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s1cparvism4gna · 3 years

Text

I Like You A Lot

WARNINGS: cursing and violence

Tags: @desertvvitch, @courtenbae , @ammaliatrici

Chapter 21

Sunny’s POV

Orca kicked his way out of the helicopter, clutching the Tusk in his gloved hands. The second he noticed us, he looked around for something to defend himself with. He spotted his gun a few feet away from him and immediately began to launch himself into the dirt for it. Nadine snarled and pulled her gun from her hip with the quickness. “Don’t.” She said simply, pointing the gun at him, her nostrils flaring. He peered up at her from his broken visors. With a disheveled grunt, he sat himself up against the helicopter.

“Ma’am.” He sighed, clutching the Tusk close to him as he breathed raggedly. I watched as Nadine kicked his gun away from him, still keeping her aim at him. “You’re looking well—”

“What the hell have you done with my company?” She snarled.

“Made it profitable, for starters.” He answered smugly.

“I think that was a rhetorical question, love.” Chloe commented, also joining at her side.

“I should’ve shot you back on that godforsaken island.” Nadine growled, tightening her grip on the gun.

“I wish you had. Would’ve spared us the sight of watching you turn tail and run—”

“You’re still breathin’, right?” I said, my hand resting on the handle of my gun.

“Not for long.” Nadine mumbled before all three of us pulled our guns on him, taking a step forward with intent to kill. But we were stopped.

“Alright, alright! Just…. hash your shit out on your own time, okay?” Sam called from behind us before pushing between us to reach a hand out. “The tusk, please?”

“You three? Working together?” Orca chuckled weakly. “Either you’ve got a piss-poor memory or you’re even more desperate than I thought—”

“Jeez, I’m just gettin’ it from all sides today, huh?” Sam grumbled to me before walking away. I gave a short chuckle before adjusting my aim.

“I’m not the one reduced to hustling weapons to ragtag insurgents!” Nadine argued.

“That was always your problem… Thinking too small.” Orca replied with a bloody grin. “You really think I would’ve traded this in for munitions?” The way he said that left a bad feeling in my chest.

“What do you me—” I began to ask.

“I don’t give a shit! Hand over the tusk!” Nadine snapped.

“Hell’s bells…. You’re gonna miss the fireworks, man.” He said eerily, pointing to the train that had just begun to leave the rail yard. My heart skipped as my brows knitted together. I looked to Chloe and I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was.

“I won’t ask twice.” I heard Nadine say.

“Fine.” Orca sighed. “Catch.” He suddenly tossed the tusk towards her and quickly began to reach behind his back for his firearm.

“GUN!” I heard Sam shout. I snapped my gaze back to the man before me just in time to watch him pull his weapon on her. But Sam quickly dove to push Nadine out of the way when he pulled the trigger. They landed to the ground as she put four— shit, maybe six— bullets in Orca’s chest. And he fell limp.

“Nice shot.” Sam murmured.

“Thanks.” Nadine sighed.

“Pattern’s just a little wide but—”

“Get off of me.” Nadine ordered and Sam backed away from her.

“Yeah, sure.” He grumbled, getting up as I walked over to Orca’s now dead body to retrieve the tusk. I ogled it a moment before handing it to Chloe, which she handed to Nadine— completely bypassing Sam. I could see something was troubling Chloe. Her blue eyes narrowed in thought as she paced. I looked over my shoulder as Sam and Nadine began to squabble over pay cuts. In the corner of my eye I spotted a piece of folded up paper. Just out of curiosity, I picked it up and unfolded it. It was a detailed blueprint of….. ‘No… That can’t be right….’ I thought, straining my eyes for a better look. My brain began to put two and two together and a panic began to set in.

“Fuck…” I gasped, aloud. Chloe turned to face me as my face fell.

“What’s up, China?” She asked, approaching me. I was so shaken, I could barely speak. I simply handed her the blueprints and let her read them over. Her eyes widened and her prominent brows narrowed as the words of a harsh reality fell from her lips. “It’s a bomb…” she said. I suddenly heard the two idiots behind me stop their argument for a moment.

“What?” Nadine asked, wanting to be sure she heard correctly. I turned my head and locked eyes with Sam, sadly shaking my head as I stressfully dug my fingers into my now messy curls. He made his way over to us.

“Asav… The bastard traded the Tusk for a bomb.” Chloe told them, meeting them halfway, placing the blueprints in Sam’s hands. He opened them up and his relatively hard expression softened up a bit.

“Fireworks….” Nadine recalled Orca saying before his timely death. When I glanced up at Sam, he seemed as shaken as I was. But I could see the gears in his head moving him to the wrong thing.

“Th-Th—This is big…” he stuttered.

“Yeah— no shit.” I muttered, throwing my arms over my head, folding them on top of my head and pacing. Chloe looked horrified.

“Those tracks run right through the city…. Through the market…” she said softly.

“So then we find the nearest town. Notify the authorities—” Nadine suggested. If we had more time and lived in a perfect world, that would’ve been the smart thing to do. But that just wasn’t true on either fronts.

“It’ll be too late.” I said. “With that bomb type… if it goes off, it’ll kill thousands…”

“And...that is a terrible shame but—” Sam said solemnly, but I knew where he was going with his words. I felt an anger boiling inside me.

“Don’t say it—” I begged quietly for a moment.

“But we did get what we came for…” Sam continued. I scoffed and walked off. “Sunny—”

“You can’t be serious!” I snapped. “Those are innocent people out there!”

“Yeah, I know but Sun—” He tried to reason with me but his reasons weren’t good enough for me.

“You didn’t see when this plane dropped bombs over the city. You did see that mushroom cloud and the fire or hear the screams—”

“Sunny, this isn’t our fight!” He yelled above me.

“WELL IT SHOULD BE!” I screamed. I stared at him a moment in disbelief, my bruised lips trembling.

“Ladies, please talk some sense into her! Chloe?” He looked at Chloe but all she could do was shrug and pace herself. “Nadine…” She looked between the two of us, knowing exactly what we were thinking. Before she could open her mouth, Chloe had already made up her mind. And once she did that, there was no going back. I knew that. She picked up an assault rifle from the ground and cocked it back to check how much ammunition was left before slinging it over her shoulder.

“Wait— you’re not seriously thinking about going after that train, are you?” She asked her. When she didn’t answer, she huffed. “Okay… fine. Do you have a plan?”

“Evidently, that doesn’t seem to be much of a requirement in this organization.” Sam mumbled, looking down at me. Quite frankly, I was disappointed. But what could I expect from someone who’s only ever had to look out for himself.

“Seriously?! You’re just going to let her do this alone?!” Nadine exclaimed at him.

“I… I don’t know!” He shouted defensively.

“She won’t be alone.” I commented, picking up a gun myself and patting bodies down for ammo. I had made up my mind from the very beginning; wishing I could do something. Now was my chance. “I’m goin’ with you.” I told Chloe.

“LIKE HELL YOU ARE!” Sam roared, grabbing my arm.

“WELL I AIN'T STAYIN’ HERE!” I snapped, snatching myself from his grasp. “NOT WHEN I CAN ACTUALLY DO SOMETHING TO HELP THESE PEOPLE, SAM! SOMEONE OTHER THAN MYSELF! But I guess I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.” He stared at me in surprise. Maybe even a bit hurt. But nonetheless, I turned to my friend again, speaking very clearly. “I’m goin’ with you, Chloe. Just tell me what to do.” I said, joining her side.

“No.” Nadine opposed. “No— you said so yourself. This is not our fight! Even if you two blockheads catch that train, what next then? Hmm? Disarm the bomb?!—”

“I’m equipped with the knowledge to do so. I’ve sold and put together bombs like these in the past. I can do it again—” I said rather confidently, my face still as stone.

“That’s not the point, Sunny— this is an impossible job.” Sam objected.

“Maybe so but we’ve got to try, Sam.” Chloe said.

“Frazer—” Nadine began but she was once more interrupted.

“You’re right. This isn’t our fight. It’s my fight.” Chloe insisted. Nadine looked at her in surprise. “That bomb detonates, it’ll spark a civil war. I can’t walk away. I’m tired of walking away…” The look Nadine gave her was absolutely heartbreaking. Her eyes practically glasses over at the thought of losing her.

“You’ll die…” she said weakly.

“I can live with that.” Chloe responded, solemnly yet proud of the decision she’d made. It was the same feeling I had I’m sure. If we died saving thousands of innocents, what were two deaths to anyone?

“Hey—” Chloe said, clearing her throat and trying to end the conversation on a lighter note. There was no time to waste. “Save my share of the Tusk, ‘kay?” She smiled before kissing her cheek and starting for the Jeep. I took a deep breath and turned on my heel to follow when I heard Sam’s withered voice.

“Sunny…” I heard him say. I looked up at him as he approached me. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the vulnerable look in his eyes; like he might lose me, too. “This is crazy…” he chuckled faintly.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” I replied with a relaxed and awkward smile. I’d made peace with dying a long time ago. If it was time for me to go, it was just my time.

“I… I don’t know what you want me to say here…” he said nervously. I placed a hand on his cheek and looked into his bright puppy dog eyes.

“Don’t say anything. Don’t try and stop me either. I need to do this.” I said. We stared at each other for a second before he engulfed my small body in his arms, hugging me tightly before I kissed him deeply. I could feel a small tear fall down his cheek and I wiped it away quickly, not reacting as so to keep his dignity or whatever.

“I love you.” He murmured against my lips as his forehead rested against mine. My heart finally felt full. I smiled before pulling away and hopping into the backseat of the Jeep with Chloe.

I took a deep breath without looking back and placed a hand on Chloe’s shoulder. “Let’s get ‘er dun, Chloe.” I whispered to her.

“Let’s.” She said with a smile. “Sunflower…. Thank you for this. If you change your mind, I completely understa—”

“I’m not goin’ nowhere.” I said to her. Suddenly, in the corner of my eye, I could see Sam approaching the Jeep. Without a word, he climbed into the passenger seat. The two of us just looked at him in surprise.

“What?” He said nonchalantly. “There’s no way you’re leaving me back there with her.” He said, nodding towards Nadine, who was left pacing herself. We both smiled widely and I threw my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek.

“Plus somebody's gotta look out for you.” He said to me. I’d fallen for him even more now. Then suddenly, Nadine appeared by the side of the car without us even noticing, scaring the bejeezus out of Sam.

“Move.” She said.

“No.” He replied plainly. She pulled her hand gun out and pointed it at him.

“I said, move.” She reiterated.

“Jesus, okay…” he frowned, hopping in the backseat with me as she took his place. Chloe smiled at her broadly and she simply replied with a shrug.

“What?” Nadine asked. But there was no reason to question her. So with that, Chloe started up the engine and began our path on the rough terrain to follow the train.

Read More on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26555698/chapters/73386069

#uncharted #sam drake #uncharted oc #uncharted fanfic #uncharted fanfiction #uncharted lost legacy #chlodine #chloe frazer #nadine ross #poc ocs #poc oc #uncharted 4 #samuel drake x reader #samuel drake #uncharted x reader #sam drake fanfiction #ao3 author #ao3

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commander-diomika · 3 years

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(Click to Read From the Beginning) Part 5 - Fandom: Rusty Quill Gaming Pairing: Zolf Smith/Oscar Wilde, literal background Barnes/Carter Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~2500 Additional Tags: Slow Burn, 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Opposites Attract, Masturbation, Accidental Voyeurism, Pining, oh there's yearning in this one lads,

Summary: With the quarantine cell still under construction, it's not quite as soundproof as it ought to be.

It was remarkably easy to keep busy in the business of saving the world. Wilde made it his mission to get to know every face in town, and in turn have them know him, and like him. He made friends easily, the locals charmed by this tall man with his fluent Japanese and endless supply of entertaining stories. For the sake of the job - not just his own lingering fear - he was meeting every person on the island and building a solid network of people who would let him know the moment a new face appeared. The wider his web, the less he found himself reaching for the scar on his face.

Zolf won people over not by charming them, but by helping them. The gruff dwarf at the inn became known as someone the locals could go to when someone fell and broke something, or to use magic to help Stone Shape the stumps of houses that were slipping into sodden earth.

He also worked on supply lines. Trade was still relatively lively, but he and Wilde were in the market for more esoteric items than bread and booze. They needed adamantine for the cell, they needed anti magic equipment, and it was certain Barnes and Carter were going to return having depleted the stock of healing potions they’d taken. Strangely enough there wasn't a steady supply of any of those items on the island.

As much as Zolf wouldn’t admit it, Wilde smoothed the way when it came to trading. He charmed the locals and when Zolf appeared with increasingly obscure demands, he was seen as a friend by association. Zolf knew he wouldn’t have achieved that so quickly.

They both oversaw changes to the inn. Many rooms were separated with nothing but thin paper walls on slides, making the whole space quite modular. Wilde sequestered one of the few solid, seemingly defensible rooms on the ground floor and turned it into an office-cum-sitting room. Before their gentle takeover it had probably been a private dining room for special, or at least rich, guests. Zolf took the time to install a proper bed frame in his room, since his legs made climbing down to the floor-level futon bedding difficult.

On another continent, sentient creatures went wrong, turned on their loved ones, fought, died. Cities were turned and abandoned, and storms ravaged places that had never seen more than a light drizzle. But even knowing that elsewhere things were coming apart at the seams, there was a touch of peace in their little corner of it. For a few weeks they slipped into a routine.

Zolf rose in the mornings before Wilde, wordlessly depositing a coffee in front of the bleary man when he appeared. In the evenings that Wilde wasn’t out liaising they took to Wilde’s sitting room and read, or drank, or talked. Frequently about the mission of course, but there was only so much hashing and rehashing they could do. When things got too heavy, or nothing had changed, topics wandered. Zolf’s stories from the navy. How Wilde became a journalist. Small things. Easy things when they both just needed to put it down for a while.

Wilde would never do something so gauche as ask for forgiveness, or understanding, but some days when he reported another success, it sounded like I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you.

Some days when Zolf poured coffee into Wilde’s mug it looked like you don’t have to apologise.

And on the rare mornings when some watery sunshine peeked through the clouds, as Zolf practiced in the yard with his glaive, Wilde followed to idly spectate over the paper and his breakfast, and the action felt like I don’t know why but it’s easier to be around you than not.

Barnes and Carter returned in good enough spirits and got started on their isolation in the mostly-complete cell. As soon as they returned, Zolf felt himself get itchy for action and movement again. He couldn’t even scratch the itch by properly debriefing the returnees yet; the newest information from Curie posited a hive-mind connection between those infected by the blue veins. Still, this was just the way it had to be. Zolf tried to soothe his agitation. Things were just going to move slow for now. He only had to look at Wilde’s scar to help quiet any feelings of angst. A little bit of frustration was something he could cope with if it meant what befell Wilde never, ever happened again.

Four nights after Barnes and Carter returned, Zolf sat in front of the fire attempting to read the Dwarvish tome Wilde had picked up in Damascus. It wasn’t exactly riveting stuff, and his Dwarvish was rusty, but he promised he’d at least make a dent in it. Wilde came in fresh from the bath, his hair wet and wearing the yukata he’d been gifted by one of the locals. As he passed the back of Zolf’s chair, Wilde placed a hand on one of Zolf’s shoulders and leant over to inspect the page.

This close, Zolf could smell him. There was a soft, flowery note that Zolf couldn’t identify, probably whatever he washed his hair with. And then there was the warm, familiar smell of the man himself. Zolf kept his eyes on the page in front of him.

Pointing with his other hand, Wilde spoke. “This character here- the translation guide I was using didn’t even have it. Brought the whole lot to a screeching halt. How are you getting on with it?”

Zolf, nose full of Wilde’s scent and nearness, opened his mouth to reply. “I – er, it’s fine. It’s an older script but I can read it- don’ quite understand what they’re gettin’ at, but, er.” He looked over to Wilde’s face again, profile lined in firelight. His face was so close that Zolf could lean and place a kiss on the man’s unscarred cheek, if he chose.

Wilde glanced up from the book. Their eyes met for the briefest moment before Wilde straightened, letting go of Zolf’s shoulder with a small squeeze.

“Wonderful. Let me know if anything useful comes up, will you?”

Zolf simply grunted in reply, still feeling off-kilter. This wasn’t the first time Wilde had touched him like that. As Wilde started to settle into life at the inn, started to feel a little safer, some of that old comfort was returning. Zolf didn’t mind the touching. He got the feeling Wilde was lonely. He was probably used to a lot more physical contact than he was getting now. For all he had been ingratiating himself with the locals, it was clear as day Wilde couldn’t trust them. If Zolf was the only person Wilde could reach out to…

Zolf shook his head a little and tried to focus back on the text. Wilde collected his own evening reading material, some piece of Japanese fiction, and settled in the other chair. The silence, but for the ever-present sound of rain, was comfortable enough. Their new lot in life involved a lot of waiting, and they were both doing their best to try and make peace with that.

Time passed and Zolf, already struggling to focus on the dull history book, realised he’d read the same sentence three times over. Some essential part of his mind had shifted, noting a change in the soundscape. Previously, there had been nothing but the rain and slight crackle of fire, but now there was a new element in the mix.

Zolf stared blankly at the page, listening hard. It was… conversation? Perhaps, but the innkeeper and his wife had rooms all the way on the other side of the building, and Zolf couldn’t usually hear them. It was… the wind? No, for all it was raining, it was the usual dreary patter, no strong winds to explain the slow rhythm or hint of a moan in those sounds.

Zolf’s heart beat slowly. One, two, three… and suddenly he knew what he was hearing.

Zolf looked up from his book to see if Wilde had noticed. Obviously, whatever he was reading was much more riveting than Zolf’s dry historical facts, because he was still engrossed in his book. Despite his close attention to the pages, Wilde could sense Zolf’s regard. Without Zolf even clearing his throat, he looked up.

“What?” he asked mildly to Zolf’s raised eyebrows.

“You hear tha’?” Either it had gotten louder, or Zolf’s ears had adjusted to picking out rhythmic moans and whimpers.

Wilde slipped a finger in his book to mark his place, cocking his head. With his attention drawn, he contextualised the new sound quickly (much faster than Zolf) and his eyebrows started climbing. When the brows couldn’t get any higher, he straightened in his seat and placed a hand delicately on his chest in feigned shock. “Well, we didsay that Barnes would look out for him, but that’s not quite what I had in mind.”

Zolf tried not to roll his eyes.

“And we knew that Howard would struggle with the isolation period,” Wilde continued, voice artificially prim. “I’m glad they’ve found a way to pass the time.”

Zolf’s efforts to not roll his eyes failed, then he glanced around, puzzled. “How is the sound even…?”

Wilde’s eyes were bright; his expression screaming this was the most fun he’d had in weeks. “The trapdoor. The one in the Teal Sitting Room. It’s still under construction, so…”

“So, sound is travellin’ through it.” Zolf finished the thought, voice level despite the blush he could feel rising in his cheeks.

Barnes and Carter were slowly increasing in volume. Zolf could finally make out the timbre of Carter’s voice specifically, though he’d never heard him make those noises before.

“I didn’t know that Barnes had it in him,” Wilde murmured. “Or, had it in Carter, specifically.” With that puerile comment, Wilde moved. He folded the corner of a page to mark his place and stood, checking the ties on his yukata as he did.

“Where are you going?” Zolf hissed.

Wilde smiled wickedly. “Why, to the Teal Room, of course.”

“Wilde!” Zolf said, flushing angrily. He was trying to formulate a scolding regarding privacy and eavesdropping, but the scoundrel had already stridden off. Zolf’s thighs tensed and relaxed as he went to stand then aborted the movement, debating with himself. Carter voiced a particularly sharp cry and Zolf decided that anything was better than sitting here by himself.

I’m just gonna stop Wilde from doin’ anything inappropriate, he told himself as he stood and followed.

Inside the room, Wilde leant against the doorframe, body languid as if he attended a mere dinner party. There was a tarp covering a half-constructed hole in the centre of the room. When Zolf came to hover beside him in the doorway, any lingering mystery about what was happening downstairs was dispelled.

“Fuck, James, please,”Carter sounded utterly desperate. This close, Zolf could even hear the slow rasp of movement, skin-on-skin. Barnes’ voice was harder to make out, as he responded with something quiet and urgent. There was a breath, then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Carter making a choked noise that pulsed straight from Zolf’s ear to his crotch.

Wilde was delighted. He looked sidelong at Zolf and mouthed the word “James?” wrapping his lips around it in impish joy, as though first names were the controversial thing about this situation.

There was a grunt from downstairs that was undoubtedly Barnes

Wilde spoke sotto voce, keeping his voice under the sound of the rain. “I knew he’d be the strong and silent type.”

Zolf didn’t reply. He didn’t know where to even start. He would hate to be overheard like this, but there was something thrilling about it. Fuck, Wilde’s a bad influence on me. He knew he should leave, just walk away, but…

The pace downstairs changed. What had previously sounded like a languorous tease picked up energy. Carter literally wailed as the thump of a cot knocking against a wall started up, one, twice, three times, continuing, not rushed but steady. Carter’s whine cut off in a muffled ermf and Zolf could see in his mind’s eye, agonisingly clear, the way that Barnes had just put his hand over Carter’s mouth.

Zolf’s eyes had been locked, unseeing, on the rough tarp, but at Carter’s stifled moan, he looked up at Wilde. He was gazing back, and Zolf was shocked to see something hungry in those eyes. Mere moments ago, the energy from Wilde had been lewd and juvenile. Something had shifted.

Wilde’s scent was still in Zolf’s nose and suddenly the image in his mind changed.

His hand, hooked behind one of Wilde’s knees, pushing it up toward his chest… fucking him open fluidly, pace keeping time with the rhythmic thudding from below. Wilde’s face flushed cheek to cheek, eyes half lidded, awash with the pleasure of it.

Zolf shut his eyes, hard, hot with shame. When he opened them, Wilde was still staring him down, a touch of that imagined flush now true in his cheeks. There was something knowing in his expression as well, as though he could see straight into Zolf’s mind and the images that lay within.

They had been so in tune with each other lately, after all.

Wilde’s mouth worked as if he was seeking words, but he was interrupted. “Heavens above, James, faster please, I’m going to-”

Wilde sucked his breath in hard as Carter came. The words died on his lips and he half-shoved past Zolf to leave the room, taking long strides and disappearing down the corridor.

Zolf stumbled. If the two men downstairs were in any state to be paying attention to their surroundings, they would have heard Zolf’s clumsy footsteps, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He went to follow, but by the time he’d caught up to Wilde, the bedroom door was shut.

There was no lock. It was only a barrier in that it was one that Wilde chose to put up. Zolf wasn’t about to go barging in where he wasn’t wanted. He lifted a hand to knock. Paused. What exactly was he here to say? To tell Wilde off? To apologise? To say, Look at me like that again, I’ll be ready this time? He lowered his hand.

Later that night in bed, for the first time in months, Zolf found himself firming a spit-slick hand around his cock, breath unsteady. He kept his mind cautiously blank. Every time he was tempted to dwell on the sound of Carter’s whimper, or Barnes’ low rasp, or that ravenouslook in Wilde’s eyes, he drew himself back to sensation alone, pleasure coiling in his gut. He certainly wasn’t thinking of Wilde’s hand on his shoulder, the relaxed set of his body as he listened to Barnes and Carter fuck downstairs, the salacious delight in his eyes.

Zolf pumped his fist faster, definitely not thinking of the thud of the cot against the cell wall downstairs as his hips rolled and breath hitched. Hanging on to awareness by a thread, he remembered the thin walls, and bit his lip to stifle his groan as he came.

His eyes closed, he listened to his hammering heart, breathing slowly. It had been a very strange night. From the buzzing post-orgasm haze, a thought emerged, unbidden.

Lavender. Lavender was what Wilde’s soap had smelled of.

#hank writes #rusty quill gaming #rqg #zoscar #zolfwilde #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rqg fan fic #i don't even know if these are appearing in tags but old habits

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realityhelixcreates · 3 years

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Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 10: Territorial

Chapters: 10/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),Drug Use

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags: A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: You learn the reality of not being alone in the universe

You hunkered down in your soft, fold-out futon couch, shaken by what you now knew.

They were invaders. Loki, Thor, all the Asgardians, an invading force.

But they weren't invading this planet.

You didn't think you'd ever forget the blazing triumph in Loki's eyes, as he explained the plan. He might as well explain it to you. There was nothing you could do about it. There was nothing you would do about it. And Loki knew it.

Rain slammed into the glass like stones, flung by screaming wind. It had been pouring all day, even before you'd served Loki his breakfast.

“Did someone piss off your brother or what?” you joked. Loki swiftly grasped your hand before you could crush his pill for the morning.

“Yes, and I would have my mind clear when he comes to visit. I will bear the pain until afterwards.”

Thunder cracked the personable atmosphere of breakfast.

“You should retire to your rooms for a while.” Loki said. So you gathered up what was left of your meal and returned to your apartment. You had a nice little table in front of a window, where you sat with your orange juice and pancakes, watching the sheeting rain.

The sound of the Bifrost roared down louder than the rain. Thor had come by to discuss things with Loki several times now, you hiding out in your room each time. You weren't sure why you were never allowed to be seen-perhaps servants in Asgard were supposed to be invisible or something. Or perhaps Loki wasn't actually supposed to have you. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time you were living somewhere illegally.

The two of them talked very loudly, almost shouting, but it didn't sound like a fight. It sounded more like enthusiasm, rising and falling, the foreign words and unfamiliar cadence. Thor stayed for several hours, keeping up their lively discussion, but you didn't once hear either of them laugh. Whatever their enthusiasm was about, it probably wasn't a cheerful thing.

You relaxed in your apartment, reading a battered old book while they hashed out whatever they were working on, making yourself a light lunch while the rain weakened and petered out. The Bifrost roared again, just as the sun struggled out of the clouds.

Not long after, you heard Loki calling for you, always as if he were right beside you. He was waiting at the table when you exited back out into his miniature kingdom, eyes bright with the exercise of thought. He waited patiently while you prepared fresh tea for him, and mixed it with his medicine, drinking it without complaint. Thor's Alpha scent hung around the place, somehow harsher than Loki's. You were tempted to dampen it with a scented spray, but you knew Loki didn't like them. 'Stinking, chemical concoctions' he called them.

You did chores around the penthouse, as he went over the contents of a notebook. You knew his medicine was taking effect when he suddenly started talking.

“How do you feel about this building?” he asked abruptly, shoving the notebook at you.

“How do I feel about it? Uh, well, let me see.” You took the notebook, full of runes and sketches. The sketch of the house Loki indicated appeared to you like a man-made hill, a cluster of little domes around a large dome, with no windows but several doors. It had a vintage science fiction kind of look, as if someone had designed a Hobbit hole for the far future.

“It's cute.” you said. “Looks like some kind of earth house?”

“Not quite.” he said, smug amusement coloring his voice. “Would you live in such a house?”

“Sure, I'd live in any kind of house. A house is a house, and I'm never gonna be picky about that. I do wonder about the inside lighting, since there's no windows.” “Oh, it would be lit by magic. Magic light it so easy to make that many forms of magic create light as a by-product! It would be bright as day on the inside. There could be no windows, because the structure would be partially underground, and the outside walls would be about nine feet thick.”

“Wow. I knew earthworks need thick walls, but that seems like kind of a lot.”

“But would you still live in such a home?”

“Well yeah. Still a house, after all. Look, I know you're high as a kite right now, but this is about something, isn't it? Is it what Thor was here to talk about?” “Insolent thing. I'm not that high. Am I? No, of course not. But yes, this is about our meeting this morning. Twice has my brother come bearing distressing news about the future of Asgard, and this time, we began planning. These houses are a part of it.”

“Is something wrong with Asgard? Are you guys gonna be okay?”

“Oh yes, we will be fine. I foresaw something like this happening, and my brother's pride is sorely bruised, but our people are in no danger. You see, the government of Canada set aside some land for Asgard to settle upon-a handful of islands off the coast of the larger island of Nova Scotia. This seemed quite generous at first, and quite in line with the kindliness that country is famed for. I could have told Thor that it would prove somehow false. If not humanity itself, then the governing bodies of humanity certainly are the least trustworthy things in this whole great galaxy.”

“What did they do?” you asked. “Are they trying to bilk you? Make you pay for it all? Force you into debt?”

“No, no. They gave us the land so that the native peoples they stole it from could never get it back. Settler's laws, or some such.”

“That's awful!” The disillusionment led straight to disgust, and no small amount of disappointment. Because Canada did seem so nice, and maybe it was just a form of American wish fulfillment to believe that Canada was somehow 'better' than the States. But realistically, both countries had been formed in the same way: European settlers sweeping from one coast to the other. And the only way it seemed that they knew how to do that was to smash their way through whoever was between the Here, and the There.

“Indeed.” Loki sneered. “Thor is enraged at the sheer ingratitude. Many times he has been involved in the protection of your backwater globe, and these fools seek to use him as a pawn. I may occasionally want to stab his face off, but he is still a god, and we are all of us above the petty greed and power games that humans play against one another.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It's very simple. We are going to secure the land, build a legal cage so tight that it cannot be taken away, make it ours completely, and without question. Then, when we have gathered the necessary supplies, we will turn the land over to the people it was stolen from, and Asgard will leave. We will invite them to live among us in the interim, and likely leave a small garrison behind to guard against Canadian invasion.”

“Ha!” you burst out. “Good! Fuck those guys! But where is Asgard going to go then? I can't think of anyplace that isn't already full of people. Except maybe Antarctica? It'd be pretty hard to live there though.”

“Asgard has the technology to make practically any rock a paradise.” Loki bragged. “But we will not be moving to Antarctica, no. We will not remain on Earth. No, Earth had it's chance, and chose betrayal. We will be moving to the planet you call Mars.”

“What? Mars? Like Mars, Mars?” you sat, shocked, the notebook in your lap. “You can't just...”

Loki silenced you with a thin, smug smile.

“Whyever not?” he asked. “Who lives there? What lives there? Nothing, and no one. We would not be pushing anybody out of their homelands, nor posing a danger to any ecosystem. There is nothing there but remote controlled toys. No one has claim over it. I know there is at least one fool who fancies himself a genius, and has convinced many that he owns the place, but how is he going to get there? In one of his constantly exploding vehicles? No, Earth has no power over Mars, and soon it will be ours. We are the ones who can make it a livable land. Humans simply don't have the technology or experience. Can you harness Bifrost energy to get the core and mantle moving again, to create a magnetic field? You do not. Can you live safely on the surface for long enough to get anything done? You cannot. In fact, for humans to be safe on Mars, you would have to hide behind around nine feet of Martian soil.”

“Nine-like the house? That design is for a Mars house?”

“Clever thing. Yes, it is for a Mars house. Part of a community partially above and partially below ground, connected by buried roadways. A city adapted to the planets unique characteristics. We will alter the landscape, reignite the magnetic field, cleanse the soil of radiation, perhaps use that as a secondary energy source for a while. The planet is rich in water: this whole system is so rich in resources that it would absolutely be under attack at all times if more people knew about it.

But you have us now. We know how to render empty planets useful. Once we have made Mars into our new Asgard, we will turn our eyes to the great potential of the one you call Venus.”

“You're gonna take Venus too?” you exclaimed.

“Take? Again, who owns it? No one. There is no one to take it from. Imagine thinking that just because you see something, just because you name it, that somehow means you own it. No one lives there, and there are no habitats to destroy, so why does this offend you so?”

You couldn't really answer. Everything he had said was true. And yet, you still somehow felt a sort of proprietary nebulous collective ownership over the planetary system that was your species only home.

“Do you feel entitled to the asteroids as well? The comets? The moons and atmospheres of the giant planets? The very dust of the stellar cloud? Your species once shared this backwater world with multiple other human species, but now that you are the only ones left, you've forgotten how to share with anyone.”

“Is it sharing? You can travel around better than we can. Will there be anything left by the time we're able to travel like you?”

He chuckled, the condescension like a thick layer of butter over bread.

“Oh, I understand now. You're so used to the overarching greed and cruelty of your own people, that you can't imagine that we could be any different. We aren't going to lock you little humans away from Mars, or Venus, or any other place. Indeed, why do you think we've been studying how thick a wall is needed for human safety on Mars? It is all but certain that humans and Asgardians will live side by side throughout this star system. You will join us sooner or later. It is inevitable. The instant the perceived challenge is issued, your desiccated space programs will flare back to life. You humans are incredibly competitive, though in a different way than Asgardians. We are more individual, but you drift towards teams. It will be interesting to see how the competition plays out.”

“You're looking forward to this?” you asked.

“I am counting on it.” he said. “Now, do you think that house would be big enough for you? It will be roughly three times the size of your current apartment, and partially underground. Would that bother you? Would you need more space?”

The notebook slipped to the floor. “You can't mean...” you whispered.

“Give it some thought. It won't be for a while yet, but I'm pretty sure it will be within your lifetime. Would you like to be the first human on Mars? Beat that so-called genius to the red planet? See us kickstart the world?”

It was a fantastic dream. Impossible. Completely impossible. But could you? “I-I don't know...”

“Think on it. But for now, I think this medicine is making me weary. I am losing track of time and thought. Take me to the window, and sit with me there.”

You did, making yourself comfortable on your special cushion, as he rambled about Asgardian building techniques, methods of energy storage, and how to contain oxygen in their hypothetical underground cities while working on building a sustainable atmosphere. He talked about Mars as if it were no more than a challenge, explaining all the resources that made the planet such a likely candidate for the transformation process. How they could alter the thin atmosphere with Thor's power to create ozone, split molecules to create oxygen, how to decontaminate irradiated soil, and even enrich it with naturally occurring resources. You didn't understand much of it, but the gist was that they had done this before, and only lacked the resources to build the tools they needed. As soon as they had that, there were no limits. According to Loki, it could all be done very fast.

And he was very fixated on the idea of you coming with him, seemed to have a very romanticized view of the human drive to explore. In some ways, he wasn't wrong. The thought of being the first human to travel to the red planet, to walk on its surface, to live there-it was thrilling. It was a dream humankind had harbored for a long time.

On the other hand, as far as you understood, Mars was kind of a shithole.

Yes, Loki claimed that his people could change that, prattling on about groves, and grasslands, and even tropics. He was also high. He could just as easily be talking nonsense.

Atmosphere notwithstanding, Mars was farther from the sun than Earth was. Wouldn't it always be colder? You could envision, after a lot of work and change, the planet hosting the kinds of things that grew in Siberia maybe. Lichens and short, scrubby grasses, possibly even conifers. Maybe seaweed, in the great seas and lakes he described the icecaps filling up.

But delicate tropical flowers, and big, soft fruits, and plants that needed three hundred days of strong sun and sweltering temperatures to thrive? No way. Better to leave the jungles to Venus.

Which was apparently part of the plan. The thinning of the atmosphere of Venus, would contribute to the thickening of the atmosphere of Mars. It involved even more technobabble that you couldn't grasp, but Loki was very sure about the viability of transferring resources throughout the solar system. From atmosphere, to water, to metals, to trace elements, Asgardians apparently knew how to do it all. It almost made you believe it.

Loki babbled like a bird all through dinner and the evening, and you were almost glad to be sent off the warm his bed. Your brain was exhausted, but he was as energetic as ever.

Stripped of your uniform, you snuggled into his luxurious bed, still trying to resolve the image of Loki-lover of opulent baths, rich clothing, and indulgent bedding-with that of an excited, daring, and rough living pioneer. You drifted off to a daydream of him, in a pith helmet and beige jodhpurs, standing majestically in a jeep that kicked up the Martian dust behind it...

******

...And awoke to Loki sniffing your hair.

He was pressed all alongside you, snuggled up with an arm thrown over your waist. And he was sniffing your hair.

He must have noticed a change in your breathing or physical pliancy, because he withdrew his arm immediately.

“Ah.” he whispered. “The jig is up, as they say.”

You scooted quickly away from him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” you demanded.

“Forgive me.” he said, yawning. “You just seemed so peaceful. I thought it a shame to wake you.”

“Did you turn off my alarm?”

He had the grace to look mildly ashamed.

“That...might have happened.”

“And there was nothing you could do but try to cop a feel?”

“I prefer to think of it as a friendly cuddle.”

“Well don't! Don't think you can just do whatever you want with me!”

“I shan't, I promise. As your master, I promise, I will not again overstep the bounds of our agreement. As my servant, I ask your trust.”

“...Maybe tomorrow.”

Face burning fiercely, you exited the bed, and hurried for the door. Your clothing was on the other side of the bed-the other side of Loki. In the dark, he might or might not getting a good look at your underwear clad rear, depending on how well Asgardians could see in the dark, so you booked it out of his room, across the hall, and into yours before he could say anything.

You threw yourself onto your futon, huddled down in your nice new blankets, and shivered. Your trust? He asked for your trust? He asked you to leave everything you knew, your whole world, to walk the distant sands of Mars? Something you couldn't even safely do until the planet had been transformed? He dared to lure you into a false sense of security in his sweet-smelling bed, and then ask for your trust? How much of your life were you willing to give?

#betathetaandme

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arthurmorganuniverse · 5 years

Text

A Place For Us

Pairings: Arthur Morgan x F!reader

Word Count: 4,434

Summary: Arthur has let you tag along on his latest hunting trip. Only you’re now caught in a snowstorm and need a way to keep warm. (AKA the ole’ sharing a bed trope)

Warnings: Poorly written smut ahead my friends. Tread carefully. Also, I twist property law to suit my purposes. Law aficionados, look away.

Notes: Might make this a series of drabbles or something for this particular pair. Like, one about when they go hunt the bison. Might have Arthur get her the white Arabian. Maybe when they get back to the main camp they keep buying stuff to take back to “their” cabin, etc. Let me know if I should!

You and Arthur had been on the road for several days now hunting down something he called a “Ghost Bison.” While you were excited that he’d asked you to come along, you hadn’t ever traveled this far on horseback before. Your ass felt permanently glued to the saddle and you were exhausted. Not to mention that the skies were looking rather ominous today, dark clouds signaling a storm on the way.

You hadn’t mentioned anything to him, of course, since you didn’t want to mess this up and make it so he’d never invite you along again. The two of you had never really had much of an opportunity to spend time alone together before, and although you were terrified that you’d make a fool of yourself, it had been too good of a chance to waste.

Even so, despite you keeping your complaints to yourself, he still seemed to catch on easily by himself. He stopped and camped regularly enough, making sure you ate and drank plenty and got moments to stretch off of the giant Shire you’d grabbed on the way since it was the only one big enough to handle carting everything back.

Judging by Arthur’s frequent glances towards the sky, he also was beginning to share your worries about the storm. You were getting closer to where the bison was rumored to be, but finding shelter from the inevitable snowstorm was going to be difficult. Your meager tents were not going to get the job done.

Finally, after yet another full day in the saddle, and with the clouds looming above signaling the snowfall would hit at any moment, the two of you came across a decent looking cabin. To find anyone out this far into the mountains was a miracle, and you just hoped the folks living here would give you shelter without anyone resorting to violence. Hell, you’d even sleep in the small barn off to the side, no arguments. Anything was better than trying to risk the coming storm in the small tents you had.

Arthur silently signaled you to hold back while he walked towards the house. You did as you were told but brought your revolver out just in case.

“Hello? Anybody home?” Arthur called out as he raised his hands up. “Weapons are away. Just looking for a dry spot to sleep tonight!” The weapons were technically away, although the both of you had your fingers at the ready.

He rapped on the door, and after a few moments of silence tested the doorknob. It opened easily and he peeked inside, keeping his hand on his holster in case anyone was trying to get the jump on him. Finding nothing, he finally gestured to you to follow.

You hitch the horse to the porch and walk inside, surprised to find the place looking somewhat decent. It was a little dusty, but the overall appearance of the place was clean and well kept. After poking around in some cupboards, you see that the kitchen is fully stocked, which could be helpful if this wasn’t a trap. After further inspection, you also find a massive bed in one of the rooms, covered in at least four quilts and even some fluffy feather pillows. Both the living room and the bedroom boasted a good sized fireplace as well. All in all, this place seemed almost too good to be true. Where were the owners?

“You look like you’re thinkin’ what I am, so I’m gonna go take a look around outside, see if I can’t find our host,” Arthur stated as met up with you in the kitchen. “Stay around the cabin and keep your gun handy.”

“I will. Be careful.”

Arthur nods and squeezes your shoulder when he passes on his way to the door. He shuts it quietly behind him as you stare vacantly at the space he’d just left. You could still feel the weight of his hand on your shoulder, heavy and comforting. You blush at your stupidity, acting like a little girl just because some fella touched her innocently. Never mind that he’d never touched you before.

You shake it off and keep your hand on your holster as you wander around the house, taking stock of anything that might be valuable. There wasn’t much, as it seemed whoever lived here was more of a practical soul, even if the everyday things were made to be comfortable. There were no womanly touches to be found, but the person did enjoy plush linens and good sturdy furniture. You’d even found an enormous copper tub in the other room, along with a huge stash of sandalwood soap. You hoped you get a chance to use it, as you hadn’t had a proper wash in four days. There was only one bed in the house, leaving sharing the bed the only option so you would feel better about sleeping next to Arthur if you knew that you at least smelled okay.

You continue your search, rifling through a little writing desk until you find a series of letters.

“Well, well. Good to meet you, Elijah Foster,” you mumble as you read the address. You skim through the letters to find any hints of what kind of person lived here, hoping it was someone that Arthur wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with.

Based on the stack of letters, it was a single man with no family, as he often complained about having to live alone. He mostly wrote back and forth with some friend of his talking about the good ole days and swapping homestead advice. It sounded like he was just an old man.

You wander towards the back door and poke your head out, listening for anything suspicious. There was nothing more than the usual sounds of nature, which could be both good and bad. Still, you trusted that Arthur could handle himself, so you won’t too worried. Instead, you take note of the chicken coop and large garden that could prove to be handy soon, then head back into the relative safety of the cabin.

Moments later, Arthur comes in through the back door, blowing into his hands to warm them.

“Found an old fella out near the well. No wounds or nothin’. Was probably doin’ chores and his heart just gave out. I buried him not too far away.”

You nod and show him the papers you’d found. He quickly glances through them, coming to the same conclusion you did.

“I’ll go carve his name tomorrow. I want to head back out to this shed I saw on my way back right now. Looked like a smokehouse, so we might find something for supper.”

“Sounds good. If not, there are lots of things here in the kitchen too. Dear Elijah sure loved his food,” you chuckle, waving Arthur off as he heads back outside.

With the news that it seemed safe to stay, you let your guard down a little bit, peeling off your filthy jacket and hat. You set them off to the side, wondering if you could convince Arthur to stay long enough to do some laundry. You were sure he needed some clean clothes too.

Upon inspection, the wooden stove seems in perfect working order and already has a stack of kindling and wood ready to go next to it. You set the kindling inside and light it up, knowing it will take a while to get to a good temperature for even cooking. While the stove warms, you hum and go through the cupboards as you try to figure out what to make for supper. Arthur comes stomping back inside moments later, arms filled with goods and grinning happily.

“I was right about the meat. He had a whole root cellar going on underground. Found some ham, bacon, and some sort of sausages. The best part is the place was filled with home canned goods and even some fruits and vegetables. Got some peaches and apples, even found some eggs and butter. Figured we could do with a little treat.”

“We can make all kinds of stuff with that! I am starving right now, so we’ll make something quick. Maybe the sausages and a potato hash? Might have the stuff to make some fry bread with it. Then maybe a cobbler for dessert. We’ll save the bacon for breakfast and make some fried apples too.”

“If you say so,” Arthurs deadpans and settles all of his finds on the dining room table.

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “You still don’t believe that I can cook.”

“Didn’t say that, Miss. Just haven’t seen any evidence to support your claims.”

You should probably be offended, but a smiling and teasing Arthur was such a rare treat that you could only bring yourself to blush and smile back.

“I’ll show you. Out of my kitchen, mister. You should get both of the fireplaces going. The chill is really starting to hit this place.”

“Good idea. I’ll get the tub filled too. Try not to burn my food, woman.”

“So rude. Now, where did I put that poison?”

Arthur laughs as he heads outside. You focus on cooking while he comes in and out, carrying loads of firewood and huge buckets of water. The poor man was certainly getting a workout today. You were sure he was looking forward to a bath now.

Dinner was nearly done by the time he joins you in the kitchen, poking his head over your shoulder to look at the cobbler you were putting together.

“The man sure liked his comforts. That bed is big enough for four. I think the two of us will be plenty comfortable.”

You were glad he couldn’t see your face, as the reminder of where you’d be sleeping tonight must have made you resemble a tomato. You stick the cobbler in the oven to avoid looking at him and begin to dish out the sausages, potatoes, and bread you’d put together for supper while Arthur continues looking through the cupboards.

“There must be forty pounds of beans here. Could feed an army. Would be good with some of that bacon.”

“I am not making you any beans if I’m supposed to be sharing a bed with you, Arthur Morgan.”

“That’s probably smart thinkin’,” he chuckles, sitting at the dining room table as you set the plates down, along with a pitcher of water he’d pumped earlier.

You roll your eyes as Arthur playfully makes a big show of sniffing his fork before he takes a bite. Your smile quickly turns smug as his eyes widen.

“Now why in the hell have I been eating Pearson’s slop if you can cook like this?”

You giggle and take a bit of your own food, pleased as he starts to dig in with relish.

“Pearson would never give up his job. Besides, this is pretty simple. Hard to mess up sausages and hash. The real test is my cobbler.”

Arthur grunts, shoving an entire half a sausage in his mouth as he chews happily. The meal soon became a quiet affair as your hunger caught up with you as well, and the two of you went to work devouring every bit quickly. The cobbler went by just as fast, with Arthur’s moan of delight being compliment enough.

Once your bellies were full with nary a crumb of leftovers in sight, the both of you leaned back into your chairs, sighing in contentment.

“Pearson can keep cooking for the rest of them, but I’ll only eat if you cook for me. You’re not gonna let me starve, right? You’ll cook for me again?” Arthur asked as he rubbed his belly, his soft smile sending your insides fluttering.

“You’re ridiculous. Yes. If we happen to be in camp at the same time and Pearson won’t kill me for using his supplies, I’ll cook for you again.”

Arthur helps you bring the dishes to the sink and even dries them while you wash. The easy way that the two of you work together makes you feel like you’ve done this millions of times.

When everything is clean, Arthur heads to the bedroom while you sit down on the sofa near the fire and begin pulling off your boots. They have a couple of new holes after this trip, making you cringe a bit. You’ll have to find a new pair before these fall apart completely. Arthur comes out a few moments later, carrying one of his union shirts. You were very familiar with those shirts, as they were usually fairly tight on him and highlighted his impressive back muscles.

“Thought you could use something to wear to bed. You can take the bath first.”

You accept the shirt, knowing the thing will probably reach nearly to your knees and cover you well enough.

“You sure? You’ve worked hard, so I don’t mind waiting.”

“Nah, it’s alright. The water will be dirtier for you if I go first. Little thing like you can’t hold much dirt.”

You snort over your shoulder as you head to the bathing room. “You’d be surprised.”

You strip quickly once you shut the door behind you, glad that you wouldn’t have to put any of those clothes back on when you were done. Everything you had was filthy. You didn’t even have a clean pair of bloomers to wear. The coals under the tub had kept the water nice and warm, and you sighed as you slid into the blessed comfort. Arthur had even set out a couple of washcloths and a bar of soap on the end table near the tub.

As you wash the days of grime away, you peer out of the window and see that the snow is finally coming down hard. It’s probably a pretty good guess that the two of you might be snowed in here for a couple days unless Arthur wants to tough it out. You really hope he doesn’t.

You quickly finish up in the tub, wanting to leave Arthur with plenty of warm water, and dry off, wringing your hair out as best you can. You slip on the shirt and take a little sniff, pleased that it smelled like Arthur. Looking around, you find an unopened container of tooth powder, so you wet a washcloth and do your best.

You take a deep breath and open the door to find Arthur lounging on the sofa, his boots and hat already off, and he was near to dozing off by the looks of it. He cracks open an eye as you step out, then slowly sits up straight, staring at you wide-eyed as you shyly stand there.

“It’s all ready for you,” you mumble, the cold air reminding you of just how exposed you are right now.

Arthur audibly swallows as his gaze travels from your hair drying wildly and loose, to your bare legs, glimpses of your thighs poking from underneath his shirt if you shifted.

Finally, he clears his throat and picks up the clothes he had handy, holding them in front of his lap as he hurries past you. The door closes behind him without another word. You quirk an eyebrow at the door, then shrug and bank the fire in the main room before heading to the bedroom.

The bedroom is sufficiently cozy, with the fire a gentle heat now and the windows weatherproofed. You slip under the covers on the right side, knowing Arthur will want to be on the left and closer to the door. After that it’s just a matter of trying to remember to breathe despite how nervous you were.

You lose track of time and the warmth seeps into your bones, making you drowsy, and you close your eyes for a few moments. Eventually, the gush a cold air hits your face as Arthur enters the room and quickly shuts the door behind him.

The room is suddenly filled with the scent of sandalwood as the freshly bathed man settles his things around. You can hear him putting his guns on the nightstand before the bed dips a little and the blanket is moved to allow him to slip underneath.

The bed is big enough that you aren’t touching each other, but you can feel the heat of his skin and he settles onto his back next to you.

“Night, Arthur.”

“Night.”

You nervously listen to his breathing, your heart going crazy being in such an intimate setting with a man and not being allowed to touch. Eventually, you heard him drift off, and allowed yourself to follow soon after.

You were so damn warm. Too warm. The air around you nearly stifling your ability to breathe. Your eyes flutter open and you sleepily look around. It’s barely morning, just a hint of light showing through the window.

There’s a heavy weight across your back and waist, so you peel the blanket back to peer under. Arthur has molded himself to you during the night, his legs tangled in yours and his arm across your waist. His skin is so unbelievably hot, and you guess that’s what woke you up. Your shirt had been ridden up a little too high for comfort, but at least you weren’t completely exposed.

This was nice, though. You knew the proper thing to do would be to sneakily climb out of his tangled limbs, but it was so good. It had been a long time since you’d felt this safe and secure.

Your plan was simply to fall back asleep like this and deal with the awkwardness in the morning. As you closed your eyes and began to let the heaviness of slumber take you over again, it seemed like a great plan.

Until he shifted in his sleep, pulling your hips closer to his lap and settling something hard and warm against your backside.

Suddenly all the blood in your body pooled downstairs, making you throb and dampen as you realize what that is and how close you are to it.

You slowly peer over your shoulder and see that Arthur is still fast asleep. And apparently having a great dream, judging by the twitching appendage that was being rocked against you ever so slightly.

You bite your lip and debate stopping him. Waking him up and acting like nothing was wrong was probably the polite thing. A good girl would even smack him and demand he apologize for acting like an animal even in sleep.

No one had ever said you were a good girl.

Your hips seemed to move of their own volition, pressing harder against his erection as his movements sped up. The massive hand that had been gripping onto your waist slowly slid up until it was cradling one of your breasts, somehow gentle with them in sleep. Arthur grunted and pressed his head into your neck, nipping at the skin lightly.

You couldn’t hold back the moan as Arthur suckled a little harder on your neck, and you felt the jolt as he woke up, stilling almost instantly.

“...Y/n?”

He was trying to pull his arm off of you, but you clutched it hard.

“I’m so sorry. Fuck, I’m just gonna...” Arthur tried to pull away again, but you tugged him closer, peering at him over your shoulder. His breath hitches and you know what he sees. Your lips chewed from trying to keep quiet, hair mussed and bite marks on your neck. Debauched.

“Arthur, please.”

He gulps and settles back, letting you bring his hand back up to your breast.

“You really want this? I don’t think I’ll be able to stop once I start.”

You hum and wiggle your butt against his erection, pleased to hear his whispered curse.

“I want this. Want you.”

You can feel him nod behind you, then he slides his hand slowly down your body, reaching underneath the shirt that was now bunched up to your waist.

“Easy girl, I got you,” Arthur mumbles as his hand reaches your core.

“Darlin’ you are soaking wet.”

His fingers part your folds, circling around to gather up your essence on them before slowing slipping one inside.

“Shit, you are so ready to go. Feel so good. Take one more for me.”

His hips are slowly grinding into you from behind, betraying how excited he is despite the calmness of his voice. He slowly slides another finger inside as his thumb circles your clit.

“There’s a good girl,” he groans against your neck.

You can’t help the little giggle that escapes.

Arthur props himself up to lean over and look at your face.

“What is so darn funny? Ain’t polite to laugh while a fellas trying to make you feel good.”

“I’m sorry, it feels amazing. Really. You’re just so adorable I couldn’t help it.”

“Adorable?” Arthur crinkles his nose like you’d just insulted him.

“You talk to me like I’m your horse,” you giggle again, unable to stop it.

He groans with embarrassment and presses his face back into your neck.

“Just have to make it so you can’t laugh then.”

He pulls his fingers out, leaving you feeling horribly empty. You can feel him messing around with his own pants, trying to pull and kick them off under the covers. Then he picks up your leg and slings across his hip, his cock now laying heavy against your core.

He slides it around, coating it before settling it against your opening.

“Last chance to back out. You sure you want me?”

“Yes. Do it, please.”

Arthur slides in embarrassingly easy, grunting and tightening his hold on you as he fully sheathes himself.

“You are so tight. I’m worried I’m not going to last long,” he mutters as he starts to thrust.

You are pretty sure you’re not going to last either, because you’d barely started and you could feel your orgasm building up. You could hear how wet you were, every thrust creating an embarrassing squelching sound. He speeds up, his hips slamming into you, and the room is filled with the slaps of skin on skin. You can’t even think anymore, the only sounds you’re capable of making are whining and grunting his name. Arthur leans across your back to kiss and suck on your neck, one of his hands reaching under you to rub your clit.

“You feel so good, darlin’. You’re so tight and wet. And you sound so pretty. Am I making you feel good?”

“Yes! Please, I’m so close!” You moan loudly, thrusting your hips back to meet his.

“Oh god, sweetheart, I’m going to cum soon. I can’t hold off anymore. Cum with me.” He whispers in your ear, biting the lobe, and you let go, screaming his name into the pillow. He thrusts hard three more times and cums with a loud, guttural groan into your neck. You both stay like that, breathing heavily as you come down and he strokes your stomach. After a minute, he finally pulls out, leaving you cringing as you feel yourself spill onto the sheets.

It’s quiet as you both catch your breath. You can hear Arthur’s heartbeat slowing down as you lay on his chest. You wanted to know what this all meant. If this was just sex for him or if he was sweet on you. You had no idea how to go about asking him without sounding desperate.

“I can hear you overthinking.” He chuckles into your hair. He leans back and tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“So what’s it gonna be? This a one time thing, or is it more?”

“I’d like it to be more,” you answer shyly, and he seems pleased with your response as he pulls your closer to him and leans over to peck your lips.

“Alright. We can do whatever you wanna do. You call the shots here.”

“Well, I don’t know how smart it is giving me that much power, Arthur Morgan.”

He chuckles, grabbing a handful of your hair and playing with it.

“Don’t think I’d mind if it’s you.”

The two of you fall into a comfortable silence for a few moments before the urge to find the outhouse became too great. After taking care of business and freshening up, you make breakfast while Arthur goes looking through all the papers in old Elijah’s desk.

“Here, look at this one.”

You wipe your hands off on the dish towel and hold the paper near the window, seeing that Arthur has found the deed to the property.

“You know,” Arthur says thoughtfully, rubbing his hand across his beard. “He didn’t have nobody else. It’d be easy as hell to write something up and say he sold it to us. Go to town and have ‘em file it up. It could be ours.”

You stare at him in wonder. “Really?”

“Not gonna leave the others in the dust, of course, but we could have a place out here for when we need it. Or to just get away sometimes. Just the two of us.”

You’re absolutely beaming with you throw yourself at him and he pulls you into a hug, placing a kiss onto the top of your head.

“A place for us.”

#Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan x reader #arthur x reader #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #sharing a bed #au #lemon

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redeadepression · 5 years

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Untitled John Fic | John Marston x F!Reader | Angst

I couldn’t think of a title so... Get it? Like the Goose game. Lol.

Sooo I misread this ask as specifically asking for fem reader which is how I have written the fic. I apologise if you were wanting GN or M!Reader. But I do state in my rules if you don’t ask for a specific gender I will probably write F!Reader as it’s what I am most confident in as a female.

I would also LOVE to write an Arthur fic along the same vein but need to wait for inspiration to hit. Feel free to send me sad Arthur headcanons you wouldn’t mind me using as a prompt to get the juices flowing.

Warnings: Mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts | Tags: ANGST, Hurt/Comfort

Relationships: John Marston x F!Reader, (past) John Marston x Abigail Roberts | NO CHEATING

Word Count: 4608

Summery: John is struggling with juggling a new relationship and his commitment to Abigail as ex-husband/co-parent to Jack. Reader comforts him when he’s down.

Disclaimer: I fucking LOVE Abigail!!! Don’t @ me about her characterization in this fic! John/Abi is my OTP. I am fully aware they are BOTH at fault for their shitty relationship early game and I try so hard to never write her as purely “the bad guy”. I make sure to always try and give her solid reasoning behind her shitty actions. However, this fic is from John and his new gf’s POV so obviously Abigail is going to be the antagonist.

~~~

It had been a hard few months. Tensions were high in the Gang and as a relatively new member you were finding it hard to hide that fact that you felt uncomfortable and out of place.

Most of your awkward feelings came from the seemingly unanimous contempt that had been placed upon you by a large number of gang members. A strong dislike so thinly veiled that it hung in the air like a bad smell. It felt absolutely suffocating, intolerable at times.

But you couldn’t walk away now. Not after what you had done to cause this cloud of abhorrence that seemed to follow your every move. You’d made a commitment and you planned to stick it out until the heat died down.

If it did die down… You worried more than you cared to admit that you had made a name for yourself. That your time here would always be miserable.

You sat by yourself on a log near the fire. Having risen earlier than usual to try and avoid the bustle of the morning. Gang members arguing over who got the first cup of coffee and whining at the taste of left-over stew for breakfast.

Most people were still asleep. The sun had only just begun to peak its head over the mountains across the distant valley. You were enjoying your moment of silence, a second to yourself to catch your breath after a horrible night of restless sleep.

As if the universe itself was against you, an almighty shriek ripped through the camp, a sudden wind, unrelated to the noise jostled tent flaps and wiped your hair around your face. If you didn’t know better, you would have sworn the breeze was a shockwave from the force of Abigail’s wrath.

You exhaled slowly, turning to look in the direction of the disturbance but still trying to be discreet lest anyone was watching.

Abigail was berating John. Absolutely tearing shreds off him as he stared at her blankly like a startled deer. He had been on his way to the fire, empty coffee cup in hand when she had caught up with him. Her mannerisms telling anyone that was watching that she was finally at the end of her tether.

You pursed your lips, turning back to the fire quickly and trying to pretend you hadn’t heard. Couldn’t still hear, the screaming and cursing.

You couldn’t blame her. It was your fault she was so high strung lately.

You listened as John tried to defend himself meekly. His arguments palling in comparison to her accusations. She had every right to be as upset with him as she was. But you felt perhaps this discussion could have happened in private instead of airing your dirty laundry for the Gang to witness.

It had been a good 6 months now since they had broken up. Amicably at first with the intensions of working things out after a trial separation. John had needed space from her constant nagging and Abigail felt she needed time away from here ‘second child.’

They kept their separation to themselves. But due to the nature of their volatile relationship it wasn’t such a secret. Abigail and Jack moved out of John’s tent and Jack had spent days crying on his bedroll. Heartbroken over his parents splitting up.

This caused frequent quarrels. Abigail arguing that John didn’t care and wasn’t doing anything to try and console the boy that everything would be fine. John arguing right back that there was nothing he could do. Why give him hope for something that may never happen?

The fact that Abigail refused to leave him in peace after their separation just pushed him further away. Even if her arguments were valid and with good intension. John felt caged. Breaking up didn’t make her stop. He couldn’t catch a break. He felt trapped with the only option being to run again.

You bit at your bottom lip, taking a sip of your coffee to seem nonchalant as more and more gang members began to rise from their tents to see what all the commotion is about. A few were looking directly at you. Their eyes squinted and full of loathing. But most were looking at Abigail and John. Watching as she paced in front of him, ranting and raving about his lack of care.

It seemed she’d had a rough night. With Jack falling ill she’s not slept a wink. Between comforting him and cleaning him up after he’s been sick, she was awake the entire night. Resentment at John’s blissfully unaware state growing by the minute as he slept right through a few tents over.

He was arguing that he didn’t know. She should have told him he was sick. Asked for help and he would have been there. Abigail was screaming back that asking him for help has never done her any good in the past so why should she start now?

John was flailing, you could see it plainly as you chanced another glance around. She was too damn angry to hear anything he had to say. You felt for her. You really did. That was, until she noticed you.

She turned on you with the fury of 3 angry bulls. She screamed your name, pointing. All eyes were on you as she shouted.

“And you! You don’t help a damn thing you homewrecker!”

Your jaw droped, unable to speak as you blinked in disbelief. She’d not spoken a word to you in months. Of course now was the time she chose to hash it all out.

“Hey!” John interjected, grabbing Abigail by the arm and spinning her back in his direction. “You leave her out of this!” He warned, eyes stern as she reeled around, hand clapping hard against the side of his face and making him falter. He let go of her, staring with wounded eyes as she took a step back. Realising what she’d just done and clearing her throat.

She opened her mouth to apologise. Her own disbelief greater than that of anybody watching. It had been a reflex. Muscle memory from her days as a prostitute. She hadn’t meant to hurt him.

John turned away, standing there for a second longer before walking away in the direction of the horses.

You watched in stunned silence as she let him go. Even the birds seemingly invested in the situation as an awry stillness descended on the whole area. The only sound the crunching of John’s boots as he stomped towards Old Boy.

He mounted up and left. Forgoing a saddle or any other tack. Hands holding tight on to Old Boy’s mane as he dug his heels into the horse’s ribs and directed him away from camp.

It took a few minutes and Abigail retreating to her lean-to to check on Jack before anyone dared to make a move. Gang members slowly exiting their respective tents and going about their business quietly. None of them bold enough to mention what had just happened for fear of Abigail over-hearing.

You stood slowly, knowing people were going to be looking in your direction regardless. They knew where you were going. What your plan was. There was no point in sitting around any longer in an attempt to try and hide it.

You moved towards your horse. Taking your time to saddle up and make sure he/she was ready for the ride before mounting up and spurring them into a trot along the path out of camp.

~~~~

You didn’t have to ride long. Knowing in your heart where John would be you had ridden towards that area, following along the fresh hoof-prints in the loose red dirt.

You turned off the beaten path, your horse whinnying in annoyance at having to walk through the brush. You petted them on the neck, promising a treat for following your direction. You know they couldn’t understand you but smiled non-the-less as they seemed to calm at the idea.

You could have left them hitched to a tree near the main road. But you ran the risk of another gang member noticing them and walking through the forest to find you.

You spotted John and Old Boy up ahead. The large Hungarian Half-bred munching happily on some greenery about 10 metres from the edge of a large cliff overlooking the valley below. John was sitting near the edge. Face in his hands as he contemplated his life thus far, oblivious to your approach.

You hitched Y/HN next to Old Boy and called out softly to alert John to your presence. He jumped slightly. Looking over his shoulder briefly before wiping at his face and letting his hands fall to his lap.

You sat down beside him, placing a familiar hand on his upper back and rubbing small, comforting circles as he glared at the ground in front of him. A large, angry mark flaring up on his cheek where Abigail had hit him.

It had been about 4 months since you’d officially started dating. Four months of absolute hell if you were being honest. But when you were alone like this, in your special spot away from camp, it was absolute bliss.

This specific situation wasn’t ideal. But you had been yearning for some alone time away from prying eyes.

Eyes that seemed to never stop watching. It was taking its toll on you. Making you regret things you shouldn’t be regretting. Questioning things, you didn’t want to be questioning.

Like was he worth it?

John seemed to follow your train of thought. Side-eying you silently as he rubbed at his cheek.

“You can go.” He said weakly. “If you want.” A long exhale following his words as he licked his lips and fell silent once more.

“I just got here.” You laughed, hand falling from its place on his back. You placed it on his thigh, squeezing reassuringly and watching as his jaw tensed. Seemingly gritting his teeth.

“No... I know.” He said softly, struggling to find the words. “I mean… You can leave. If you want to.” He paused, finally turning to look at you and realising his point had not been made. “The Gang.” He clarified. Making your brows shoot upwards in surprise.

He turned back to his hands in his lap and closed his eyes for a moment. You suspected he was waiting for your confirmation on the subject but it didn’t come.

You had been enjoying your time in the Gang up until recently. Having worked hard every day for a week to pull a con on two men you’d met in the saloon nearby. It turned out those men were actually trying to con you as well. When the truth was realised you had all had a good laugh. Dutch and Arthur inviting you to join them for a drink and upon realising you currently didn’t have a stable home, the Gang.

Everything was fantastic for a few months. You felt at home almost instantly. You made new friends, new family. You were welcomed with open arms and you had never felt so secure in your lifetime.

When you’d met John, the chemistry had been instantaneous on your part. Finding him attractive, friendly and useful to boot. You had caught him staring more than once and were relatively sure he returned your feelings. But something was off about the way he acted towards you. He had been skittish. Dancing around your attraction to him and outright avoiding any chance you’d had to be alone. It wasn’t until you’d cornered him after a night of drinking that he finally admitted he did feel something for you as well.

He was very guilty about his admission. Explaining that he was supposed to be trying to work on things with Abigail. He was struggling hard with the feeling that he knew deep down their relationship was a dead-end. Every time they were supposed to try and talk it out it ended in a fight. Abigail becoming increasingly impatient that he wasn’t ready to recommit himself to her.

He had word-vomited his darkest thoughts to you that night. Slurring about how he wanted to run away again and saw no way out. His attraction to you was the straw that broke the camels back. The last nail in the coffin of his resolve to fix things with his wife. He hadn’t meant for it to happen. But that didn’t mean he could ignore it.

He wanted to tell Abigail it was over for good. He wasn’t interested in fixing things and he felt they parented better separately anyway. She was always going on about Jack. What about Jack? How will this affect Jack? He was scared to tell her it wouldn’t. To seem callous towards his son and his feelings. He felt he was a better Father without her hanging over his shoulder.

Somewhere in the middle of his rant he had begun to cry. Head heavy with the drink, he hadn’t been able to stop his usual stoic core from breaking. Mortified by the turn of events he’d tried to pretend as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just spent half an hour rambling his sorrows to a relative stranger.

He shut himself down. Locking away his feelings and refusing to acknowledge them even after you’d both bitten the bullet and started to date a few weeks later.

He’d had to tell Abigail first. Before he could in good conscience being seeing you in earnest. He had been too afraid before your drunken talk. Terrified of ending things and risking everything he had for the sake of your rejection. But after the conformation he had been looking for, he’d found a renewed sense of courage. Letting Abigail know he was done with their romantic relationship but that didn’t mean he was walking away from Jack.

To say she hadn’t taken it well was an understatement. You had learnt swear words that day that you hadn’t previously known the existence of. She had been absolutely furious at your betrayal. Having gotten along fine before that. She’d never expected that you would pounce on her husband.

You’d both argued that had they been an item you would never had made your feelings known. But as John was for all intents and purposes, single, you felt it was alright to proposition him.

You understood where she was coming from. She had been blindsided by your interest in him. Having had it set in her mind that they would work things out and become that happy family she had always dreamed she’d have.

For the most part, the gang agreed with your argument. Tiptoeing around Abigail and letting you know that you didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t until rumour started to spread about the night you confessed your feelings that things started to take a turn. It spread like wildfire and although you were both pretty confident of its origin, you couldn’t prove it anymore than you could prove you hadn’t slept together that night.

The general consensus of ‘You’ve done no wrong’ quickly changed to ‘How could you do that?’ after rumour spread that you had slept together before John had officially ended things with Abigail.

Looking back, you feared you had worsened the situation by buying into it. Telling people that even if it were true, they were still separated; had led people to believe it was true. You regretted it, more for John’s sake than your own. You thought of these people as your family. But these people were his family and had been for over half his life. The damage done by the entire situation was breaking him. You could see it in the way he looked at you. Hear it in the way he spoke.

You hated to admit it. But this morning part of you was worried you would find Old Boy hitched on the edge of the cliff and John’s mangled body at the bottom.

You looked at him now, your own teeth clenched as you tried to find the words to let him know you weren’t going anywhere. That he hadn’t risked all for nothing. You would stay and you would listen. You would wear the criticism and backhanded comments with an air of pride as long as you were making him happy.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” You whispered, shuffling closer so your sides were touching.

John jumped at the initial contact, head snapping back to look at where you’d bumped against him before he seemed to relax, turning his gaze back to the ground.

“I understand if you want to, deep down.” He mumbled, not really moving his lips as he spoke. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”

You winced at that, hand on his thigh squeezing once more as you leaned in to kiss the mark on his cheek. He jolted away out of reflex before settling himself down and letting his forehead rest on your own cheek.

“Why don’t you tell me what you’re feelin’?” You asked quietly, hand coming up to run through his long hair and massage his scalp. He moaned against you softly, shuddering at the feeling.

“Not feelin’ anything.” He said against your shoulder, eyes staring blankly at the stitching on your collar.

Your lips tightened, eyes flicking towards him as you removed your hand from his head and waited. It took a few seconds before he realised you were done. Sitting back to look at you sadly as you raised your brows in question.

“What?” He asked, looking away. You could tell he wanted you to drop it. To just pretend it hadn’t happened and move on like you’d done that first night.

“What was all that about?” You asked, gesturing back in the direction of camp, his eyes rolling at your question.

“Just drop it will ya?” He asked, annoyance in his tone as he stared out over the valley. The sun now having fully risen above the mountain was tingling their skin with warmth as it worked to rise enough to shade them under the trees above.

You stayed silent, feeling the mood shift. His demeanour hadn’t changed but something was different. You didn’t want to push him too hard, lest he fling himself over the cliff in front of your eyes.

“It’s just…” He started, crossing his arms and huffing indignantly. “It’s… dumb.” He said weakly, trailing off from his train of thought.

You watched on sadly. Brows furrowed as he sniffed audibly. Shoulders shuddering momentarily before he managed to compose himself enough to stop them.

His eyes were squinting in the morning sun. Face scrunched into a scowl as he blinked back his emotions.

He obviously wanted to talk. Not sure how to go about it or if he would be judged for what he was going to say. Perhaps he stopped himself because he felt you would be offended by his statement.

“I’m sure it’s not.” You probed. Deciding that if he truly wanted you to drop it, he wouldn’t have spoken.

“I’m just…” He paused, questioning if he really had the emotional stability he would need to talk about his feelings without breaking down. He swallowed, taking a calming breath before continuing. “I’m really trying.” He said simply, voice cracking on the last word as his face crumpled and he brought his hands up to cover it.

You made a sound of acknowledgement, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and squeezing his opposite arm tightly.

He let you, too busy in his own mind to push you away. He admonished himself harshly for thinking he could vent a little bit without opening the gates entirely. It had been such a long time since he’d cried, properly cried and not just let a few tears slip when he was heavy on the drink. He’d been holding in years of unpleasant feelings and lately he’d been struggling. Feeling particularly vulnerable at inopportune times and taking playful jabs way too seriously.

He choked on his words of apology. Mumbling nonsense into his palms as he finally began to let it all out.

“I… I been tryin’ so…” He paused, stumbling over his wording. “So… hard.” He stuttered, shaking uncontrollably under the weight of his own words.

You shushed him lightly, hand squeezing soothingly as you gently pulled him towards you. He let himself fall, head resting on your chest as he huffed quietly, his breathing uneven.

Once he was resting his weight against you, you moved your hand to his back. Running the pads of your fingers lightly up and down his spine and encouraging him to breath in the same slow pattern. He obliged, slowly but surely calming as his breathing began to return to normal. His leaking eyes burning as he struggled to stop the flow of tears he regretted letting go of.

“I don’t… I don…” He stammered, cutting himself off. He already felt so damn weak. Nerves grating on the feeling of helplessness.

You shook your head, other hand coming up to run through his hair once more and then down against his unmarred cheek. You pressed lightly, encouraging him to look at you. He reluctantly did so, red rimmed eyes sheepishly averting as he caught your look of sympathy.

You could tell he was on the verge of shutting down. Composing himself and bottling it all back up until the next time, whenever that may be. All of the thoughts and feelings would come back twice as hard. Knocking against him when he least expects it and finally pushing him off the precipice he had so delicately been balancing on since long before you met him.

Since Jack was born.

“It’s okay.” You cooed, holding him tighter in an effort to make him feel safe. “You can tell me anythin’, you know that.” You whispered gently, the feeling of him slowly coming undone almost physical as his dam-wall broke apart in your arms.

He stuttered uncontrollably, breath hitching almost constantly as he tried his hardest to tell you how he was feeling. Words broken and slurred as he let you in on his darkest thoughts. His deepest fears.

“I been tryin’ so… so hard with Jack.” He cried against your breast. Pressing himself closer to you as if he could hide from your judgement. “She… she told me… I…” He stammered, cutting himself off as deep, wracking sobs overtook his ability to speak.

You shushed him lightly. Making sure to let him know it wasn’t his words you were trying to stop. You wanted to hear it all. Wanted him to let it out and get it in the open so you could calm his tears and all his insecurities.

He was mortified, you could tell by the way he kept trying to hide his face. Wiping at it irately as if being annoyed with his tears would stop them.

You supposed you would be embarrassed too if the situations were reversed. Your relationship was relatively new, even if it had already felt like a lifetime. He was scared of your judgement. Afraid you were going to leave once you’d seen what a wimp he really was.

You reassured him once more that you weren’t leaving. Making it clear you were staying put without his prompting. Hoping it felt more genuine that way.

He seemed to calm down a little after you spoke. Sobs turning to uneven breaths as you resumed running your hand up and down his back at a slow pace.

He followed your movements, long soothing breaths making him weary after his emotional collapse.

“She told me… I weren’t tryin’ hard enough with Jack.” He said finally, nearly getting through the entire sentence without a hitch. His arms wrapped around your waist loosened, falling slack as he took a deep breath and pushed himself to sit up.

You took in his dishevelled appearance, feeling a pang to your heart at the sight of him. Your hand came up automatically to brush his hair behind his ear as he turned to look at you with the saddest eyes you’d ever seen.

“She said I ruined his life breakin’ up his parents. Said he’d never be happy again.” He elaborated, barely above a whisper. You smiled sympathetically, hands cupping his cheeks as you leaned into brush your lips against his. He let you, not closing his eyes as you kissed him. Wanting to see as well as feel you.

“You know that ain’t true.” You said against his lips, thumbs swiping under his eyes to wipe away some of the wetness. He paused, nodding hesitantly as if he didn’t really believe it but felt he had to agree for your sake.

“She hurt my feelings.” He admitted quietly. Voice so small you weren’t sure you had actually heard it. He looked away, pulling his face from your grip and you knew then that he had said what you thought. “I been tryin’ so hard.” He repeated for the third time. Driving home how much she had hurt him with her words and making your heart ache. You felt for him. You knew too well the pain of truly trying your hardest only to be shot down and slapped with a punishment for not putting in any effort.

“I know. I’ve seen you.” You stated as a conformation, smiling fondly to yourself at the memory him playing swords with Jack earlier in the week.

“I don’t know how to fix it.” He said simply, hands ringing together unconsciously as he worried his lip between his teeth. You frowned, taking his hands in yours and turning to face him fully.

“You don’t need to.” You stated firmly. “Jack is happy. Ain’t you heard the phrase don’t fix what’s not broke?”

John’s lips twitched at your wording. It was one of the things he loved about you. Your subtle wording that changed a common phrase ever so slightly to your own version.

“I meant… with Abigail.” He shifted uncomfortably at the admission. Your hands letting go of his as you looked at him in surprise. He grabbed at your hands frantically. Scrambling to correct himself and clarify. “Not… romantically.” He pressed. “Just… in general.”

You breathed a small sigh of relief. Closing your eyes for a second before focusing on his statement.

“You don’t have to hon.” You said softly. “You’ve been tryin’. I’ve seen you. It’s up to her to make things civil.”

John furrowed his brows. That didn’t seem quite right. He was sure it was his responsibility. She had made that clear from the start.

“I ended it. I hurt her.” He said blatantly, his tone questioning. “I have to make things right.”

You sighed, squeezing his hands tightly as you replied.

“There will be no right as long as you’re with me.”

John looked at you for a long moment. Eyes flicking between yours as he waited for more.

You watched as the realisation hit him. His red rimmed eyes beginning to water as he tensed his jaw once more. He stared at you, hurt plain as day across his face as he assessed your meaning.

“Can you live with that?” He asked, voice thick with emotion.

You took a moment to reflect. Really think about what you were going to say before you responded. To make sure you really meant it.

“Yes.” You smiled. “You’re worth it.” You said, taking his face in your hands once more and pressing your forehead against his.

You felt his cheeks rise. Teeth bumping against your lips as he attempted to kiss you through his smile.

“So are you.” He whispered.

End

~~~

PLEASE let me know if you liked it/What you liked! I am dying for comments on my fics and it’s to the point where I’m not above begging for feedback.

#John Marston x fem reader #john marston x F!Reader #fem reader #F!Reader #john marston #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #fanfic #fan fiction #reader #reader fic #angst #hurt/comfort #john marston/fem reader #john marston/F!Reader

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nsfv-cloudcouch · 4 years

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North SanFernando Valley

CLOUD COUCH

And where is that you ask? Think 118 and just south. Start to the East with Sylmar, Sun Valley, Sunland, San Fernando, Pacoima, North Hills then slide West .... Lovely Granada Hills, Northridge, Chatsworth and Topanga. Wanna drop Van Nuys and North Hollywood into the mix, sure why not. Can we get like-minded people together - strangers at first but bonding over a bowl? Who knows where the glass dick might lead. I'd love share a shard tonight with nice lady or two. Suggestions welcomed for how to administer this page. I'm a smart guy but ignorant sharing, hash tags, spreading the word, all of this shit. So forgive the clumsy shit that will be the legacy of this for

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brookelynnsanders · 4 years

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The Early Bird Catches the Worm

A/N: Very rushed fic but I didn’t wanna get the idea and lovelvy rp with @itzelbm-oc go to waste - thanks to my amazing betas - grammerly and God

The morning sun rays heat up exposed limbs as baby hair sticks to Brooke's sweaty neck. The clear air fills up her nostrils as she stretches her legs, enjoying the microscopic small moment of quiet in the royal garden after her last little cool down sprint. Her head is rainless for the first time in weeks. The heartbeat pulsing blood through her veins a state of calm rather than anxious anticipation.

Yet once she looks up from her current stretch, she spots another girl across the meadow. A selected according to the name tag she can spot from afar. "Who the heck is up at this time,” the blonde umbels to herself. Not mentally prepared for small talk this early. Her ponytail bounces from side to side as she shakes her head and continues stretching her hip and lower back muscles. Just focusing on her breath.

A way too enthusiastic 'Morning' by the other woman pulls her from her state of deep concentration. She glances up mid-stretch and slightly rolls her eyes before giving up on her cool down. So she gets back up again, preferring eye level to look the girl up and down in front of her.

"So the early bird really does catch worm", she observes with a raised eyebrow.

"That is correct", the brunette shoots back, "All we have to do is find out which one is the bird and whose the worm." The woman chuckles before introducing herself. "I'm Itzel by the way. I'm surprised someone would willingly, apart from those who work, wake up at this hour."

"I am Brooke whose body doesn't remember what sleeping in means," Brooks answers dryly, before adding with a sly smirk after a brief pause, "and just to make it clear, I am the bird."

The wink making her counterpart smile while indulging her in a metaphorical discussion about the worms and the birds.

So she isn’t the only one who is delusional at this hour.

"Although, if I recall the full sentence I believe it goes like this...the early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese. I think I fit being the mouse rather than the worm.” Lady Itzel says with a small smirk and winks back at her. Which spoils over into a discussion about alcoholic drinks bets fitted to be served with cheese.

The only conversation appropriate at sunrise.

“I mean I am more a whiskey kind of girl but wine doesn't sound too bad either and my only purpose is to have fun in this chaos I managed to find myself in. So if having fun means spooking little worms - I am all in.”

“Now that you mention it, you do look like a whiskey kind of girl.” The brunette raises her eyebrow - undeniably not the only one feeling the electricity in the air. “Is that so? Well, I hope you have luck finding little worms to spook because from what I've heard there aren't many these days. If not you should find other ways to find some fun in the chaos that has befallen you. So, I'm guessing you were having an early jog?”

“Yes, just finished my morning run. Needed to clear my head,” Brooke adds a bit soberer. Silently asking herself what else to do around here for fun.

“Me? Plans for fun?” Or not so silently. “Well, I started making a list on my way here. So far I've done a morning stroll, I've explored a bit. I mean you could read books? It depends on what you find fun. Are you an outdoor or indoor person? Maybe both? We can brainstorm together.”

I wasn’t prepared for that.

Brooke scoffs at Itzel’s suggestion, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I have read enough books for a lifetime.I feel like most mundane activities can be fun tho- with the right people around.”

Itzel’s laugh has a bitter aftertaste. “Oh my, pardon me for suggesting reading. I should've known you've read books beyond books.” A deep sigh escapes her lips as she shakes her head. “I'm sure that's true. Talking with you surely is something I actually found fun. Believe it or not.” Brooke raises her brows in return, a bit taken aback by that statement.

How can people be so open to complete strangers?

Aber a brief pause the woman across her tilts her head, before asking: “Do you have any suggestions about what mundane activity can be run- if the right people are involved?”

“Camping is definitely one of them, making daisy syrup, baking, even just cloud watching. Even better when you cloud watch on a camping trip while eating hash brownies with self-made daisy scrip”, Brooke smiles and slightly scrunches her nose at the memories of biannual camping trips with the people she calls home.

“Those do sound like fun. Even better together. It's been a while since I thought about camping, making anything or baking, and especially cloud watching. It's said that if you look at the sky at least 10 times a day then you are happy in life. So far I have only looked up at the sky once for today.” A small smile graces her lips as she lightly hums, probably deep in thought. Meanwhile, Broke’s irises wander up - really taking in the sky. Could this seriously make her happy?

“Oh, karaoke! That can be fun! Or going on a hike. Ah, soccer. I love soccer.” The blonde caves in shock for a brief second at the sudden voice onset, before her face morphs into visible disgust at the mention of karaoke and soccer. Itzel only grins in return before continuing: “Eating is for sure something is fun though. I can't wait for breakfast.”

“It will be interesting to see how royals dine.” The words automatically spilling from her mouth as her consciousness buried herself deep in thoughts again. Just the word “royals” is a heavy one to roll off her tongue.

“There's going to be a lot of interesting things in the palace. The royals, the girls, and so many other things. One thing is for sure I think I'll stick around you Brooke. You seem fun and I need fun. Even if you do seem to dislike soccer and karaoke. I wonder if there's something we both dislike.”

This girl really does talk a lot - huh?

“There is a lot of stuff I dislike,” Brooke adds with a chuckle.

“That's fair. I mean there's a lot of things to dislike in this world.” Her head slowly bops up and down, adding a more serious note to her tone.

The birds seemingly agreeing with Itzel’s statement as they pick up their mating melody again.

“Rape culture is one of them. Freud the other.” The urge to roll her eye, one the blonde is unable to resist.

“I mean rape culture is definitely something to hate. And obviously Freud should be disliked more. His thought process was twisted and horrible. Just nasty! My dad once referenced to Freud and I still let him know there were plenty of other people or things to use than Freud.”

So we do have something in common. Nice.

“Every time I read his name my skin begins to crawl... I have no words for this man.”

“I don't understand why he's praised for his contribution to psychology. It's-” the brunette sighs and shakes her head at her loss for words. “Yeah, I'm speechless.”

Brooke couldn’t agree more with this statement. Her extensive studying of his work hasn’t made her question her previous view on Freud. Once an anti-Freudian, always an anti-Freudian.

“I feel like enough men loved supporting his misogynistic theories - and then there was Watson who started out trying to support Freud and became an anti-Freudian”. A burst of nasty laughter echoing through the royal gardens at the ridiculousness of this all. Itzel only adding to the choir.

“I still think men love his misogynistic theories to this day. I can't believe he's still someone we have to learn about. Sometimes it takes time to realize 'damn. Never mind this guy is a bastard.”

Brooke nods along. He may be a part of history but that doesn’t justify his glorification.

“On that topic. I don't think I remember ever learning about a female psychologist with major accomplishments. I am sure there are plenty - but a history written by men likes to erase them.” The blonde adds - properly giving into the discussion at hand.

“You're right! And if we did they barely mentioned them! Now I'm curious to look into that. Oh and philosophy, the course I spoke of one female philosopher. Just one among many men. I'm just glad there are some changes now.” Itzel elaborates with her delicate hands waving around. Each movement an additional message.

As the conversation shifts to women in STEM and how bright the future will look, Brooke can’t help but dream about her future. “Can't wait to be one of them,” she adds as she smiles. Her view shifts around - realizing that she isn’t sure anymore if that's part of her future.

“Well, I look forward to that. I am a strong believer that with hard work you'll be able to achieve anything. And I have a good feeling that you'll reach that goal. No matter what. And I can't wait to see you as a renowned philosopher”, Itzel adds as she looks up at the sky again, sighing deeply. Probably having a matching train of thought as the blonde. “Even if the future is unpredictable for now.”

Unspoken anxious whispers filling the air between the two silent women. Each of them fighting their own fear of uncertainty. A weakness Brooke prefers to keep behind her facade.

“At the mention of unpredictably. The distant future might be unpredictable but,” Brooke looks down at her sport outfit, “I have a feeling my maids will be mad if I show up late to breakfast or without "proper" clothes on.”

The upcoming spectacle of breakfast with the selected suddenly a welcoming distraction.

Itzel has a brief look at her own outfit and scrunches her nose up. “My maids may have a similar feeling. Especially since I wake up pretty early they arrive there early.” As her eyes focus back on the very neutral face of the blonde, she smiles at her counterpart. “Well, Birdy if you ever need any fun like making up a fake camping area we might find a place. Or maybe just to watch the sky then I'm all for it. Or maybe your daily jog. I hear it's better when you have competition.”

“I'll definitely hit you up on the last one cheeky mouse. It was nice meeting you.” Brooke pulls herself out of the building carousel of thoughts and winks at Itzel with one last grin. Itzel only scoffs to mask the smile creeping up on her lips again. “Nice meeting you too.”

Brooke Lynn turns around mid-sentence and makes her way back into the building with a light jog in her step. Silently repeating the much-needed directions. Second floor, right, right, left. Second floor, right, right, left. Second floor, right, right, left.

#selection oc #challenge one #brooke lynn sanders

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countess-rosegold-blog · 5 years

Text

Saturday Brunch

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Fluff, some swearing

Word Count: 4,079

Note: This is the third part of my mini-series called All the Wrong Assumptions. Check out the first two chapters HERE.

GIFs are NOT mine.

If you happen to like, re-blog or send some feedback through a comment/ask, thank you! I appreciate you. 😘

It takes you less than 20 minutes to get ready. You were so excited at the prospect of finally meeting Angie Martinelli that you rushed through everything. Howard is standing in the hallway as you’re coming out of your apartment.

“I can’t believe we’re finally doing this!” You say giddily as you lock the door. And because you can’t contain everything, you pinch his cheeks. “I could kiss you right now!”

Howard laughs under your touch just as the door beside your own opens. It’s James and a guy you’ve never seen before. They must have been in the middle of discussion when they pause upon seeing the two of you. You pull your hands when you realize you’re still holding Howard’s cheeks.

You offer a small “Hi,” embarrassed at how that show of affection must have looked like.

“Hello,” the guy with James offers. “I’m Steve.” Wow, you think. His blonde beauty contrast’s James brunette, but you can’t help but notice his ocean blue eyes much like your neighbor’s own.

You shake his outstretched hand. “I’m Y/N, and this is Howard.”

“Nice to meet you.” Steve addresses you both.

“Nice to meet you too.” Howard nods at the pair, his look lingering on James before looking away with a smirk.

“James.” You regard your neighbor, whose jaw clenches as soon as you say his name.

“It’s Bucky.” He says flatly and you’re taken aback. You remember him saying that earlier this morning, but you didn’t think it mattered that much.

“Right. Bucky. Sorry.” You’re shocked at your own clipped tone. You didn’t realize you were irritated at him until you heard yourself. “We’ll go ahead then. It’s nice meeting you, Steve.”

Without waiting for Howard, you make your way to the elevator. Your friend is close at your heels but does not say anything. You remain in silence until you’re a block away from your building, Howard not being able to contain himself.

“Well that’s one way to bring out a grumpy mood.” He drawls, hands in his pockets as you weave through the sea of New York pedestrians.

“Tell me about it. Wasn’t that just rude?” You spot a food cart ahead selling arepas de choclo and you reach for some change in your bag.

Howard notices. “Seriously? We’re headed to brunch.”

“This is warm up.” You wink at him. Normally he’d complain but he just chuckles this time. A few minutes later, you’re enjoying your snack and you resume walking.

“Huh,” you say in the middle of a big bite.

“What?”

“I figured it out.”

Howard just raises his brows in question.

“Buck-eee was so grumpy because I was ogling his boyfriend.” You giggle at the thought.

He narrows his eyes at you. “Boyfriend,” it was more a statement of disbelief than a question.

“Hmm-hmm.” You say through your chewing. “That Steve guy was. Buck-eee’s gay.”

“Gay,” Howard repeats, then scoffs. “No he’s not.”

“Yes he is.”

Howard’s about to argue with you but an unknown expression crosses his face. Then he smiles, “Never mind. We’re here.”

You reach the front steps of Langston & Lane, a casual restaurant with a specialty in brunch. You’re still not done with your snack so you motion for Howard to go ahead inside.

You’re savoring the last bites when nervousness dawns on you. Oh, God. I’m finally meeting this woman. What will she think of me, fooling her like that? No matter what Howard calls it, what he and I did was a con. Oh no. She’s gonna hate me. If she’s gonna date Howard, she should like me. But she’s gonna hate me now.

“Too late to turn back now,” you mutter under your breath. You compose yourself and head inside.

An instrumental of a new pop song plays in the background as a whiff of oranges, strawberries, coffee and fried food welcome you. You scan the crowd, by instinct looking toward your favorite spot, and sure enough you spot Howard’s back to you. As you approach, a beautiful woman’s face comes into view, accented by one of the most striking eyes you’ve ever seen.

Howard follows her gaze and stands up as he sees you, ushering you to the seat beside him.

“Hi! I’m Y/N.”

God she has the sweetest smile.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m Angie.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Angie.” You say with extra sweetness. Oh my God! I’ll weird her out. Get your shit together, Y/L/N.

“Same here. I’m so glad to finally meet the gorgeous girlfriend of a new acquaintance.”

Something in your throat constricts. “No!” It came out louder than you intended, which startles Angie, Howard, and the next two tables. “Sorry,” you whisper to the neighboring seats.

“No,” you repeat dumbly.

Howard touches your hand and whispers, “I got it, Pickles.” Then he turns to Angie. “Angie, there’s a reason I brought Y/N with me and it’s more complicated than introducing you two.” He looks at you briefly and see your panic reflected in his eyes. Then he’s looking at her again. “You see, Y/N and I are not really together. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Angie stares blankly at Howard.

You fidget in your seat as the silence drags on.

When she still doesn’t speak, Howard does. “Ange?”

Her trance is broken. “Processing information and trying not to walk out here.” She says through controlled breaths. “And Y/N, you seem like a really nice person--I hope I’m not wrong.”

You aren’t! I am nice. But you keep it to yourself. This won’t do you any good. Instead, you muster the courage to say, “I think this is a conversation meant for just the two of you. So I’m just gonna…” You get up from your chair and walk towards the exit. It takes a lot of willpower not to sneak back a glance, but you manage.

“God, I’m an idiot!” You say to no one once you’re at the sidewalk. Lunch hour on Saturday in this part of town is pretty much slow so no one’s really around. You start walking, no particular destination in mind.

Bucky is with Steve and Peggy at their favorite brunch place waiting for their orders when Jerk Mustache walks in. What’s he doing here? And without Y/N?

Bucky observes how the idiot’s face lights up as soon as he sees someone on the other side of the restaurant. He follows his gaze. I’ll be damned. “Pegs, I think the person meeting your friend just walked in.”

Peggy looks behind her shoulder to where Bucky is looking. “Bloody hell. That’s Howard Stark!” Peggy turns to them, eyes round with surprise.

“You know him?” Steve asks. “We met him earlier at Bucky’s.”

“You did?!” Peggy sits back, stunned. “Of course I know him. He’s an up-and-coming big name in tech.” She turns to Bucky. “What was he doing at your place?”

“He’s my neighbor’s boyfriend.” He says begrudgingly.

“What?!” She sneaks a glance back at Howard, who’s now seated across from her friend Angie. “You’re neighbors with Y/N Y/L/N?!”

Bucky gives him a quizzical look. “You know her, too?”

They are interrupted by the serving of their orders.

“Thank you, miss,” Steve says politely while Peggy and Bucky mumble their thanks.

Bucky’s about to dig in when Y/N strides in. “Speak of the angels in the heavens,” he mutters.

Peggy looks again. “Angie’s meeting her too? Wow. No wonder she’s traded me.”

“Aw, honey. You have us.” Steve croons.

“I know, love.” Peggy smiles. “But this is so cool! She’s cool. She’s kind of a new novelist and she’s a freelance photojournalist for the National Geographic.”

The look of joy on Peggy’s face tugs at Steve’s heart. “You’re adorable when you’re gushing,” he says, looking lovingly at Peggy and she touches his cheek.

Bucky narrows his eyes at the two as he takes a bite of his omelette, then turns to Peggy. “Why do you know so much about them anyway, Pegs?”

Peggy rolls her eyes at him. “Just like a good detective: research, of course.”

“By research, you mean Instagram and Twitter.” Bucky challenges.

“They have proven to be very effective windows to a person’s soul--or at least personality.” Peggy counters. “Case in point, Howard Stark and Y/N Y/L/N. They’ve never, as in NEVER, admitted that they are a couple, but Howard’s social media has been buzzing the past month with photos and even videos of them together.”

Bucky’s about to say something more when he spots Y/N get up from her seat and leave. Even from afar, he observes tension between Peggy’s friend and Jerk Mustache. Why is she leaving?

Y/N is already out the door when he makes his decision. Food barely touched, he gets up.

“Where are you going, pal?” Steve says with a mouthful of hash browns.

“I’m gonna say hi to Y/N.” Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer and makes his way to the exit.

It’s high noon but the sun is hiding under giant fluffy clouds. I haven’t even had the chance to have that brunch. You decide to walk back to your apartment. Today was a stupid idea.

Tracing the path you and Howard walked, you’re grateful for the alone time. Until you hear your name.

“Y/N!”

You look back and spot James--Bucky, you correct. “Bucky?” You resist the urge to say Buck-eee. “What are you doing here?”

He smiles a shy smile and you notice his blue eyes once more. It’s even clearer in the daylight.

“I was having brunch when I saw you.” He runs a hand at the back of his hair.

“Wait, you were at the L&L?”

“Yeah.” Another blinding smile. You decide the encounter from earlier is now irrelevant.

“Oh! Sorry I didn’t see you. Where’s Steve?”

“He’s still in there with Peggy--his fiancee.”

“Oh,” you say before you even think about it. You try to hide the surprise in your tone. I really thought he and Steve were a couple. The way Bucky looked at him… God, he’s Bucky’s unrequited love! Shit. You’re overthinking this. Say something. “I didn’t know L&L was also your brunch place.”

He chuckles. “It’s actually Pegs’ and Stevie’s. They just let me tag along most of the time.”

“That’s really sweet. Anyway, guess I’m gonna go ahead.”

“Where are you going? You didn’t even eat,” Bucky says. Before you could even process what he said, he adds, “Sorry. I was kinda watching you.”

This makes you smile. “Howard’s with a friend. I figured I wasn’t really meant to be in that conversation. So I’m headed home.”

“Can I go with you?”

“You’re having brunch.”

“Nah. I’ll just text them I’m going home.” You start to protest, but he cuts you off. “Please? I wanna hang out with you.”

You chuckle. “You’ll really ditch your friends for someone you barely met?”

He squints. “To be fair, she’s my gorgeous neighbor who I think needs a friend right now.”

There’s a warmth that spreads in your chest and that feeling from earlier when he checked up on you returns. If he wasn’t gay, you’d think he was a magnificent flirt. But he had you at gorgeous neighbor.

“Well you deliver a strong argument, sir.” You say faking a British accent--which makes him laugh--then motion for him to walk with you.

The walk to your building was short and mostly spent in comfortable silence. When you reach your floor, he speaks.

“You know I really meant it when I said I wanted to hang out with you. Would it be okay if I stayed at your place for a while?”

“Of course.” You beam at him. You would really appreciate company right now. You gesture for Bucky to enter your apartment first before following suit. He pauses at the counter top near the entrance then takes it all in.

You notice him smile as if pleased with something but it’s only for a moment. “You got a nice place here,” he says.

“Thanks.”

He hovers near the kitchen. “You know I could cook you something, if you’d like?”

This makes you smile yet again. “You don’t have to do that. I owe you for bringing you out of brunch.”

“Not at all! I insisted I come with you, and now I insist on cooking.” His blue eyes burns brighter. “What do you say?”

I’m guessing no one says ‘no’ to you with that face of yours, Bucky. “Sure, why not? I’d appreciate it.”

The joy in his face is ridiculously infectious and you mirror his silly smile. After giving him the freedom to make use of your kitchen and whatever ingredients you have, you sit in your mini work space and make use of the time to check your emails.

There’s one from Dottie, your publicist, asking you to send your latest draft for the chapter you’re working on, one from Ana of Nat Geo Your Shot--really a thread by now--on the exchange of ideas for your potential next assignment, and a bunch of other emails from websites you’re subscribed with. What catches your attention, though, is an email from a gaming website sent barely 10 minutes ago with the simple subject: Request for Comment.

Hi, Ms. Y/L/N,

I’m Johann Fenn, staff writer for Gamer Technotes. I’m reaching out to ask for any comment you may have to shed light on your relationship with Howard Stark. As you are well aware, Mr. Stark and his recent contributions both to tech development and gaming has been gaining quite the buzz. Searches for Mr. Stark, his work, and any details related to him has been giving us a chunk of web traffic lately.

If you may refer to the attached photos, we’d love to hear your thoughts.

Thank you.

You click on the first photo attached and its of Howard and Angie at the L&L. Howard’s face is clear in the shot, albeit a side view one, whilst Angie’s a little blurry. You grit your teeth. Didn’t know gaming websites did gossip now. There’s another attachment and you’re shocked to see that it’s one of you and Bucky on the sidewalk--clearly when you left L&L to walk back home.

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Startled, Bucky calls out from the kitchen. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah.” You call back, beginning to dial Howard. When he picks up, you tell him about the email. After asking you to forward it to him and muttering some profanities, he says goodbye.

It’s only this time you notice the smell of pancakes. You walk to the kitchen. If Bucky looks good standing and doing nothing, he’s beautiful looking all domesticated.

“Bucky,” you start, still not quite amenable to using the name. “Wow, that smells good.”

He grins and winks at you. Damn that blue eyes and brown hair and the stubble on that jaw. “Thank you.” Then, “What’s wrong?”

You hesitate. It’s not that big a deal, maybe, but he may not like this. “I think I kinda had something to do with violating your privacy.”

His brow furrows. He stacks the last of the pancakes to a plate before making use of another pan to start with the bacon. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve been photographed together. When we were at the sidewalk outside of L&L.”

This makes him more confused. “Photographed? By who?”

“I don’t know, I guess some guy working for this gaming website. They’re all kinda interested in Howard’s buzz and I got dragged into it.”

His eyes widen. “Shit. I’m sorry, Y/N.”

His reaction confuses you. “Why? I’m the one saying sorry.”

“I mean, I’m here right now, intruding. Now there’s a photo out there of us that your boyfriend will certainly not appreciate.” He’s placed the last of the bacon strips on the pan, empty plate on his left hand.

“What?” You chuckle. “First of all, Howard’s not my boyfriend.”

It’s too late when you both realize what’s happening; the plate breaks into pieces as it hits the kitchen floor. A faint and brief scream escapes your throat as you jump away from the impact.

“Oh my God, Bucky, are you alright?”

He’s just standing there, but he’s looking at you. “He’s not?”

“He’s not what?”

“Je--Howard. Not your boyfriend?”

Your heartbeat slows down. “Nope. Are you okay?” You ask again, then grab the dustpan from the wall and begin sweeping the pieces.

“Shit!” he turns to the bacon again and flip them over. He steals a glance from you, then turn back to frying.

“Bucky? None of the broken pieces hit you, right?”

“Uhh, no. I don’t think so. I’m so sorry, Y/N. I don’t know why the plate slipped.” He lowers the heat on the induction and turns to you. “Let me get that.” You hand him the broom and the dustpan, then you switch places.

“No worries. You sure you’re okay, though?”

“Yeah.” But he seems a little distracted.

You take out the bacon from the pan then bring it along with the plate of pancakes to the table. You set it up along with the mugs just as James is throwing the shards in the trash.

“Hey Bucky, what’s your poison?”

“Coffee’s good.”

You serve each of you a brew and take your seat. He sits across from you.

You smell the food. “Hmmm. Thanks for cooking.”

Finally, he seems to snap out of his daze and his pretty smile returns. “You’re welcome.”

Aside from your occasional comments on his cooking, you eat in silence.

When you’re done, he offers to do the dishes but you refuse and instead shoo him to the living area.

Y/N is doing the dishes as Bucky sits in the living room. She told him to go watch something but he’s so distracted to even pick up the remote.

He’s not her boyfriend. I’m alone with a woman who I’m insanely attracted to and she’s single. Damn. Bucky runs a hand through his hair. Wait. Don’t be an idiot. Howard’s not her boyfriend, but how sure are you that she has no boyfriend at all?

He inwardly groans. Somehow that’s even worse. You’re overthinking this, Barnes. It’s just a crush. Don’t be so dramatic. Just a crush, just a crush, just a crush…

“That’s quite a good show,” Bucky hears Y/N say as she approaches.

I love you. Shit! What?

He sees her looking at the TV, still turned off.

“Oh. I was waiting for you.” He offers, just as she sits down beside him on the couch. She smiles at that.

“What did you have in mind? Movie? A show?” She asks.

“I was thinking you should decide.”

“Well my choices aren’t really, as my best friend would say, pro-people,” Y/N air quotes the last words.

This piques Bucky’s curiosity. “Really? Try me.”

“For one, I really like watching Air Crash Investigation.” Y/N says.

“Are you kidding? I love that show!” Bucky can’t help feeling ecstatic. He really did. There’s a gleam in Y/N’s eyes.

“Right?!” Y/N exclaims. “I mean it’s a series, but you can definitely watch it out of order. Every episode could count as one documentary.”

“Yes!” Bucky agrees, maybe a little too enthusiastically, because those are his exact thoughts. Steve and Peggy never understood his fascination for it. But this girl. Damn.

“Wow. You’re officially the coolest friend I have right now.” Y/N states, giddy.

Bucky’s heart soars. Take that, Howard Stark.

“Okay, I know there’s a lot, but what is your ultimate favorite episode?” Y/N asks.

“Wow, that’s tough.” Bucky furrows his brows, thinking. “I haven’t seen the latest season but probably my all time fave is the episode with BA Flight 5390.”

Y/N nods. “Explosive decompression, pilot sucked out of the cockpit, underrated first officer who saved everyone?”

“One of the best. Alistair Atchison and the cabin crew on that one--real MVPs in aviation history,” Bucky recalls.

“So you’re a sucker for happy endings?”

“Who isn’t?” Bucky narrows his eyes. “What’s your fave ep?”

Y/N sighs. “Okay, don’t judge me. I also haven’t seen the latest season but my all time fave is the one with the Tenerife disaster.”

Bucky nods. “A big one. Actually the biggest one. KLM versus Pan-Am at the Los Rodeos Airport. Dubbed crash of the century.”

“Yes,” Y/N agrees, a sad smile on her face.

“Okay. Totally not judging you, but why that one?” The longer the conversation goes, the more Bucky wants to know. He’s never been this curious about someone’s interests, someone’s thoughts.

“I don’t wanna be weird about it but… that episode always serves as a reminder to me that when things are meant to go wrong, they will go wrong no matter what people’s actions are.”

Bucky agrees, but he doesn’t say anything. To him, the moment is so surreal. Here’s a person he barely knows--he has no idea what her birthday is, no clue to other details about her--but talking to Y/N like this feels like a glimpse into her soul. It feels so… intimate.

She gives him a scrutinizing look for his silence, then smiles. “Did I totally weird you out?”

“What? No! I get what you mean. I was just… reflecting.”

That makes her giggle. “So what do you say? Marathon season 19 with me?”

It’s a simple question, but Bucky feels his heart flutter. “I would love to.”

“Well then better get comfy, mister.” Y/N says. “You’re stuck here for a looong time.”

They both devour the episodes. Although looking straight ahead at the screen, Bucky is hyper aware of Y/N beside him. She’s so close that a slight movement and they’ll be elbow to elbow. He thinks he can smell her hair--Is that coconut and strawberries? Her whole presence penetrates his senses that he knows at some point in episode 6, Y/N falls asleep.

He looks at her and sure enough, her eyes are closed and her head is tilted sideways away from him. Bucky picks up the remote and shuts the TV off.

He notices that it’s dark outside. A quick look at his phone confirms it’s already past 7. Caught unsure of what to do, Bucky remains where he is. Before falling asleep, Y/N turned on the lamp beside the couch. Now, Bucky watches as the light casts a glow over her face.

God, she’s beautiful, he thinks to himself. He’s left there staring. Okay Barnes, one minute longer and you’re a creep. He forces himself to look away. He stands and checks out what he assumes to be Y/N’s room. The door is ajar so he lets himself in. He’s bothered by how wrong it feels--get out, this is her space--so he just grabs a pillow and a mini blanket draped in a chair before going back out.

Bucky walks back to her and places the pillow on the edge of the couch. He sets her head there and adjusts her body slightly so she is lying down. He places the mini blanket from her waist down. He’s kneeling by the couch to adjust her hands when her phone rings at the coffee table.

When Bucky sees ‘Howard Stark’ flash on the screen along with the guy’s photo, he feels a mixture of irritation and satisfaction. Irritation for the fact that he’s calling Y/N--illogical, really, but by this time he dislikes the guy by default--and satisfaction that he’s plain Howard Stark in her phone, not any endearment, not even a nickname.

For a brief moment he tries to convince himself that it’s not his place, but the temptation is too strong so he answers it.

“Y/N’s phone.”

“Who is this?” Howard demands.

“Bucky Barnes.”

“Bucky Barnes.” Howard repeats, his voice wary.

“Yes. Y/N’s neighbor.”

“I know who you are. Where is she?”

“She’s sleeping.”

Bucky hears an exasperated sigh on the other end. “Can you wake her up for me?”

“Afraid not.”

“What do you mean ‘afraid not’? How do I know she’s okay?” There’s now irritation in his voice.

“She’s okay.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! Come on man, put her on the phone.”

“I already told you. She’s sleeping.”

“What are you doing at her place anyway?”

“Hanging out.”

Howard scoffs. “Okay, buddy,” dragging the word with spite. “I’ll see that for myself.” Then the line goes dead.

61 notes · View notes

imnotcameraready · 5 years

Text

chivalry is dead (10)

A/N: asdklgasldf logan is the second main character at this point, i realize. i dont have any Qualms with that but also there’s gonna be whiplash once he starts being not-super-main. also meet the artist, more!!! he’s a very interesting one

WARNINGS: arguing, yelling, knife, threatening, death threats, food/food mention (i should have tagged that in chapter 8 — gonna fix that ASAP it’s written on my arm :’D) — if i missed anything too, please let me know!!!

Words: 6325

AO3 link!

MASTERPOST!

@starlightvirgil @forrestwyrm @daflangstlairde @marshmallow-the-panda@askthesnake @k9cat @patromlogil

General: @jemthebookworm

enjoy !!! <3 <3 <3 <3

Logan woke up first.

He rubbed his face, not changing his position just yet. He noticed that the room’s ceiling was red, with baby pink clouds floating along. Perhaps this reflected on the weather outside, or the sunrise? Either way, it was pretty.

He sat up, putting his glasses on fluidly. Patton was still fast asleep, light snores drifting from against the bean bag he was spooning. The Child seemed to be a rambunctious sleeper, as his legs were bent over the bed’s edge, blanket covering his face.

He hadn’t forgotten their revelations from the previous night, not at all, and a small, content sigh escaped his lips when he saw that both of his companions were asleep sound. It was a well deserved rest.

According to his internal clock, it was definitely past sunrise, a fair 7:12 a.m. It occured to Logan that “after sunrise” was the most nondescript timestamp he could have placed on their reunion with Deceit and Virgil, but he didn’t have the energy yet to worry about that. After all, he doesn’t function well without coffee. He also should have been concerned about the Artist downstairs. Surely he has to sleep, too, though? And it was unlikely he’ll attempt violence this early in the morning.

Most important, however, is the fact that Logan needs coffee.

Carefully, he stepped around Patton towards the door, taking his cloak with him. He took care to move slow down the stairs, letting the wooden steps creak slowly instead of in loud snaps.

The ground floor hadn’t changed since the previous night. Paintings and art equipment were still strewn about in an organizational method probably only understood by the Artist himself. The man in question was splayed out on what seems to be a small couch — in front of the easel from last night. Along with that, the stool had disappeared. It wasn’t a healthy practice, but Logan had to admit that it was efficient to simply change one seat for another as bedtime rolled around.

Coffee time.

He walked around the couch, still careful about his footsteps, and entered the kitchen. There was a coffee machine in the corner that Logan immediately put to use. Now, with a warm mug in his hands, he squinted around at the setting.

He should make breakfast for everyone. He had the time, and food would greatly sustain himself, Patton, and probably the Child for their future endeavors. Perhaps the Artist would also enjoy a meal? Yes, the Artist reportedly doesn’t like them, but it would be against Logan’s nature to take that sort of statement at face value without running his own experiments.

First, he had to know what he had to work with. Logan opened the refrigerator — why were there modern appliances in a medieval setting? He would have to ask….someone — and found it sparse but useable. There was a full carton of eggs, and milk.

After water testing each egg, Logan set a pan over one of the stove burners. He would have to ask about consistency in setting because, um, a stove? He wasn’t about to not use it, but he was judging the “historical accuracy” that the Playwright had harped about.

Speaking of the Playwright. Logan leaned on the counter with his butt and took the Playwright’s book out of his jacket pocket. In all of last night’s hassle, he’d forgotten to check the “Author’s Notes” section, and there had to have been even more updates since then. He nearly flipped the cover on instinct but a distinct golden glow caught his eye.

The ribbon decal was still adorned on the front, though it was noticeably less impactful than the golden circle in the center. The sun of Roman’s crest. The Child. Logan ran his thumb over it, watching as it actually exuded a warm yellow glow around his finger. If Logan was still willing to trust the Playwright’s explanation, then that meant they’d won the Child over. That he trusted them.

He squinted at the cover. The ribbon was a divot in the cover, like leather pressing. Probably to mark the book, maybe even to fool the Sides into letting him go without argument.

Even lighter on the cover, though, was the outline of the crest. The leather was a dark red color, but closer to the center was a lighter red, more matching of Roman’s sash, and there was a light indentation marking where the crest’s border would be. Perhaps it was because they had met more figments? Or maybe Virgil and Deceit had met with another part enough to make a mark? Either option was promising.

The former seemed to be the case, because the Table of Contents had extended to include….multiple more Romans. It seemed that Virgil and Deceit had been busy. Below the Playwright and the Author Notes was now “The Child,” “The Thief,” “The Artist,” “The Bard,” “The Dragon,” and “The Damsel.” That was all seven. Transfixed, he began flipping to “The Dragon.”

There were bullet pointed notes, but no sketch like there had been for the Playwright. Perhaps it would update with more once they’d found him.

“- Lives in the castle

- Wants to kill everyone

- Would not hesitate (bitch)

- Captured and tortured Damsel

- I cannot stress this enough — DO NOT ENGAGE”

Logan raised an eyebrow. A villain. A very cliche villain, too, given that he was a dragon. He wasn’t necessarily inclined to trust the Playwright’s warnings, though. Surely there wasn’t really a form of Roman who would want to kill all of them? Perhaps throttle, but not murder.

“You’re not Teacher Dude, are you?”

Logan nearly dropped the book. He snapped it shut and whirled around, ascot flapping into his face. The Artist stood in the kitchen’s entry, sleep still evident in his eyes behind the same glasses Logan wore. He squinted at Logan as though daring him to lie.

Which, of course, he did. Logan straightened his posture and fixed his outfit, carefully sliding the book back into his jacket pocket. “I am. Cur of you to say that,” the Teacher Dude smiled, right? He was a little more of a funny man. Logan smiled.

The Artist winced. “You sure as hell aren’t an actor. Dad Guy wakes up first. Teacher Guy’s has a trash sleep schedule, since he procrastinates on grading papers. You’re Logic.”

Logan….supposed that was valid. He didn’t know enough about the Teacher’s character to refute that claim. He cleared his throat and turned back to the pan, beginning to crack the eggs for the scramble.

Hang on. Was his smile that unnatural?

The Artist took his silence as a yes. He nodded to the coffee machine. “Mind if I take some of that?”

Logan nodded, stepping away from the machine. “Of course.”

The Artist nodded back and began fixing himself a mug. He stood beside Logan, who pushed the half-cooked eggs around the pan in an effort to maintain some air of regularity. He only felt a little awkward, considering the Child’s warnings and the yelling match he had with Playwright the night prior.

It didn’t seem that the Artist cared, though. After he poured himself coffee, he stayed in the kitchen, leaning on the counter and watching Logan cook.

“The Child brought you, right?” The Artist sipped his coffee, watching Logan’s shoulders hike up when he spoke.

“Yes. He did,” Logan said.

“So Padre’s upstairs, too.”

“Yes,” Logan exhaled slowly, “Do you want any breakfast?”

The Artist looked at the eggs. Logan really just made them breakfast, huh?

“I don’t eat. We don’t need to,” he looked back up at Logan’s face, squinting, “Wouldn’t that be illogical?”

Logan raised an eyebrow. Okay. Maybe he was a little scared, but Logan wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to point out that he was being a petty baby.

“Well,” the Artist rolled his eyes as Logan began to explain. “Roman typically eats meals with us, so everyone maintains an even circadian rhythm. While unnecessary in the literal sense, breaking from that routine has likely damaged your stamina, resulting in phantom hunger cramps. My current hypothesis is that that’s what you’re feeling, or….that you don’t want to eat because I’m here.”

There, he said it. Logan could see the hostility in the Artist’s eyes. There was more, something heavier and deeper, probably a nuance he wasn’t picking up on, but the bitterness was indisputable. Or was it simply sadness? Nevermind that.

The feeling in his chest was tight now, not like the fluttering he’d pondered last night. This was more upsetting. It felt like the thing gripping his lungs had a tighter hold, almost threatening. Why was this such a surprise? He knew that the Artist didn’t like him. He should stop developing preconceived opinions of these different Romans, because it wouldn’t benefit him if he continued entering these situations with fallacious speculations.

The Artist averted his gaze, and then turned around. A quiet concession, it seemed. He opened the freezer and pulled out a bag of hash brown patties. “I’ll make hash browns,” his voice was low, almost a whisper.

Logan didn’t want to let it go, though. He had to know. “The Child mentioned that you dislike us.”

Oof, maybe he was being too bold, because he winced at his own words. The Artist was also taken aback; he probably didn’t think Logan would bring up the room’s incredible tension.

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other, unsure of how to continue. The Artist recovered first, with a sharp shake of his head. “I don’t,” he said, even quieter.

He opened the bag and took out another pan, heating some oil. Logan took a step back, setting the eggs down on the counter.

“So you do like us? Us being myself and my compatriots.”

“I mean. I don’t not like you,” the Artist began flipping the patties, “Doesn’t mean I like you.”

Logan frowned. “Can you elaborate?”

The Artist cast him a wary glance, then looked back at the hashbrowns. “I’m indifferent. I don’t need you, and you don’t need me, so we’re at a comfortable numbness.”

Comfortable numbness. What was that, a call back? Logan leaned on the wall, watching the Artist cook quietly.

It seemed that the Artist quickly forgot his presence, too, as he began to hum. He flipped the finished patties one by one onto the drying plate. A little airheaded, perhaps? But he had been quite astute earlier. Or maybe Logan just was a really bad actor — he didn’t know. He did know, however, that the tightness in his lungs was softening.

Logan cleared his throat, and the Artist didn’t react. “What are your….plans?”

“Paint,” he responded simply.

“....anything else?” Wow, it was hard getting this one to talk. The Child had been so ready to explain everything to himself and Patton the night prior.

The Artist seemed to consider his question for a second, as though contemplating if it were worth his time. It seemed to be. “Kick you all out. You, Pitterpatt, and Child being here is puts a target on my house, Professor Binns. I would prefer to not draw Dragon’s attention.”

That was understandable. Logan let his shoulders relax — he definitely hadn’t been worried about an argument or actual physical confrontation, given how the biting the Artist had been the night prior — and he followed the Artist in arranging a plate.

They worked in silent tandem, though once the Artist was finished, he set his plate aside and opened the cabinet overhead. He pulled out a toaster, then a loaf of bread, and finally, to Logan’s surprise, a jar of Logan’s berry Crofters jelly.

The Artist caught a glimpse at Logan’s expression and met him with a tired shrug. “It’s a good flavor,” he turned back around once the slices of toast popped up. Logan’s face mustn’t have changed, because the Artist squinted at him again, suspiciously, and added, “What are you, the jelly police? Fuck off.”

Logan blinked, then turned back to the eggs. He stepped back again, now feeling out of his depths as the Artist toasted eight slices of bread and set all but two aside. Those he took for himself, spreading each with a thick layer of jelly. When it looked like he was done, Logan stepped forward, but the Artist just turned toward him with a stoic expression.

“I’m going to start painting. Don’t,” the Artist pointed the spreading knife at Logan, voice dropping to a threatening tone, “Interrupt me. After you’re all done eating, I want you all out of my house.”

It seemed that he really cared about his work. Logan fixed his glasses, lowering the jelly covered knife with his finger.

“Of course,” he said, licking his finger clean of jelly.

Oh, fuck yeah, that was the good shit.

The Artist, happy with his response, nodded and swiveled the knife around. Logan took the handle and they rotated, the Artist walking away to his easel and Logan to his jelly. It occurred to Logan, then, that if he had a question he should ask it now. Before it became a safety hazard to ask.

“Wait.”

The Artist, just about to sit, looked up at him with a frown. “What?”

Logan looked around at the piles upon piles of paintings. They had intrigued him since the night before, but he’d wanted permission before inspecting.

“May I look at your art after breakfast? I assure you that I will not damage any of your works.”

The Artist looked around, too, and pinched his brows. His hands came up to run through his hair.

Logan shifted his weight awkwardly. It was a fairly simple question, but the pregnant pause implied some deeper worry.

Well, it was Logan. While he wasn’t a big fan OF Logan, he and Virgil were the least likely to physically damage them.

He loved Patton, but the man would probably drop a few of them without realizing the damage that’d do to the canvas. And Deceit….he wasn’t a big fan of fake compliments.

On the alternative hand, Logan was most likely to critique them.

The Artist was sure he couldn’t take that. Not right now, not with this ridiculous art block and murder game interfering with his creative process. On any other day, he would be able to bear the brunt of….no, no. He probably couldn’t take any criticism. That sort of mental processing went to another facet of himself.

But, when Logan PRAISED him….it felt like the world. It felt like the sunset casting a warm glow upon the summer’s night. Like a bird training to fly who’d fallen from a nest only to take off and soar. Like glimmering flashes across a lake at sunrise.

Oh, it felt like heaven.

Was it all worth that one possible compliment?

“Sure,” the Artist found himself saying, hands resting on the back of his head, “Knock yourself out.”

Logan frowned. “I assure you, I do not plan on making myself unconscious.”

The Artist waved his hand, suddenly more distracted looking as his eyes flew around between his current work-in-progress and the other paintings. “It means go ahead. I’m going to begin painting. Tell Pat-in-the-Hat and Child not to disturb me.”

He screwed his eyes shut, drew in a breath, and….summoned a sketch pad and pencil. Logan watched as he began repeating the same hand movement over and over across the blank page, an art warm-up.

For a second, he was honestly proud that Roman remembered his suggested warm-ups. He’d been worried, once Roman first took up sketching as a means to jot his ideas down, that the creative side’s erratic nature would mean less self-care, so he researched a few ways to prevent hand cramps when drawing. Adequate art warm-ups was one of those ways and was a way to prevent one’s hand growing stiff.

Well. This whole morning was definitely a shift from the snappy, angry Artist from last night. Logan briefly wondered what the change may have been.

No matter. He should probably eat before engaging in any of the art; he would hate to dirty it. He also didn’t want to get in the Artist’s way. The Artist had just put his plate down beside the stool and immediately begun working, and to be honest, that didn’t bode well for the food. But it was too late for Logan to bring that up, especially with such explicit instructions.

For someone who disliked order, the Artist followed his personalized organizational methods to the dot.

Logan stayed in the kitchen, watching him paint from afar, letting his eyes wander over the other pieces. Slowly, he sat on the ground, crossing his legs and leaning against the wall. It was peaceful

Okay, well, that was interrupted by pounding on the steps above. Logan turned just in time to see Patton peek out from around the stair’s bend, hair still fairly disheveled and glasses lopsidedly resting on his nose.

“Well, good morning!” he said with a grin.

The Artist didn’t react, continuing in his warm-up routine, but Logan waved. “Good morning, Patt,” he said.

“It’s nice to see you, Roman!” the Artist rolled his eyes, but stiffened immensely when Patton hugged him from the side.

He didn’t loosen when Patton let go and moved on to Logan, still leant on the counter, hand resting on his chest, emotional outburst behind him. Patton had hugged him.

“Good mornin’, Logarithm!”

Okay. Logan drew in a small breath. That nickname? “Did you just call me logarithm?” Logan asked, raising an eyebrow.

He was a little astounded that Patton knew what a logarithm was. Patton nodded, still chipper as ever. “Yep! If you write logarithms in their regular, no numbers-form, it’s your name!”

Logan squinted.

Holy fuck.

While Logan ran that pun through his mind, Patton went to the kitchen. “Did you both make breakfast?” he asked, ignoring that Logan was still trying to figure out how he hadn’t discovered his own name-pun and that the Artist hadn’t un-frozen yet from his hug.

Despite the lack of response, Patton continued, making himself a plate. “You’re so sweet! I’m glad you were working together this morning, then!”

Logan smiled a tiny bit. They had worked fairly well, hadn’t they? He stole a glance at the Artist, who was still frozen. He was looking at Patton with a weirdly choked expression, though. A cross between anger and something else.

His eyes flicked down to the Artist’s food, mostly eaten. He must have eaten it while Logan wasn’t paying attention.

“Logie, did you eat?” It seemed that Patton hadn’t noticed how stressed the Artist looked.

“Yes, Patt, I did. Thank you for your concern. I am going to do my and the Artist’s dishes now,” Logan picked up the Artist’s plate from the ground, not looking at him as he took them both to the kitchen. “Has the Child woken up yet?”

Patton shook his head, leaning on the wall behind the counter while Logan began to clean the dishes. “Nope! He’s out like a light!”

He looked over at the Artist, who was still as a statue, and turned back to Logan in a more hushed voice. “Is he okay?” he asked.

Logan glanced at the Artist, then looked back at Patton. “I cannot say. He was fine earlier,” did Logan want to mention that he stiffened only after Patton hugged him?

Yes. It was better to not hide these things. “He hasn’t moved since you hugged him,” Logan whispered, “Maybe he is a touch-averse Roman?”

Immediately, Patton was regretful. Gosh, he hoped he hadn’t upset the Artist. Roman was usually the only Side okay with spontaneous hugs, and he’d been too sleepy to remember that the multiple Roman situation meant every Roman might have different boundaries.

Should he apologize? Probably. That was the good thing to do!

Patton spun back around and walked up to the Artist, who was still frozen. “Sorry for the hug, kiddo,” Patton said, rubbing the back of his head, “I, uh, hope I didn’t paint myself in any bad light!”

The Artist blinked, then looked up at him, mouth pressed into a firm line. Patton actually flinched from the confused anger in his gaze. The pun couldn’t have been that bad. Could it?

He opened his mouth, irritation clearly mounting, but then clamped back down and bit his lip. He looked away, not reacting to Patton’s bewilderment, and simply starred at the painting he’d been working on. It hadn’t been ruined, oh, no, he hadn’t even started yet. His mind had just been abruptly yanked away from the Zone.

“It’s okay,” the Artist spoke through gritted teeth, “I already talked to Delbert Doppler over there. Please leave me to my work.”

Patton stepped back when the Artist extended his hands, conjuring a paintbrush and the palette that they’d seen him using the previous night. And then he set to painting.

It’d be a lie to say Patton wasn’t a little hurt, despite the already-negative impression the Artist had left. But he was hoping that’d been a late-night kind of fluke! A little moment where the Artist was just too tired and stressed! And he’d heard Logan and him working together well earlier….

“Patt,” Logan’s voice drew his attention back to the kitchen.

He was holding a plate fully set with eggs, hash browns, and two lightly-jammed slices of toast. Logan met Patton’s surprised expression with a small smile. “Breakfast?”

“Oh!” Patton took the plate and plastered on a smile. “Thank you, Lo!”

Neither seemed sure of what to do — did either remember the events of last night? After a few awkwardly quiet moments of smiling at each other, Logan cleared his throat and stepped back. “I am going to look around at the paintings that Artist has done. I would recommend staying in here,” he gestured to the kitchen, “As Artist is….fairly serious about not damaging his work. And not being disturbed.”

“Oooh, gotcha. That’s probably why he’s been a lil’ snappy, right?” That made sense in Patton’s mind! If the Artist wanted to not be disturbed, and Patton had unintentionally disturbed him, it made sense that he’d be a little peeved but not too mad or sad. Smad, if you would.

Logan nodded. “Perhaps. Either way, it would be better if we don’t disturb him,” he looked around at the art and picked up the first painting.

While Logan parsed through the different works, Patton sat down cross legged in the kitchen, munching happily on the eggs. Logan must have made them, he really did make the best eggs! The perfect level of juicy and cooked.

….It made him miss Virgil. The routine was to do famILY breakfasts, with Virgil, Patton, Logan, and Roman all sitting around the kitchen table. Patton leaned back on the wall and let out a small exhale. A small part of him wondered if they’d ever get to do that again, if Roman was going to be so changed after this. The Playwright hadn’t actually taken their words into consideration. He didn’t know how much they loved him.

How much Patton loved him.

Because, yeah, he could admit it. Patton was in love with EVERYONE. Virgil, Logan, Roman, even Deceit — it felt like swimming in honey, thick and goopy and wrapping around him in a warm embarrassment whenever Roman yanked him into a dance in the kitchen, or Virgil leaned on him during movie night. Whenever Logan read him a favored part of whatever he was reading, or when Deceit would trade puns and one liners with him.

He was floored, surrounded by this bubbly love that felt like a celebratory champagne.

Probably. It was probably love. Sifting through emotions may have been part of his job description, but that didn’t mean he was good at it. And he didn’t know if anyone felt the same, if anyone loved him back. Logan’d said something the other night, but…. And it wasn’t his job to sift through HIS emotions. Just Thomas’, technically.

Wait, was this just a different take on Thomas’ self-love?

Either way, the fluffiness he felt, the warmth at the tips of his fingers and the tingling in his cheeks when he smiled at seeing his lovely boys….It was nice.

It was all nice.

Just as nice as those paintings.

Logan had peeked through two stacks and found a lot. First, none of them were finished. Whether it simply lacked depth, or was literally half-painted, or only had base colors, none of these paintings were remotely completed. Every single one that Logan had seen was a work in progress.

Beyond that, he’d found multiple scenes of himself and the other Sides. There was one in particular he was….quite fond of, in all honesty. He’d looked it over for a few minutes. It was a half-finished painting of himself, sitting on the couch in the Mind Palace. And the only “finished” part was himself, fully colored in a semi-realistic impressionist warming glow.

Was that how Roman saw him? He knew that the impressionist movement emphasized the perception of events and movements, taking care of the lighting in environments to reflect not only upon the realistic light sources, but also on how the artist perceives such moments. It seemed….

Well, he didn’t much believe that the Artist was disliked them. Not after seeing these. But it unnerved him that so many were unfinished and unfocused. What was Roman lacking? Was it just an art block?

Patton stood up and patted Logan’s side. “I’m gonna wake up Child,” he whispered, glancing sideways at the Artist, who was painting now, “Get him some breakfast so we can be on our way.”

Logan nodded, putting a painting of a simple house down. “Very well. As soon as he is ready, we should leave. The Artist expressed a desire for all three of us to leave.”

Patton’s brow furrowed, and looked at the Artist, who wasn’t paying them any mind. The Child had to leave, too? Patton just wanted to say goodbye, he didn’t think that they’d be taking him with him. Wasn’t it dangerous outside?

“Wouldn’t it be safer for him to stay here?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at Logan now.

Logan pursed his lips.

Patton was probably right. It….was logical, that the Child would be safer hidden here, between multiple failsafes. “The Artist didn’t want him to stay here,” Logan murmured, “I am unsure why.”

“Well, how about we ask him!”

“Ask who what?”

Patton and Logan looked up to see the Child standing in the stairway, rubbing his eyes, yawning wide. He smacked his lips and grinned at them as they stood in the kitchen entryway, watching with slightly stricken expressions. If he saw anything wrong with that, though, he didn’t say.

“Awh, is that breakfast?!” the Child bounded down from the stairs and launched himself from the base, sliding his socked feet along the smoothed wooden floor.

He slid straight into Patton, who caught him with a “Woop!” This Roman was much more of a hugger, as the Child wrapped his arms around Patton’s hip and squeezed him tight.

Love

The Child snuggled his face into Patton’s side, until he caught a whiff of the eggs. “Oh my God,” he leaned back, though kept his hands balled in Patton’s shirt, “Did Loga–Did Logic make eggs?”

Okay, Logan honestly had no idea his eggs were this popular. “I–um, yes, I did,” he stepped back into the kitchen, “Are you able to make your own plate?”

“Um,” the Child rubbed his chin in thought — Patton was going to die, right here, in the Imagination, because Roman as a kid was so adorable. Just, the cutest. Curse the natural dad instincts — “I think I can!”

He hopped over to the counter, which he could barely peek over, and grabbed a plate. Carefully, and Logan watched just in case, the Child loaded up a plate of eggs, hash browns, and toast. And the whole rest of jelly jar.

He shot Logan a squinted, suspicious look, and held the jelly jar closer. “This one’s mine,” he hissed, “You jelly fiend.”

Logan didn’t know whether to be offended or pleased that that was his reputation. Like….this was a child. But also, he was a serious man with serious problems to attend to, and being labeled a “jelly fiend” was detrimental to that reputation.

But he was talking to a child, THE Child. He may as well play along. He looked to Patton for help, but only found the moral side with his fists pressed up to his cheek, figurative stars in his eyes while watching the Child spoon the jelly out of the jar and consume it.

Logan put his hands up in defeat. “I will not take your jelly,” he said.

“Promise?” the Child asked, pointing the spoon at Logan accusingly.

Alright. He’d admit it. The Child was a positive influence. “I promise.”

The Child raised an eyebrow, but said nothing else. Evidently placated by Logan’s promise, he licked the spoon.

While Logan dealt with the Child, Patton moved closer to the Artist. He hadn’t let go of the whole you’re-letting-a-child-lose-in-a-murder-situation thing and really, nothing anyone said was going to make him let go of that.

And, yeah, sure, Logan and the Artist both said not to bother him. But it couldn’t be that bad! They’d be out of his hair as soon as he said he’d let the Child stay. Patton didn’t understand the harm in a quick interruption. “Artist?”

No response.

Patton frowned. He didn’t want to touch him — Logan’s comment about him being touch averse still lingered in his mind — so Patton just stepped around and stood behind the painting, waving a hand and hoping to attract his attention.

“Hey, Roman!” he said. “Artist!”

Finally, the Artist acknowledged him, in a quick “Mhm.”

“Look at me?” Patton asked.

“Mhm.”

Okay, so the Artist wasn’t paying attention. This was a really important topic, and Patton, sadly, needed his full attention. Patton grabbed his shoulders, and the Artist stiffened again.

Careful of the painting, Patton pulled the easel back, squatting in front of the Artist so they were about equal height.

Uh oh. The Artist looked stricken, staring at Patton with eyes as wide as the moon and a mouth slightly open, slackjawed and confused. Behind them, the Child babbled to Logan about stars while Logan responded gently about constellations. Neither seemed to know of what was going on.

“Hey, Artist,” Patton smiled a little, trying to ease whatever tension there may be, “I’m sorry for bothering you! I just wanted to ask, um….” he bit his lip, it’s okay, just ask, “Would it be okay if Child stayed here?”

“What?!”

Hearing his name, the Child looked up. He and Logan both starred at Patton and the Artist, finally realizing that Patton had done the one explicit thing that the Artist had been adamant that no one do.

And, well, to be fair. Patton wasn’t usually one to press boundaries. He would be okay with letting the Artist paint for however long he wanted, so long as he took healthy breaks and ate a lunch and dinner eventually. But this was a dire situation. The Child had someone hunting him! Someone who wanted to hurt him.

Letting him hide, stay out of trouble, that was the right thing to do. Roman would understand, surely.

“No,” the Artist said.

Well.

Patton frowned, running his hands along the Artist’s upper arms and gently holding him steady. Maybe he just had to explain?

“Well,” he said, “It’s deadly outside, and we don’t want him getting hurt, right? Don’t you wanna keep him safe?”

The paintbrush and palette disappeared from the Artist’s hands as they slowly curled into fists. His lip was twitching, too, revealing a barely-contained anger.

Patton had done the ONE thing….

The Artist sucked in a breath. “....I don’t give much of a fuck, Dad. I told you all to leave.”

Someone yanked Patton back, causing him to let go of the Artist. He turned around, ready to reprimand Logan, only to find that Logan was nowhere to be seen.

The Child tugged Patton back a little more away from the Artist, teeth pressed together into a wide grimace. He shot Patton a small look, terrified and distressed, and pulled him toward the door.

“We’re on our way out, Arty!” the Child said, running around Patton and giving him a sharp push toward the door, “ I’m sorry, I didn’t tell Pat to say that, we’re gonna head out—”

Logan ran down the stairs, holding Patton and the Child’s cloaks in his arms. He handed the Child’s cloak to him, letting him put it on himself.

He wasn’t entirely sure why they had to leave so soon, but after Patton said the Child’s name, he’d turned to Logan with a petrified expression and whispered that they had to leave immediately. While Logan was certain that there was more to the Artist than a quick temper, he wasn’t confident that the Artist wouldn’t lash out.

It seemed that Patton was pretty confident, though. After all, why WOULD the Artist do anything?

He shook his head when Logan offered him his cloak and turned back to the Artist.

“No, no we’re not leaving,” Patton marched right back to the Artist, still sitting on his stool, hands trembling in his lap. “I thought you cared about protecting everyone. Why can’t he stay?”

The Artist stood up, causing the Child to jump back in fright, though Patton didn’t flinch. He just stood nose-to-nose with the Artist, who glared right into his eyes.

“He’s a distraction,” the Artist spoke slow, quietly, though the trembling of his hands and the twitch in his eye betrayed It’s bad enough you’re all here. I don’t like distractions while I’m working, and you in particular keep distracting me—”

“Is that why nothing is finished?” Logan asked.

The Artist stepped back, as though he’d been slapped. Logan came up behind Patton, carefully putting a hand on Patton’s shoulder.

Patton gave him a small smile of relief. He wasn’t sure he could argue this well enough without him. While attacking the Artist’s art probably wasn’t the best method, he was glad that the responsibility of reigning him in wasn’t all just on Patton.

Having back up was nice.

That, and they still had to get information. Perhaps Patton’s opinion that the Child should stay here was logical and morally right, but that didn’t mean the Artist would abide by it when angry. They had to be strategic.

Logan cleared his throat, continuing with a gentle after the Artist’s lack of response. “All of your paintings. They all seem to be in some state of incompletion,” he gestured around the room, hoping to redirect the Artist’s focus. He didn’t want to come off as overly critical, though. They were wonderful, truly, but….well. You cannot blame him for having curiosities. “When you are distracted, do you not finish?”

The Artist just kept staring at him. He didn’t move, barely breathed, mouth hanging open a tiny bit. He did seem a little slow on the uptake, with lethargically slow movements and reactions.

His shoulders slowly hiked up as he drew in a breath. Patton perked up, and Logan‘s grip on Patton tightened.

“....Get out.”

His voice was cold as ice. A palette knife was summoned into his hand and his knuckles paled quickly from his tight grip.

Oh, dear. The Child hissed something behind the two adult Sides, but neither paid him any mind. They were acutely focused on the Artist.

“It’s an honest question,” Logan said, “I’m sorry if I offended, but—”

“I don’t have to answer it. Get out.”

Patton big his lip, eyes darting to Logan before he continued. “Roman, please—”

“I just want to create without you all getting in my fucking way all the time!” the Artist exploded. “And none of it’s good enough anyway, if it were good, I’d finish it, but nothing’s fucking good enough for you yet!”

He ground his teeth together, body stiff, hands curled at his sides.

It was bad enough he couldn’t finish a piece at all. The art block was bad enough. The fact that parts of him wanted to kill other parts of him and wanted to kill him him was bad enough.

He just wanted to create and wanted it to be good enough for their astronomically high standards.

Maybe the Thief was right. Wanting only made it hurt more.

“Roman—” Patton started again, only to be immediately cut off again by his shout.

“OUT!”

The Artist’s yell was loud enough to shake the house. Or perhaps that was because he wanted them to perceive it that way.

Either way, it was clear that the atmosphere wanted them to leave, whether they got an elaboration or not. The Child grabbed Patton’s arm and, with more force than Patton knew children to have, yanked him out. “We’re leaving, Dad,” he hissed, tugging Patton along.

Where had that outburst come from? And those tears? The Artist — he looked so upset, face twisting into picturesque disappointment and anger, lip curling and nostrils flared.

Patton couldn’t just leave him, no, he had to talk to the Artist, something. Anything.

The Artist jerked forward, shouting “OUT!” once more as he lifted the palette knife to point at them.

The Child threw open the front door and pushed Patton out. There was a time and a place, and this was neither.

He motioned for Logan to follow. “Don’t make me grab you, Logic,” he snapped, half scared, half frustrated.

Logan, blinking away his confusion, followed.

They left the Artist alone with one hand gripping a palette knife and the other his own shirt, over his heart.

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shadowynnn · 5 years

Text

fire and ice |part three|

far cry 5

fire and ice synopsis: After a drunk driver kills both of your parents in an accident when you were sixteen, you eagerly leave Hope County for college a few years later to escape the demons that haunt you there. After six years away, a strange dream prompts you to return home where you find things not quite how you left them. With a mysterious, and possibly dangerous, cult on the rise, you attempt to juggle finally coming to peace with your parents’ deaths and the cult’s increasing interest in you. (Begins a few months before the events in the game take place.)

part two synopsis: Your first encounter with Jacob Seed.

pairing: Jacob Seed, Joseph Seed, John Seed x Reader (though mainly Jacob Seed x Reader in this part)

words: 1731

You were utterly exhausted from last night’s party at the Spread Eagle Bar. While you had been ecstatic to see and catch up with everyone again, it had left you drained and yearning for time alone.

You knew that the mature and responsible thing to do was start the long process of fixing up your parent’s old cabin and moving in your belongings before you started up your job at St. Francis the following week and really lost all willpower to do just that, but you had always been a procrastinator and knew that the work could stand to wait another day. So instead of getting to work at settling back into Hope County, you had opted for a nice, long hike. It had been too long, after all, and you were eager to spend the day wandering through the Whitetails.

You had planned on allowing yourself to sleep in, letting your body have one good night of sleep before you got to work on the cabin and then eventually began your shifts at the hospital, but you awoke early all the same, breathless and heart racing from the dream you had been having. What the dream had been, however, you couldn’t seem to hold onto as time slowly ticked by. The more you tried to remember, the hazier everything became.

Figuring it was better to leave it forgotten with the way it left you shaky and anxious, you put the dream to rest and climbed out of bed. There was no way you would be able to get back to sleep now, so you decided you might as well begin the day bright and early.

It took you longer than normal to get ready as your old bedroom in your uncle’s house was crammed with boxes and you hadn’t done a very thorough job of organizing things when you had packed everything up. After a few minutes of haphazardly rummaging through the boxes, you pulled an army green utility jacket on over your t-shirt and shorts before slipping on a pair of your old hiking boots. You then quickly tugged your tangled curls into a messy ponytail before pulling on your backpack guitar case and strapping your trusted Glock into the holster on your waist-you could never be too safe hiking by yourself in the valley-and were out the door just as the sun was peeking its way over the horizon.

You would be lying if you said the case didn’t grow uncomfortable and cumbersome to carry throughout the day, but finding some quiet, isolated place up in the mountains and playing to your heart’s content was one of your favorite things to do. It calmed you; kept you grounded when nothing else could and your fingers were just itching to play.

You didn’t have a destination in mind, but rather, let your feet take you away when you arrived at the start of some of the trails. It was a beautiful day, the morning sky dusted with just a few wispy clouds and the temperature just cool enough to make you appreciate bringing a jacket for the first few hours. Fall was fast approaching, but the afternoons were still pleasantly warm.

You softly hummed along as the hours passed by, your feet traveling up and down the worn trails. You had yet to see another soul, just a few deer and other harmless wildlife scattered among the trees.

Eventually, your legs began to grow tired and you could feel your breath starting to catch. Looking at your watch, you saw it was nearly noon and decided now was probably a good time to sit down to rest, eat, and perhaps play for a little bit.

You walked just a bit longer as you looked for an appropriate place to stop, finally finding an open place to your left which opened up to part of the valley below. After settling down on one of the larger rocks, you ate the meal you had packed for yourself before getting your guitar and beginning to tune it.

Ever since you were born, you had had a knack for all things musical. You were quick to pick up instruments and had an ear for being able to play things you heard. You could read music, your mother had taught you at a young age, but you often didn’t need the sheets. You found it easier and more enjoyable to just hash out the notes yourself and see where they took you.

Your fingers strummed idly across the strings, playing a few chords of this and that as you tried to find something which resonated with you at the moment. After a few minutes of indecisiveness, you found yourself strumming the beginning chords to an Axel Flovent song, your voice softly humming along before they turned to form the actual words.

“Your dreams are incredibly loud tonight; you're creating forest fires. You can't even change your sight; it's stuck in you like --”

You stopped abruptly when you heard rustling behind you. Startled, your guitar dropped from your hands which immediately moved to hover over the Glock at your waist while you spun around to see what had made the sound.

You didn’t know quite what you were expecting, some sort of animal most likely, so you were shocked to see it was a man standing a few yards back, staring intently at you.

“Holy shit, man!” You breathed out when you felt your heart begin to slow once again. “Don’t you know better than to sneak up on someone out here?”

Your common sense told you to keep your guard up, but you were just so relieved it was just another person and not a wolf, mountain lion, or god forbid, a bear, that you found it hard to still be wary of him. With a dead whitetail strapped around his shoulders, you reckoned he was just a hunter who had wandered by when he heard your singing.

“I’m sorry, that was kind of rude of me.” You blushed when you saw his eyes glance at the hand still hovering over your gun. You quickly dropped it against your better judgment as you began to ramble from your still buzzing nerves. “It’s just, you scared me, is all...Which I guess, now that I think about it, there probably wasn’t a very good way to announce yourself without scaring the shit out of me, so I guess we’re just...equally...to...blame...” Your words trailed off at the end as you realized you had begun to ramble. You felt another light blush creep up your cheeks at your actions. The man probably thought you were an idiot.

Deciding it was better to keep your mouth shut and not embarrass yourself any further, you took a few seconds to truly take him in. He was older than you, you thought by at least fifteen years, though it was a bit hard to be sure. His hair, a few shades lighter than your own was cut short on the side but kept longer on the top and the lower half of his face was covered in a shaggy beard just as red as the rest of his hair. His jacket appeared to be military and you could just make out the glint of dog tags around his neck confirming your suspicions. You weren’t familiar enough with the military, however, to figure out what branch he had served in.

You were unnerved by the silence which followed your previous ramblings. He had yet to say a word since you had acknowledged his presence behind you. This silence along with the intensity of his scrutiny over you caused you to shift uncomfortably in your seat.

The time it took him to reply, though only a few seconds, seemed much longer due to the way he kept looking at you. It wasn’t in a lustful manner, but rather a careful, almost wary one. Nonetheless, it made you uncomfortable and you were about to open your mouth to break the silence. With what, you had no idea, but any rambling on your part seemed better than this stifling silence.

“Don’t you know it’s not smart for you to be out here by yourself?”

Before you could break the silence yourself, he finally spoke, his words a mocking reference to one of your earlier statements.

Despite the blush his words brought to your cheeks, you narrowed your eyes at the statement. “Puh-lease, I’m just as safe out here as you are. I could shoot you square between your eyes if I wanted to.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes at his obvious condescension from your appearance. Sure, you probably didn’t look like it, but you had been taught how to shoot a gun since you were ten and you had become a pretty straight shot after the years. “You’re just lucky I’m not a trigger happy kind of gal.” He was also lucky that it had been a few years since you had practiced, though he didn’t need to know that.

The man smirked at your statement, resituating the deer hanging off his shoulders as he gave you another one over. He took another bout of silence as his eyes took you in once more, almost as if he was seeing you in another light.

“Well aren’t you a little spitfire.”

“Wow, real original.” You narrowed your eyes at him again. “It’s not like I’ve never heard that one before.”

“Not surprised,” he snorted.

“Don’t you have something better to do than annoy girls just trying to mind their own damn business?” You retorted, before picking up your fallen guitar and checking for any damage. It wasn’t so much the words which bothered you, you could go back and forth all day with talk like this. You just really didn’t like the way he kept looking at you, with a gaze and intent virtually impossible to read.

“You’re right.” His head tilted to the side, taking one last long look at you before beginning to walk down the trail, seemingly losing complete interest in you. “See you around, Spitfire.” You heard him shoot back at you before he disappeared around a clump of trees and out of sight.

You turned back to your guitar, brushing off the dirt still clinging to it and trying, yet failing to hold back the blush creeping up your face.

#Far Cry 5 #far cry 5 imagine #reader #romance #john seed #jacob seed #joseph seed #imagine #au

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emeraldxmonarch · 6 years

Text

Amori Aetherium (pt. 19.1)

(Hey guys! And finally, here is the first part of the dreaded High Lord meeting! I decided to split it into three chapters because there’s going to be a lot going on, and it wouldn’t be fair to just shove it into one rushed chapter. This way, I can hash out different details and plot points for later on. It’ll make more sense as the chapters progress! Hopefully you guys enjoy it, and a huge thank you to the amazingly talented @voice-addicted for all of her wonderful help. Literally I cannot say it enough how much of a blessing this girl is.

Enjoy~!

Tag list (If anyone wants to be tagged, lemme know): @acourtofrosesandbooks

-SxW)

~Previous Chapter~ ~Next Chapter~

Here it was.

The minute she opened her eyes, she could feel the anxiety in her bones.

Today was the day of the meeting.

She slowly sat up and looked out the window, the sun barely beginning to peek over the Sidra.

With a deep breath, she looked around the room before slowly getting up and making her way into the bathroom.

Shedding her clothes, she finally let herself take a good look at the damage across her back, not having the nerve to do so before.

Two long thin scars stretched down her back, the wound having finally recently healed with her getting her strength back. The bruises have long since healed, as well as the smaller cuts that had lingered before.

She was dangerously edging into a mindset that she was purposefully shoving away every second.

With a deep breath, she quickly threw herself into a tub of cold water.

She shivered as she dried herself off, goosebumps raised against her pale skin as she wrapped the towel tightly around herself, her hair tied into a messy bun on top her head. Her mind was fixed on the meeting that was barely even hours away. What would happen if the meeting was about what had happened?

But how would they know?

She frowned softly and sighed.

What would she even do if one of the High Lords said something to her?

She would probably freeze up on the spot.

She hated how easily she still froze up if someone of authority spoke to her...

Side effects of working in Hewn City she guessed...

Her mind ended up wandering to Idelisa again... since she shared the story, she found herself thinking of her friend more and more. Idelisa had obviously come from another court, with her silver hair and green eyes. She was a beauty trapped in a Court of Nightmares. They had become fast friends, even after she learned her true name... They clung to each other and kept each other’s hopes up when it felt like things had become hopeless...

Which is why it stung so badly when she had suddenly disappeared.

There was no note, or forewarning that she was leaving.

Despite her pain, she prayed every day that she had somehow escaped.

Somehow made it out... instead of the horrible alternative.

She shook her head and sighed, unable to really focus on one matter at a time. she was turning into a complete scatterbrain.

A knock on the door made her jolt back into reality.

“One second!” Throwing on her previously worn clothes, she quickly went to answer the door.

Opening it, she saw Feyre standing in the door with a soft grin, holding a gown in her hand.

“So, I got you something for the meeting.”

Amara stared at herself in the mirror, shock lining her features as she took in her dress.

A deep blue gown, the v-neck cut showing off her ample chest, with the sheer sleeves and train of the gown looking as though they were dotted in pieces of stars themselves.

The dress in itself was simple, but the small, silverline details along the bodice and train made it special. Vines of silver had subtly wound around her waist right where the train began and right along where the cut of the dress met her skin.

Feyre had let her hair down, and it curled around her face and chest, melding with the color of the dress almost perfectly as she just look herself in.

There was no way this was her.

There was no way she could look so beautiful.

“Now, one last touch” Feyre had slipped a clip into her hair, right along the side, and it was a small, crystalline rose, that shone with the light.

It immediately reminded her of starlight.

“Feyre I can’t take something like this...”

“Too bad. It fits perfectly. I won’t take no for an answer” Amara pouted at her, feeling guilty because what she wore... what she looked like... she couldn’t even dream of looking this beautiful... she brushed her fingertips over the clip, mesmerized by the smooth yet chilled glass.

“Rhys, before we were together, used to crown me at every single meeting we went to. Every single one. And he still does... This is no crown... but it definitely fits, don’t you think?”

Amara threw her arms around her in a tight hug.

Feyre jumped a bit before smiling and hugging her back, “Well, head on downstairs and wait with the others. Apparently Rhys is still getting my own dress ready,” Amara nods softly, and goes towards the door.

“Feyre?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sure whatever dress Rhysand gets ready... You’ll look absolutely beautiful in it..” Before Feyre could respond, she quickly went out the door and headed downstairs.

Even Feyre couldn’t deny the soft blush lining her cheeks.

Amara’s face was burning.

She felt so embarrassed saying that, but couldn’t deny the fact that she wanted to say it.

When she got downstairs, Mor, Cassian and Azriel were already sitting on the couch.

Cassian noticed her first and beckoned her over.

It took most of her self control not to gawk at them.

Mor was sitting in the center, wearing a deep red dress that clung to her figure, and fell into a train behind her. A deep cut along the neck and sides accentuated her curves and the color only further complimented her flaxen skin. Silver bracelets lined both of her wrists and clinked with each movement, her long fingers adorned with silver bands and gemstones.

“Here we thought Amren was the hoarder, not you Mor.” Cassian snorted and laid back.

He and Azriel were both clad in Illyrian leathers. Their towering forms only further emphasized by the tight cloth, each red and blue siphon shone in a low but terrifying light. Their wings were tucked behind them to sit comfortably on the couch but it did nothing to dwarf their sheer size.

They both looked every bit as terrifying as the rumors portrayed, making her heart skip a beat, as unbidded images flashed through her mind faster than she could comprehend.

“Amren IS a hoarder. I simply know how to dress damn well.” She playfully flipped her hair and even Azriel gave a soft chuckle.

“Amara, you look beautiful,” Mor smiled at her kindly as Amara sat down slowly in front of them, her eyes still wide as she took them all in.

And her brilliant response?

“Woah.”

Mor blinked at her and Cassian raised an eyebrow.

“Woah?” He mimicked.

A blush quickly lined her face again as she waved to the three of them, “You all look amazing! ... and terrifying but that’s just me...” She whispered the last part but it seemed like Azriel heard her, and gave a small but slightly smug grin in return.

Mor giggled softly while Cassian smirked, both of them shaking their heads at her.

“Amara?” A more serious tone.

“Yes?”

Cassian looked at her seriously, “Stay close to us. We aren’t saying that anyone is going to outright attack you, but we need to take precautions if something does happen.”

She couldn’t help but blurt it out, “Do you think it will?”

“There’s a chance.” Azriel spoke up this time, not sugarcoating the possibility.

Amara’s head was reeling, the possibility of a fight now looming over her like a dark cloud.

Would they be able to sense the bond? Sense that it hasn’t been officiated yet?

Would they know that she was the girl named after a dark queen that had enslaved them all?

Would they try to harm her, just out of spite for the name that belonged to the hell that reigned over them for almost half a century?

Her thoughts were a whirlwind of storms and thunder and bright flashes of images that only fed her anxiety.

She would gladly let them kill her if it meant keeping those who gave her a home safe.

She would gladly bear the brunt of insanity, bear the brunt of the spell that pushed down the ancient magic of the mating bond so they could live.

She owed each of them her life.

She would do it gladly.

Footsteps broke her out of her torrent stream of thought however, and she was awestruck when she looked up.

Feyre and Rhysand had finally come downstairs, and looked like the Night personified.

Feyre’s dress, Amara swore, was woven from the very Night sky itself. Hints of violet was woven through the nearly pitch black dress. Small jewels decorated the bodice and train that glimmered like the stars in Velaris. No jewelry rested on her breast or wrist, but a crown woven of moonlight rested on her brow. A twist of vines and strands that wove through the center gem of a crystalline stone that seemed to change colors every time the light hit it only accentuated her own role as High Lady of the Night Court.

Rhysand was no less devastating with a tunic that seemed to weave violet and indigo together in a background of black, with silver lining the lapel, buttons and cuffs, matching him with his High Lady.

Together, they emanated everything this Court truly stood for.

And she felt so lucky to be able to see it in person.

“Are we ready?” Rhys nodded to them, as they all stood in front of him, a somber look donning their faces and Cassian turned to Amara.

“Well... let’s not keep them waiting any longer, shall we?”

Without another word, Rhys winnowed them all to the Day Court.

The Day Court still took her breath away.

Rhys had winnowed them directly outside the library where the meeting was supposed to be held.

The interior shone with golds and blues and hints of orange through the walls and curtains.

Amara couldn’t help but just stare up and around her surroundings, trying to take in every detail.

But before she could, Mor gently laid a hand on her shoulder with a smile.

“Shall we head in then?” She nodded, and followed her inside.

And promptly had her breath taken away by the beauty of the library.

Books lined every single inch of the walls, and went higher than her eyes could even see. The gold theme was shared in here as well through the pillars and staircases that led whoever came in up and up and up. The stairs glittered as if they were lined with gold in each step, the floors shining marble.

The area where the meeting was going to be held was at the center of the library, where if you looked up, you would see a spiral of books just rising higher and higher in hues of bright gold and white.

“Wow...”

“I’m glad to see that you like it” A voice sounded off from behind her and made her nearly jump out of her skin.

Quickly turning, she saw the High Lord of Day give her a languid grin, as he nodded to Rhys, who stood close behind her.

She quickly bowed low to Helion, who waved her off, “No need for that. Let’s take a seat. The meeting is about to start”

Helion walked off ahead, his body language seemingly relaxed but the ripple of muscles in his shoulder showed the tension.

Rhys gently put a hand on the small of her back, “Come on, I want us seated when the rest of the High Lords come in.”

Amara followed him to the long table, and went towards the vacant seat between Azriel and Mor. But before she could sit down, Rhys leaned down and softly whispered in her ear,

“You really do look beautiful.”

Amara’s face felt like it was on fire as Rhys smiled at her slyly before taking a seat next to Feyre.

She slowly sat down and took in her surroundings, feeling her heart pound in her chest. Her hands trembled in her lap, as sudden noise made her whip her head towards the door.

They were here.

First Thesan walked in, his sun kissed skin glowing with the touch of dawn at his brow. His tunic was tightly fitted across his broad chest but flowed out near his legs. His hair had a subtle shine, as well as his eyes, both the color of the earth. His entire being had a soft, warm glow that truly accentuating that he was the High Lord of Dawn. Rhys walked up to him and shook his hand, and Thesan gave a respectful nod of his head to the rest of the Inner Circle.

A winged male stood behind him, but his wings... were not like Rhys’ or Cassian’s... they were more akin to angel wings... and Amara couldn’t keep the childish admiration off her face.

The male caught her eye, and after a quick glance, gave her a small but kind smile, making her quickly bow her head to him.

“Welcome, Thesan.” Helion gave him a nod from his seat at the table, before gesturing for him to sit as well.

“Hello to you as well, Helion. It seems as if the one to call the meeting has yet to still arrive” There was slight annoyance in his voice as Helion barked out a laugh.

“Beron was never one to arrive on time.”

Amara watches the exchange, as Mor watches the door almost eagerly so. Rhys and Feyre quietly holding their own conversation in the back.

“Nervous?” A soft voice to her right made her jolt. Azriel watched her with an unreadable expression.

“...Is it that obvious?” Her voice matched his.

“Your arms are trembling” She tensed and lightly gripped them.

“I just...”

“It’ll be alright.” His voice was sure, as he gave her a soft smile, showing a kinder side to her. While it did little to quell her nerves, she appreciated the effort.

“Thank you Azriel...” She gave her own smile back...

And nearly shrieked when Mor squealed and jumped out of her seat.

“Viviane finally! It took you long enough!” Mor launched herself at the female who just walked into the room.

She was a beauty, Amara had to admit.

As tall as Mor, but almost the opposite. Her skin was as pale as snow, and her hair glistened just as brightly. She wore a deep blue dress that hugged her figure, the long sleeves cuffed with fur as well as the train. Gemstones glittered on the body like scattered snowflakes as a fur shawl rested on her delicate shoulders.

Both women clung to each other and spoke too quickly for Amara to even catch. But a man next to her made her stiffen slightly as she realized who they were.

Kallias, the High Lord of Winter stood next to his Lady. His skin looked like smooth frost, as his hair was pushed back from his face. His eyes were a deep, glacier blue, as though they were made from pieces of shattered ice themselves. His outfit stuck out in the otherwise warm court, being a fitted tunic and pants with fur lining the collars and cuffs, the thickness of the material doing little to hide his fit body underneath.

Kallias nodded to High Lords at the table before grinning wryly at his wife, “Can we go take a seat, Viv? Or would you rather keep squealing in the doorway and deafening everyone within a fifty mile radius?”

Vivienne gave him a vulgar gesture that made Amara bite back a giggle.

“How are you, Feyre?” Vivienne smiled as she sat across from the High Lady. Feyre gave her a grin, “I’m fine, Viv. How’s everything with you?”

They launched into a conversation when Vivienne’s eyes fixed on her, “Oh, hello. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Vivienne.” She smiled kindly as Amara tensed up and bowed her head.

“It’s an honor my Lady...” Vivienne only giggled before shaking her head.

“Please, call me Vivienne. And you are?”

“This is Amara. She’s the newest member of the Inner Court” Mor answered smoothly, and Amara’s heart pounded in anticipation as Vivienne took her in.

“Well, Amara. It’s lovely to meet you” Amara managed to nod softly with a polite smile, murmuring her own agreement as her eyes were drawn to the door once again.

This time, it was the High Lord of Summer who walked in, with a female at his side.

Dark brown skin against white robes that flowed across his body like water. His white hair was pulled back at the nape of his neck as a long necklace rested on his chest, a deep blue stone dangling from the chain. He shook Rhys’ and Feyre’s hand, giving them a small but kind smile as he took his seat, giving a small greeting to the other High Lords.

The female was similar in features to him, with dark sun kissed skin and moonlit hair. Her dress clung to her chest and flowed out at her legs. Despite the simple dress, she wore it with class.

The conversation was all going over Amara’s head, feeling a haze settle over her as she tried to keep calm with the High Lords that began to quickly filter in.

Only two High Lords remained.

The crueler High Lords remained.

And her heart pounded roughly in her chest.

Both Feyre and Rhys could feel her anxiety spiking through the bond and had to push down the urge to try and soothe her nerves.

Right now... more than ever, they had to keep up that facade.

That mask that made her less than what she was.

Even if they had no name for it, no words for it.

Even if they didn’t even know what to call her, other than “Amara”.

It was becoming clearer that she was slowly becoming more dear than just the servant girl they saved.

Even if they didn’t want to admit it to themselves.

Amara’s gaze was fixed to the table, a solid item in the turmoil around her.

Something to steady herself, to help her focus on her breathing as she readied herself for what was coming.

That’s when she felt Mor stiffen next to her.

Her eyes were drawn to the door.

The High Lord of Spring, in all of his glory walked in.

His green tunic stood out against the golden pants, soft gold emblems were blazoned on his cuffs and collar, his flaxen hair loose around his shoulders. His eyes, the color of fresh grass, were somehow even colder than Kallias’s... and it made goosebumps rise across her skin.

The atmosphere became tense, as he strode to the table. Murmurs of greetings floated through the air, with Thesan being the first to greet him.

Tamlin’s eyes met Feyre’s and after a few terse seconds, they both nodded as a greeting, with Rhysand following a heartbeat later.

She bowed her head deeply when she felt his eyes glance over hers, terrified of what he might say.

“So where is the host of this meeting?” Tamlin’s voice was relaxed almost. As he glanced around the room.

Helion looked up from a stack of papers and grinned slyly, “He’s playing your role of fashionably late, Tamlin.”

A sharp glance followed by a dry frown was the only response the Lord of Day got.

“Speak of the devil and he shall arrive...” Kallias murmured as all eyes shifted to the door.

And finally, in walked the High Lord of Autumn, the host of this dreaded meeting.

Beron’s eyes were scrunched in what looked to be anger. Brown haired and narrow faced, he emanated everything awful.

It was no wonder he and Keir got along so well.

Amara could feel Mor grow even tenser next to her, and this time...

She gently took her hand under the table.

She could feel the slight jolt of surprise, before she gently gripped her hand back.

Beron’s cold eyes ran over the room, before walking over to his seat.

“Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?”

And so it began.

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