside Charles was Javier and Sean.

"You sure this lad ain't yours, Arthur?" Sean laughs. "Looks a helluva lot like ya!"

Arthur doesn't bother, and sits down across from Charles beside James. He seemed a little more open. He assumed it was from Charles' calming demeanor....or Sean's hyperactive one.

"He's a smart kid, Arthur. Very headstrong." Charles adds in. "He says he wants to be a hunter when he grows up. You and I should take him hunting sometime to start him off."

"You ever hunted before, James?" Arthur asks, not sure how to level his voice to keep from starling the child.

"Once, with my Pa." James moves his spoon throughout his stew absentmindedly. "Pa left when Mama got sick, and one day she went to sleep and wouldn't wake up. After she went to heaven, I've been alone, kinda."

Arthur, Sean, Javier and Charles exchange glances, feeling a variation of that pain.

"Well, you've got all the Aunts and Uncles you could ever want!" Javier grins, "you've got food, a place to sleep, and all the protection you'll ever need."

"And maybe tomorrow mornin' I could take you to Saint Denis and get ya somethin' real nice to wear, to getcha outta those old clothes."

James finally begins to smile. It adds so much to his fair complexion. "Is it pretty, Saint Denis? Just like on the postcards?"

"Just like on the postcards! Maybe even prettier." Arthur smiles, too. A rare smile hardly shown to the world. It was genuine.

"You've got a real hardworkin' Pa now, lad!" Sean smirks as Arthur eyes him. "This man is as stubborn as a bull, but make no mistake, he'll getcha anything ye ask for as long as ya can get passed that rough outer layer a'his."

"I think he's really nice," James looks down to his food, then back up to Arthur. "Scary at first, but he saved me! So that makes him my Guardian Angel, just like Mama used to say."

Arthur felt a sort of relief. This responsibility was immense, but he couldn't help himself. He was already starting to get attached to the child.

"Why don't you go with Uncle Charles and meet everyone else, huh? I should probably get cleaned up. I'm still covered in mud." Arthur remains in his seat as James follows his new Uncles, sightseeing throughout the camp. Maybe this is his second chance to actually be a father. Sure, he was afraid. He was afraid for what was to come. He was afraid that he might not be the father he hopes he is. He sure as hell won't turn out like John, that's for sure.

#rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan #rdr #rdr2 headcanons #red dead redemption #rdr fic #rdr2 fic #rdr fanfiction #rdr2 fanfiction #writing #sean mcguire #charles smith #javier escuella #dutch van der linde #abigail marston #abigail roberts #hosea matthews #bill williamson #'sorry for the shade at the end lmao' #'i love john i swear'

[multi-fandom-dreams]

Chocolate - Steve Randle - The Outsiders

Status: Requested 

Word Count: 1124

Warnings: Parental neglect?

Music Suggestion: Should I Stay Or Should I Go - The Clash

“Hey! (Y/N)! You coming out tonight?” Ponyboy shouted to you as you began your walk home from school. 

“I don’t think that’s too hot of an idea.” You responded, shuffling the books which were threatening to full out of your arms. When was your mum going to get you a new bag? 

“Oh c’mon (Y/N)! I promise it won’t end up like last time!” Ponyboy wined next to you, tripping over a lurking rock on the path. 

“What, me having to talk you out of an ass whopping from Darry? Yeah, no thanks Pony. Oh, and you didn’t send me a postcard.” You bit your lip trying not to smile at his perplexed look. 

“Oh - uh - Sorry...What?” The words came tumbling out of his mouth as his eyebrows became more knotted together. 

“Didn’t you just have a trip a few moments ago?” You teased him.

“No, I fell over a rock.” He answered as if you were being stupid.

“You know Pony, you ain’t too smart.” You laughed as you turned away from him to walk down your street.  

As you looked back over your shoulder, you saw that he was still putting the pieces together about the joke you had just told. 

“HEY! YOU AIN’T TOO FUNNY EITHER!” He yelled seconds after you had walked away.

Sweet, Sweet Pony. 

---

You were a couple of houses down from your house when you heard the revving of your dads car. Please, not tonight. 

You ran forward, holding your books tightly to your chest as you tried to catch your dad before he left. 

Too late.

“DAD!” You screamed as he went flying past and down the lane. 

You swiftly span round to see your mother screaming profanities at the top of her lungs. “Ma? What in the hell are you doing?” You asked her, anger lingering in your tone as you saw some of your neighbours sticking their heads out of windows.

“GET YOUR ASS IN HERE!” She ordered you, not stopping the screen door from hitting her on the ass as she stormed back in. 

Steading your breaths and walking over into your house, you saw that it was a mess. Your parents had clearly been fighting again. 

“Ma? What happened this time?” You questioned her, bending down to pick up a broken picture frame. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, girl. Don’t act as though you’re innocent in this. Always making your dad mad, always causing problems. He left because we weren’t good enough.” She snarled in response, sitting down on the dusty sofa. 

Frustration boiling through your veins, you dropped your things and ran out of the house with only one destination on your mind. 

---

“Pony, Sodapop, Darry! You in?” You shouted into the living room as you opened the door.

“It’s Two-bit.” “And Steve!” 

Sighing you pushed your way in and slinked over to the kitchen. “The hell are you too doing?” You suspiciously said, eyeing them over as they crowded round the counter. 

“Nothing.” Steve responded with his mouth full. 

“Well if you’re eating somethin’, give me some.” As you were reaching over to get a piece, Steve grabbed your arm. “Na-a. None for you sweet cheeks.” 

You gave him a look as if to say ‘You serious?’ He smirked in response, his hand still lingering on your arm.

“Well damn, if I didn’t know any better I’d say you too were into each other.” Two-bit broke the silence between you and Steve.

“Well damn, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that you had the appetite of a pig that ain’t been fed in months.” You retorted, reaching over for the piece of chocolate cake that Two-bit was shovelling into his mouth by the second. 

“(Y/N)?” Sodapop called out from the corridor.

“What’s up, Popsie?” You had given him that nickname since you’d first met him eleven years ago. You thought his name was funny so you renamed him. 

“When you gonna stop calling me that?” He groaned. He never liked the nickname.

“When you stop greasing your hair.” You contradicted, licking the icing off your finger. 

Hearing a sigh on the part of Sodapop, you made your way over to hear what he wanted. 

Of course he had to be shirtless. “Which one?” He quizzed you, holding up to flannels that looked the exact same. 

“Hell, as if I know.” You laughed, singling to the clothes you were wearing (scruffy and old blue jeans, falling apart white converse, topped with a ripped white shirt and a popped collared faux leather jacket).

“Ah c’mon, it ain’t that bad.” Steve said from behind you as he swung his arm over your shoulder. You noticed that his shirt was undone.

“Ya ma still ain’t bought you no new clothes?” Two-bit asked since he was the one you often borrowed clothes from.

“Does it look like it?” You joked back, making it clear that the bottom of your shoe was peeling off. 

You still hadn’t moved Steve’s arm from your shoulder. You had subconsciously registered that he was slowing moving his fingers along your shoulder. 

Two-bit glanced to Sodapop and he gave an uncomfortable look back.

“I ain’t lookin’ for no sympathy so don’t be giving me none.” You were rather offended by the act. 

Two-bit put his arms up in surrender and Sodapop just smirked. “The hell are you smirking at.”  You grunted at him. 

“Nothing, just the fact that you still got a temper as strong as ever.” Sodapop winked as he finished his sentence. Steve, however, tensed. 

“What you tensing at?” You spat out without even thinking. 

Steve looked taken back at first, looked over at Sodapop who you could see had eyes filled with cheekiness. ‘Go for it,’ he mouthed.

“Dangit! I love you okay!” 

The words took you by surprise. 

“W-what?”

“You heard me. Ain’t it obvious.” He swung his arm off of you as if he was directing at something. 

You paused for a moment before jumping up at him, swinging your arms around his neck so that he was the same height as you before pulling him into the most passionate kiss you could pull off. Damn, he tasted like chocolate. 

“Well, would you look at that. I didn’t know they had it in them.” Two-bit giggled.

A quick smacking sound and a yelp informed you that Sodapop had punished Two-bit for ruining the moment. 

As you and Steve both pulled back with humungous grins, you saw Sodapop smiling while Two-bit winced as he rubbed his neck and glared at Sodapop.

You burst out laughing as Steve jumped back and let out a yell of excitement, chocolate now smudged over his mouth and quite possibly yours. 

Dang, you felt good. 

----------

ehhhhhhh I don’t know if this is good @paigeinastory 

I hope you liked it anyway :) 

#the outsiders #outsiders #the outsiders imagines #the outsiders imagine #the outsiders gif #outsiders gif #steve randle #steve randle imagine #steve randle x reader #steve randle gif #randle #steve #twobit #twobit mathews #sodapop curtis #soda #sodapop #pony #ponyboy curtis #boy #steve randle imagines

[chac-ozai]

You ain’t free unless you’ve got nothing left to lose.

Some art accompanying my first Ficlet (chapter 1) of Chac the Overboss and Gage, his partner. Much like a couple of raiders, this fic is full of bad language and violence and grossness.>>

M!SS/Porter Gage, mildly nsfw. 

"This is perfect. Almost looks as good as it did in the postcards." The Overboss said, gleefully holding up a faded image of a forest-side cabin in a postcard. He held it up next to the shambles that remained of it over 200 years later, just a few walls and a crumbling roof dangling between them. 

"Yeah-huh. Perfect." Gage repeated him, smiling at the thought of throwing down their travel packs and taking a load off for the night. There was a few cans of cram with his name on it and the air smelled strange, almost good, being this far away from Nuka Town's deathly stench. His Overboss was a real wiz at getting fires going, all he needed was a few pieces of the fallen walls, some dried leaves and a fast bullet to get a nice little blaze started. His Overboss, who refused to give him any name other than "Chac" (Kind of a stupid sounding name, but whatever) had been overly pleasant since they'd gotten away from East Boston. 

"Look at you, havin' a good time." Gage sits back, watching his unusual boss dancing in place while he stabbed open some cans of food and ate them on the spot. 

"Owww~ I feel good! da na na na na na na~" Chac sang, gravy dripping under his chin before spitting out what looked like fossilized food into the fire with a sizzle. Gage loved to watch him, he was real funny when he was so full of life like this, it's been a while since he even seen the guy crack a smile. 

"You sure you ain't on somethin', boss? Y'been bouncin' off the damn walls for the past hour now." Gage found it hard to keep up with him sometimes, the guy just looked so high on life right now. 

"Don't like it, huh?" Chac threw his can into the fire, shrugging off his jacket and using it to form a cushion for where he planned on sitting. 

"Nah, It's friggin' great. I like seein' ya happy. Makes me happy." Gage refuted him, in the solitude and dark like this, far away from everyone, he suddenly wanted to be close to him. 

"Well look at us, just two happy guys having a little camp-out." Chac squatted next to the fire and took a big swig of water, warming his tattooed hands by the growing blaze.  

Gage inched up to him and followed suit, feeling a creaking in his aging knees. He stole the metal bottle from his Overboss and gladly shared the drink with him, loving this moment but feeling unsure of something- why was the guy so happy go lucky all of a sudden? Earlier today as they left Nuka World he was cranky at best, irritable and barely anything to talk to. 

"Glad you joined me, Gorgeous." Chac reached out and patted Gage's tan arm, the guy shooting him a testy glance. He hadn't heard that one in a while, either. "What, done with callin' me PG?" Gage falls back on his ass and gets comfortable next to him. Firelight smoothed out all the weathering of Gage's face, illuminated the lines of age around his eyes and mouth and made him look good. Real good. 

"Mmhm, Nothing PG about what I'm thinking, the way you look right now." his Overboss was a real flirt, and Gage actually felt bashful at all this talk; he never did get used to it. The joke flew over his head-

"No idea what yer sayin, but I'll take it." Gage relaxed as he listened to his Overboss' pleased humming. He had to ask him though, why?

"Really, Boss. What made you so perky all of a sudden?" 

"Food Poisoning, maybe." He lies, and Gage just scoffs.

"I don't think that's what it is. C'mon, Boss. What are you on right now?"

"Ugh, i think it is food poisoning." He repeats himself, holding his stomach. Gage started to get irritated, wondering maybe the guy was huffing Jet when he had his back turned- "Oh god." Chac gurgled, lifting up from his seat and ripping ass so loud it made Gage leap up and crawl away from him-.

"Ah fer fuck's sake, Boss! I had my damn mouth open." His partner was getting cranky, and likewise the boss has had enough of the questioning, something Gage had been doing more often lately.

"I'm glad that's over." Chac states, sitting back down and wrapping his arms around his knees, closing himself off from any more questions. But still, his partner persisted-

"I'm being serious right now. Seems like every time we get the heck away from Nuka World, yer a different guy, boss. Fuck, I can scarcely even look at'cha when we're at the park, like yer gunna fuckin' bite my head off." "It aint you, Gage. It never is you, and I'm not mad now so why you gotta keep bringing it up?" His overboss took a hunk of ancient plywood and lugged it onto the fire, cinders skittering to the tips of Gage's shoes.

"Cuz it's annoyin' as shit, man! I don't care if it ain't me!" Gage plopped himself down well out of arms reach from Chac, lighting up a stale cigarette and merely holding it, concentrating his blinded gaze on the smoke. "It might as well be me, because I'm the first fuckin' person who gets your rotten attitude. But look at you, out here, bein' all sweet and shit. I don't get you." Gage huffed harshly, taking a drag of his smoke and holding it tight inside his chest. The drug may have been old, but it worked.

Chac merely ignored him for the moment, deep in thought. This has been a long time coming, this talk. Gage was no good at it, feelings, but lately he'd been the one needing to bring it up more since shit got too much at Nuka World. The real reason why he was so happy right now? Because he wasn't at Nuka World. 

"Fine then, don't answer me." Gage spat on the fire, revolted. He didn't want to look at his Overboss and that deadpan look he got on his face now. Shaking his head in disappointment, the older raider chose to keep quiet.

"..." Chac toed a piece of rubble to form a better guard between him and the flame. He watched Gage from across the fire, how he pulled off his armor and his eyepatch, revealing the still-living but blind eye underneath. Thoughts flashed before his mind of a life abandoning Porter, leaving him with Nuka World in the dust. The pain alone that creeped inside him was just enough to get him to talk.

"I get that way because running Nuka World is a fucking nightmare, Gage." Chac let it out, and it was true. Porter looked at him in shock, as if he himself wasn't sharing the same amount of stress over it these days. "Every day some new bullshit comes up. The power struggles, the bootlicking, the assassins? It's a fucking miserable shit hole back there, and you know it." 

"What are you trying to say, Boss? You don't got the stomach for it anymore?" Gage let the cigarette burn to the filter, crushing it under his heel and immediately lighting a new one. His heart was in his guts right now.

"You know what I'm trying to say." Chac starts-

"No, I don't. Please, enlighten me." Gage retorts, clearly pissed off. Chac could see the flash of his gold teeth as he worried his lip, something he learned Gage was prone to do when he was stressed.

"I'm saying that Nuka World is a fucking prison." 

Nothing was said, a painful sort of silence above the crackling wood. 

"...But how? I know the Raiders are pissin' you off, but look, boss, you got the entire park running. We're gunna own the commonwealth, and you wanna say it's a friggin' prison?" 

"I want my freedom back." Chac states, Gage doing a doubletake- freedom? How could losing everything be..

"How could losing it all be freedom to you?" Gage leans in, something inside him breaking at the idea of his Overboss wanting to leave-

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Chac pushed himself up to stand, crossing his arms defiantly. Gage found himself once again looking up at him, caught in a flurry of confusion. What he said struck Gage deep...freedom. Nothing holding him down. 

"-And I can't think of myself as free until I don't have to worry about the next time Mason will threaten to tar and feather me." He thought, adding - "Or Nisha wanting to skin me and wear my body as a man suit. Shit like that, this dread, it's a prison. So if you want to know why I'm nice when I'm not in Nuka Town, well, there's your answer." 

"You can't leave. Fuck em up if you have to, but don't leave. This entire operation runs on you." Gage watched him like a hawk, refusing to stand and face him eye to eye on this.

"It's collapsing from the bottom up. It's a pipe dream, Gage. I can leave, but the real question is, can you leave Nuka World?"

He had it. Gage shot up from his seat and got in his overbosses' face, scant inches taller than him "The hell you just say to me? You askin' me to drop everything I've worked for, for the past 4 fuckin' years and just go fuck myself like I ain't poured my whole life into it?" 

Chac remained calm, hands at his sides. He knew Gage would be hurt, I mean, why wouldn't he be? 

"Yeah. I expect you to. Cuz' you're smart.You aren't willing to die for a lost cause." 

Gage reeled back and slugged his Overboss in the face so hard the both of them fell. His Overboss' dreads threatened to light on fire as they scrambled on the ground beside it, Gage climbing on top of Chac and winding up his fist for another haymaker-

"Burn in hell!" He screams, his voice harsh with emotions he so often hid. "You fuckin' asshole!" He slugged Chac again, blood on his knuckles and on the gravel below. All the times he hit his boss then, it did nothing to quell the truth that the Nuka World dream was crumbling. He was about to strike Chac again before the roof of their ramshackle hideout began to drop dust on them from above. Gypsum peppered Gage's mohawk and Chac's bloodied face, his Overboss looking up at his partner.

"...You can't leave me." Gage repeated himself, panting hard. Chac used that time to throw off the Southerner, scuttling back until as soon as their fight started, it was over. 

"I never said anything about leaving you." Chac panted, wiping blood off his face and onto his jeans "When shit hits the fan, and it will, I expect you to leave with me. With our heads intact." 

Gage shook his head, refusing to believe this. Partners for a year... more than partners, and then this? Gage didn't want whatever life awaited without his overboss. It'd be shit. Everything would go to shit. 

"I gotta get the fuck away from you. Don't follow me." Porter says, flatly. He picks up his flashlight and gun, and walks out into the wastes. Chac's eyes followed him until there was nothing but darkness, and chose to sit flush against the wall. If Gage needed space, let him have it. 

Gage stomped through the wasted wilderness for what felt like only a few moments. He came to a road overlooking a cliff, and saw Diamond City's dazzling lights far in the distance. Perching his ass on a traffic barrier, he let his anger consume him. What the fuck was he going to do about this? Nuka World wasn't doing good, yeah, He would admit that...but the boss running out on them? Might as well nuke the place. Gage felt betrayed in the worst possible way. 

"Gunna fuckin' kill him." He whispers to himself, forgetting his smokes back at camp. What he said resounded in his head. Kill him....That's what Gage promised himself he'd do if the Overboss didn't work out, right? Just fuckin..kill him? Gage looked at the gun in his trembling hands and bit his lip hard. He had to kill him. Chac was the overboss, there wasn't any other that would hold a candle to him. 

Furious, heartbroken, Gage knew this is what he had to do.

#my gay art #Porter gage #M!ss #fo4 #Porter #Gage #fanart #fanfiction #M!SS/Porter Gage

[thetfchangingroom]

PROLOGUE: The Guys Arrive at The Ranch

“Are we there yet?” Max felt like a five year old again. He knew letting Roy drive was a bad idea. This was the guy who got lost driving back to their apartment from campus on three separate occasions.

But Roy smiled with lose confidence. “Relax man, my parents would take me up here every spring break. I know where it’s at.”

“Really?” said Rich from the back seat, “sure you don’t want me to map it?” He was on his phone, as per usual. Probably texting his girlfriend, Max thought. He wasn’t going to be the first to admit that he had a crush on Rich. From the moment he walked into his dorm room freshman year, a duffle bag thrown around his shoulder and a single pillow stuffed under his arm, Max felt something special towards Rich, casually attractive, impossibly kind and unbearably straight.

There was a crunching sound that drew everyone’s attention to the back. “Enjoying yourself there Lloyd?” asked Roy. Lloyd, overweight and snarkier than all three of them combined, merely scoffed.

“We’re lost,” he said.

“C’mon,” Roy tried to defend himself. He was insufferable at times, but he was always there for support. He was the “glue” so to speak, that kept the four of them together through four tumultuous years of college. He was the one who had the idea to spend their last spring break at his parent’s old getaway out in the country.

And now, he had gotten them lost.

“We should pull over,” Max suggested, “ask for directions.” He fancied himself a pragmatist. He’d always stood out from the three boys in that he didn’t stand out. He wasn’t optimistic like Roy, large like Lloyd, or attractive like Rich. He was something of an equalizer, a point of balance. When no one could agree on anything, they usually came to Max.

Lloyd raised his hand. “I second that idea.” Max caught a glimpse of Rich’s hand flying up, but he said nothing. What could be so important? he thought to himself. This was their final trip together. Hell, it might even be the last time they would be in the same room together for years. And Rich was just going to spend it talking to his girlfriend?

Roy scoffed. “Pull over where? We’re in the middle of nowhere!” Max hated to admit it, but Roy was right. They’d hid the countryside some three hours ago, and had passed a grand total of four gas stations since. Right now, the planes around them were empty.

Then, as if it were a mirage, a flash appeared on the horizon. Max leaned in closer to see that the flashing was coming from a big metal windmill about a mile down the road. As the car got closer, he could make out the rusty red side of a barn, the long brown stretch of a fence, and a small house.

“How about there?”

Lloyd laughed. “There? Uh-uh man, no way. I’ve seen enough horror movies to know how that turns out.”

“C’mon,” Max protested, “you wouldn’t even have to get out of the car. Roy and I would just step out and ask if we’re on the right road, right?” Roy didn’t respond, but he didn’t disagree either. At this point, it would be stupid not to get some help, and even Roy knew that.

Besides, something was drawing Max to the farm. What was this mysterious Ranch out in the middle of the countryside? Who owned it? How did they not see it earlier?

The car peeled off the main road at a small clump of trees. On they continued for what felt like a much longer distance than how it looked off of the highway. It was as if they were traveling into a different world. And when they emerged from the trees, they were met with a dazzling sight.

It was the kind of ranch you saw in postcards. Mystifyingly perfect, everything baked in gold sunlight, the green of the trees popping against the bright yellow bails of hay and the brown backs of the horses and cows peacefully eating and trotting along the wood fences.

Roy stopped the car. Any apprehension he had felt driving up seemed to have vanished, as did Max. Even Lloyd looked stunned in the back seat. Max turned around at Rich, sure enough, he was looking too.

“What is this place?” Rich asked.

“No idea,” Roy unfastened his seatbelt, “do you think anyone lives here?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Max said, his hand was already on the handle. He needed to get out of that car.

The boys made their way across the yard, admiring the sun and the surroundings as each of them seemed to notice something different. Lloyd, for one, kept looking at the horses. His mom had done horseback riding when he was younger, and he’d forgotten their pure, majestic grace. These horses in particular seemed very well behaved, and Lloyd had half a mind to get up and start riding one of them (though his weight probably wouldn’t have permitted it).

Roy, on the other hand, was conscious of his clothes. He’d always worn shorts and sandals. They were universally comfortable for him, even in cold weather. But now, standing amongst the dirt and the grass, he longed for some long, boot cut jeans, boots maybe, and a different shirt. Maybe then, he’d feel truly at peace.

Rich was looking towards the barn. A question tugged eagerly at his mind: what could be in there? The doors seemed to be shut, all the horses seemed to be out (and as he saw, had their own stable a few dozen yards East). Was it for storing farm equipment? Something else? His curiosity was so great, he pondered wandering over and checking it out as Max asked for directions.

And Max. Max was focusing on Rich, as always. Sweat had started to coat his thick, tan skin, and he sauntered attractively with the weight of his frat boy muscles. His longing towards his roommate had never been this great, and for a moment, he was scared that he might pop a boner right then and there.

But then, a sound. A creak of a door, and all the boys froze dead in their tracks.

“Can I help y’all with somethin’?” The voice, deep and grizzly, came from the patio over by the house. Max turned up to see a large, hairy, muscular man with a cowboy hat and a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off and buttons that didn’t continue past his mid section, leaving his big hairy cleavage exposed to the sun and the air.

Max was at a complete loss for words. He never had a thing for older guys. Never, that was, until right then, staring up at the old cowboy, one hand his his jean pocket and another rubbing his thick black stubble.

Fortunately, Roy jumped in to help. “We were… sorry we didn’t realize… we were lost and…”

“Lost?” the man laughed, “how the hell you get lost? Your phones got maps on them nowadays don’t they?”

“That’s what I said,” Rich mumbled. He and the cowboy shared a laugh. Roy’s face turned cherry red.

“I’m just kiddin’ you. Where y’all headed?”

Roy cleared his throat. “My mom and dad’s cabin. It’s up in Macon County.”

“Macon County?” the man’s look of shock didn’t give them much consolation. “Why that’s still seventy miles East of here!” The group made a collective groan, and Roy looked like he was about to burst.

“Well,” he said, “we should probably get going then.” He said it with an aura of reluctance. None of them particularly wanted to leave, and they they couldn’t explain why.

“Well hold on just a second there,” he said. He walked down the steps from the porch and onto the dry ground. Max could see he was wearing leather cowboy boots. It only made him more hot. “Why don’t y’all come inside for a drink? I’ve got a map there y’all can look at.”

It was the opportunity they all desired. For a second, even Rich forgot about the internet on his phone. All that mattered was that now they had an excuse to stay, to explore. Even if just for a few minutes.

Inside, the man’s house was abnormally, clean. Everything from the end tables to the cattle harding books on the shelves seems perfectly placed, as if he had been expecting company.

“We never got your name,” Max said, staring at a painted picture of a field on the wall. The suction sound of a fridge opening drew his attention to the kitchen, where the man was getting beers for all the boys.

“Name’s Beck. I’ve been living on this ranch since I was about your age.”

“What do you… do, here?” Lloyd asked awkwardly. It should have seemed obvious, and yet the purpose of the ranch still ominously evaded their imaginations.

Beck laughed. “Lets just say I deal in ‘meat.’” It was a cryptic but satisfying answer, and it was enough to get the four guys to sit down around the dinning room table as Beck popped open the bottle caps with his base hands.

“Those twist offs?” Rich asked.

He shook his head. “Nah, it’s an old trick my partner taught me.”

“Partner?”

“Yeah, Thom. He’s down in town picking up some food for the weekend. Should be back in a couple of hours.”

“Are you guys…?”

Roy shoved Lloyd, who threw up his hands defensively. “What? It’s just a question.”

“It’s no biggie,” Beck said with a laugh. “And yes, we’ve been together for ten years.”

“That’s awesome!” Lloyd said, “I mean, it’s not a problem. I’m not… gay I mean, but it’s not like I don’t approve…” another shove, this time by Max.

Beck didn’t laugh. He only smiled and motioned to the drinks. “Drink up! You boys look mighty thirsty.” As a matter of fact they were, as if in unison, the four guys downed their beers. The golden liquid inside was so sweet, so purely enjoyable, that they didn’t dare remove the bottle from their lips until it was dried of its last drop.

They slammed them down. “Whew!” Roy said, “I needed that!”

“Me too,” Rich said. A positive energy seemed to circulate throughout the room. Suddenly, it was as if none of them remembered why they were there, about the car, about the map, about the real house waiting for them seventy miles away…

But Beck was already taking out five more. “Why don’t you boys tell me a little about yourselves? Where ya from? What do ya do?”

And so, they did. Rich talked about his girlfriend, about his fear of commitment after graduating. Lloyd talked about growing up on a farm of his own, with his mom’s horses. Roy mostly bragged, but talked some about his family, and about his dream of going into clothing design. Finally, they got to Max.

“What about you?” Beck asked, his deep brown eyes staring straight into the young man’s soul, “what is it that you want?” Max gulped. He looked at Rich, only for a second, but it was enough for Beck to register. “Welp, looks like we cleaned out the fridge.” Sure enough, the table was covered in empty beer bottles. Not only that, but the golden sun that had previously shown through the kitchen window had vanished. How long had they been sitting there?

Max tried to get up. He almost collapsed. He must have been drunk, and yet the weird feeling of numbness that overtook his body didn’t feel like drunkenness. He began to fear that something else was in those beers.

“We… we need to… go.” Roy said, motioning back to the car outside, though he was so dazed, he pointed in the opposite direction.

Beck shook his head. “Like hell y’are. No body’s driving under these conditions, it ain’t safe.”

“What… are we gonna…” Rich almost toppled out of his chair. Beck caught him.

“Thom and I got a spare room in the back. Y’all can sleep in there.”

As they made their way down Beck’s hall way and into the back room, Max felt a strange feeling of uneasiness. Not at the fact they were all just about to sleep in a stranger’s house in the middle of nowhere, nothing about Beck seemed to suggest that his intentions were malicious. Rather, he was concerned about the numbness. He had never drunk that many beers in one sitting, and he knew himself well enough to know that if he did, he’d be throwing up all over the place.

Instead, Max felt oddly calm, placid even. And as he collapsed onto the bed along side Rich and Roy (Lloyd couldn’t make it past the living room couch), he started to feel actual worry.

But then he looked at Rich, his eyes fluttering shut, for once not glued to the screen of his phone. He reached out a hand and patted Max’s back with a smile before falling fast asleep, and Max felt immense warmth pass through his veins as the young man’s arm rested lazily, almost romantically on his back.

Whatever was going to happen, they were in for one hell of a weekend.

T O  B E  C O N T I N U E D . . .

#the ranch #series #male transformation #tf #cowboy tf #transformation

[felltheheavens]

Going home.

I would never blame my mother for hiding the truth from me; I’m not sure I could have handled the nagging worry, the meditating on mortality, the sheer nostalgia, not when I was mid exam season anyway. Education first, there’s a principle my parents brought with them from India. So she bore the truth on her shoulders alone, and I was none the wiser until long after exams finished, when I moved back home for summer.

           I didn’t realise the truth when we left. During the flight, I was thinking about which movie to watch and how much shopping we’d have time for. When we touched down in Kolkata, the dark part of the night and the oppressive heat welcoming us back like estranged children, I was overwhelmed with warm embraces and fatigue. Even when we reached the flat, the open door beckoning us back home, I was in a bubble of ignorant bliss. I had always been a fan of plans, and I had one: fly out, see your grandad, nurse him back to health, and be back in the UK in time for your brother’s graduation.

           The façade cracked the next day.

When I woke, Dada was in his favourite armchair with my uncle sat beside him. His eyes were bright when he recognised me, brighter still when he began to ramble about how proud he was. He told us - for maybe the hundredth time - how he grew up a widow’s son, a village boy, a stereotype of abject poverty, and now he had grandchildren graduating from some of the best universities in the world. His eyes misted and I grasped his swollen, papery hand, comfortable in my knowledge that this was the greatest man I had ever known, and that I couldn’t imagine what he had gone through to provide the comfortable London upbringing I took for granted.          

           My grandfather was a proud man. When I was eleven, I was left at home with him and given strict instructions on giving him dinner and helping him to bed. I still remember walking downstairs to find him doing the washing up because he wanted to look after me more than I needed to look after him; that was the kind of proud my grandfather was. So it hurt when, at lunch, I watched the woman who cooked for him spoon mushy, overcooked rice into his lax mouth, remind him to swallow, pour water down afterwards. At least when you spoon feed a child you know they understand that they’re eating; with him, I wasn’t so sure.

           After lunch he dozed whilst we replayed one of his old favourite movies, one he learned to love during his years in London. He slept in a state that we couldn’t fully wake him from. When his eyes flickered open there was no recognition in them anymore, he was lost in some past world, where a young man emigrated with his family and discovered English films for the first time, perhaps. I tried to doze too, but every time my eyes closed I found myself tearing up, knowing that he would have hated this, hated how he was babied and incapable and worst of all, upsetting us, his family. I was a pendulum, swinging from hope to misery: he’ll get better to he’s never been worse.

           ‘It’s been a good day,’ said my mother, from the other side of the sofa.

           And the façade began to crack.

           If this was a good day, what would a bad day look like? How could it be a good day when he couldn’t walk by himself, couldn’t remember if he’d already showered, couldn’t even swallow his water without someone holding his mouth shut? He didn’t know we’d brought him crumpets and English mustard, he barely knew we’d brought ourselves. If this was a good day, my God, it could get so much worse.

~

‘Wake up, I think we might have to call an ambulance.’

           I shot up, wiping sleep from my eyes, my jetlag-induced nap suddenly seeming irresponsible.

           ‘What?’

           ‘It’s Dada, he can’t breathe, I think we have to call an ambulance,’ my brother repeated from the doorway. How had he gone from might to have to so quickly?

           ‘I’m coming, one second.’ I threw on a dress and half-ran the few steps to Dada’s room. He was sat doubled over, his breath ragged gasps, his body shaking, supported by my mother and brother and a second later, myself. If we’d let go he’d fall, and it terrified me that I didn’t know if he’d be able to get back up.

           ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Ma whispered. I stared at her blankly, the shock setting in. ‘Do we call an ambulance? Or should we…do we just make him comfortable?’

           I wasn’t sure when I’d started crying but there were teardrops on my cheeks now. I felt like a petulant toddler, all I wanted was to throw a tantrum. This was my Dada - he had to get better, he wasn’t allowed to be like this. He had to get better so that he could come to graduation and puja and my wedding, so that he could tell me his stories, over and over, for the rest of my life, or at least for a little while longer.

           ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, maybe I’m selfish, but I’m not ready yet. Call the ambulance Ma.’ As she pulled out her phone, I kissed my grandfather’s forehead and began to pray away the last of my hope.

~

           It was a good hospital, one of the best in India. The bureaucracy was awful, too many forms, not enough organisation, queues that lasted hours, but the doctors were excellent and that was what mattered. It was somewhere around the third or fourth cup of masala cha, with Dada two floors away in the ICU, surrounded by strangers, that I realised he would never be my grandfather again, that we’d flown thousands of miles not to help, but to say goodbye. I would have cried if I had any tears left.

           He hated hospitals, ever since he lost his wife in one, hated the tubes and the smell and the way you always seemed to be waiting. It was like I could feel his pain, his frustration, how he just wanted to go home. I wasn’t sure if home was the flat we’d carried him out of on a stretcher, or somewhere much further away, where old friends were waiting to see him again.

           I hated everything about the tube in his throat. I hated what it represented, how uncomfortable it must have made him, how little he tried to breathe without it. It seemed natural then, to get rid of it. No extreme measures is what Ma said, how the doctors phrased it, but we knew what it really meant when we signed the DNR. It may have been Ma’s signature, but my brother and I made that decision too. I considered it a silver lining that we could do that for her.

           That first night that he was breathing by himself, I didn’t leave his side. I was too scared, in spite of my hunger, my nicotine craving, my need for a shower and a proper bed. When I was finally coaxed to get food and air it was only after I had whispered in his good ear that I would understand if he went without me, and that it would be okay, I just wanted him to be at peace.

           Stubborn old git.

           He lasted days. He lasted so many days that I began to pray that God would take him soon. I sat in the rain and stared at the heavens and begged them to tell us what he was waiting for, why he was dragging out his suffering. We were ready, I cried, he could go now, he’d done all he needed to.

           Eventually, we decided to take him home. We hadn’t expected him to last more than a few hours, let alone most of a week. Maybe he was just waiting to go home. It had only been a few days since he’d been in the flat, but wheeling him back in on his hospital-prescribed bed, it felt like a lifetime ago. We settled him in the living room, and he turned his head and clasped his hands towards the portrait on the wall.

           ‘He’s praying!’ cried my uncle, ‘Look, he’s praying to his wife!’

           I gripped my mother’s hand and blinked away the tears that came from being less naïve than him, and from knowing he couldn’t pray if he wanted to, not anymore.

~

           ‘Guys, can you help? I – I don’t know if he’s breathing.’

For the second time that week I was slapped out of sleep by the horror of reality. I don’t know if he was alive when Ma asked, or when I put my hand against his mouth to feel his breath, but by 6.07 a.m. I realised he’d finally gone. I was so relieved I felt weightless, shock keeping the grief at bay while we made tea and called the doctors and arranged a slot at the crematorium. It was strange, even after the doctor signed the death certificate it didn’t feel real.

           One of his last wishes was that he didn’t want a hearse; he was a village lad, a traditional Indian man at heart, and he wanted to go the proper, old-fashioned way, up on shoulders. He looked beautiful, painted and dressed up and covered in flowers, finally peaceful. I’m not sure women are supposed to carry dead bodies, and I knew if I asked permission I would be told I was too weak, my sari too pretty to ruin, so I didn’t ask; I stepped into place between my brother and my cousin and felt his weight on my shoulder, and I smiled. I felt powerful as we walked, for once at peace with my tumultuous dual identity – today, I was Indian, I was the granddaughter of this incredible man, and the pride shone out of me.

           I saw him put into the fire. Saw his name flash up on the screen, N. N. Mukherjee. Saw his ashes afterwards, carried the clay pot into the Ganges. I walked into a flat he’d never sit in again, consoled people he’d never see again, placed the glasses he’d never use again on a shelf to gather dust. Maybe it was then, or on the plane ride home, or maybe it was six months later when I understood why Ma cried over Colman’s English mustard in the supermarket. Maybe it was when I wanted to call and tell him about university, or when I found the postcard that I never got around to sending him. Maybe it was all at once, maybe it was gradual, maybe it never stops. But my world has seemed a little darker after that, a little less purposeful, and a little more scary; so I look to the heavens, and I hope he’s watching, and I thank the gods for the twenty years I got with the greatest man I could ever know.

~

           Somewhere far away, a woman in her fifties kneads dough for roti, sat outside in the warm dusk. Her hair is long and dark, woven with grey, her sari pale and loose. She turns, as if hearing something alarming, rises and squints into the sunset, trying to discern something in the distance. Her face breaks into a smile it hasn’t known for a long time, and she calls out to the others. They come running, barefoot and dusty, little boys and old men leaning on sticks, women with tight plaits and youths with ink-stained fingers. They stand with her, and they watch, and they wait, and they know.

           He’s come home.

#mine #grief #mourning #loss #bereavement #writing #writers on tumblr

[factpatrol-blog]

'Fargo' Recap: Motel California - Rolling Stone

New Post has been published on https://factpatrol.com/2017/05/04/fargo-recap-motel-california-rolling-stone/

'Fargo' Recap: Motel California - Rolling Stone

In a seedy Hollywood motel room, Minnesota cop Gloria Burgle looks behind a curtain and finds a box, with a unlabeled switch on the top. She flicks it on. A light turns green, and the lid opens just slightly. A robotic hand comes out, moves the switch to the off position, then retreats as the light turns red. This is all the device does.

This week’s Fargo episode, blessed with the superb title “The Law of Non-Contradiction,” is all about unpacking what this box means. A mere three weeks into its third season, the show flees the frozen north for a surprise vacation in sunny California, where Eden Valley’s recently demoted police chief arrives to find out more about her recently murdered stepfather Ennis Stussy. What follows is a wondrous, moody hour of television, bordering on despairing, with only a little of the comedic quirkiness that is this drama’s stock-in-trade. It’s the rare prestige TV episode that might’ve been even better if it had run even longer – if only because director John Cameron and credited writers Matt Wolpert and Ben Nedivi barely have a chance to introduce all their characters before Gloria is on a flight home. Almost as soon as this Fargo installment gets switched on, it turns itself off.

On the surface at least, ex-Chief Burgle finds less in Los Angeles than she’d hoped. Back in Minnesota and sorting through her stepfather’s secret cache, she learned that 35 years ago, he wrote award-winning science-fiction novels under the name Thaddeus Mobley, and that her underground-celebrity relative may have had a relationship with long-forgotten 1970s starlet Vivian Lord. Burgle heads west and stays in his former room at the Hollywood Premiere Motel (which is annoyingly overrun with Santa Claus conventioneers – a nice touch); after her suitcase is stolen, she meets an unhelpful, horny LAPD officer named Oscar Hunt (played by It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia co-creator Rob McElhenney). Over the course of a few days, the fish-outta-water cop mostly confirms what she already knew, with the exception of one big piece of information: Thaddeus worked on a movie adaptation of his novel The Planet Wyh for sleazy producer Howard Zimmerman, whom he then clubbed nearly to death after he learned he was being conned.

By pure chance – from stooping down in the motel bathroom – Gloria also finds out where “Ennis” got his new name. He took it from a manufacturer’s stamp on the toilet in Room 203. “Stussy & Sons,” it says. (Could one of those “sons” be the philatelist father of Ray and Emmit?)

Through the power of flashbacks, we get more of the nuances in Mr. Mobley’s story. We see how he was once a writer on the rise, full of ideas and optimism, and how his infatuation with the starlet – and with her cocaine – led him to get suckered by the smooth-talking Zimmerman. The would-be Spielberg poured a lot of his own money into a movie that was never going to happen; he then had to change his identity and hit the road after beating up his boss. As for Ms. Lord, she sobered up, left the business and is now making her living waiting tables at one of those generic City of Angels’ coffee shops. She tells Gloria that the Seventies were “nothing but a dream. Even though Vivian knows she was a bad person, Thaddeus “wasn’t so good either.”

The whole journey – both to L.A. and into the past – is a sad one. But is it necessary? Given the way Fargo seasons tend to go, it’s likely that one or more elements from this California detour will be relevant later. For now, it has no apparent bearing on the murder, which Gloria learns on returning to Eden Valley was committed by Maurice. So what’s the point?

For one thing, it’s a chance to see some terrific actors, delivering sharp dialogue in a very different voice than this show’s usual “Minnesota nice.” The baby-faced Thomas Randall Mann is instantly sympathetic as young Thaddeus, while Francesca Eastwood and her mother Frances Fisher present Vivian’s before/after versions, a dual portrait of Hollywood decadence. The comic relief, meanwhile, comes from McElhenney, whose cocky, dunderheaded Officer Hunt boasts that he has 352 Facebook friends, most of whom he doesn’t even know. (When Gloria meets him at a bar, he hollers to the bartender, “Can I get two beers?” He then turns to his date and, with perfect douchebag timing, asks, “You want two beers?”)

The hour’s also packed with Coen brothers references, from the presence of Coens’ regular Fred Melamed as the Nixon-era Zimmerman to mentions of Arby’s (Fargo), a “swingin’ dick” (No Country for Old Men), and a “dingus” (The Hudsucker Proxy). And we get not one but two strong Barton Fink nods: Gloria dings a desk-bell that won’t stop ringing; she later sits in the sand and stares at the ocean, a dead ringer for that Tinseltown satire’s land-of-the-dream-factory postcard.


There are other influences at work here too, including David Lynch – both in the Mullholland Dr.-style journey through Hollywood bleakness and in two brief appearances by Twin Peaks‘ Ray Wise as exhausted business traveler Paul Marrane. (Prediction: If any minor character recurs from this episode, it’ll be Marrane.) There are also several animated interludes done by Archer‘s Floyd County Productions, done in the childlike-scribble style of World of Tomorrow genius Don Hertzfeldt and that recount the plot of The Planet Wyh – about a robot who witnesses over two million years of human civilizations rising and falling, all the time chirping “I can help!” but accomplishing nothing.

It’s in the story of that ineffectual robot – as well as the machine that turns itself off, and the author who retreats from life – that “The Law of Non-Contradiction” finds its purpose. While interviewing the older Zimmerman (played by Roger V. Burton), Gloria hears the old scam-artist say that what we do and who we meet during our time on Earth is meaningless: “We’re all just particles, colliding.” But our heroine has a different take. Everyone to her is “somethin’ to somebody.”

In the last scene of the episode, Burgle’s back on the case in Minnesota, and in the final shot, we see that she’s brought the self-defeating box with her. Mobley’s Planet Wyh robot – and the late ex-writer himself – may have seen the worst of humanity and then shut down. But Gloria’s making sure that at least one useless automaton is going to see justice being done.

Previously: O Brother, Where Art Thou? 

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[howlingcommandoreigns-archived]

@fia-walsh

“How many of these did you get?”  Joelle piped up, eyes wide as she took in the carefully-folded squares of silk in the box at the foot of the hospital bed and Roman looked up from the back of postcard he’d been staring at for five minutes while deliberating what to write so he could smile at the eight-year old.

“Enough to open my own store maybe eh?”  said the man gamely with a wink as his daughter crooned over the designs, each more intricate than the other. “There’s somethin’ for everybody, Sugarplum.” “I want this one! Can I have it?”  Came the excitable squeal as Joelle held up a black and gold one displaying a wide-eyed cat in mosaic and as her father nodded his approval, let out a loud whoop before tying it around her neck and rushing off to the bathroom mirror to look at herself. It was a moment’s respite from the her energy which gave him time to look down upon the postcard once more before the pen’s ballpoint began slowly writing out script. 

“Fia, 

Just a couple of pick-me-ups from Paris; A old-school photo book I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy, something to chew on while you’re snorting at Italian Telenovelas with Nonna (Took a lot outta me not to scarf these down for myself) and a little flair for any outfit you got. 

Been thinking about our conversation earlier and things that have been happening lately, and I know it feels like our work environment might have gotten less friendlier in recent times. It’s not on you and not just in your head, not wholly. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be a part of someone’s life, wanting to matter something to somebody, anybody. You’ve been carrying that weight with you almost all your life, and it runs deep and it’s probably going to take a lot more than just conversation to fix things and definitely more than my understanding, but I’d like to try to help in y’know, whatever way I can.

You’ve got a friend in House Anoa’i and I’m going to try my best to keep being that dumbass 5th brother you never asked or wanted but got stuck with anyway, ‘cause you ain’t getting rid of this cane da giustizia easy.  If you need to talk about anything at all, hit me up whether it’s three in the afternoon or three in the morning, ain’t give a damn.

Regards,  Ro

[suffering-and-happy-about-it]

Boys & Girls (Sriracha, Part 40.)

Series description: A problematic college student gets the worst summer job of the ‘83 - Jim Hopper, the Chief of police in your hometown will have you as his secretary since his old lady Flo has two months lasting holiday. It was agreed so Hopper could let you far away from all the trouble.

Part Summary: Family life suited you both and what was better, this time it was going to work out for real.

A/N: And we are officially back in business with ma boi Jim. Also, greatly inspired by Jim Croce since Hopper really loved his music.

Warnings: Weepnig and whining messes on the end of the chapter.

Word count: 4K

Tagging: @nemodoren @missdictatorme @ysljordy @creedslove​ @hopperlover​

Series master list: H E R E

GIF SOURCE

Even if the things were slowly settling down, with you and Jim being definitely in the honeymoon phase again and not being engaged for some unknown reason, it still took some to make all the things right again. You needed to help Jim with making a new ID, you had quite a long scrum with the bank and authorities to even believe that Jim is really and Jim just for him to get a hold on his former conto with the money you both saved over the time. You didn't have access to the money since James was the account holder - but at the end of February, you finally were allowed to use the money and you started to look for a new home - it was incredibly awkward that you both had to live at your parents’ house no matter how many times your ma told you it’s fine.

Jim started to visit a therapist and group therapy sessions in a nearby town and so far, it was doing him justice. He felt better to know some more Vietnam veterans who've been through the same thing he was through - these men had gone through. He called his former colleague Rosario Delgado to ask her about her well being - it was almost ten years since the New York incident and she stopped sending him Christmas postcards. James was trying to get his life together; he wanted to sort everything out after almost twenty years. And he was doing good.

You proceeded to study at the university, still having your old part-time job at the bistro, being there at least three days a week. Jim’s salary of a police officer wasnt bad, not at all, but it still was a downgrade from his Chief salary. It wasn’t that you suddenly were on the edge of poverty, especially with your savings, but you felt the missing money - especially when you were looking for a flat in the downtown. But in the end, you hadn't settled down on a flat; you chose a small house which was still significantly closer to the downtown than the suburban houses.

It was nice - this wasn’t his trail or his cabin where he had already been moved in; this was the first time when you chose, paid, and started to live on a place together. This was the fresh start drawing a flat line behind the Hawkins Lab incident, behind Russia, behind both Vietnam and New York - with endless love, Jim was leaving Sara and Diane behind.

The first few weeks in the house were the best - you hadn't got any TV, any couch, not even a bed or a wardrobe. You had only one mattress on the floor where you were sleeping, a few kitchen appliances, boxed with all of your stuff, and an old gramophone. You couldn't count the running shower which was already there. When you weren't at work or school, you were painting the walls on your own since you didn't exactly have the money to pay a professional painter.

"This is supposed to be a pomelo orange? Are you sure about that? Haven't you took a different bucket on accident?" - Jim yelled at you while you were swabbing a room you decided to have a living room in. You stopped your work and swiped the sweat off your forehead, listening to Jim Croce’s Operator. You unpacked each of James’ Jim Croce vinyl records and moved it into your new place as well, usually listening to Croce while you were working.

James was looking healthier and healthier with each passing month - he gained a few pounds, you couldn't see his ribs anymore, he let his hair grow and his significant ’83 beard was back again. He was looking hot, especially in an unbuttoned shirt and a new Jim Croce shirt you ordered him for his name day - which was more than three months away, but you loved it so much that you couldn't stop yourself.

He was standing there looking at the wall, the orange paint was all over his body, but not on his shirt as he held the paint roller in his palm. Yeah, you could see what he was talking about - it was more peachy than a pomelo, but you liked it nonetheless. - "Maybe it’ll be looking better once it dries up, hm?" - You whispered and hugged him from behind slowly. You were still careful with the touches and freaking him out, but it was undeniable that it got better. Gently, you kissed his shoulder and smiled at the work he had done.

"It looks great Hopper." - You nodded with a grin. He circled his palms around yours and swayed his hips in the rhythm of the song. You did so as well. Slowly, he turned around to face you, smiling down on you. You smiled back, expecting a kiss - only to have the paint rolled all over your face. You closed your eyes and grunted angrily.

"Oh yea, I can see the pomelo color now. I think you were rite. Why don't you have more clothes in this color? It suits you." - Jim grinned before he pressed his face to yours so some of the paint pressed on his skin too.

"This was unnecessary - so now, I will angrily continue the things I was up to before you called out." - You said with fake drama in your voice, being the drama queen you always were. You had already put your arms from his hips, pulling away, when he leaned in for a kiss. You felt the paint on your tongue, which was indeed disgusting.

"It was completely necessary, in my defense, miss Y/L/N." - James yelled at you after a while. You chuckled, yelling back at him why he thinks so, continuing with cleaning up the room. - "Isn't that obvious? My girlfriend now has to take a shower before the paint settles down in her hair and since I have it on my face too, you know that does that mean." - Jim suddenly stood up the doorframe, watching you on the floor trying to clean up the fucking wooden floor.

A burst of unbelieving laughter came out of your lips as you watched him. - "This is a genius move for a dumbass like you, Hopper, I gotta say. But you'll have to play Speedball Tucker if you want to see me undressing." - You stood up and bit your lip, having Jim already walking to the gramophone.

"Why is it that this song does things to you?" - Jim asked and stopped the music to put in Life & Times by Croce. You shrugged your shoulders with a nasty smile, already unbuttoning the first buttons.

"I don't know. Maybe it’s because you hum it all the time? But play me You Don't Mess Around With Jim in the bed and I'll show you things you haven't seen yet." - Your short snort resonated through the living room as you turned around to walk to the bathroom. - "You sure will." - Jim snorted back, already throwing his shirt on the floor.

Eleven was over her heels when she came to visit Hawkins on spring break with Joyce. While Joyce was staying at your mum’s, her sons were at Wheelers’, Eleven was staying at your place in her room - it was also the only room which was finished - she had a bed there, a bookshelf for schoolbooks and comic books, a large table you bought on a flea market with a chair in the pair and you told her that she can have some posters and as many photo frames as she wants to. It still needed small touches, but it also meant one thing. It was a silent promise that soon enough, you'll be a family again.

In the end, you decided to put up some of Sara's photos. You knew it was really important Jim, but you needed to talk him down into it. You loved one of the photos from her kindergarten which you put up in the kitchen. When Joyce saw that you hung the picture up, her eyes teared up as she smiled. It also sparkled a rather interesting conversation between you and James.

"How was it like?" - You asked when you were preparing dinner. Jim was sitting at the improvised table; you still had an empty living room, hall and the master bedroom was consisting of the mattress only. He looked up from a detective novel he was reading, looking up at you.

"What? You mean seducin' you? I'm a piece of cake so you gave in pretty easily." - He grinned, having a smile from ear to ear. It was around five p.m. and Eleven was soon about to come home. Tomorrow, you had a family dinner at Enzo's in the plan - Mike was supposed to come, Aiden and Lena drove from New Orleans in the evening.

"Hold your horses. A) you're wrong because I'm a sex bomb and you were all over the place from me and b) no, I don't mean this... I mean... How was it like to have such a small baby girl?" - You answered from concentrating on having the pepper perfectly cut. Hopper closed the book, holding the page with his fingers. His eyes widened and cheeks filled when he slowly inhaled some air.

"It's somethin' you can't even describe. It's fillin' up to the bottom of your soul, you more than love every second of it. When the child hugs you, you just feel sorta warm next to your heart. You only want them to be safe and happy every day, you'd do every little thin' just to see them smile." - Hopper got out with noticeable pauses - he wasn't good with his words, but you could hear that he means every letter of what he had said.

"That sounds just... Lovely." - You sighed and let's be honest, the smile on your face was freaking James out. He was watching you without looking away. - "What would you say..." - You bit your lip and looked Jim in the eyes. Hopper's eyes widened almost unnoticeable.

"If you'd have a chance to do it again?" - You whispered and at that moment, Eleven entered the house, so panicked Hopper didn't have a chance to answer. Playfully, you rose your eyebrows happily and turned back to the pepper. - "Just think about it, yeah?"

Of course, this was about to come. You were young, your thirties were almost six years away and one day, this question was about to come his way. Kids. You never talked about having kids - you already had one. But not about really settling down to have a real family life. With small kids.

Was James even ready to try it again? Or was he simply too old to raise a kid? Or two of them? Sure, you'll soon be done with university and your parents would help you with every little thing you'd ask them, yet James couldn't forget that this was Hawkins in Indiana. This place was dangerous. Especially for James Hopper.

But you said it out loud. That you want to have kids. Sure, El was your kid, your baby girl and you'd kick ass to anyone who'd try to harm her. But there was an itsy bitsy thing - you didn't give birth to her which could do a lot. You proclaimed her as your rightful kid, you were written down in her birth certificate.

James was out of the world for both the following evening and he was even more stressed out the other day when you were supposed to go to Enzo's.

Your question had pulled some damn switch inside of him; he wasn't able to properly fall asleep the whole night thinking about the kid thingy. The only thing James could say for sure was that if you'd have a girl, she would look like an angel; because you were one. But that wasnt all.

"Are you having nightmares or what's wrong with you?" - You mumbled from somewhere under your blanket. You mostly were doing that during winter and in the early spring - only your head could be seen because your whole body was curled up under the blanket to keep you warm. You moved around a bit before Jim could register your face.

"Should somethin’ be wrong with me?" - James hummed and brought you closer to warm you up. You were as cold as ice. Carefully, you wrapped your leg around his waist, leaving out a long sigh.

"You're turning around all the time and make the mattress move. Something on your mind, Hop?" - You yawned and put your temple on his shoulder, closing your eyes again. You were smiling without realizing; just smelling him and feeling him close was making you happy. And you fell asleep again almost immediately.

Jim wanted to ask you to marry him on the family, this time, he made sure he adhered to the traditions - first, earlier that day when he was dropping El at your parents’ house before she was supposed to see Mike, he talked with your father. Both he and Molly couldn't understand why did he cancel the engagement in the first place, just to ask them.

He did the best to tell them that he's now trying to turn his life around, starting from a literal zero - he contacted his old colleagues like Rosario and Vietnam comrades, he said goodbye to Sara, bought the house with you and renovated it. James just wanted a new life and he wanted to start it in the right way with you by his side. That was what made your dad give him his blessing.

On top of that, you were controlling how much did he smoke and how much Tuinal did he take - it wasn’t meant in a bad way and James knew that - he was just fucking grateful that you took the role of his guardian angel. You couldn't be described any other way than being a guardian angel.

But if he proposes to you, then marries you... Kids were just the next step, right? When Jim finally fell asleep, it was while he held your waist and tried to think about what would it look like. James was almost forty-four years old. He would be sixty when the kid would be sixteen, sixty-four when they would be twenty. Which was horrifying and more than that. He was thirty when Sara was born which was an ideal age in his opinion. He was thirty-seven when she died. Would he be even able to be a good dad? Jim thought that he was in a fairly good condition, thanks to his police work, but a kid...  

The other evening, Jim put on his best shirt and tuxedo, looking at himself in the mirror as he was adjusting the small details - this tuxedo he had at the first family dinner in your house. Eleven peaked into the room before she entered.

She was a grown-up since the last time James had seen her - she had longer hair, she was more tanned, taller and even her face seemed to be more adult. James admired that Eleven was always an adult in some way. Ever since Jim met her, in some things, she was drastically more matured than kids her age - she knew things people her age didn't have a single idea about. Yet now it seemed that her personality had deepened even more than before.

Eleven had a nice dress on and you helped her put her hair in a messy bun. She smiled at James and checked that the door is closed.

"Are you okay?" - She asked excitedly. Right at the moment, you were in the living room with Mike and you two were chatting while drinking some lemonade you made. He was supposed to make you occupied while Eleven went to check up on Hopper.

"How can I be okay?" - Hopper said with an unnerved laugher and went to sit down on your bed. Eleven laughed as well and sat next to him; she hugged his shoulder and shook him a bit.

"Mom said yes before and she loves you. She will say yes again, I'm sure." - Eleven smiled and put her temple on Jim's shoulder, letting him kiss the back of her head. She could now speak as kids her age did. Eleven was talking fluently, without hesitation, but yes, sometimes she still thought about how to put a sentence in a certain way. - "Grandpa said yes too, he knows you two should be together."

"How did you come to that conclusion, kiddo? Hm?" - Jim chuckled at her words. He knew what Eleven was trying to tell him, but it was too adorable not to make fun of.

"I've heard that in a movie I was watching with Joyce and Will." - She smiled and at that moment, they both turned their heads to the door, hearing as you called out for them. It was time to go. Eleven got up first, giving her palm to Hopper to help him get up. - "You can do it. Its just one question."

"Geez, you're a smart one, kiddo." - Hopper chuckled, following her out of the room. You and Mike were waiting under the staircase. Even if Jim saw you before and he knew how would you look like, he was wonderstruck when he saw you in your blue dress with your hair styled masterfully.

"What were you two up to, huh?" - You asked both of them, tying up his tie again, properly this time. - "Are you having secrets again?" - You joked, making Eleven smile innocently as she stood up next to Mike and entwined her elbow with his. After taking too many photos and embarrassing the hell out of Mike, Jim laid in with his dad jokes that time, yo rode to the restaurant.

Mike on the backseat was visibly sweating. He always thought that Eleven has Hopper and you - he forgot that you have a brother and parents. If he was worried about something, it was that he won't make a good first impression. Which would embarrass him to death? Yet, you were telling the whole time that he's perfectly fine. It was strange to realize that Aiden was only six years older than them. That wasn’t too much. And you weren't much older either.

Seeing your family gather around one table was a thing that made you so happy, that smiled didn't leave your face the whole afternoon. Mike, in the end, was happy too - he and Eleven befriended your cousin Andrea who was at their age, so these three had so many to talk about and so did you, the adults sitting there. The food in Enzo’s was delicious and this time, you hadn't got any surprise which would make faint. Even the fine wine you loved so much was ordered and Jim offered that this time, he would drive home - which meant that you had nothing to be worried or angry about.

Everyone shut up when a man stood up from the chair he was sitting on and you were looking at him with awe. Your palm circled Jims as you watched your younger brother getting himself to propose to his girlfriend. Which was kinda scaring Jim, since that was his plan that evening?

The things Aiden told her were one of the sweetest you had ever head. With a contained smile, you leaned to James’ shoulder, watching Aiden getting on his knee with a face that was showing his emotions. He was lost over the heels for Lena, his heart was surely beating for her. You didn't notice your dad having intense eye contact with Jim since he was waiting for the older man to do the exact thing his son had just done.

And you asked what's wrong when Jim took a deep breath in, trying not to faint. He was stressed. He was facing stress. The last time he was doing this was behind a locked door to his office. Not in a restaurant, let alone your family being present.

"Jim, are you having a heart attack?" - You put your palms on his jaws, looking at his reddened cheeks and completely sweaty forehead. Hopper shook his head, having his eyes widening with each passing second. It was now or never situation. Naturally, everyone was extra-surprised when Hopper suddenly stood up as well and exhaled loudly.

It didn't take you too much time to figure out what's happening there. You had seen him this nervous once already and boy oh boy, here it was again. It was nice and you knew that most likely, he had encouraged himself for weeks before he was ready to get on that damn knee again.

"My dear Y/N." - He started, watching your father as if the man would tell him what should he say next - and the funniest part was that your father watched him as well in the same way. Then Jim’s palm took a hold on the back of your chair, the man leaning down a bit. The guests inside Enzo’s were nervous. One proposal was a classic, but two at once? That was extraordinary.

"I want... To... Tell you..." - Jim started slowly as he tried to get his self-confidence back. You nodded and caught his other palm to show him that he's fine. Nothing could ruin his moment. - "I love you. Very much. And that I know you hadn't got it exactly easy with me past couple of months. And neither of the people had it easy with us. It's just how it is, and I'm grateful for everything you've been willing to give me - family, a new home, the feeling of being safe, and useful. You made me see a million things I haven't seen before meeting you and I have to thank you and your family for that." - Jim looked around nervously, having you still smiling in front of him.

Joyce surely wrote this speech too. She was a mister of romantic words full of love, which wasn’t exactly Hopper’s area. He was more about showing love than telling the words yet you liked that about him. This was just Joyce’s work.

"And for that, I would be honored," - Was the part where he got on his knees finally and this time, it felt like a proposal for a wedding. Not some Hopper’s ’I would be up for marriage if you want to’. This looked like a real ’Do you want to spend the rest of your life by my side?’, which brought happy tears to your eyes. - "If you'd like to become my wife and have me by your side until the day we both get old and wrinkly."

That was maybe the best Hopper could get out of himself, but let's be honest, it left you a whining and nodding mess, since you couldn't say a single word at that moment. The last thing you remembered clearly from that evening was when Hopper gently picked you up from the ground when you had the ring on, weeping here and there as well.

#jim hopper x reader #jim hopper #jim hopper imagine #james jim hopper #stranger things #stranger things hopper #stranger things netflix #jim hopper stranger things #eleven hopper #jane hopper #jane ives #eleven ives #eleven stranger things #mike wheeleer #we stan the boi #he the boi

[chac-ozai]

Freedom’s Worth

You ain’t free unless you’ve got nothing left to lose. The Overboss and Porter Gage have built an empire, but they both come to understand that all of Nuka World's greatness is coming to a quick end. It is up to Gage to decide if he will admit their time as kings is ending, or take his dream AND his Overboss to the grave with him. Contains Raiders which also means foul language, bad behavior, and violence. 

"This is perfect. Almost looks as good as it did in the postcards." The Overboss said, gleefully holding up a faded image of a forest-side cabin in a postcard. He held it up next to the shambles that remained of it over 200 years later, just a few walls and a crumbling roof dangling between them.

"Yeah-huh. Perfect." Gage repeated him, smiling at the thought of throwing down their travel packs and taking a load off for the night. There was a few cans of cram with his name on it and the air smelled strange, almost good, being this far away from Nuka Town's deathly stench. His Overboss was a real wiz at getting fires going, all he needed was a few pieces of the fallen walls, some dried leaves and a fast bullet to get a nice little blaze started. His Overboss, who refused to give him any name other than "Chac" (Kind of a stupid sounding name, but whatever) had been overly pleasant since they'd gotten away from East Boston.

"Look at you, havin' a good time." Gage sits back, watching his unusual boss dancing in place while he stabbed open some cans of food and ate them on the spot.

"Owww~ I feel good! da na na na na na na~" Chac sang, gravy dripping under his chin before spitting out what looked like fossilized food into the fire with a sizzle. Gage loved to watch him, he was real funny when he was so full of life like this, it's been a while since he even seen the guy crack a smile.

"You sure you ain't on somethin', boss? Y'been bouncin' off the damn walls for the past hour now." Gage found it hard to keep up with him sometimes, the guy just looked so high on life right now.

"Don't like it, huh?" Chac threw his can into the fire, shrugging off his jacket and using it to form a cushion for where he planned on sitting.

"Nah, It's friggin' great. I like seein' ya happy. Makes me happy." Gage refuted him, in the solitude and dark like this, far away from everyone, he suddenly wanted to be close to him.

"Well look at us, just two happy guys having a little camp-out." Chac squatted next to the fire and took a big swig of water, warming his tattooed hands by the growing blaze.  

Gage inched up to him and followed suit, feeling a creaking in his aging knees. He stole the metal bottle from his Overboss and gladly shared the drink with him, loving this moment but feeling unsure of something- why was the guy so happy go lucky all of a sudden? Earlier today as they left Nuka World he was cranky at best, irritable and barely anything to talk to.

"Glad you joined me, Gorgeous." Chac reached out and patted Gage's tan arm, the guy shooting him a testy glance. He hadn't heard that one in a while, either.

"What, done with callin' me PG?" Gage falls back on his ass and gets comfortable next to him. Firelight smoothed out all the weathering of Gage's face, illuminated the lines of age around his eyes and mouth and made him look good. Real good.

"Mmhm, Nothing PG about what I'm thinking, the way you look right now." his Overboss was a real flirt, and Gage actually felt bashful at all this talk; he never did get used to it. The joke flew over his head-

"No idea what yer sayin, but I'll take it." Gage relaxed as he listened to his Overboss' pleased humming. He had to ask him though, why?

"Really, Boss. What made you so perky all of a sudden?"

"Food Poisoning, maybe." He lies, and Gage just scoffs.

"I don't think that's what it is. C'mon, Boss. What are you on right now?"

"Ugh, i think it is food poisoning." He repeats himself, holding his stomach. Gage started to get irritated, wondering maybe the guy was huffing Jet when he had his back turned- "Oh god." Chac gurgled, lifting up from his seat and ripping ass so loud it made Gage leap up and crawl away from him-.

"Ah fer fuck's sake, Boss! I had my damn mouth open." His partner was getting cranky, and likewise the boss has had enough of the questioning, something Gage had been doing more often lately.

"I'm glad that's over." Chac states, sitting back down and wrapping his arms around his knees, closing himself off from any more questions. But still, his partner persisted-

"I'm being serious right now. Seems like every time we get the heck away from Nuka World, yer a different guy, boss. Fuck, I can scarcely even look at'cha when we're at the park, like yer gunna fuckin' bite my head off."

"It aint you, Gage. It never is you, and I'm not mad now so why you gotta keep bringing it up?" His overboss took a hunk of ancient plywood and lugged it onto the fire, cinders skittering to the tips of Gage's shoes.

"Cuz it's annoyin' as shit, man! I don't care if it ain't me!" Gage plopped himself down well out of arms reach from Chac, lighting up a stale cigarette and merely holding it, concentrating his blinded gaze on the smoke. "It might as well be me, because I'm the first fuckin' person who gets your rotten attitude. But look at you, out here, bein' all sweet and shit. I don't get you." Gage huffed harshly, taking a drag of his smoke and holding it tight inside his chest. The drug may have been old, but it worked.

Chac merely ignored him for the moment, deep in thought. This has been a long time coming, this talk. Gage was no good at it, feelings, but lately he'd been the one needing to bring it up more since shit got too much at Nuka World. The real reason why he was so happy right now? Because he wasn't at Nuka World.

"Fine then, don't answer me." Gage spat on the fire, revolted. He didn't want to look at his Overboss and that deadpan look he got on his face now. Shaking his head in disappointment, the older raider chose to keep quiet.

"..." Chac toed a piece of rubble to form a better guard between him and the flame. He watched Gage from across the fire, how he pulled off his armor and his eyepatch, revealing the still-living but blind eye underneath. Thoughts flashed before his mind of a life abandoning Porter, leaving him with Nuka World in the dust. The pain alone that creeped inside him was just enough to get him to talk.

"I get that way because running Nuka World is a fucking nightmare, Gage." Chac let it out, and it was true. Porter looked at him in shock, as if he himself wasn't sharing the same amount of stress over it these days. "Every day some new bullshit comes up. The power struggles, the bootlicking, the assassins? It's a fucking miserable shit hole back there, and you know it."

"What are you trying to say, Boss? You don't got the stomach for it anymore?" Gage let the cigarette burn to the filter, crushing it under his heel and immediately lighting a new one. His heart was in his guts right now.

"You know what I'm trying to say." Chac starts-

"No, I don't. Please, enlighten me." Gage retorts, clearly pissed off. Chac could see the flash of his gold teeth as he worried his lip, something he learned Gage was prone to do when he was stressed.

"I'm saying that Nuka World is a fucking prison."

Nothing was said, a painful sort of silence above the crackling wood.

"...But how? I know the Raiders are pissin' you off, but look, boss, you got the entire park running. We're gunna own the commonwealth, and you wanna say it's a friggin' prison?"

"I want my freedom back." Chac states, Gage doing a doubletake- freedom? How could losing everything be..

"How could losing it all be freedom to you?" Gage leans in, something inside him breaking at the idea of his Overboss wanting to leave-

"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose." Chac pushed himself up to stand, crossing his arms defiantly. Gage found himself once again looking up at him, caught in a flurry of confusion. What he said struck Gage deep...freedom. Nothing holding him down.

"-And I can't think of myself as free until I don't have to worry about the next time Mason will threaten to tar and feather me." He thought, adding - "Or Nisha wanting to skin me and wear my body as a man suit. Shit like that, this dread, it's a prison. So if you want to know why I'm nice when I'm not in Nuka Town, well, there's your answer."

"You can't leave. Fuck em up if you have to, but don't leave. This entire operation runs on you." Gage watched him like a hawk, refusing to stand and face him eye to eye on this.

"It's collapsing from the bottom up. It's a pipe dream, Gage. I can leave, but the real question is, can you leave Nuka World?"

He had it. Gage shot up from his seat and got in his overbosses' face, scant inches taller than him "The hell you just say to me? You askin' me to drop everything I've worked for, for the past 4 fuckin' years and just go fuck myself like I ain't poured my whole life into it?"

Chac remained calm, hands at his sides. He knew Gage would be hurt, I mean, why wouldn't he be?

"Yeah. I expect you to. Cuz' you're smart.You aren't willing to die for a lost cause."

Gage reeled back and slugged his Overboss in the face so hard the both of them fell. His Overboss' dreads threatened to light on fire as they scrambled on the ground beside it, Gage climbing on top of Chac and winding up his fist for another haymaker-

"Burn in hell!" He screams, his voice harsh with emotions he so often hid. "You fuckin' asshole!" He slugged Chac again, blood on his knuckles and on the gravel below. All the times he hit his boss then, it did nothing to quell the truth that the Nuka World dream was crumbling. He was about to strike Chac again before the roof of their ramshackle hideout began to drop dust on them from above. Gypsum peppered Gage's mohawk and Chac's bloodied face, his Overboss looking up at his partner.

"...You can't leave me." Gage repeated himself, panting hard. Chac used that time to throw off the Southerner, scuttling back until as soon as their fight started, it was over.

"I never said anything about leaving you." Chac panted, wiping blood off his face and onto his jeans "When shit hits the fan, and it will, I expect you to leave with me. With our heads intact."

Gage shook his head, refusing to believe this. Partners for a year... more than partners, and then this? Gage didn't want whatever life awaited without his overboss. It'd be shit. Everything would go to shit.

"I gotta get the fuck away from you. Don't follow me." Porter says, flatly. He picks up his flashlight and gun, and walks out into the wastes. Chac's eyes followed him until there was nothing but darkness, and chose to sit flush against the wall. If Gage needed space, let him have it.

Gage stomped through the wasted wilderness for what felt like only a few moments. He came to a road overlooking a cliff, and saw Diamond City's dazzling lights far in the distance. Perching his ass on a traffic barrier, he let his anger consume him. What the fuck was he going to do about this? Nuka World wasn't doing good, yeah, He would admit that...but the boss running out on them? Might as well nuke the place. Gage felt betrayed in the worst possible way.

"Gunna fuckin' kill him." He whispers to himself, forgetting his smokes back at camp. What he said resounded in his head. Kill him....That's what Gage promised himself he'd do if the Overboss didn't work out, right? Just fuckin..kill him? Gage looked at the gun in his trembling hands and bit his lip hard. He had to kill him. Chac was the overboss, there wasn't any other that would hold a candle to him.

Furious, heartbroken, Gage knew this is what he had to do.

What a shit show. What an absolute honest to god shit show this turned out to be. That's all that the Overboss could think about on their silent tram ride back to Nuka World, the PA system long since gutted for parts. They both knew something was wrong long before Nuka World even came into view; it was the smell that got to them first. A smell not worse than death, but real fucking close to it.

"Holy shit." The Overboss spoke up, his first words in hours. "Smells like a mass grave, what is that?" Chac stood and looked over the horizon, from the mountaintops they could see black smoke billowing from Nuka Town. Gage's heart couldn't have felt worse than it did already, joining his boss and seeing what looked like the fires of hell coming from the inner walls of their empire.

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me. Did the whole place burn down in the two days we where out?!" Gage looked over to his Overboss for some kind of reaction, but Chac's bitter coldness was telling; His Overboss was merely standing there with arms crossed, his knuckles white.

"Boss, Wh..Say somethin, man! What the fuck are you gunna do about this?!" The magnet tram couldn't move fast enough, Gage panicking on the inside thinking all hell had broken loose.

"I don't know." Chac only said, after way too long.

"Oh, Oh, you don't know." Gage spits, his hands still hurting from bashing his boss' face up the night before "You know what, I really don't think you give a shit. That's what I think."

"..Would you hate me if I said you're right?" Chac said, defeated. The smell was overwhelmingly nauseating, and the closer they drew to it, the more recognizable it became. Burning rubber, the smell of melting tires and cheap plastic.

"Oh, don't worry about that boss. You know I can't hate you any more even if I tried." Gage threatened him, finding himself being as close to fed up with this situation as he can get.

"Hm. That sucks." Chac dismissed, wondering if his partner really felt that way. As they came into docking with sooty air clogging their throats, Neither the boss or Gage had any time left to bicker. Before them was a monument of what looked like every bit of carcinogenic rubber that could have been scrapped all settled into a massive pyramid, it had been burning for the entire day, liquid rubber oozing onto the concrete and no one in sight. Well, no one alive, that is.

"This is bad." Gage covered his mouth with his shirt "These poor fuckers. Ain't no one but the Disciples coulda done something like this." Gage spoke to himself, his Overboss wrapping a red kerchief around his face and approaching the nearest corpse. Immolated beyond recognition... And it was one of their own, maybe an Operator. Who knows, he's dead now. There where burned crosses dotting the main circle,and  if there were bodies on there at some point, they where long since burned to cinders.

"So Nisha is being honest to her word." Chac steps over the body, only to face another one on a charred cross. Such carnage, yet somehow Chac felt a sickening sort of happiness; good. It was coming down, just like he said it was.

"What'd she say to you?" Gage pulled out his gun, unsure.

"You'll find out. They built this fire to get my attention. Follow me."

"As if I got any other god damn choice." Gage spat, and held his breath as they made their way towards Fizztop mountain.

...

"I can't believe this actually happened." Gage collapsed onto his chair, coughing roughly. He couldn't remember a time he felt more anxious in his life, being stuck between Nisha, the Boss, and Savoy.

"What, you didn't think one of the gang leaders would eventually kill another one? Really, Gage?" Chac slammed the door to the outside of the patio, just to keep the smell out.

"You know this wouldn't be happening if you where tougher on them. Now we got a fuckin' war on our home turf and who knows how the hell we're going to be able to stop it."

Chac, his overboss, knows he had little to say to make Gage feel any shred of comfort. Anger welled inside of him, he hated being forced into this position and being blamed for the hubris of others. He pulled a glass off the countertop and poured himself a double of bourbon, inhaling it deeply to rid the smell of death from his memory.

"Yeah boss! Drink up, that'll solve aaaaall our problems!" Gage picks up an empty bottle and flings it towards his Overboss, lack of depth perception making him miss by a hair.

"Oh come on, Gage! Daisy got herself murdered because she was a wild animal and had to be put down. Nisha wants to blame William for killing her? Yeah, think again, she got herself euthanized for being a fucking thorn in everyone's side."

"It ain't supposed to play out this way. You get those two gangs back in line before it's US up there on the damn crosses!"

"What the fuck do you want me to do about it, Gage?" Chac yells after gulping down his drink, hissing "Do you not realize that this entire operation you cooked up is missing one important concept? The only thing that all the force and leadership in the world can't control?"

"What? WHAT." Gage spits, throwing his hands out in disgust.

"Human greed. The most powerful force in this fucked up world."

"..." Gage said nothing, narrowing his eye at his boss.

"Thats right. How long did you think this operation would go on before Raiders, the scum of the fucking earth, decide that they want it ALL and not just some? There's no overboss in the world you can find that'll fix that problem. It's innate, Gage. It's in their blood to destroy everything in their path. I'm surprised someone like you doesn't know that, and you're as scum as they get."

He has to kill him. That burning desire inside Porter flared up stronger than ever, he just wanted to do anything to stop his Overboss from saying this shit, no matter how true. There was still a way to fix this, god dammit, and even if it took the unthinkable to stop a war between them, he could still find a way to turn this around. Gage has done this before, he'd backstabbed his bosses in the past many times and this time...he had to do it. Just one more time. But..

"You are a god. damn. embarrassment." Gage states, he couldn't look at his stupid face anymore. Turning tail and heading towards the elevator, Gage was about to press the button before instinct told him otherwise- He knew Nisha hated him, more than anyone here. What was stopping her from killing him if he stepped foot outside? Her words from just before echoed in his memory... "From here there's no going back." Shit. Was this really death looking him in the face right now? he thought about what his Overboss said, this is a pipe dream. Gage switched off the breaker, rendering the elevator useless.

He turned around. Gage had to pretend the bastard wasn't in the same room with him, choosing to unload his gear in the small area he once called his own by the workbenches. Cursing to himself, a cigarette now hanging from his lips, the older Raider crams all of his stuff haphazardly into his personal containers. None of this shit seemed really worth it now, looking at it. It all reminded him of his soon to be ex-Overboss, the wild adventures they shared. The door slammed from across the room and Gage let out a shuddered breath to know that Chac was out of his sight. How was he gonna do this? His good eye passed over all of the loot that had been filling up their headquarters, every object held memories that Porter now vividly recalled.

The Thirst Zapper lay on a far table, he approached it and simply stared. It was empty now, but he could recall all the times his Boss would get him with it, a shot of water right at the back of the head. If he had the heart to smile he would have, thinking of when Chac wrestled him to the ground and stepped on him, squirting water on his crotch until it looked like he pissed himself. Gage got him good for that one, he remembered, slapped that shit so hard his handprint was on his face for half a week. All the playful memories that stemmed from a single little plastic toy just hurt now.

No. Gage huffed and grabbed the squirtgun, and tossed it under the couch just out of his sight. If he was gunna...do this.. he couldn't have some sappy shit like that making him think twice. But he couldn't escape it; everywhere he looked there was a memory. The still-functioning record player where his Overboss showed him all the old dance crazes from his time. The massive spools of tickets from all their time in the arcade, cheating. Gage's throat closed up and he ran towards the bathroom and slammed the door, sitting in absolute silence on the sink. He felt like he would die if he stayed in there any longer, but he also knew his death was waiting for him just outside the elevator doors. Trapped, Gage chose to hide in the bathroom with only the light of his cigarette to keep him company.

It felt like hours had gone by. The Overboss hadn't come in to check on Gage once, and honestly, why would he? Isn't what they had technically over? Gage pushed himself up to stand after fighting his urge to dissociate there forever, feeling his knees creak. He held his breath as he stepped out, it was dark. He could hear his pulse in his ears as he scoped the inside of the grill, his steps finding himself drawn towards the outside where he knew Chac would be.

He opened the door, and lo and behold there he was, standing at the lift and looking out onto their crumbling kingdom. The small firepit  illuminated his back and only the fiercest planes of his face as Chac turned around to make eye contact with his partner.

"Wind changed directions, its taking the smoke out to the commonwealth now." He states, as calmly as one would the weather. "You hungry, or something?" He asks, Gage feeling himself clam up at his sincerity.

"Nah." He answered, receiving only a little nod from his boss. "What are you doing?"

"Come here, and watch." Chac calls him over, and the Raider hesitantly follows his order. They hadn't seen it before, but Gage's mouth dropped when he saw what happened just below. In the water there float a dozen, maybe more, freshly dead bodies, Operators and Disciples alike. Several members of the Pack seemed like they where fishing, casting out novelty fishing poles and reeling a corpse in by it's ankle and laughing joyfully. Around the pond there was an immeasurable amount of filth, moreso than ever before. From a far corner of the map they could hear the sound of hammers driving into nails, screaming. Raiders where being crucified by their own as they stood and watched...Gage felt sick to his stomach.

"What are you thinking right now?" Chac asked, breaking the silence between them with a grim question. Gage didn't answer him, it hurt Chac inside to see his partner look so disheartened. He knew Gage wasn't stupid, that he was just refusing to believe the end was near to try and turn his overboss around to stay. But here they where.. watching it happen.

Gage walked away from him, Chac's eyes on his secret lover as he walked, head down, towards the brambles of thick dead branches that lay on the far side of the patio. Gage's first love was perched way on the top branch, big fat claws dangling as it slept. The older man reached out and tapped his hand on the branch, his massive pet iguana nodding awake and crawling excitedly into his arms and across his shoulders, claws raking his bare skin  to join the endless amount of tiny white scars already present.

"There's my baby girl." Chac could hear Gage mumbling, a sweet sort of baby talk no one could have expected from a Raider. "I know you missed yer daddy. You eat all your food, Lulu baby? Ya aint touched your molerat. I know, I don't like it either."

'It's a boy, you know.' Chac always would correct him, but he only sighed, watching his partner baby the dog-sized lizard that looked strangely like him. Gage sat by himself and shared his body heat with his pet, staring distantly and stroking the long frills on his neck. Porter only wanted a few moments of comfort, any sort of distraction to take his mind off of what he was ultimately set on doing tonight. The sun had already set, cool air was billowing in through the broken glass and sending a chill up the Overboss' spine.

"I'm gunna eat something and turn in for the night." Chac called over, watching the back of Gage's head, Lulubelle's face peeking at him from over his shoulder. His silence was expected- "You're welcome to stay in bed with me tonight, if you can even stand looking at me."

"..." Gage's heart sunk. "Don't expect any company." he blurts out, and held his breath as he could hear Chac exit and slam the door. Minutes felt like only seconds alone with his thoughts, Chac reemerging from inside and going to lay on the bed Colter once owned.

"Goodnight, Babe." Chac called over, his final act of aggression on Gage. How dare he, the older man thought, how dare you say something like that after spitting in the face of everything we built. With one utterance of that word it was the only thing that could have made Gage change his mind, when moments before he was wondering which type of bullet to plant in his skull. Now they became floundering thoughts of every moment he could possibly live in the future without him.

As if in a trance, Gage put his pet back on the branch, not forgetting to pet him as he absently made his way back inside. It was his hatred of Chac that drew him towards his collection of guns, a single eye scanning for what would be his best choice. Shaking hands reached out and felt the metal edges of his silenced pistol, checking the clip...9 millimeters, 4 bullets. He felt sick at the idea of such a small piece of metal being the thing to take down such an unstoppable man. But it would do, right? He killed Colter with a water gun, Gage assumed that he simply was a cheapskate when it came to stabbing his friends in the back.

Gage sat down at his old bed, small plumes of dust rising from months of vacancy. His throat burned as he studied every inch of his weapon, aiming it out and holding it to the braincase of a skull that decorated his bedside. An easy, clean shot right in the temple; something he'd done too many times to count. He could see the barrel of his gun shaking like mad at the idea of his Overboss' brains spattering the bed they shared. But he needed to do this.

He waited, utterly devoid of feeling as the minutes ticked by to a full hour. Chac always slept so soundly, he should have no trouble... Gage stood, purpose powering each step out the door. The gun was hidden behind his back, each step up the rickety stairs that led to the foot of the bed was as loud as gunfire in his mind..

There he lay. He did really look helpless when he was asleep, something Gage always thought was..well, He didn't know how to put it. Precious? Gage bit his lip, eyes locked on his boss' face.

"Fuckin scumbag" he mouthed, silently. Gage felt like the man had manipulated him this entire time, filled his head with all kinds of ideas, his heart with.. No. Gage sat down quietly on the safe next to his sleeping boss, observing his rising chest, the gentle part of his lips. The feeling that consumed Gage just then was something he'd never felt before, all encompassing sorrow, a crippling panic that soaked into his very bones and made them weak.

"Make it back to Nuka World soon, boss. It needs you, and well, I need you."

"I'd follow you to the ends of the earth, if you asked me."

"Don't make me say it. You know how I feel about you."

All his own words, now all echoing inside his head. Sure he was angry, heartbroken..but tomorrow how would he feel? To not have this crazy man in his life? Gage extended his hand and held the barrel of the gun to Chac's temple. His fingers where numb, his lips cold, Oh my fucking god this kind of feeling was completely new and terrifying. He tried to think of how angry he was and..

It didn't work. Gage's finger lifted off the trigger, and he placed the gun silently on the ground. His insides roiled as he desperately wrapped his head tightly inside his arms, rocking back and forth as he tried to fight it off. He thought about what Chac said, about Freedom. All it really is, is nothing left to lose. Porter bit back the urge to vomit his guts out at the idea of losing him; that wasn't freedom. That was hell. His stomach audibly lurched, the man doubling over in his seat and tugging at his curly hair.It hurt so bad; In a panic to make it stop, he picked up the gun and cocked it, the cold metal briefly touching Chac's temple. Try again.

Just do it. Do it.

A soft noise passed from Chac's parted lips. It was such a beautiful sound. Gage panicked and stood, racing to the balcony overlooking the lake- he cried out as he flung his gun with all of his might into the distance. He lost sight of it until with a quiet pop!The gun discharged the bullet meant for Chac clean into the air, a small flash of light finalizing it all. Gage steadied himself on the wooden planks, gasping hard for air; he looked behind him and saw the man he loved resting undisturbed.

Shit, what was he thinking? Gage threw himself up the stairs and to Chac's bedside, taking the man's face into his shaking hands. Porter leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead, followed by frantic kisses that peppered his Bosses' entire face, ending at his lips. The man stirred, but only for a moment, the smell of his liquor dinner thick on his breath.

"I'm sorry," Gage croaked, his weathered hands resting on Chac's chest as he stared him down. He wanted to cry like a fucking pussy, his chest making each breath a trembling mess. He'd never felt anything like this in his entire life.. by far. Heh, just another to add to the list of new experiences this crazy son of a bitch brought into his life.

Crawling away from the bed, Gage stumbles past the balcony, overlooking the park illuminated for the shit hole it is. Porter looked over it all, and visions came into his mind of Nuka World ablaze, their bodies wasting away on the cross. He understood now what the Overboss meant, the dream is dead...it was doomed from the start. Gage shuddered, catching his breath just long enough to make it back inside to the silence of his old room. All of the possessions they'd accumulated meant nothing to him now, just stupid little things that where nothing more than weights keeping him down. He didn't give them more than a moment's thought before he made it to the kitchen to give himself a hefty shot of Chac's favorite poison. He hated the taste, it burned all the way down but it gave him what he needed; something to kill off the sobs that wanted to break free from his throat.

There was no way he could sleep alone. Gage needed to see him, just to be near the bastard, and he couldn't make it to the bed quick enough. He threw off his battered shirt, climbing in and muscling himself up with everything he was right against his boss. He draped a cool arm over his Boss' chest, burying his flat nose hard into Chac's neck and taking a deep breath of his musky smell.

"Mmhh?" His boss moaned, eyes peeking open and surprised to see Gage glued so tightly to him. "Hey, cowboy." Chac's fingers loop around Gage's shoulder and pull him in, half-awake and unaware of the danger he'd been in.

"...Hey, boss." Gage whispers. "I'm real sorry." For more than you can ever imagine.

"S'arright. We Figure it out tomorrow."

Gage was overjoyed then, even without Nuka World, no matter where they end up, at least they'd have a tomorrow.

"...Yeah. Tomorrow."

#M!SS/Porter Gage #Porter Gage #Male Sole Survivor #my gay art #FO4 Fanfiction