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sednonamoris · 7 months

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thunderstruck

Pairing: John Marston x gn!reader

Summary: A storm brews over your journey with John to meet an old friend and make a profit on the Braithwaite horses. What will happen when lightning strikes?

Warnings: Jealousy, emotional constipation, past relationships, strong language, love confessions, handjobs, penetrative sex, spit as lube (smut easily avoided if you want to skip over it)

Word count: 4,418

A/N: whew!! twenty-three chapters later these two finally got together - i hope you all have enjoyed the ride, and look forward to the rest as much as i do!! let me know what you think <3

Series masterlist • AO3

—

Thunderhead Gulch is an average plains town situated, as the name might suggest, over a gulch where a violent stream rumbles through otherwise quiet countryside. The rockiness of the area lends itself to pastureland and little else; herds of cattle roam and graze, and farmers with rough hands and kind eyes tend their flocks. The town’s storefronts are simple but well-kept, very much like the people who run them. It’s a place for good, honest people looking for good, honest work.

And it’s exactly where a perfect criminal lives.

Half a week’s worth of travel brought you here, all the while John asking questions you’ve done your best to avoid answering. An old friend from Tumbleweed, is all you’ve told him about the forger you’re meeting. Just a quick reunion and a job done right and we’re out of there. There’s no one else you’d trust to do this job right, but it’s been a long time. You can’t entirely blame John for the skeptical scowl on his face.

The curio shop you hitch your horses in front of is nestled into Thunderhead’s downtown like it’s been there forever, fit to burst with every secondhand oddity imaginable. Broken clocks and one-eyed dolls and discontinued dime novel serials line the front windows. Inside, a narrow and winding footpath from front to back is all that remains to customers. Every other square inch has been claimed by stacks upon stacks upon stacks of the curiosities this shop is named for.

You and John squeeze your way through the door to the cheerful tinkle of bells. Behind the counter lies a precarious stack of antique bear traps. There’s not a shopkeep in sight.

“Hello?” John calls out.

“In the back!” a muffled voice replies.

You smile in recognition. John’s expression is entirely mystified, but he takes the look on your face as his go-ahead to forge a path through, weaving around cracked China displays and rusted revolvers and moth-eaten wedding gowns.

Past all that, between stacks of other men’s trash and lost treasures, sits Lottie Reed.

Surprise colors her sharp, angular face the moment she looks up from the faded throw pillow she’s mending, and though time has wrought its changes you still recognize the wild spirit you met once upon a childhood ago in the depths of her seafoam eyes.

“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that a Ghost?” she asks. Her face is still surprised, still cautious, but a smile threatens the severity of her shock.

“I’m afraid your shop is terribly haunted, Miss,” you grin.

Just like that her needle and thread are thrown aside as she rushes in for a hug. Her wiry frame curls around you in a vice grip, stood on her tip-toes and clinging like if she holds tight enough you won’t be able to fade away like lost memory. You laugh and hug back warmly. It’s been too long.

John coughs uncomfortably after a moment.

“Oh, I clean forgot my manners,” you say, extricating yourself from Lottie’s embrace and taking a step back. “Lottie Reed, this is John Marston.” John gives a lukewarm smile. “John Marston, this is my old friend Lottie Reed. We grew up together.” Lottie extends her hand to shake.

“Good to meet you,” John says past his stiff shoulders and wary stare. “Ghost never mentioned much of you before.”

“We lost touch for a spell once I married and moved up here,” Lottie says. John raises his brows. You clear your throat. “Back in the day I earned a cut off stolen horseflesh for forging papers, but Melvin didn’t like me being a part of that life.”

As you recall, he didn’t like you being a part of Lottie’s life. The two of you lived fast and free before he came into the picture, a perfect suitor picked by her parents. Settled, property-owning, and respectable, Melvin was everything Lottie’s family ever imagined for their lettered daughter. You, a cast off orphan with nothing to your name but a government arrest warrant, were not.

“Wherever is Mr. Reed?”

“Dead. The fever got him two years ago.” Lottie smiles wistfully. “I wrote, but I don’t imagine you ever got the letter.”

“I’m… real sorry.” You’re not sure if you’re apologizing because he’s dead or for a letter you never read. Maybe it’s the fact that you didn’t try to get in touch until now. You never liked Melvin much, but you and Lottie... Well. It’s all in the past now, where things get twisted and lost and can’t ever change.

“Any chance you’re still in the paper fixin’ business?” John asks. Tension looses from your shoulders at the change in topic. “Ghost and I got a couple horses that need buyers, and from what I understand they’d go for a prettier penny with your help.”

Lottie stands up straighter, businesslike, when she says yes.

“Melvin left me everything, but as you can see,” she gestures to the worthless paraphernalia surrounding you, “it isn’t much. Why don’t you stay by the house tonight while I fix up those papers? It’s been a sight too empty for too long. I’d like the company.”

“We’ll be there,” you promise, clasping her hand before stepping away.

It’s been too long since you’ve slept in a proper bed with a roof over your head, and longer still since you’ve caught up with an old friend. John’s mouth tightens when you say it, maybe because you agreed without asking, but you can’t imagine why a hot meal and some company would bother him. It never has before.

—

Dinner proves an awkward affair.

By the time you and John broke camp and herded your stolen horses to the property, twilight had already painted the house and neighboring barn in dreamy purples and golds. John bitched the whole time you put the horses up, set off by something he refused to tell you about. Then when Lottie met you at the front door in a pretty green dress with her dark curls pulled up it only got worse. She ushered you both into her humbly lit dining room, where a wonderful meal awaited. He glared through the whole affair, despite the warmth of the fire and the kindness piled on every plate. You asked for seconds. He asked to be excused.

Now he’s off sulking somewhere while you show Lottie the horses down at the barn. So long as he doesn’t scare any buyers away you just have to trust that this mood of his will pass with time.

Old Father Time nickers you back to the present, begging for a treat that Lottie offers up gladly. She giggles at the tickle of his whiskers when he takes it from her outstretched palm. His dark coat gleams even in the nighttime. Autocrat paws and tosses his dappled head. Cerberus whickers for his own share of attention, earning an affectionate scratch behind the ear. As you introduce each stallion and his accomplishments Lottie hums thoughtfully, mentions a few adjustments she’d like to make on their papers accordingly. It’s nice to work with a professional. You’d almost forgotten what the luxury of forged papers felt like, so long spent with unlettered outlaws and people otherwise uninterested in the horse business.

“They’re fine animals,” Lottie says, then gestures to Old Boy and Moonshine. “What about these two?”

“I found Old Boy there skinny and abandoned. Perfect timing that John needed a new horse. He put the weight back on him and has him trained up nice.”

“And the roan?”

“A friend died and left this beast behind,” you say with an affectionate pat to Moonshine’s silver-blue neck over the stall door. He rolls an ornery eye at you, but doesn’t offer a bite like he might have just a few months ago. “He’s mean, but he’s mine.”

Lottie laughs. “Like your cowboy, then.”

“He ain’t—we’re not—” you fumble, “I don’t—”

“The outlaw doth protest too much, methinks,” she cuts you off gently, with that smile full of home and heartbreak. The quote scratches at almost-lost memory in the back of your mind. Summers spent sneaking into a family home through the second story bedroom window. A warm hand in yours. Her familiar voice reciting Shakespeare while you pretended to understand the lines you parroted back.

“The outlaw protests just enough,” you frown. “He ain’t mine, though I will apologize on his behalf for the way he acted at dinner. John’s plenty mean, but not like that. Not usually, anyway.”

“He’s jealous,” she says like it’s obvious. “I can hardly blame him.”

“If he wants you, I ain’t standin’ in the way, Miss High-and-Mighty,” you laugh, caught off guard by the sudden turn in conversation. It’s a high-up, nervous sound.

“Miss Nothing-to-him,” she corrects. “Can’t you see? That man only has eyes for you.”

It’s everything you’ve ever wanted to hear and you’re not quite sure what to say. Emotions flash through you like lightning and brush fire, electric scorches of surprise and denial and self-deprecation. Longing. Hope.

“You think?” is all you manage to muster.

Lottie’s eyes are far too sympathetic. “I know.”

“And you don’t… mind?” Your shoulders cringe even as you ask it. Some things are just worth checking.

She sighs, turns to face you fully, and takes your hands in hers. “I loved after you for a long time. The idea of you, really. A dashing outlaw and a horseback rescue from the life I didn’t want.” She offers a wry smile as she continues, “I only heard that you took Daddy’s money and ran long after the wedding was over.” You start to apologize, but she cuts you off before it ever leaves your mouth. “It’s done, now. I don’t think either of us would go back and change it if we could. I’m happy here, now, and you have your cowboy. Your John. It’s time you let yourself be happy, too.”

“Funny enough, you’re not the first person who’s said that to me.” You drop your chin and try to stop the burn of tears that threatens your composure as you squeeze her bookish hands with your calloused ones. “Thank you, Lottie.”

She squeezes back and smiles. “You’re welcome.”

When she says your name, you feel a little less like a ghost.

—

On the walk back up to the house you spy movement in an upstairs window. Just a blur by candlelight.

You wonder how much John saw from up there. If jealousy burns his eyes and the back of his throat the way it used to for you, watching him and Abigail together. It lights a spark of something low in your belly, hope or want or vindication. A grim, simmering promise of things to come.

—

The next morning greets you sunshine-bright and singing. The grasses sway gently with the breeze. The birds flit from leafy tree limbs outstretched in the sky’s great blue embrace. Lottie insists on giving you not only the agreed-upon papers, but breakfast for the road as well. The fistfull of cash you fetch from your saddlebag is more than she asked for, but when she protests you push her hands back gently. After everything, it’s fitting payment.

“Ride safe, now,” she tells you, shielding the sun from her greenglass eyes to look up at your mounted form. “It’s nice now, but a storm’s brewing. Can you smell it on the breeze?”

You can. Sunshine undercut with petrichor and the buzzing, electric promise of lightning. “We will. Thank you again, Lottie. For everything.” Live well.

“The same to you, old friend,” she smiles your way, then turns to John. “Keep an eye on this one, will you?”

“Always do.” His voice is curt, and his eyes are sharp and unkind when he says it.

Mean, you think as you sneak a look at his striking profile. But mine.

You wave one last goodbye before riding off, stolen horses in tow, false paperwork tucked into your breast pocket. The pair of you make for the horizon line and don’t look back.

—

John is quiet in the coming days. Uncharacteristically so. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you don’t see; eyeing the length of your neck as you drink from your canteen, memorizing the planes of your face lit by campfire, burning a hole in your back as you ride ahead. All the ways you’ve watched him since you were young and scared and barely knew what to call the ache in your chest and the scorch of your want. That anguish which even now you refuse to name; you know what it is.

Maybe Lottie was right.

Maybe John knows it too.

—

As you ride toward the next town, and the next one, and the next, the sky darkens from shades of blue to grey to not-quite-black. The storm hasn’t hit yet, but rain heralds its coming on the wind. In the hoofbeats of the horses you hear thunder.

—

A man in tweed with a curled mustache buys Cerberus behind a saloon in Split River. John orders you both a round of drinks to celebrate. His fingers brush against yours when you toast your glasses together. It tastes of wildfire. Stings the whole way down.

You’re forced to leave when he almost takes a man’s head off for asking you to share a dance shortly after. The jaunty fiddle tune haunts your steps into the lamplit streets as you beat your hasty retreat, John’s shoulder clasped tight beneath your burnt whiskey fingertips.

—

In Steelhead, a farmer with a nose for a pedigree takes Autocrat off your hands. That night he puts the pair of you up with his other farmhands to get you out of the nighttime chill. It’s a kindness you hadn’t counted on, but it feels cruel the moment you see a man, broad and strong with eyes the same shade as yours, agree to light John’s cigarette. Across the room they lean in close. Closer. The butts of their cigarettes glow shrouded in smoke as they share the intimacy of nicotine breath, but the whole time John’s eyes are on yours. A punishment. A dare.

In a bedroll as far from everyone else as the room allows, you don’t sleep a wink.

The following morning breaks grey and ominous. You can’t leave the place far enough behind.

—

Rushing Spring houses Old Father Time’s new owner, a fashionable young woman whose father can refuse her nothing. He barely looks the horse over before offering more than your asking price, and you shake his hand without giving him a moment to think twice.

“Better get going if we want to beat this weather,” John says as they walk away with their new purchase. His eyes are squinted up at the sky, storm grey and swirling. It’s the most he’s offered to speak since Lottie’s.

“You’re right,” you agree. But as you glance up at the churning clouds above you, you’re not so sure that you will.

—

The rain catches you the next afternoon in open country, not a settlement in sight. It starts as a drizzle, errant drops that speckle the leather of your saddle and pepper Moonshine’s coat, but soon crescendos into an all-out pour. It comes so thick and fast that you can hardly see John and Old Boy just a horselength in front of you. John turns to shout something over the downpour, but the wind snatches his words. It’s too dark to read his lips.

When he turns his horse away you follow blind.

There’s a rockface somewhere off to the left, you know. You’ve seen irregular shelves and outcroppings from a distance. Maybe John spied something like that before the rain came? Maybe he’s just trusting that he’ll find shelter before an errant lightning strike hits anything nearby. Whatever the case is, his luck holds. You endure only a few more minutes of being utterly soaked before the dark, yawning mouth of a cave opens up before you.

The horses shake their dripping coats the moment you step inside. Their unshod hoofbeats echo with the rainfall. Lightning flashes, lighting your surroundings for a heartbeat and a half. It’s enough to see that the cave doesn’t run dangerously deep; you need not fear it housing some slumbering bear or wildcat’s den, but it’s enough to keep the rain from soaking you entirely. So long as it doesn’t flood, you guess.

Without so much as a word you and John fall into a routine that’s been established since you were kids. You untack and hobble the horses, toweling them dry as best you can. Moonshine tenses beneath your hands at the distant rumble of thunder rolling ever closer. John starts a fire and gets to warming food. Canned beans, it looks like. Better than nothing. You set the tent tarp on the ground to keep the bedrolls dry. The extra blankets you have packed away aren’t quite wet. It’s a sadder, damper camp than you normally pull together, but in the wake of this weather you’d be hard-pressed to do better.

You huddle close to the small fire with your plate of food. John sits opposite you and says nothing. Just watches. You watch back. The way his sharp features accentuate with shadow. The way his damp skin is drenched in firelight. His hair is plastered to his cheek, and your fingers twitch with longing to smooth it back and kiss the raindrops from his lips. When the next lightning strike flashes, you see unmasked want reflected back in his eyes.

“John…” you start, but can’t find the right words. How do you give voice to thoughts you’ve smothered for years now? How would you even begin?

“I need a drink after all that,” he says, pulling his flask from his belt and taking a swig. “How ‘bout you?”

Your mouth is terribly dry. “Sure.”

The offer doesn’t surprise you, but the way he hands it over, slow and deliberate, your fingers brushing together, does. Instead of retreating back to his side of the fire he remains with his hungry eyes and sharp mouth. You can’t quite bring yourself to look away as you drink. It burns like whiskey, but it tastes like him.

“Somethin’ else out there,” he says, inclining his head toward the mouth of the cave. Lightning flashes, and a clap of thunder - the closest one yet - punctuates his statement. “Reminds me of all them years ago, picking you up out of the mud. You remember that?”

“How could I forget? Saved my life.” Marked it forever. Changed it. For better or for worse.

“Every time it storms I think about that day,” he confesses. His hand reaches up for your face, cupping your cheek. You swear your heart stops. His brows knit together. “I don’t know that I would’ve saved anyone else.”

“I’m not sure I would’ve let anyone else do the saving.”

The rough pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck. You swallow past a dry mouth and watch his eyes trace the line of your throat. Firelight flickers across his features. He leans in closer.

“It was always gonna be you and me, wasn’t it?” His breath fans your lips; whiskey and want.

Lightning arcs across the sky outside, lighting his face in that same eerie glow it did the day you met. He’s so beautiful. You’re so tired of pretending.

Before the thunder has a chance to crash, you answer him with a kiss.

It’s everything.

Electric.

You feel the boom of thunder in your chest when it comes, feel his hands wandering there and know it’s where they’ve always belonged. When he bites your lip and pushes you onto your back, your body accommodates him without thinking. He settles into the space between your legs and pulls back just long enough to admire, a wolfish gleam in his eye. What a sight you must be, spread out and chest heaving, eyes blown wide with years’ worth of want, face half-lit by the fire.

“Fuck,” he says, breathless, and then kisses you again. “Should’a done that sooner.”

But you’re here now, and it’s everything you could ever want or imagine. Better, somehow. You know John better than you know yourself and still his passion surprises you as he presses chapped-lip kisses further and further down your neck. You gasp when he bites down and feel him smirk against your rainsoaked skin. He’s paid back in kind with a sharp tug at the root of his hair, your hand tangled in those long, dark strands. A groan sounds from deep in his chest and he pulls away long enough for you to see the grey of his eyes go black.

“Tell me you want this,” he says.

“I want it.” You squirm, rolling your hips against his just to see desire glaze across his face. “I want you.”

“Shit, Ghost,” he says. “You always had me. I’m yours. It’s all yours.”

Whether he means his body or his heart or his soul you don’t rightly know. Right now you hardly care. All you know is that his hands are all over you at once, pulling layer after layer of soaked clothing away until you’re almost completely bare beneath him. Your nipples pebble against the sudden exposure to evening storm air, and his hungry eyes watch your every move, every breath beneath him. He’s a sight himself; half hard already, those soaked-through breeches plastered to his skin leaving little to the imagination. His hair is all a mess and his scars stand out against scarlet and his eyes are dark and bright. You help him tear his clothes away and grin when his broad, lean chest gleams in the flickering light of the campfire. You run your fingers against the dark hair there and feel him shudder beneath your touch. Heat rushes to your core when he removes his pants, leaving his cock exposed and flush against his stomach. You move to lick a stripe down your hand when he grabs your wrist.

“Don’t,” he says, face flushed. Eyes bright. “I like when it hurts, a little.”

He licks his lips. You grin and take him in your hand. His breath catches and his hips stutter as you set a slow, steady, punishing rhythm.

“Goddamn,” he curses. “Just like that.”

You’re dizzy with power and want. Seeing the effect you have on him, his chest heaving, his eyes rolled toward the heavens, makes that simmering warmth in your belly start to boil over. You smooth a calloused fingerpad over his tip just to watch him shudder. Precup smears. His eyes squeeze shut, and all too soon he’s pushing your hands away.

You tilt your head in question and he grins, half-shy. “I ain’t gonna last if you keep that up.”

“That’s the point, dumbass.”

He shakes his head, bends to kiss the corner of your mouth. “Want to feel you, first.”

Heat floods your body from your chest to your fingertips at the confession.

Hard to argue with that.

He makes a strangled sound at the back of his throat watching you wriggle out of your pants, moaning outright when you take his hand and put his fingers in your mouth. His eyes glaze over and he thrusts them to the back of your throat just once to see what happens. You hum around them. His eyes go even darker.

Hesitantly, maybe even a little reverently, he starts to work you open. The further he goes and the more you relax into it, the rougher and more confident he becomes. One finger becomes two, becomes three. Still you want more.

“Yeah?” he says as you moan, half cocky and half like he can’t believe he’s the lucky son of a bitch making you see stars. You hate that it wrecks you the way that it does.

“Yeah,” you breathe, tilting your head up to press a kiss to his jaw.

He takes your face in his hands and kisses you back properly, thoroughly, before lining up to your entrance and thrusting in all at once. It’s that special kind of too-much ecstasy, your vision going dark and your voice keening at the sensation.

“Shit, you feel good,” he whines.

“Please, John,” you say, though you’re not sure what you’re begging for other than more.

Lightning screams through the storming sky outside and his pale skin glows in white-hot light. He takes you apart to the sound of fading thunder and falling rain. You shift to meet the thrust of those narrow hips halfway, and rake your fingers down his back with each burst of pleasure. If there’s such a thing as completion, it must be this. The way your bodies fit together, the way you know every thought that flashes behind the wolfish want in his eyes. Each unspoken, understood I love you. He taught you to do it long before he recognized the feeling returned, and when you finally reach the peak of your pleasure you sigh it into his skin.

I love you, John Marston.

“Fuck, Ghost,” he pants. “Fuck. I love you too.”

His thrusts get sloppy, chasing his own high, and when he pulls out and spends himself across your stomach his voice cracks saying your name. It’s never sounded sweeter.

After a few settling breaths John leans down and presses a firm kiss to your forehead. You miss his warmth for only moments when he rolls away to find a rag to clean you up. The two of you fall asleep in one another’s arms. Outside, the rain slows and fades away to a drizzle, then nothing.

—

You wake the next morning to wiry arms wrapped around you and John’s face pressed into your stomach. He snores softly, and you allow yourself a quiet moment to admire his sleeping form. It’s impossible to stop the fond smile that steals across your face. Carefully, carefully, you extricate yourself from his embrace.

When you step outside, morning birdsong greets you. The grass beneath your feet is as dewy as the pinks and yellows and robin’s egg blues that paint the sky above. It’s the kind of sunrise that only comes after a storm.

You lean against the rockface and light a cigarette, watching the smoke dissipate on the fresh morning breeze. It isn’t long before John joins you. Wordlessly you pass him your cigarette, and wordlessly he takes a drag. He breathes smoke into the air and smiles.

Together you watch the sun rise.

#john marston x reader #rdr x reader #rdr2 x reader #fran writes #ghost story #ch. 23

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mission2mordor · 1 month

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Where the Wild Mustangs Roam

Western AU

Outlaw!Eddie Munson x Haunted Barkeep!Steve Harrington

Word count: 11.7K

Playlist

Summary:

Eddie Munson, Outlaw, rides into Hawkins one day on a mission, with a plan in mind. . .

. . . Everything goes out the window when he stumbles into a mystery he struggles to solve.

Read the teaser below!

Everyone this side of the west has heard about the wild mustangs that roam the fields and run free where the mountains meet the moon in the early hours of the night, but not many have ever caught wind of one, let alone tame one.

Those who have are often loners. Tumbleweeds with no path or seed to weigh them down. Empty as a husk but filled with just as much emotion as their wounds are with dirt.

Eddie’s always believed the west was meant to be his home. Some people grow up and move off to bigger towns up north or out east. Not him. Not ever. That doesn’t mean he lived by the book and the word, though. He follows his own rules. The only person he ever had any inkling of obeying was lost a few years back. He lives for him now, the legend that Wayne Munson was (and still is) to him.

See, the lifestyle Eddie lives isn’t exactly one that can be learned without a little…extended guidance, so to speak. Thank you, Uncle Wayne, for all that he knows. Truly. No seriously, Eddie is incredibly grateful to Wayne for teaching him how to live without fear, and how to be sneaky. For making him learn to be tougher than the railroad nails and quicker than the wind itself. For teaching him how to get by. For loving him. He’ll cry if he dwells on it any longer.

Eddie sits atop a log at his campsite, watching the fire blow and fiddling with his harmonica as he listens to the coyotes cry to the moon and yip at all the creatures who have yet to turn in for the night. Watches as the orange flames lick at the top of his roasting spit (read: stick wrapped in wet cloth) as the night drags. Listens to the foxes laugh and the vultures circle in the distance. There’s a buffalo herd not seven hundred and some feet from him. He thinks about them, how they travel with everything they’ll ever need and yet they carry nothing but the shaggy mess of hair on their backs. To the right of the fire, a pot of canned food sits, cooling quicker by the second, even in the muggy desert night air. The tent behind him has long since been abandoned for the night, and he debated taking it down before morning and riding out. Leaves it because he knows he’ll crash at some point. There’s a bottle of jack at his feet, a canteen to his left, and a loaded Apache revolver on his hip. His horse grazes at the stray grass next to him, silently leaving Eddie to his own devices.

The midnight hours are approaching, blanketing the red dirt with a sinfully empty dark blue aside from the stars, and the mountains in the distance meet the horizon in a kiss of melded oranges and blacks, just from what Eddie can see with his piss-poor little fire. His hat hangs over his eyes, legs crossed in front of the fire, boots barely avoiding the lick of the bright orange flames. His flannel unbuttoned and buckle undone to wind down for the night. A desert coyote cries as Eddie looks up at the stars, and he swigs some of his jack, chasing it with water and standing to retreat to his tent.

To their knowledge, Edward and Wayne Munson are the only men this side of the west to ever successfully catch and tame two Mustang stallions.

To his knowledge, Edward Munson is the only person who knows where Wayne hid the missing money from some sundowner out a ways on the tracks.

And to his knowledge, he’s the last man standing in a long line of untouchable legends among the west.

#eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #au #western au #I love them but oh my god I had to make Steve suffer #sorry not sorry #Eddie is scared shitless at some point

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itsmegunsworddeep · 19 days

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so with the lunging, the animal herding, the ranch western activities, the races in firgrove, and even the new tumbleweed races not providing any sort of summer tokens this western event what is

what is even the point of this

#i feared camp western this year but it was not for the fear it would be this shit

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hunting-songs · 11 days

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Nature Aesthetic: Senritsu Döne Repost, don’t reblog! BOLD everything that applies to your character:

#senritsus brontophilia coming through strong here xD goodness gracious #hunting-songs: headcanon #hunting-songs #and in general she loves nature when THERE ARE NOISES

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agapemastiffs · 2 months

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The Tibetan Mastiff: Your Own Personal Himalayan Yeti (But Friendlier)

Forget those mythical beasts guarding snowy peaks – the Tibetan Mastiff is the real deal. This ancient giant boasts a lineage older than your grandma's favorite rocking chair, and their loyalty runs deeper than a Himalayan crevasse. But before you start digging a moat for your new best friend, let's break down the good, the giant, and the fluffy of owning a Tibetan Mastiff.

From Nomadic Guardians to Living Legends

Imagine a world without fences. That was life for Tibetan nomads, who relied on these colossal canines to guard their herds from hungry predators and sketchy characters. These weren't your average guard dogs – Tibetan Mastiffs were basically furry fortresses, with a booming bark that could scare away a yeti (or at least make it reconsider its snack choice). Today, they're still revered symbols of good luck and protection, but with way less yak wrangling involved.

A Gentle Giant with an Independent Streak

Tibetan Mastiffs are as loyal as they are large. They bond deeply with their families, offering unwavering devotion (think best friend who also happens to be the size of a small pony). However, their independent streak is real. The Cane Corso can also be as large as these gentle giants. These pups aren't pushovers – they're thinkers who need early socialization to avoid becoming suspicious of strangers. Think of them as the chill bodyguards of the dog world – they'll keep an eye out, but won't necessarily attack first (unless you mess with their humans, then all bets are off).

Living with a Mountain Guardian: Not for the Faint of Leash

Owning Tibetan Mastiff Puppies is like having your own personal mountain lion (but way cuddlier). These giants need ample space to roam and stretch those long legs. Forget tiny apartments – a fenced-in yard with secure boundaries is a must-have. Grooming is a breeze (think one or two good brushings a week), but bath time might require a team effort (or a professional groomer).

Keeping Your Gentle Giant Healthy:

Tibetan Mastiffs have a lifespan of 10-12 years, but their size can make them prone to certain health issues like hip dysplasia and bloat. Regular vet checkups, a healthy diet, and keeping them at a good weight are key to a long and happy life for your furry giant.

Training Your Himalayan Companion: Respect is Key

Tibetan Mastiffs are smart, but their independent streak can make traditional training methods a challenge. Positive reinforcement with treats and praise is your best bet. The Neapolitan Mastiff needs quite a bit of training as well. They're eager to please their trusted handlers, so positive vibes go a long way. Early socialization is crucial to prevent fearfulness or aggression later in life. Think of it as teaching them proper mountain etiquette – gotta know how to interact with other creatures (especially the smaller ones).

Who Should Adopt a Tibetan Mastiff?

These aren't your average lapdogs. The ideal owner has an active lifestyle and a house that resembles a small castle (with a secure yard, of course). Experience with large breeds is a plus, as their size and strength require a confident and capable handler. Families with older children who understand canine behavior can find a loyal companion in a Tibetan Mastiff. But first-time dog owners and those living in cramped spaces might want to consider a smaller guardian, like a fluffy chihuahua.

A Loyal Companion with a Storied Past

If you can provide the space, care, and consistent training a Tibetan Mastiff requires, the rewards are epic. Their unwavering loyalty, independent spirit, and majestic presence make them cherished companions. The English Mastiff is also a wonderful companion as well. Owning a Tibetan Mastiff isn't just about having a dog; it's about welcoming a guardian, protector, and a living piece of Himalayan history into your life. Just be prepared for the endless supply of fur tumbleweeds and the occasional mistaken identity as a mythical beast (because, let's face it, they're pretty darn impressive).

In Conclusion

The Tibetan Mastiff is a breed unlike any other. Their colossal size embodies the spirit of the Himalayas, while their gentle heart offers unwavering companionship. Carefully consider the responsibilities involved in owning one of these majestic creatures. If you can provide the space, training, and love they deserve, a Tibetan Mastiff will reward you with a loyal friend and a guardian for life.

A Watchful Protector: For The Progression Of The Ages

Mastiffs, gentle giants with ancient roots, come in various breeds. Loyal guardians with calm temperaments, they require ample space, training, and experienced owners due to their size and strength. Though some breeds have wrinkles, all Mastiffs offer a lifetime of devotion.

#pets #mastiffs #Tibetan Mastiff #Tibetan Mastiff Puppies

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bloobluebloo · 4 months

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Archery was for anyone.

The skill of said person, obviously, varied greatly. It was something Ganondorf was proud of, and while many folks claimed he had advantages for his broad shoulders and muscular form, well, any of the sisters would pose beside him to show off many of the same attributes. Except for some, who took it a step further to throw their brother across the sand to make their point. It was absolutely funnier. He hated having a mouthful of sand, though.

So when the Rito, as a gesture of peace, invited peoples from any region for contest of archery and tastings of different foods, Ganondorf almost forgot to put on his pants before he left the desert. To compete with the Rito! To eat with the folks who loved spicy things as much as his sisters (for entirely different reasons, mind) and celebrate the peace together? It was a dream. He did not go alone, too many were as excited as he.

There were few gorons among the festivities. Archery wasn't their favoured, but a few engineers and artists came to enjoy the event in their own way. There were Hylians, a bit like roaches really, but most of all were the Rito. They had expected Gerudo guests most of all, for they longed to share pieces of their culture. Already they had much in common. Gan delighted that they loved colour as much as the Gerudo, they loved beads and the beauty of their home. They loved entirely different styles of music, designed to resonate with the echoes of the chasm.

Then Gan found that Rito Archery was different after all. They fought with their feet, and even shaped their bows differently for it. They fired arrows from the wing with a range built with only one platform.

"Don't worry, we arranged the festival to center where you can stand." One of them laughed. "Only one outsider has gotten close to how we do things."

Gan whirled to face them. "Who?"

"Oh, I doubt they'll be here. They struggle with crowds. Little hylian fellow, though. About as grounded as a wumbling weed."

"Tumbleweed." Gan muttered. He looked around the crowd anyway. "Magic?"

The rito laughed. "A paraglider! It's... more funny to watch than anything. Hangs by the knees from it to fire upside down. First time he tried it, landed face first into a target. Poor guy."

Gan grimaced. "My knees hurt just thinking about it."

"So did his nose." They laughed. "Had sympathy pain in my beak for hours. Hey, if I see them, I'll introduce you."

Gan agreed.

And a few hours later, the rito returned, Hylian in toe.

It was Link. Who was visibly relieved to see someone he knew instead of a new stranger to meet. He ran up to Gan to grasp his hand in earnest. "You left the city!! Did you get to see any horses on the way up? I know there's a few herds along the way."

"I did!" Gan bent to give the small man a hug. It felt right. "I'm just so glad I didn't see any bears."

"Psh, I'm sure the bears are, too."

The rito laughed, and left them be.

GAN HOW DID YOU NOT FIGURE OUT THAT LINK WOULD BE THE ONE TO DO INSANE FEATS OF ARCHERY This was very cute anon. I love to headcanon that TotK Ganondorf enjoyed learning weapon handling techniques from other tribes in order to create his own unique style, and to see him excited to learn about Rito style archery was nice. Who knows, maybe he will learn to handle a bow with his feet to one up Link a little heheh :P

#bloothots

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abyssee · 8 months

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Top row: Goose, Skunk, Cindermouth and Stalk Bottom row: Giggle, Valiant, Wander, Formidable and Tumbleweed all belong to @louaseau, except for the two pastel babes cuddling.

Terrible format for tumblr, but we make do with what we have. These are some of the Bois-de-Pierre refugees who escaped the massacre as teens, plus the younger generations that were born at the Hautes-Rives. They are sharing their last meal before most of them would depart to try to reclaim their ancestral territory - and tragically fail. Only Valiant, the new leader, was resolved to stay, to move forward... and protect her sister Cindermouth and the pups from the scorn of the pack.

Short story under the cut!

The early days of spring warmth has belatedly reached the plains, messing for another year the migration patterns and birth season of the great herds. For one, the Haute-Rives pack hadn't complained about the delayed thawing, making good use of the snow mounds and mud puddles to slow their preys down. As spring had progressed, the movement of the herds were instead hindered by birthing, thus offering easy targets to a pack equally expanding through pup-rearing. On that day, Valiant had called upon her childhood friends to join her on what perhaps might be the last easy hunt they would know for a while, probably until the elk population moved back south during winter.

Following Giggle's intel, gained from crows, the small group had left the heart of their territory to join the herd on the great plains. Such intel lessened the need of being silently absorbed in tracking, allowing Valiant to set aside the weights of being a leader, the worries of being a sister, to simply enjoy the playfulness of boasting around. She moved alongside Formidable, the golden boy, while Giggle lead the way, snout in the air and strands of hair in the wind. Behind them, despite Skunk's plea for peace, Goose was mercilessly teasing Tumbleweed, a yearling still quite inexperienced in the art of hunting, but convinced he'd manage to take down an elk by himself.

And for once, life proved him right.

Their lucky star must have been shining upon them, for the crows didn't lead them directly to the herd, but to a grove sidelines where a doe had recently gave birth. Thanks to the birds, they positioned themselves into a crescent-shape on one side of the thicket, except for Giggle trotting to the other side and Formidable going even further. On the leader's signal, the first formation lunged onto their preys, who bolted upon hearing the first snapping of a twig. With the support of Goose, Tumbleweed charged the calf and managed to quickly subdue it, while Valiant and Skunk chased the mother. The bicolor male successfully snapped her shank once before the doe leaped over a boulder and outran them.

Not for long, though.

Giggle took over the chase, her slim body perfectly able to closely pursue the elk and pressure her into a grueling zigzag towards Formidable's position. Sporadically, Valiant and Skunk erupted to deliver swift bites to her limbs, until Goose caught up with them and bit the hindquarters strongly enough to get dragged along. The weight combined to the exhaustion of the run eventually forced the doe to slow down, thereby allowing Formidable to cut her off and jump at her throat. Suffocated by his powerful jaw, the doe expired a few minutes later. With her last exhalation, the hunters collapsed to the ground, remaining there however long it took to catch their breath, and then started gorging themselves on the fresh meat.

In the distance, the crows were encircling the area where the calf had been killed earlier, their chatter audible even from the pack's position. It took them a moment to identify yipping amongst the cawing, and another to realize what it meant. Following birds had the advantage of finding prey easily, but that necessarily meant any other predator in the region could do the same. In this specific case, coyotes. Having retained most of his energy thanks to the shortness of his pursuit, Formidable dashed towards the grove where the hunt had started. Not long after, Giggle sprung to her paws and did her best to follow him despite her exhaustion (and knowing she had about zero intimidation skills).

Meanwhile, Valiant, Skunk and Goose lagged behind, dragging the corpse in the direction of the rendezvous site to ensure the protection of their main course. They had almost arrived when the rest of the group caught up with them, returning empty handed. As proven by the fresh wounds and missing patches of fur, Tumbleweed had given his best to watch over his prized possession, to no avail. Even with reinforcement, the three wolves had been vastly outnumbered. The lean calf hadn't been worth the trouble, not with the adult they had slain. It still took some convincing to drag Tumbleweed out of that losing battle with the coyote pack. The yearling was still sulking when they arrived to the rendezvous site, but Goose managed to put a smile on his face by relating his "epic take down" of the juvenile.

With the carcass secured in an area a little less exposed than vast plains, and no coyote in sight, Valiant howled twice to invite her sister to join them. By the time Cindermouth appeared with her two pups struggling to keep up the pace, the hunting party was already far along the disembowelment process. The abundance of preys and their close bond meant quarrels rarely broke out during feeding time, although Tumbleweed was robbed once or twice of a juicy bit. In a similar unspoken hierarchy, Cindermouth inherited the leftovers more often than not, for her recent fiery incident had stripped her from any hunting abilities... and sociability. The rift between her and the rest of the pack, including their childhood friends, was widening despite Valiant's best efforts, and she wasn't sure weither the pups, in all their peculiarities, were helping her social pariah status or not. But Cinder was her sister, her only link to their deceased parents, and she'd do anything to give her and the pups a prosperous pack to thrive in, even if that meant adapting to life on the plains rather than repossessing their native forest.

Her ideals were, however, not shared by everyone of their clique. This moment was one of the very last times the group hunted together; a few months later, half of them were gone.

#wolf #wolf oc #wolf character #animal art #drawing #illustration #digital art #bean draws sometimes #an oldie from 2021 #wildstories #this has been in my draft since may and i forgor about it oops

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ultfan · 7 months

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bold / italicize the natural aesthetics that appeal to / apply to your muse. repost, do not reblog. feel free to add any natural features you see fit !

fluffy white nimbus clouds. dark grey cumulonimbus clouds. rainclouds. a hurricane. light spring breeze. a sherbert-colored sky at sunrise. hazy yellow skies. deep blue ponds of fresh water. blankets of sparkling snow. tornado winds. monsoon flooding. rich, orange sunsets. soft, purple clouds at dusk. heavy hail. the rumbling of thunder. icy sleet. gentle snowfall. moss-dusted tree bark. pink sunset clouds. grey winter skies. navy blue skies in the daytime. cool mist in the morning. leaf-bare trees. giant ocean waves. the full moon. a cracked, dry desert. rolling hills of prairie grass. sweeping waves of briny seawater. rocky, steep ravines. rippling canyon walls. spindly, cave stalactites. creeping, green ivy. lush canopies of leafy trees. dense, white fog. a peaceful creek of clear water. flowering cacti dusted with dew, catching light in the morning sun. a bubbling, hot pool of volcanic sulfur. sharp, grey mountainsides. fossils nestled in chunks of rock. a white sand beach. deep imprints of animal tracks in the dirt. soft, squishy moss. uniform rows of birch trees in winter. delicate mushrooms popping up in spring from beneath the decay on the forest floor. tumbleweeds jerking in the faintest wind across the desert landscape. light rain. summer wildfires. a mixing of hot and cool air before a storm. silent lightning in the static of summer heat. a windy blizzard. thick flakes of snow tumbling down from the sky. a tree standing alone in a barren, yellow field. a desert of loose sand and tall, orange dunes. a pure blue sky. a river of molten rock. a grove of flowering trees. twisting, mangled roots sticking up from the muddy ground. bitter, cold winds. tumultuous skies of stormy clouds. branches of lightning ripping across the sky. a foggy swamp. the tree-bare foothills of a mountain range. sandy brown cliffsides. rocky coastlines. the violent shaking of an earthquake. the mysterious sound of ethereal trumpets in the sky. the lights of the auroras borealis and australis. a black sand beach. a lone tropical island in the reef of shallow, aqua waters. underwater volcanic vents. a herd of migrating mammals. tree branches growing heavy with ripe fruit. light streaming down through the clouds. a field of lush grain wading peacefully in the summer breeze. the sound of insects and frogs teeming in the night. natural diamonds nestled in coarse desert sands. a frozen lake.

#✁ ⇾ dash game.

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mary-johnlocked · 9 months

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Unspoken needs

18+

pairing : Phil burbank X Branco Henry

trope: Explicit Smut , Cowboy on Cowboy Sex , Porn with Feelings , Alternative ending , Charachterization , Age Gap , Older man/younger man , Flashbacks , Handjobs , Blowjobs , praise kink , Daddy kink , Phil is a soft!dom ;)

summary : Phil was waiting for Peter to meet him at the ranch , and he got lost in his memories of Branco while gazing at the mountains , at the barking dog .

N.B : In this chapter i had imagined what Branco Henry was like and some scenarios with Phil and their developping relationship , and the way he influenced Phil and impacted his charachter , its based solely on my personal impression that i had on him from the movie not from the book , so its not canon

Chapter ( 2/ ? ) : Memories tethered and buried

*OUTSIDE*

Silence has settled in and the few scattering sunrays of the twilight gradually declined to fade into darkness as darkness took place in the farm , the only light being the soft glow of the moonlight and the twinkling stars , the wind rustles the leaves on the ground stirring up the dirt and the sands to hurl around and twirl across the land , whirling its way with a couple of prickly tumbleweeds , their restless rumbling breaking slightly through the deafening desertic silence of the night in Montana , along with the cacophony of cricket's chirps which only emphasized the heavy silence , only broke by the occasional grunting of the cows confined within the rusty fence of the corral , the peaceful calming atmosphere sits as stark opposite to the wild boistorous landscapes of the high rocky mountains stretched in the horizon occupiying all the perepheral vision and making a breathtaking frame to see through the wooden gates from inside the ranch

which is perfectly positioned in a dominating middle ground that provides a nice framed view on the mountains from the front gates and an observing point on the farming and horse work from the back doors

"no wonder why Phil spends most of his time here ", Peter thought to himself while heading to the ranch to meet Phil and stopped at the front door steps taking in the nature and his surroundings while heading to the place of their appointement , or more exactly their date

the boy being a sensitive artist in the heart with a pragmatic mind couldnt help but psychanalyze Phil and note the tortured oppressd beauty of his being and his ,,,, tragedy

Phil would stand up straight with his shoulders back within the wooden confine , having a dominant look on every farmer or horseman , making his authoritarian presance floating on everyone's shoulders and omnipresent , like a tyrannical phantom while all the same he could get lost to no one's knowledge in the beauty of the wild ,

observe through the frame that forms the large gates of the ranch , the rocky high mountains with sweeping meadows spread upon it and forested slopes stretching to the foothills ,

while his mind drifts to the memory of him and Brenco hiking up those mountains , and , the memory of his first love , and first time , discovering his true feelings and nature with Brenco

which was exactly what he was doing after he bathed himself ,which his brother found bizzar since he never does it at home but the situation obliged , and went there waiting for Peter to come ,

his mind flickered with the memories of Brenco while gazing at the mountains , in the sun set ,and his loyal barking dog,,,,, still a couple of hours left before Peter would come , he lost himself in memories that marked him,,,,,

-------------------------------------

After months of training him to mount a stubborn mare and tame it Branco was teaching him to move a herd of cattles and eventually cutting the little calfs from their fathers so they wont breed them, he was watching him on his velvety black magestic Mustang from afar , while Phil was struggling to seperate the little calf from the herd

_" COME ON PHIL! " he yelled at him , getting impatient

_" DONT LET THE CALF JOIN THE HERD SORT HIM OFF INTO THAT SMALLER PEN "

Phil was trying his best to direct the calf but it keeps running in every direction and around the parents stubbornly ,

Branco sighed in defeat eventually gave up

_"OKAY NOW JUST HURDLE THEM TOGETHER AND STEER THEM INTO THAT FENCE LETS GET THIS OVER WITH"

Phil panting hard , mouth dried , head dizzy from the hot burning sun , ass hurt from the hard saddle and all the hopping , he gave up and rode back to Brenco

-" sorry Brenco it doesnt seem to work they dont wanna go where i lead them ! "

Brenco rode his horse closer to his and faced him , glaring at him with wide chocolate eyes darkened with anger and irritation at his incompetence , with a firm tone he retorted :

" a real cowboy would go there cut that calf off , steer him away the cattles and into that smaller pen without deviating , and go round up the rest of the herd and push'em into the enclosure within half an hour or less, ITS BEEN FOUR HOURS Phil ! , what have i taught you the whole past months ? , "

Phil humiliated was about to retort but he continued " trust your goddamn horse and stop misleading it ! it knows how to cut calves way better than you , it was raised with the instinct for cutting cattles and steering them which normally should've made it easier for a beginner like you , even with a hunter of a horse you couldnt make it ,,,,, you dissapointed me Phil "

Phil's dry mouth went agape a hurt expression written on his face ,his eyes dropped down to the dusty ground feeling ashamed and beating himself up internally , he wanted to make him proud not fail him , he felt a clenching feeling at his throat

he would do anything , follow every order , every instruction , listen to all the advices ,to become a real cowboy ,tough and charismatic masculine man like he is ,

but its hard to make it work when he gets lost in his dark bottomless and dangerous eyes while he is explaining , or get transfixed by his inviting wide plump mouth , framed by his beard

or when his dick goes stiff and engorged with blood and lust everytime he catches a glimpse of his rounded and muscled ass in those bloody tight denim jeans , hypnotizing him by moving attractively from side the side waving his hips on the horse with such a grace , and controlling the harness effortlessly as if he shared one mind with his mustang

he cant help but feel enchanted by his wild beauty , his thick black hair , and thick lashes and straight eyebrows , his protruding brow that gives him a threatening look , adding to that his towering impressive form ,

big rugged capable hands that he wished to see somewhere else than on a bridle , or at least being the one attached to the other end of the strap

many times he wished it was on his lap he was hopping that way , or that it was him he was controlling with that harness , or using his personal towel with his intitials BH inscribed in the fabric as a strap to wrap around his neck while he pounds into him - he slapped himself at the thought-

indeed it was hard to focus under those conditions

Brenco still staring at him ,grew irritated by the silence and his hand snapped to Phil's he grabbed it harshly and brought it to his face , pulling him from his daydreams

-" look your knuckles are WHITE from holding onto the harness , you're more struggling to control your horse than focusing on the direction of the herd to counter it , i told you , don't be a control freak, you gotta build a relation of trust between you and your horse , not domination , you gotta know its a stubborn beast with the love of freedom runing through its veins ,and you just turned it to a chicken ,you transmited your fear , come on put yourself together and MAN THE HELL UP " he roared the last sentence

Phil blinking in shock and gathering his courage ,he swallowed a couple of times before answering with fake confidence but his voice betrayed him as it came out enervated

_" look i promise you i will succed the next time , it was only my second time , i just need to practise mo-"

Brenco cut him off , scoffing at his attempt to justify himself instead of taking criticism

" what are you making up excuses now ? i dont need your promises , your words don't matter ,there are times in life when the fancy words and pretty actions don’t count for much, when it’s blood and dust and death and a cold wind blowing and a gun in the hand and you know suddenly you’re just an animal with guts and blood that wants to live, love and mate, and die in your own good time , you feel me ? , i need your actions and proofs ,so quit whining and prove me that i havent waisted my time taking you under my wing "

Phil was fueled by pure desire to see pride in Brenco's eyes , and to gain his approval , he kept playing his words in the back of his mind

" man the hell up " ;so with a newfound resolution he nodded to himself and muttered -" i will show you Brenco " determined to better himself

nonetheless he couldnt help the nagging feeling of guilt everytime he thought about him the way he did ,it was scandalous , so deliciously inappropriate , what would he think of him ? , having those " feelings"

he cringed at himself from the mere thought , Brenco would've probably had beat him up to a pulp before hanging him up and then trailing his body with the iron tag " faggot " on his forehad behind his horse around the whole ranch

he shook off the thoughts feeling now a threat added to his guilt

he kept training days long on the horse , for weeks , until the day he finally sorted the cattles off like a champ , Brenco noticed he was more confident on the horse , pulling at the harness with ease , following the instincts of the horse , becoming one with it , he smiled at him from afar, and Phil raised his head caught his glance and smiled back ,

they looked into each other's eyes little bit longer than they should had , their smiles faded as an intense expression took over , turning to something darker and more ,,,, intimate , his heart was swelling in his chest ,

he went to sleep that day with his hard features painted on the black of his eyes , head full of fantasies that involves making those dangerous alluring eyes roll at the back of his head from the sinful action he would practise between his spread legs , with his mouth open.

Its not that Branco was bullying him or that he had no patience , he was the calmest guy ,his blood a frozen calm river , he was a man of logic , led by his rational mind rather than his emotions , he had his emotions under control , but , with him he was different , it felt downright personal the way he shouted at him and picked on his smallest fails ,

the reason he was pushing him beyond his limits and being too meticulous and too hard on him like that was because he believed he really could do it , that he had it in him and just need a push to call forward what he wanted to become and he wanted to see him succed badly ,

he needed to see the fruit of his work , signs that he was right about him that his intuition was right , the thing he probably feared more than any grizzly was Phil failing him or worse , giving up , he knew he craved his approval and wants to use it to fuel his passion ,

he never wanted to see the flames of passion in his eyes waver ,he wanted to be his inspiration , he cared too much about his development, he was eager to fulfill his wish of becoming better , and more than that he wanted to be the one he thanks for it ,

Branco Henry was a real masculine model for everyone in the ranch , self sufficient and reliable , free like the wind , untamable as a young feral mare , his wide chocolate eyes shone with unmistakable ardor , avid for adventure and the quest of mastery , never shied away from confrontation ,and had a high sense of justice and morality ,

he had boradcasted his knowledge to the western frontiere, devoted to the marrow of his bone to his life style that he considered it fairly as a life mission ,

he walked alone with a confidence of a roman emperor he knew well what his work represented , not only to him but to something far beyond , a vehicule of transcending western values , that he believed in whole heartedly and should not only preserve and personify but also pass it on ,

he was a visionary and he knew nobody else as worthy of his guidance as his loyal and faithful best friend Phil , he saw through him , he knew Phil is secretly ambitious and competitive , and held the intimate conviction that he is capable of and want to do more and better than anybody else in this field ,and want to become just like him ,

they shared same values, and same ardor for their work , and this desire to be admired , looked up to , and to lead , when he met him he was shy and hesitant about revealing himself at first , but Brenco knew how to spring it out of him and call forward all his potential

nevertheless what Phil truly and deeply wants far more than becoming a high valued and respected man and the recognition , is the acceptance , of who he truely is as a person regardless of being a man and whats communly associated with it, regardless of the efforts and sacrifices he puts into being the model he represents to his peers ,

he craves consideration ,understanding and love ,someone who can actually see him , unveiled and as a whole , crack the code and delve into the depth of his most hidden places , his darkest corners , and drawn in the waters of his most sinful desires , explore his secret garden not for finding jewels but to marvel in its beauty as a whole , encounter with his devils and dance with them ,

he wants nothing more than to be accepted as he is and loved for what he is, and for that he undertook a hellish detour and perilous adventure to prove his worth to Henry and be dignified , that costed him his soul , his authenticity slowly retreated to make place for the persona he was forging , his true feelings being disguised behind a stoic demeanor, that became a shield to his fragility and sensitivity ,

the more he learns about what he should be and what that represents and how its judged amidst his peers , the more he burns the parts of him that didnt fit into that image , until he became , a sheer shadow of himself , or rather ,the shadow of Brenco Henry

like when he had to pretend not to care about camaraderie when all he wanted is to mingle and share his new experiences with Branco in the wild with all his teenage enthusiasm, because he had been taught to keep it to himself to be ahead of them ,and entertain the mystery around himself in that way he would be respected

or to pretend it was okay not to have close friends ,only acquaintances when in reality he longed for intimacy and connection

or to ignore his growing feelings for his best and only friend Branco , and the irresistible attraction he feels when he is around him

it is not to say that Henry intentionally provoked such transformations , not by any stretch of the imagination he could've guessed the influence he possessed upon him , in his life and through his death ,

he sure had to some extent knew he considered him more than a best friend by the way his eyes glitters when he gave him an important mission to do , what it meant to him that he had such a trust in his abilities , and the way he happily and hastily do him small favors around the ranch

like just the simple task of showering and brushing his horse to prepare his mount for him when he was busy hunting or forging new hooves , filled him with such joy that if he were a dog his tail would violently wag while hopping to execute his orders ,

he loved to be of any use to him , loved to be used by him in any imaginable ways , and loved even more being praised for it and appreciated

However the more Branco spent time with him ,teaching him ranch works or to mount or the various values that a proper cowboy should uphold to , the more he grew found of him himself ,

little did he know , that Phil was not only useful to him and a good apprentice cowboy ,but essential to him , he gave meaning to his life , being his mentor gave him a sense of accomplishement and filled him with happiness and thrill everytime he notices improvement , even in the smallest details ,

he was an observing man and taught him how to use his eyes like no one else too , so his heart brimms with pride when he notices when they were hunting the paths that a rabbit leave behind , or the clues from mere feces , or sense a coming thunder

as Branco was himself growing attached to him ,he couldnt conceive anymore go on a hike up the hills without having Phil by his side , drinking on his words of advice or his stories about his past achievements in the foreign frontiere or in the mountains ,

like that time he told him he took on a buffalo by himself using arrows ,or that one perticular time that left a strong impression in Phil's mind , and gave him an insight on his personality, not only his great cowboy skills but also his good heart and tender soul ,

he felt a growing intimacy and affection when he related it to him , eventhough Branco didnt say it but he knew he was the only one he told that story to

it was that one time during an expedition , he was attacked by a furious mother grizzly when he ventured too close to her cavern well hidden behind vegetations at the foothill , where her cubs were peacefully sleeping ,

lured by some kind of plant with healing property that was growing near the entry to use to make medecine for an ill friend's sister ,he had looked for it everywhere , and when he approached ,still on his horse, the grizzly started growling fiercely behind the bushes that shielded almost completly the entry ,and suddenly charged him and jumped to lacerate his horse's neck , clawed onto it with her long deadly talons while maulding it with her sharp white fangs blinded by fury,

he fell down the horse ,he hurt his back but managed to stretch his arm wincing in pain and reached to the hunting knife sheathed in his side knife belt at his ankle, and feigned surrender to the beast , with a composure few man would manifest in front of a savage death , but he did ,

he froze and wait the beast to pounce on him and point the sharp knife's edge up and have it plunged in her gaping jaw ,

blood streamed down his hands and arms and all over his chest ,the fierce grizzly crushed him with her weight as it collapsed, he wriggled with all his force from underneath it , he crawled to his horse to check on it , his head dropped with defeat and sadness , caressed the horse neck and shook himself to remind himself of his mission and hurried to cut off the plants ,

thats when he told him he heard the little cubs crying for their mother he parted the bushes and peered through it on the cave inside , Phil swore he saw a glimpse of guilt in his eyes , now laying on the ground and sag face ,

he was even more startled when he knew what he did afterwards , that for the next three months he committed to the little cubs and would wake early to milk the cow before anyone would wake up and bring them the milk and hand feed them himself ,

Phil was looking at him fondly paying little attention to where his horse was leading him , he felt priviliged to let him sneak a peek onto his vulnerable side ,and moreover he felt a deep admiration for a man who would risk his life for someone else sister and who would fight with such courage and dignity, and be gentle and kind enough to go back and take care of the little creatures , thinking at how he valued every living being lives and his respect to life in general made his heart melt and soften to him , and how sweet and committed he really is inside ,

that ignited a blazing passion for him in his heart the words cannot describe ,it was at that moment he swore he would dedicate his life to be like him , and be his loyal partner until death do them apart , and thats exactly what he did , he was by his side until the very end

as time went by , days passed , season after season , Phil was doing remarkable progress , he was focused and disciplined, smart and devoted , and Branco started to see in him the perfect partner for futur rides and perhaps allow him to join on a more dangerous missions far away in the frontiere , but not just yet , he would never think of risking his life ,

its true that he was pushing him but he always took precautions and had his back while doing so ,and would go according to his plans , step by step , the use of weapons for hunting and combat would be with the last lessons of his programm ,

he first needed to master all the basic ranching work to be self sufficient and help his community inside , and grow in strength and hability before thinking of exploring the unknown , and to do so , he had to learn and master rawhide braiding which he got the hang of it pretty quickly ,and another overlooked yet very important skill which is blacksmithing ,

they only had two blacksmiths , one was not very competent the weapons he forged are not so sharp and easily breakable , and the professional one was getting old , they needed two new blacksmiths he thought , himself and Phil , would be perfect pair of replacement

One hot and sunny august afternoon , Phil missed lunch again , it was the third time this week , he grabbed a takeout some cold chicken in bread , but he was missed around the table , he was missed by Branco ,after a couple of beers and jokes he excused himself off ,and went out of the saloon,

following the sound of clattering metal ,to his delightful surprise , he saw him on the other side of the big ranch , near to the backdoors where he placed his iron tools at the entering ,and opened the back ranch gates

he was facing the mountains , and guessed it would be better to be outside in the fresh air , rather than suffocating from the heat inside , with a nice a view in front ,

Phil was shirtless , his wide muscled back at display flexing with each hit , glistening with sweat , little droplets of sweat running a trail between his well defined pecs , his sun kissed skin shining under the sun like velvet , humidty made his hair curl near his neck and soft small curls fall on his glowing forehead ,

his piercing blue eyes glued to the heated metal placed carefully on the anvil holding it with tongs with one and and with the other hammering it , Branco was captivated his athletic physique and nearly drooled ,

he watched him carefully , cringed at first from his lack of precision and the loose way he held his hammer and the wrong technique , but then was immensely pleased to think he works behind his back to improve faster and impress him , with decided steps he strode across the ranch and walked up to the backdoors ,

Phil hadnt notice him yet , until he stood in front of him facing him with a small smile that reaches his eyes , boyish amusement painted his face , he was content and his eyes though were challenging ,

He was taken by surprise and shivered as though he saw a ghost , he stopped his movement and he opened his mouth to explain himself looking at him then the long piece of iron that should resemble to a long hunting knife , it was as if he was caught cheating

though he was cut off by Branco before he could utter a word

_ "did i tell you to stop ? , no , so keep on practising , show me how you forge a knife little cowboy " he taunted

Phil pressed his lips together and tightened his grip on the hammer , a little annoyed for he knew he calls him that whenever there's something one level harder than his actual capabalities and playfully challenges him , irritation seemed like a good drive until now

he was quite determined but too hasty , and it took a lot of precision to do this kind of work , he lifted his arm up in the air , Branco watched intently how his nice defined biceps flex and his veins popped on his glistening thick forearms , as it came down onto the piece of metal hitting it nice and hard , but hitting it the wrong way

at his second demo , Branco came closer to his side and wrapped his large hand around his wrist in the air before he hammers again , and lowered it slowly , Phil tensed and his blue eyes piercing through his dark ones , a bit startled by the sudden unusual physical proximity

" too high stance " he said standing closely , his hand trailed along his curvy arm to his shoulder and grasped onto it- " and too tight"

he went to stand behind him and put each hand on his sturdy shoulder ,massaging them lightly , he was close , closer than ever before , Phil's breath hitched at the gesture , and his muscles strained even more ,

he felt Branco's breathy laugh caress the back of his neck , and the tingling sensation traveled down to his pants ,as though he noticed his surprise and arousal from the shade of pink coloring the base of his neck ,

his shoulders begun to go lax gradually with each comforting press , his hands went down feeling at his arms curves , and up to his shoulders again , kneading at his muscle knots there , and drawing circles with his rough thumbs on the side of his neck ,

by that time Phil was melting into puddle , and hotter than the piece of metal he had heating in front of him in the forge , his head dropping low between his shoulders he held back a deep groan of satisfaction

"good , just like that , dont be too uptight " , he said in a low honeyed voice , one hand went down and placed it onto the curve of his trimmed waist , squeezing ever so lightly , Phil quivered , fighting the urge to close his eyes, while pressing himself closer from behind until he felt his back against his chest

" and dont swing your hips it actually destabilize your aim " -he thought that he was the one destabilizing his mind right now , and something else beneath his buckle going rather straight and iron-y

while his mouth was hotly whispering instructions close to his ear , his chest was heaving and mouth dried , it got harder to focus on the meaning of the word , being lulled by the vibration of his low husky voice and the touches that ignited sparkles to his unexperienced and innocent nerves endings ,

he placed his other hand right on the middle of his back , and his spine would lit up with light if it could -

" mind your posture , upright , good , dont draw force from your lower body , rather launch your hits from your shoulder and back muscle , alright ?"

Phil nodded , he feared that if he spoke his voice would betray his extreme arousal from their sudden closeness

he let go of him and took steps back to watch him try again , and instantly Phil missed his warm rough and reassuring hands , he let out a shaky breath he was holding all along Branco's hand were on him ,

he shook his head as a mean to shake off the physical ,provoking thought thet started to invade his mind ,steady his shaky hand and picked the iron with the tongs and heated the metal til it was bright orange nd placed it on the anvel and prepared his posture to hammer ,

while Branco was scrutinizing his move , and watching his puffed up pecs glistening with sweat and flexing preparing to hit , Phil casted one last look to Branco , caught him checking him out , his ego swelled when he saw the clear look of hunger and lust on his face , and made a cheeky smile , proud to have succeded in charming the great untamable cowboy , and with the swing of confidence , he throw his hit , and he hit it right

before he knew it and without saying a word Branco turned on his hills and head back from where he came

----------------------------------------------

#benedict cumberbatch #benedict fanfic #smutty fanfic #smut gay fanfic #the power of the dog #Phil burbank x Branco Henry #male x male

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squidproquoclarice · 2 years

Text

Yeehawgust Day 3: Tequila Sunrise

February 1900

Las Hermanas, Nuevo Paraiso

Sadie had to admit it sometimes frustrated her to live here at the convent, subject to various rules and schedules and expectations, much as the gang’s strictures had annoyed her to no end sometimes. She’d gotten so used to living her own life, especially after she and Jake married and moved into the wilderness, and making her own rules and schedule based on their needs and their environment. The needs of several dozen other folks hadn’t entered into it as they had with the Van Der Lindes, and here now with Dr. Garcia’s TB ward.

For all that, there was something comforting to it alongside the nuisance. Being here, a woman among other people, not having to fling herself against the wilds day by day for mere survival–it gave her time to help those who were fighting every day for their lives against a damn miserable disease. It gave her some time, though sometimes too much, to look at everything that had happened to her in the last nine months, and wonder at the humdrum days in Tumbleweed when she’d have called herself bored if she hadn’t been so utterly exhausted all the time.

Nine months. The length of time to grow and bear a child, like she now never would with Jake. The length of time to try to create a new life for herself instead, it seemed. To maybe move away from being nothing but a dealer in death and vengeance, though the mark of knowing the dark, rotten monstrous depths of herself would never quite leave her. This life was quieter, but perhaps not boring. There was a mercy to that, and finding herself to be a use and comfort to people in need.

Besides, even if she had been pissed off and bored enough to leave–and she wasn’t–she couldn’t. She’d gotten herself in here with Arthur after dragging him down from that ridge and to Wapiti from there, and then all the way down here to Mexico. She couldn’t just take off on him. She’d left him behind her once on that trail near Beaver Hollow, and she’d seen what had happened. Never again. He was stuck with her until he got out of here, told her to get lost, or…

That frightening, heart-clenching or. It didn’t bear thinking about. Because when she did, she still realize how tenuous the ties to the world of the living still were for him. He looked better than he had in November, true, coughing far less, putting on some weight. Two and a half months of bed rest had done him a world of good, for all she knew he was about going crazy from it. But he was hardly out of the woods yet, and Garcia had taken her aside and warned her that while he was discharging Arthur from strict bed rest, she needed to help ride herd on him to make sure he didn’t overdo it. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t seem to recognize when he needs to stop and take care of himself.

Yeah, that about summed it up. So she’d do it, and she’d make sure he followed the doctor’s orders. This was no time for him to get contrary about following rules, for all he’d lived on the fringe of things just about all his life.

But today…today was a good day. Arthur had been let off bed rest, after all. A clear step forward. She’d gone to Chuparosa yesterday with Sister Calderon for the supply run, and she’d gotten over to the saloon while they’d been there. And sitting here by lantern light watching the last hour or so before dawn, having slipped out and left Arthur sleeping, there was a comfortable peace to things. A strange feeling, but not unwelcome.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She turned to see Arthur standing there, awake now and having made his way up to the roof. There was a slight sheen of sweat on his brow even from the short climb–long weeks of bed rest did wonders for his lungs, all right, but she could see how weak the rest of his body was now, despite his having put on some weight. But he would build his strength back up. She believed that, more intensely than she had even two days ago.

She gave him a smile of greeting. “Oh, it’ll cost you at least a dollar.”

“You mean two pesos,” he bantered right back, shuffling his way over to where she sat on one of the cots on the rooftop, watching to the east.

“Sure. Hold on a second.” She’d meant for the celebration to be for supper, but something about the notion that crossed her mind seemed fitting. Getting up, it took her less than a minute to scamper downstairs to their room, getting the bottle and their two tin mugs, and heading back to the rooftop. Arthur eyed her return with a sort of wry humor and a gleam of envy, and he didn’t have to say it. She knew what he must be thinking, seeing her easily take those stairs that he struggled with these days. Knew too that she shouldn’t say anything about it, because sometimes intended kindness stung deeper than insults.

She held up the bottle of Luna Azul tequila that she’d picked up in town. “Felt fitting we have ourselves a drink to celebrate your freedom. They had whiskey, mind, but tequila suited better to my mind.”

“No argument from me on the tequila. And well, it ain’t quite freedom just yet…but I’ll take it.” He took the mug she handed him, with a healthy shot of tequila in it, and she sat down beside him with her own.

“To working towards freedom, then.” She reached up, clinking her mug against his, and then throwing back the tequila, tasting the burn of it. Sitting there quietly watching the sunrise with Arthur, it was a new dawn, a new day, a new life. She couldn’t say that she was exactly feeling good, but she was feeling less hopeless.

#yeehawgust #rdr2 #sadie adler #arthur morgan #sadithur if you squint real hard #takes place in sunrise'verse #writing #fic from the parking lot #yeehawgust 2022

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missbumbleb33 · 2 years

Text

Unforeseen and Unconditional Sacrifices: Chapter 1, Defying Expectations

"Good evening, 47."

Diana's usual voice chimed in the agent's ear.

“I must say, I’m relieved that our target is living in such a congested city like Brooklyn. Makes it much easier for me to find viable network connections for our devices.”

He noted his environment. The outdoors exposed nothing especially noteworthy—a typical scene in a non-romanticized urban life. The dark sky barely illuminated anything around, the moon hazy and the stars nonexistent. Dirty posters of community events fluttered with the cool autumn air like tumbleweed. The sight contrasted coldly with what seemed to go on inside the target's home. The warm scene, viewed through the was illuminated by lamplights and veiled thinly by dark figures, not yet able to be identified completely. Perhaps what could've been a figment of the little match girl's imagination. Though knowing his usual marks, he understood that his target wouldn't be one to make such a dream come true, even with all the power they may have in the world. An old poster caught onto his shoe, struggling against the weak breeze.

“Angel does it again by writing and directing The Peach Kingdom ! Available in theaters-”

The agent released his foot on the poster, letting it take its course. Coincidental enough, his target indeed was the acclaimed playwright Angel.

Well, the upper crust understood her as ‘Daisy Bennett’, anyway. He wasn’t sure if that name was entirely hers anymore. Lawrence Bennett, former business tycoon and her late husband, had died just a few days ago. More importantly he was also a member of Providence, which made Daisy a high suspect for his successor.

It was the whole point of the mission in the first place.

47 noted the security guards posted at the front door, though this turned out not to be an issue. After scoping the perimeter, he found an open window that led to an open bathroom. He realized the vague stench in the air once he climbed through, though he wouldn’t be an assassin at all if he were bothered by such things. The strings of uncontrolled events have allowed this opportunity, and he was thankful for it, in his own way. Almost similar to how the leopard would find gratitude when approaching a calf strayed from its herd. The townhouse was much smaller than the past missions he's been dispatched to, which meant it would be harder to remain unnoticed.

The walls were lined with frames of all different shapes and sizes. Most were occupied with various works of art. Some, however, were left empty.

"I must say, it's quite rare for anonymous public figures to have such a meticulously maintained incognito status. Of course, that didn't stop me from finding out bits of her history--hardly textbook, though I suppose that's the case with all anonymous targets. It’s a bit suspicious that any trace of her visuals has been wiped clean. Especially with an... innocent alias."

He stepped into the lounge. The agent fit in well with the mild crowd—though it was a bit odd that a presumably young woman would throw a formal party for middle-aged individuals. The area itself was stylishly cluttered so that one may feel rather claustrophobic even without the people. He took note of the chandelier made of barbed wires and mason jars.

Barely heavy enough for pacification. Not worth it. He sauntered over towards the bookshelves, aiming to blend in as a guest. He leafed through the texts, its flaxen pages scratching against his gloved hand.

"She's a flower in a greenhouse at best, based upon what’s written on her records. It's likely she's only a puppet of Providence—From what I note she barely has any business experience other than nonprofit collaborations. Nevertheless, I expect this to be an easy mission-" 47's eyebrows knitted faintly as Diana's voice cut to static. ICA equipment typically wasn't subject to trivial network issues, especially in such an urban area.

"Mic check, one, two, three..." The foreign voice was soft against his ear. His suspicions were confirmed.

"Well. You're here for me, right? I suppose I can't fight with that. You might have to get a bit more creative to reach me, though." The voice said. "After all, angels don't take kindly to sinners."

He offered silence as an answer. He wasn’t a man of small talk. She didn’t seem to mind, though, as she talked right on.

“A bit of a low move to try and kill a widow at her husband’s funeral, don’t you think?” He detected the slightest echo in the earpiece’s noise relay. He slid the book back in its spot and slunked around the ground floor of the apartment. Unless this apartment had a basement he didn't see from the blueprints, his target had to be located in some sort of bathroom.

“Speaking of Lawrence, I believe he’s talked about you once.”

‘How so?’ She paused as if he’d actually asked the question.

“Yeah, I believe he mentioned some creep who preys on trophy wives. Trying to fulfill some sort of messed up fantasy, y'know?"

47 could feel the shit-eating grin through the earpiece.

The only other bathroom was occupied by an elderly woman fixing her makeup who had jeered at 47 when he barged in.

“Goodness sake, don’t you know how to knock?!”

‘Voices don’t match. Turn back at once, agent.’ Angel’s giggle drummed against his ear as he returned back out the hallway.

“Gotta choose one, dude. Can't be an old lady perv AND a professional hitman, can we?" She tut her tongue.

He approached the staircase, guarded by security. The man blocked his entrance, extending his palm out towards him.

"Sorry sir. Friends and family of the widowed only. Do you have anything to prove your relation to the madam?"

A prerequisite was expected, though unfortunately 47 didn't prepare for the question. He held one hand to his ear to muffle the earpiece's mic.

"I must have left my cell phone in the parlor. I'll return soon." His tone was stoic as ever. Still, the average person failed to be keen enough to garner enough suspicion from it to actually do something against him. He walked out of sight from the bouncer, instead opting to head towards a less occupied direction.

Though it took the risk of sauntering through a catering-occupied kitchen (taking off his suit jacket provided a rough disguise through the busy area), he found the room he was looking for. The utility closet was cooped with laundry devices, pipes, and general items you wouldn’t want to boast to your guests. 47 only cared for the fusebox, however, as he shot the locked case open with his silverballer. A small, cardboard box fell over and spilt its contents upon the bullet’s contact on metal.

A copy of Lawrence Bennett’s death certificate, a velvet capsule containing both a golden band and a diamond ring, various receipts dating back to 2001, and other puzzle pieces 47 could not put together. One of these was a wedding photo of a man at the cusp of his elderly stage and a much younger woman. Though he had never caught sight of her before, he could recognize her instantly.

Daisy Bennett.

She appeared much different from what he had expected. The East Asian woman did not carry the air of riches and assumed power most of his targets had. In fact, the figure could be better labelled as a girl rather than a full-fledged woman, despite her form-fitting dress and mature makeup. Her expression read stoic and indifferent, yet her white-knuckle grip on the bouquet told otherwise. The agent’s arctic eyes softened ever so slightly. The entirety of her reminded the agent of-

Victoria. She reminds me of Victoria.

The backside of the photo revealed pencil scratchings in flighty penmanship.

June 18th, 2004

There is no turning back

on a social contract. .

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up already.” the voice teased.

47 gingerly placed his findings inside his sleeves for safe keeping.

“Trust me. I’ll find you.” He replied, before throwing his earpiece into the washing machine. He flicked off the knobs on the fuse panel that powered the second floor, and prompted the washer to run before leaving the room.

As expected, the guard had taken off to figure out the source of the growing complaints. Knowing he wouldn’t be gone from his post forever, 47 slipped through the unsuspecting folk and climbed up the stairs.

The area he had stumbled into held a different atmosphere compared to what went on downstairs. A much more youthful set of guests were in attendance. In fact, hardly anyone 47 saw were around his own age. He never thought much about it anyway. As his health assessment in Hokkaido indicated, his age was simply chronological. It was sure enough, however, that the witnessed demographic hadn’t experienced any wrinkles upon their skin as of yet. This fact became even more clear as the lights returned to illuminate the floor.

“Hey, man!” 47 turned to face the stranger. The fellow pushed his frames up his nose, to which the agent realized had no lens inside of them.

“Guess there was a bit of a power outage, huh?” He chuckled casually. The agent offered a curt nod.

“So, I haven’t seen you around before. Are you a friend of Angel’s?”

“I’ve worked with her.”

“Associate, huh? Gotcha. Yeah, I’ve been on the writing team for one of her musicals. Have you watched Eau de Toilette before?”

“No.”

“Cool, cool…” the man scratched his arm and looked down at his loafers, before talking again. “Pretty sad what happened to Angel’s husband. I’m not even married yet, but I really wouldn’t know what I’d do if my partner just stopped existing…”

“Do you know where the bathroom is?”

“Oh! Yeah!” He gestured towards the door secluded at the end of the hallway. “I think Angel is using it right now, though-”

47 didn’t wait around to make more small talk, as he ambled straight towards his goal.

Sure enough, a figure of long hair worked at a laptop balanced on a sink. The agent seemed to be too eager to finish the mission, however, as when the body hit the bath tiles after pacification he realized the figure had a mustache. He dragged the body into the tub and dragged the curtains shut, before checking out his screen. Sure enough, there was evidence that the man had hacked into the ICA device and overridden the control panel for the earpiece. 47 disabled the program used, allowing Diana to connect back onto the devices. The earpiece had to be disposed of, but at the very least the handler would be able to watch his surroundings through the hidden camera.

The man’s phone lit up with a notification.

VINMO: SH has sent you $850.00 with a memo!

💻 🦾

As he pocketed the device, 47 noticed a cool breeze coming from the open window. A small figure in the distance seemed to stare up at him, before disappearing down a corner.

The agent shimmied down the adjacent pipe and took off towards them.

He found himself in the midst of a quiet shopping district. Most of the establishments were closed until sunrise, and places that were open remained few.

The dimly lit bars and lounges did not host any clients that matched his target. He stepped out of the nearly empty tattoo parlor, racking his head on where she might have gone. Brooklyn was a large city. She could be hopping from one place to another, or have gotten out of town altogether. Hell, with the sort of money she would have inherited from her late husband she could be on an airplane right now, going to who knows where.

As 47 thought of his next course of action, the hacker's phone lit up with another notification.

One text from: SH

"Hey, you alright?"

The agent skimmed their past conversations, before responding.

"yuppers. wbu?"

"A lil stressed. All good tho lol"

"dw. anything else u need me to do"

"If you could tell Molly how much I appreciate her that would be amazing🥺 also I think I may have lost her keys😭"

"lmfao gotcha"

47 scrolled through the stranger's contact list, filtering through the "M" section. He soon found the "Molly" he was looking for and filtered through their conversations.

"Thanks so much for the website update! Looks amazing."

"had to. circlespace doesnt have the best UI imo. changed your url too"

He pressed the embedded link, bringing him to a website for a stationery shop. Keeping the provided address in mind, he sauntered briskly towards the building he was looking for. As soon as he saw the darkened store he cut into its alley. He didn't have to shoot the lock this time. The target's missing key was still stuck into the knob.

The warmer air greeted him softly as he stepped inside the seemingly empty store. The streetlights outside barely irradiated the floor. The darkness proved to be helpful, however, as 47 easily noticed the light under the door beyond the shelves of writing utensils.

He didn't make it halfway until he felt something cold against the back of his head.

"Hey, you creep."

He recognized the voice.

"Daisy Bennett."

"You'd know that's not my name."

"What else should I be calling you?"

She pressed the gun against his skull.

"I don't think it matters anymore."

Despite her calm demeanor, 47 could feel her rapid pulse through the vibrations of metal tapping against his skin. His mind ran through different routes he could go about this situation.

"You'll hear my name in court, anyway." She spoke with an effort for confidence.

Turns out he didn't have to worry about a headshot, after all.

"You're the one threatening me with a firearm."

"This is self-defense. You've left me no choice." She took a deep breath. The agent felt her heartbeat slow ever so slightly. "Who hired you? One of Lawrence's children? Lafayette Productions? Providence ?"

"It's unlikely such an organization would kill off their newest associate."

"IS THAT WHAT THIS IS ABOUT?!" She roared. Her pulse spiked, and he could practically see her hand tensing up around the grip.

It was his turn to strike. He flipped around with the intention of knocking her to the ground.

"I'm not part of that STUPID allia-" she choked on her words as she felt herself off balance, dropping the pistol to the ground.

47 had made a mistake.

He haphazardly extended his hand towards her waist and spun her around. His body crashed into the shelf behind him, pouring the hundreds of pens and pencils onto the ground with a giant crash. The woman's forehead smacked against his chin, though he couldn't focus on any sort of pain at the moment.

It was silent for a while.

The former target remained frozen in his arms, until he tapped her arm to get up. She rose quickly and straightened out her shirt, before offering a hand to help him up. The agent ignored it as he stood up himself. Aside from the mess their collapse had made, both seemed to be largely uninjured.

The woman rubbed her forehead.

"Are you alright?" She asked.

"I'm fine."

Another moment of silence.

"You better help me clean up."

The evening turned to night as the store’s digital clock struck 12. The agent reassembled the broken shelf, and his former target cleaned up the broken products and picked up the usable remnants. They worked without talking, with the occasional laughter and passing conversation interrupting their otherwise consistent quietness.

"It's Sarang, by the way." Sarang broke the still air. 47 looked up from the ground to face her, his hands working diligently without his attention. He recognized its meaning.

"Is Daisy from The Great Gatsby ?"

She shrugged.

"It was his favorite novel growing up, apparently." Her voice softened.

47 left his portion of the compensation by the cash register, along with Molly’s key.

Next Chapter

#hitman #uus fanfic #sarang #hitman agent 47 #hitman fanfiction #hitman fanfic #diana burnwood #long reads #sleep deprived writing

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