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wifeofasith · 6 months

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Warnings — Angst & Fluff, Professor x Student relationship, reader feels inferior, implied smut, descriptions of sex, inappropriate touching (brief), degrading (brief), reader's jealous, Anakin has anger issues, word 'homicidal' mentioned, neglection, Anakin is slightly aggressive.

Word count — 2.3k

Notes — Another lovely request, loved it! I'm not too good at angst because anything that doesn't involve Anakin being head over heels for the reader makes my heart ache, whoops. Also, REAL sorry if somebody's name's Janette, I love the name but reader calls her a slut.

"Dismissed." Professor Skywalker tosses his glasses aside and leans back in his chair. A delicate frown is present between his eyebrows.

He hadn't looked at you once.

An hour-and-a-half-long lecture and not one stare at you. Not a glance at the outfit you so carefully picked for him; the absence of his touch was already unbearable, but the way he avoided your darting eyes broke your heart. You wanted him to look at you. To look at you the way he does at night.

You look at his hands, slender fingers gripping the chalk; they're supposed to be on you. Gripping your hips to push himself deeper into you, holding your wrists, caressing your waist, and kneading the delicate flesh of your thighs when he pushes them back over his broad shoulders... Why isn't he looking at you?

You stuff your books into your tote, zipping it up with a forceful pull, purposely creating an irritating sound in your last attempts to get his attention. You feel a disappointed twitch in your eyebrow when he remains seated, toying with his pen while staring down at somebody else's essay.

One of the students makes her way towards his desk, slipping him another report while batting her lashes in an attempt to ease his feelings about turning in late. She leans forward, pointing at something while trying to explain herself, a cover up to push her clevage to his eye level. He takes her paper and piles it up with all the other works, nodding at the little tease and sending her off with a comment about how he won't tolerate it ever again. You wonder if his pants get a little bit tighter at the sight of her too.

You leave last. You always do. Despite his obvious uninterest in entertaining your need for his attention, you give him one last chance.

"I'll pick you up at six." He mutters, still not looking at you.

Your silence obviously disturbs him; you don't greet his preposition with a smile and an eager puppy-like nod like you usually do.

"That's alright with you, darlin'?" He adds with a raspy voice, glancing in your direction.

Your heart sinks and insides flutter when the vibration of his tone reaches your ears. How can he do this to you? How can he pretend like you don't exist and then dare to offer his nighttime company? And yet, you want nothing else but to feel his lips all over your body again, even at the price of your dignity. You find enough self-respect to slam the door in his face.

With 6 p.m. approaching, you find yourself sitting at your vanity mirror and trying to decide if your body's mere worth is some cheap lip gloss and a skimpy dress for your professor to tear off as soon as he parks his black Chevy somewhere secluded enough.

Before you know it, he's outside your house. You watch him get out of his car, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the concrete and tossing the butt somewhere in the grass. He adjusts the collar of his shirt and knocks on your door.

You wait. Ten seconds, twenty, half a minute. Your heartbeat increases with each passing blink of time, and you're pretty sure he knows you're doing it on purpose. Eventually, you decide that you won't offer for him to come in. Grabbing your jacket and purse, you make your way out.

"Hi, love." He greets you with a smile, which is entirely different from how he's behaving during lectures. He's welcoming, almost sweet; maybe it's just a silly trick to make you crave his attention, thus allowing him to strip you off your panties quicker.

Anakin leans in to peck your cheek, which you dodge by turning around to lock your doors. He waits for the lock to click in place before wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing himself against your back.

"You're mad. Why?" His lips brush over your clothed shoulder.

He can feel how your body quivers when you swallow a lump that's been in your throat since 8 a.m. You hate how loving he can be; you hate how he manipulates you with his touch, making you feel like you're more than just a naive student for him. You hate it, and you crave it. His hands are warm on your waist, and you can feel your cheeks getting hotter from the forming tears.

"Darlin'?" He kisses your pulse point gently, waiting for you to speak.

"Let's go." You blink the wetness off your eyelids and head towards his car. Your sides instantly shiver when they aren't shielded by his grip.

Anakin starts the car in silence, giving you an uncomfortable look at how you didn't even allow him to open the door for you. The engine roars to life, and he's about to drive off when he leans across your body.

"Seatbelt, darlin'." He doesn't wait for you to reach for it — he's already buckling you in.

"Why don't you look at me?" You begin speaking when he's out on the road.

"What do you mean, bunny? I am. You look gorgeous. Like every night." His hand leaves the gearstick and finds place on your knee, gently caressing the inside of your thigh.

"During lectures. You'd rather look at some slut like Janette instead of me." You cut him off, complaining about the unfairness of his actions.

"And you?" He laughs. Mockingly. "You are not a slut? Spreading your legs whenever I call you." His hand on your thigh glides up to brush against your panties. "But you like it when I call you that, don't you?"

He doesn't take you seriously at all. He is oblivious to the fact that his words claw a gaping hole in your chest, leaving your heart sore and lungs collapsing at the attempts to hold your pains. You push his hand off your core in a disgusted manner and shut your legs close.

"You're seriously mad at me?" He shifts gears, and you feel how the vehicle starts speeding, your body tensing in alertness.

You know he's not going to hurt you, not physically, and yet you can't stop shuddering. Your cheeks heat up once more, and this time there is no strength in you to stop the inevitable.

"I treat you well, don't I? Do you know how you'd be treated if I were somebody else?!" The highway is ending as he's taking a turn towards your usual spot of desire. His tone is increasing with every word.

"Drive me home!" You slap the panel, hysteria in your voice is present as thick tears drop onto your lap.

"You're not going anywhere!" He stops the car on the sidewalk, not making his full way into the forest. That's when he can finally see your mascara-stained cheeks.

Anakin groans at the sight; his fingers curl into fists as he pounds onto the steering wheel. "You're so fucking-" He groans again, trying to stop himself from saying something he'll regret later, and leans to rest his head, sighing deeply.

The car fills with your sobs and sniffles. You sit there, buckled up like a child who's been denied candy, and weep. Anakin lets out a sigh and frees himself from the seatbelt, clicking yours off too.

"Come here."

"No! I'm done doing this; I'm done letting you use me like I'm worthless!"

He sighs again, rubbing his face aggressively, trying his best to contain his anger and focus on how your whines are hurting his ears and heart.

"It's okay, come here, bunny." He places his hand on the back of your head and pulls you to lean on his shoulder. Pathetically, you wrap your arms around his neck and continue sobbing into his button-up. "There she is; come here." He grabs you by the waist and pulls, guiding you to climb out of your seat and onto his lap.

Unfortunately, his gesture only forces more tears. You rest your head on his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. He cradles your quivering body to his chest, one arm wrapped around your legs and the other keeping you in place by your back.

"Silly girl, you've ruined your make up." He wipes your cheeks with his sleeve, black ink staining the cotton. "I'd never force you, you know that? If you don't want to, you don't need to go with me, yeah?" His anger seems to be ceasing, and you wish your despair was too. His attempts to comfort you are bittersweet.

"You said I was the prettiest girl... You always say that; you touch me, you- you... How can you do this? Why don't I matter to you?" Words spill from your mouth; endless thoughts are rushing through your mind, and your tongue is unable to catch up with all of them. And his hands. His hands, his hands, his hands. His hands are holding you, caressing you, wiping away your tears, and it hurts, hurts, hurts so bad you want to tear his perfect face off his skull and drive his stupid Camaro into a lake.

"You are, you are the prettiest girl; you're the perfect girl, bunny, my perfect girl, okay? Of course you matter." He seems to be pretty unaware of your homicidal ideas because he keeps stroking your hair, trying to console you. "Of course you matter; look at me." He cups your cheek and forces you to face him.

"Why won't you look at me?" You manage to form a full sentence, uninterrupted by little sniffles.

"Well because..." He sighs. "You know it's not right. We can't have people know about us." His finger gently brushes a strand of your hair off your cheek. "You're my student. A good one at that; I wouldn't want anybody to think your A's are earned with your pretty little pussy." He chuckles at his crappy attempt to make you laugh.

"So you'd rather hurt me?" Your eyebrows furrow, and anger slowly replaces sadness at how naive he thinks you are. "What could a little glance give away? A little praise? A text message about my pretty clothes when nobody's looking?!" Anakin is getting a taste of his own medicine, feeling the exact same emotions you feel when he shouts at you for being sensitive.

"Well, that's the thing, darlin', somebody is always looking. I don't want to risk it; you have to understand..." He coos at you gently, his lips pressing against your cheeks. "You're such a sweet girl; I can't put you at risk, why don't you get it?"

You knew that it wasn't just you. He had to protect himself too; he was a well-respected professor, his career was great, he was loved, but... But still. Your little heart couldn't comprehend the fact that your love wasn't enough for him. That he didn't love you a bit more to show some affection that wouldn't involve an orgasm eventually.

"I just... I just want to feel like I matter..." You sniffle the last tears away; there is disappointment in your voice. You are aware that this relationship is not meant to go anywhere, and you wish he'd deny that. Even if deep down, you both would know it's a lie.

"You do, bunny, of course you do. Do you have any idea how it's hurting me too? To have you crying in my arms..." Anakin cradles you closer to himself. "I just wish you could be happy, sweet girl. I'm sorry I've done this to your heart, I'm sorry for ever laying my hands on you..." He kisses your cheek, trailing up to your temple, and sighs. "I'm so sorry, darlin'..."

You sit there in silence, the headlights of cars passing in the distance casting short flashes of light over you both. The car's getting colder, and Anakin tries his best to embrace you and keep your body warm.

"Let's get you home, bunny." He caresses the back of your head, touching it so delicately that you'd think you were made of porcelain. "You should get some rest."

Home? No. No, no no no. You don't want to go home. You want to stay. You want to be held, and you need his arms to caress you. You can't go home and rot in self-pity the whole night. You need him.

But you can't say that; the words are stuck in your throat, and you're pretty sure he wouldn't be able to understand the depth of your feelings. So you cling onto him, your arms squeeze his body impossibly close, as if doing that could close a wound that's open inside of you.

Anakin chuckles softly. "You don't want to go, do you?" He nuzzles his nose into your cheek and kisses it. "That's okay. I don't want to let go of you either. I just love holding you, precious."

"Can I stay with you?" You hesitantly whisper in the crook of his neck; his skin shivers under your lips.

"For the night?" He pulls away slightly to gaze into your eyes. Tomorrow's Saturday, and you can seriously see him considering bringing you home.

"I don't want to be alone."

He smiles warmly, his hand cups your cheek once again, and gently kisses your lips, lingering for a moment. "I was about to ask you." He smiles and pecks your forehead. You know he's lying, but he couldn't tell you no when your doe eyes stare at him pleadingly and the thought of you crying yourself to sleep stabs his heart.

"Let's go, bunny. Get you a milkshake, mmm? Then I'll cuddle my princess to sleep. I can't bear seeing your little heart ache." He urges you to move off his lap and back into your seat.

You can swear his hands were trembling ever so slightly when he put the key back into ignition and started the car. Maybe this time he'll love you in a way so the pleasure fills your heart instead.

504 notes · View notes

futurecorps3 · 1 year

Note

Hello my love! I have heard your call for Kaz requests and I have an idea rattling around in my head!

Could you maybe do a Kaz x fem!Reader where they're in their early 20s and have been together for years and overcome Kaz's touch aversion (bc our poor boy deserves some healing 😭)? But that's not the idea, the idea is that the reader hasn't been sleeping for a few nights and ends up getting hurt because of it? Could be from fainting and hitting her head, slow reflexes on a job, etc. I trust your brilliant mind!

I can't wait to watch you grow as a writer!!!! ❤️

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐧𝐮𝐦

Masterlist<3

Summary: The lack of sleep Kaz has been warning his girl about finally has consequences. Pairing: Kaz Brekker x fem!reader Warnings: Mentions of overwoking, lack of sleep, blood, a very angsty moody angry sad Kazzle, mentions of blood and lost of conscience. The usual crow violence! Lmk if I missed any. Word Count: 3.5K whoops Requested: Yes

A/N: IM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! :( I love the prompt, however and am very excited to work on this. Hope u like it nonnie and that last thing means the absolute world! <3

˚ · • . ° .

Now he knew he was in no position to demand her to rest. Kaz Brekker was known in his close circle for two things; killing whoever disrespected his love and always scheming. The electricity his brain consumed when plotting the next heist didn't even allow him to sleep when being tucked in with Y/N laying over his chest. But she never had the same issue before!

That's how it worked. She got mad because he wasn't sleeping and would reproach his ears off until he folded and left his papers to join her in bed. So, it was safe to say Kaz was startled when he noticed the absence of steps approaching his office. The clock read the time to be a quarter past midnight. He learned by endlessly scolding from you the hard way it was no use staying up late for a job when he had pretty much everything prepared, so he dropped everything and left to his room.

"Darling, are you-" his question was answered as he opened the door and saw her drawing on the little desk he got for her. "Hmm, hi love. It's quite early. What are you doing here?" Kaz wanted to laugh at that. Had she really lost notion of time that badly? "It's past midnight now, Y/N. What are you working on?" His shirt was discarded in some chair, along with his coat.

He was now in his dress pants and a black sleep blouse, leaning over the back of her chair to see the canvas. It was a picture of the sea, surely an image she hadn't been able to get out of her head after the quick trip you took to the docks with Wylan to ensure a better hiding spot, in case things went south on Saturday.

"I don't know if I'm getting the blues right... you know how it somehow turns gray when the day's rainy?" she wondered out loud. "Don't throw it away altogether, I know you're already thinking about it" "I'm not!" Y/N giggled, knowing fully her boyfriend could read her mind. "Fix it in the morning. Let's go to bed now, yes?" Kaz tried, tilting his head to her right side and nudging his nose a little on her cheek as she hummed in response.

It had taken a long time, many years, to reach these moments. Years of hoping she could one day have his arms draped around her waist in security, head on his chest without a care in the world, because all that really mattered was they'd be keeping each other warm with their bodies. Y/N was patient, not minding the baby-steps and Kaz's constant need to push her away because he thought she deserved better. Truth is, there was no one better for her.

Kaz had a hard time wrapping his head around this fact. Did you love him for him? A limping criminal who was too weak to even bear the thought of embracing you when tears streamed down your cheeks on a specially tough day? Why? It took convincing, long talks, difficult moments and even worse fights... but you made it.

She felt his steady heartbeat as they lay together in their silk black sheets, indulging in the beauty of it. Their breathings became one, and she swore there was no better place the saints could come up with as heaven. "Everything's ready?" "Yes, I figured I should come here with you instead of overthinking it all. I'll tell everyone the plan tomorrow and revise it again the day before" he took a deep breath, turning to face her and leaving a soft kiss on her lips.

"It's late, you don't seem tired" Kaz noted, Y/N's eyes nowhere near closing as they usually would by now. Her boyfriend, on the contrary, was starting to hide that beautiful icy green his irises held, then came a yawn to confirm his fatigue. "Rest, my love. I'm sure I'm not too far behind," she assured him, pecking his head as he lay on her chest now.

"Goodnight, Kaz".

˚ · • . ° .

It may as well have been minutes, or hours, days, for all she cared to reason. All she knew was that she couldn't sleep for the life of her. Kaz moved a lot in his sleep and after he lost hold of her, the night became a non-stop tossing and turning in their shared bed. She could hear the faint sound of carriages passing down their street, surely carrying some rich merchant who just had the night of his life betting or in one of the pleasure houses.

It had been a while since she felt this way. Pretty much every night prior Kaz offered her a permanent position on the crows after she worked with them was like this. The clock in their room, hanging on a wall distant from her, kept ticking and if it got quiet enough, she could've been able to hear the gears turning. Three in the bloody morning and Y/N had luckily gotten by far twenty minutes of sleep. The girl sighed and lay down again, looking up at the ceiling briefly before closing her eyes in hopes of resting a little more.

She didn't, not even in the days ahead. Kaz pointed out how he could feel her moving way more than usual as his a light sleeper, not blaming her whatsoever but more concerned as to what was keeping her up. Y/N didn't know either, so she figured solving it with Jesper's coffee and quick (very ineffective) naps on the couches and tables at the slat so she could at least be aware of the task at hand; the job.

The day came, and she felt very optimistic about it all. Truth is, Y/N loved dressing up with pretty dresses and daggers hidden around her thighs. She found some kind of satisfaction in keeping this knowledge to herself, the men and women throwing looks at her, completely unaware of how dangerous she happened to be. People on the streets knew her as the wild child... ruthlessly gorgeous, is what Kaz called her.

The girl had a habit of getting carried away in a fight. Too much anger and resentment for the past had to find an exit. It did when she killed, leaving a scared Jesper to deal with an even more scared Wylan who wouldn't dare look her in the eye for weeks after she kept on punching a man's face she saw was trying to kidnap a little girl right after a job years ago. Kaz helped and understood.

His revenge was calculating and took years in which she was by her side, but Y/N just couldn't help herself when it came down to the people who did unspeakable things to her. With the years, she got a hold of herself even though her nickname on the barrel stuck, adding "the crow queen" when word got around she was Brekker's girl. Now, she was still ruthless but way more cold-headed and grounded, Kaz's doing.

She wore a pink dress with embroidered roses around the floaty sleeves. Inej had a blue set of dress pants and shirt, long-sleeved as well as Nina sported a hot red strapless dress with a lot of cleavage. "We're a smoke show! Those fuckers will barely be able to keep their eyes off of us." The last one squealed, adjusting her hair "That's the point" Inej giggled, agreeing clearly as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Y/N laughed at the thought and her head pained a little; Girls on those big houses did the very same thing they were doing now, with very different intentions. Those ladies wanted to find a rich husband, and they'd be set. Her friends were dressed to kill, and so was she. A little fucked up version of a cliché she, too, wished to live when she was little. "I hope these sleeves aren't an issue" she wondered, picturing them getting stuck on their knife or maybe being too tight to throw a punch.

"It's a simple job, love. There's nothing to be worried about! Also, I can bet on my life Kaz is going to be drooling over you when he sees." Nina smiled, playfully smacking her shoulder. "Even more so if you fight in that, he's going to go insane" spoke the Suli girl with a giggle "Kinky" the heartrender added, making the girlfriends break in a fit of laughter. Nina was right, Y/N knew, but decided against confirming her friend's assumptions.

Her eyes felt droopy from the obvious lack of sleep but nothing a cup of coffee couldn't fix, right? She walked down the stairs and into the makeshift kitchen they owned, heating up some. The smell filled her body with pleasant chills, and suddenly some more energy invaded her. "Wacha got there?" asked Wylan, who was quietly sitting behind her. How long had he been there? How did she not notice?

"Coffee, want some?" "Right before a job?" "Yes, I haven't been sleeping too well the last couple of days". Certain zemeni voice erupted from outside the room, exclaiming a brief "Neither have us!" that had the merchling blushing like he got some contagious disease. Y/N delivered a pat on his back, and coffee in hand she exited the room.

Kaz gathered everyone in the living room, to revise the plan once more. "...so make sure you cover that corn-" He stopped mid-sentence when Y/N came into view. Her hair looked polished, but she could be bald for all he cared. The dress complimented her figure beautifully, adjusting in the right places, which to Kaz was any place, really. Inej and Nina giggled and high fived. "Go on, love." She smiled, ready to listen attentively at his plan even though he made sure to walk her through it personally a few hours ago.

As Y/N brushed next to him, he grabbed her hand to make her stop right before she got seated. "You're stunning. Is it comfortable?" he whispered, looking at her with a certain glow in his eyes he once thought lost. "Yes, dear. Thank you" she pecked her boy's cheek and took a seat behind him. He went on with the plan, and everyone seemed pretty much ready to leave.

So they did.

˚ · • . ° .

"Darling, watch out!" Jesper exclaimed, shooting at a man behind Y/N. Things went south, they did. In the hiding spot Wylan and the girl had settled; some dreg must've ratted, they guessed. An ambush from some new-forming band trying to get known by stealing from The Crows themselves, pathetic. Inej had gotten there to help, but Y/N and Jesper insisted she went back and warned the others so to spare them from possible damage.

The wild child and Jesper were a great team, who knew a durast and an avid fighter could take down men three times their size and weight? They proved on many occasions to be useful for situations as these, so there was no problem. They'd be out of there in the blink of an eye. Around ten people had arrived at the scene, and four remained, Y/N realized as she took a kick in the gut and fell on her back, jumping back on her feet with a flip.

Jes' revolvers did the job for two others as she managed with the guy in front of her. "Come on, big guy, that can't be the best you got, aye?" she smiled wickedly, taunting the man with a daring hand despite the very much broken rib she could feel. The dress was ruined with blood she was sure wasn't hers, shreds ripped it off so largely one of her legs was now exposed.

He lunged forward, coming with a dirty blade to her throat, and she skipped it. Came again, now, aiming for her arm and she skipped it again, landing a kick on the throat that left him coughing on the ground. Y/N crouched to his level and grabbed him by the hair, sliding a knife in the same spot, careful not to cut. She noticed a tattoo on his neck, a beaver. Couldn't help but laugh. "You tell your boss not to mess around with us, or next time he won't get too lucky as to get less than half of his men in one piece. And change the tattoo, a bloody beaver? Seriously?"

The man nodded furiously, tripping on his way out of the warehouse. "A beaver? Their thing is beavers?" Jesper laughed, putting his babies back in place and making sure the painting they had stolen was still with him. "I know, couldn't pick a funnier thing" she answered, giggling. Looking around, something was odd. Yes, Y/N was not very well educated and lacked the month of college her best friend had, but she thought she counted four men remaining in this spot of the building.

The other six lay limp near the door, and there were two next to them, plus the one who ran with the message. One was missing. "Hey Jes I think we're missing one" "What do you mean? There's no one here". She stopped listening and her world went quiet when he met his yes. A lanky, tall figure could be seen next to a stack of boxes on her right, a flicking light revealing him for brief intervals of time. Ugly motherfucker carrying a gun that pointed straight at her.

The blood started gushing out of her leg before she could even react. "Too slow" she faintly heard. He wasn't stopping either; shooting at various places until one loud boom next to her made it cease. Was concrete always this cold? Oh, she was now feeling Jesper's soft suit. Warmer. "Is that wool?" Y/N asked and realized her voice sounded a little quieter than she meant. "Yes, it is doll. Open your eyes for me, okay? You can't die on me now"

She really tried. She really wanted to look at her best friends face and maybe hear him crack a joke or two. But her eyes felt droopy and her head felt heavy so she finally fell asleep.

˚ · • . ° .

Kaz arrived minutes later, Wylan, Nina and Inej by his side as they all rushed to a crying Jesper, desperately trying to wake Y/N up. "S-she got shot, didn't flinch.. like she didn't even see the bastard," he hiccuped, letting his boss take his place next to a limp body as his boyfriend helped him up and hugged him tightly.

Brekker's head spun. A thousand possibilities. There was blood all over the dress, and leaking over his clothes but he couldn't give a fuck. Not her. He couldn't bare it. Y/N was a piece of heaven in that saint forsaken island, the only saint he ever believed in and the angel that saved him from himself. If he lost her, there was no coming back for him. The water rose to his nose again for a brief moment.

It hadn't happened in a while. And he chose the techniques his lover taught him. He acted. "Nina" he mumbled, taking Y/N on his arms as the grisha girl assured him she had a pulse. His legs carried him to the slat, never too far from Nina, as she was making sure her pulse didn't slow down too much. He didn't even notice the pain in his bad leg. He felt a sting on his heart, so sharp it seemed as if pieces of broken glass would poke through it at any moment.

The boy sent Inej looking for whatever idiot decided it was a good idea to try and steal from them. Only information. He'd take care of them later. The Wraith left and was out all night, returning with a lot to say the next morning. Kaz looked over at Y/N's face and the utter peace that brushed over her features scared him even more. Not now. Not like this.

"Is she going to be okay? T-there was definitely something wrong with her back there" Jesper started once the girl was on the bed and getting healed with a few healers in the dregs and Nina. Kaz was sitting, head propped up in his hands as he stared at the wall opposite from him. "She didn't move! At all! He shot her three times and looked amused while doing it". The zemeni man had to stop if he wasn't trying to reunite with the other deceased blessed people on his bloodline. Kaz's stare hardened and his jaw clenched tightly.

"Wylan, I can't lose her. She was too slow a-" "ENOUGH" Kaz stood up, looking at him with murder in his eyes. "If you were more aware of the surroundings, she would be fine. Don't you dare call her slow. This is not her fault. You should've been there" menacing gloved finger pointing to his friend. "Oh, so this is my problem now?" Jesper countered in complete disbelief. "If you don't consider your best friend's life being at critical risk a problem you're much more of a superficial, incompetent and heartless bastard than I thought." Kaz spat.

He knew this wasn't Jesper's fault, maybe it was the lack of sleep or you just weren't on your element. But he had to let it out with someone. Anyone. Pain turns into anger and screaming at your brother when it's too strong. He knew that better than anyone and couldn't care to stop himself this time. "Kaz, stop" Wylan said, and then he noticed Jesper's puffy eyes with a sigh. Then he felt his own neck starting to tickle. He was crying. Kaz Brekker didn't cry.

"Out" "But Ka-" "I SAID OUT"

And out they were. Everyone who didn't need to be there to save his girl's life. He could hear Nina struggling between wrecked sobs, fast pacing around the room and a distant sound of water running non-stop. Hours passed, and he remained in the same position, in the same chair, with the same thoughts running wild inside him.

Not you. Please. I should've been there. I'm going to kill them. Please be okay. I can't do it without her. Please.

Kaz Brekker was repeating pleas, thinking out loud to whoever was listening. Let her live. Please let her live. This is not her fault. Not to a god, neither to those saints who proved to exist so many years ago. He didn't know who he was asking for help to. But he was screaming, please don't let her go. He was leaving with her if she did.

All sound stopped, and Nina emerged from the dimly lit room, drying her cheeks. The boy stood up, looking at her with the most terrified look he ever gave someone. Fuck the facade. He was utterly afraid. "She's okay, not waking up, but she will". He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and couldn't help but throw himself into Nina's arms in search for some comfort to his wrecked sobs.

His friend received him with open arms, careful not to squeeze him too hard, as she knew that could trigger him. "I can't lose her, Nina" he whimpered before pulling away. "You're not. Not now and not soon. She's okay, Kaz. Stay with her, will you? She could be a little startled if she wakes up in an empty room"

He almost scoffed at that. What else would he do? A quiet nod was delivered, and he stepped inside to accompany her in an uncharacteristically unsettling silence. There were dirty gauzes everywhere, her dirty dress discarded in a corner and a blanket covering her figure. Kaz stopped, looking at your chest. It rose and fell in a moderate rhythm. Good.

Taking a seat once again, he held her hand and brushed a thumb over it, grateful to whoever listened. And Nina.

Sun bled through the curtains, filling it all with a pleasant orange hue Kaz knew Y/N would appreciate. Jesper came by every few hours and amends were made. He understood how badly everything hit Kaz the day before and didn't need an apology. They were all under intense pressure the day before, couldn't blame him for a such a reaction. Wylan had brought flowers and Inej made sure everything was ready for when she regained consciousness.

His crows got it handled.

A whole day and a half had gone by and he was reading beside her when she woke up. Her hand moved and he could feel the twitch in his palm, looking up frantically to find those pretty y/e/c eyes looking back at him. "Finally, got some sleep," she joked and laughed at her own joke. Kaz laughed back. "Hello" he offered, kissing her hand and never really wanting to let go "Hi". "Are you feeling okay?" the boy asked, happy to see his lover once again awake.

"It hurts a bit but I'll live" "I'm counting on that, my love". ♡

#kaz brekker fluff #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker fanfic #kaz brekker angst #kaz brekker fic #kaz brekker imagine #kaz brekker #six of crows #six of crows x reader #grishaverse x reader #shadwo and bone netflix #crooked kingdom #freddy carter #shadow and bone season two #sab s2

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sant-riley · 29 days

Note

Uhhh brain wracking brain wracking-

Imagine S/O surprising Ghost with their strength by picking him up and perhaps spinning him around

They insist that he's as light as a feather. They're visibly struggling while holding him up

Thank you anon for the food, I haven't written anything in AGES I'm sorry if I'm rusty but fuck it we ball, gonna do these as bullet points!

Warnings; nothing I can think of! But as always, lmk!

(Literally me and Simon)

Trying and somewhat achieving in picking up Simon!

The first time you bring it up, asking if you can attempt it, Simon looks at you like you're fucking stupid.

He's a big dude, bigger than most and will almost always be the biggest person in the room, he's built like a fucking mountain.

You throwing him pretty eyes and begging for his permission isn't gonna change the fact that you're smaller than him, you'll hurt yourself, he knows you will, so he says no.

This does nothing to ward you off, only fueling you to want to work out and gain upper arm and body strength to prove him wrong out of spite.

He'll ask Soap where you've been in the last few weeks,, noticing your slight absence when training hours are over, nowhere to be found an hour or so afterwards.

Soap only chuckles and throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the gym where the creaks of the workout gear can be heard still.

"They're still workin' wouldn't tell me why though."

Simon makes his way towards the gym, leaning on the doorway as he sees you huff and puff as you do sets of bicep curls.

He can't help but a small smirk run under his mask, you're so committed to this. It's so stupid, but he can't deny it makes him happy.

No one can just pick the man up, takes Price, Gaz and Soap usually to keep up right and that's with his arms thrown around their shoulders.

He still doubts you'll be able to, but he's flattered. You're trying (asshole)

Simon creeps silently to you, waiting til you set down the weights before whispering out a "boo", his shit eating grin when you yelp and whirl around, wide eyes staring oh so prettily up at him.

"What the fuck! Why would you do that?" "It's funny." "It is fucking not." "Mmm, sure is."

He moves to ruffle your hair, ignoring your hand swatting at his own.

"Why are you here afterhours? You're missing chunks of your dinner." He knows why, he just wants to hear you admit it.

"Is it a crime to work out some more? To stay in top shape for our job?" The eyebrow he raises is catastrophic, immediately calling you the fuck out without any words.

"Okay, fine. I've been working out so I can prove to you I can pick you up."

At this point, he figures he can humor you, you've been trying so hard.

"Y'know what? Why the hell not, cmon, try and lift me."

"Are you fucking with me or-" "hurry up before I change my mind." "Aye Aye sir."

He stands in front of you, arms loosely at his side, head tilted to the right as he watches you get into form.

The key to lift with your legs, the strength in them far outweighing anything else, wrapping your arms across his stomach (a feeling of electricity jumps up his spine at your touch, he hopes you don't notice.)

You take a deep breath, nuzzling your head into his chest and try your fucking damndest to lift this behemoth of a man up and to your and Simon's surprise, you DO manage to lift him up, at least an inch of the ground before your legs buckle and you shakily place him down.

A whoop leaves your mouth, jumping up and down as you giggle about lifting Ghost, "I did it! You weren't that heavy at all!" Simon can literally see the sweat on your brow, but he just rumbles out a laugh and moves to plant a masked kiss on your temple, congratulating you on your win over him.

You run out into the base, no doubt going to tell the others about your feat.

He sighs a gross lovesick sigh, and moves to grab your gym bag from the bench and follow after you.

#I HOPE THIS IS ENTERTAINING PLS HAVE MERCY I DONT WRITE ANYTNING EVER ANYMORE #ghost <3 #ive missed him my husband #kayla writes <3 #kayla asks <3 #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty drabble #call of duty headcanons #call of duty modern warfare #cod #call of duty #call of duty x reader #task force 141 x reader

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moonstruckme · 8 months

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Eddie x Ballerina!Reader? Eddie goes to one of her recitals with his uncle because he knows that her parents don't go to those type of things so she's usually by herself, he also buys her some cute flowers♡

xoxo

Aw this is such a sweet idea! Hope you like it lovely <3

Eddie Munson x ballerina!reader ♡ 761 words

You don't have a lot of feelings about your recitals. They're an opportunity to dance—you love that part—but they don't really feel any different for you from your practices or when you dance around your apartment.

You watch the other dancers get jittery and excited, peering through the curtains to spot their friends and family, come to watch them do the thing they love most. For you, it's just a Saturday. Your parents stopped coming to these things when you were about ten, and once you could drive yourself they stopped even pretending they cared when your recitals were. You don't blame them, really—they're always on Saturday nights, when you know your exhausted parents would much rather be relaxing at home than watching an art form they don't really understand—but their absence stops you from inviting any friends, too. It's just too noticable, with all your peers rushing to meet their families after the show ends, greeted by boquets and praise. You're a bit embarrased, really, that your family won't do that for you, so best just to not invite anyone. For years, your recitals have passed unnoticed, and you're well used to it.

The crowd doesn't make you nervous, with no one in it to care if you mess up, so you hold you head high, neck long, as you walk out onto the stage, taking your place. When the lights turn on, shining almost directly into your eyes, it's easy to forget the crowd is there at all, and you launch into motion as the music begins. You let your muscles remember the steps for you, masking the precision of your movements through the fluidity of your limbs, every inch of your body becoming an extension of the strings, the woodwinds, the barely perceptible timpani.

You lose yourself so completely you hardly realize you're panting as you hold your final pose, the lights going down for you and the other dancers to make your exit. Applause fills the auditorium, along with loud whooping from someone who clearly doesn't know the etiquitte of ballet performances. You smile slightly at the sound; they probably just want to show support for someone they love, and you hope they're not being told off for it.

You go backstage to change costumes for your next dance, and repeat the process a few more times. You're surprised when after each performance, the same boisterous cheering comes from what you estimate to be the front row of the audience. By the time you finish your final dance of the night, they've begun whistling too, and you can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it when everyone else is clapping politely. One of the dancers in your group must have someone who's really devoted to their support. As you leave the stage, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you find yourself scanning the first row in the darkness. Two pairs of eyes catch yours, and Eddie waves enthusiastically from beside his uncle Wayne. You almost stumble, managing to find your footing at the last second and avoid an embarrassing spill.

You've never changed clothes so quickly in your life. As soon as the doors to the auditorium open, you're rushing out to the first row, where Eddie's beaming at you like you've just won the Prix de Lausanne.

"Baby, that was amazing!" he gushes, and it looks like he means it, all dimples and giant, earnest eyes. Your heart swells, and you go to hug him, but stop when you see the flowers in his hand. Eddie follows your gaze. "Oh sorry," he says, like he's forgotten them. "These are for you."

"They're gorgeous. Thank you, Eds." You take them gingerly, hoping your face is conveying all the adoration you can't put into words. It sticks in your throat and builds pressure behind your eyes. You look past him, to Wayne. "Thank you both for coming, it's so sweet of you."

"Thanks for inviting us, kid. You were really something up there." Wayne smiles at you, and he has so much of Eddie's warmth you worry you're going to cry. You force yourself to smile back instead, wobbly as it is.

Eddie wraps an arm around you, pressing a kiss to your temple, and you know he can tell the way this is affecting you. You love him all the more for it. "My girl," he murmurs, "a ballerina. Think you could teach me some of those moves sometime? Might add something to my performance."

You laugh. "Anytime you want."

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson drabble

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margowritesthings · 1 year

Text

The Greatest Gift A Cowgirl Could Ask For

a @rdrevents Valentines gift exchange for @cowboydisaster

SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader word count: 4,400 words warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, explicit language, sexual themes, vaginal sex, mentions of death, unprotected sex, throwing up (TW EMETOPHOBIA), very brief mention of SA in the past, unexpected pregnancy, mentions of Micah Bell a/n: am I britney spears in her 2000 grammy award winning song??? because oops, i did it again. i don't know how I managed to get Bea as my recipient for a SECOND time, but it only felt right to carry on building this universe I've made for her and lying to her about it all week. Whoops.

Bea, my beloved, Happy Valentines Day. You deserve the world and Im so glad I could dedicate this fic to you. Honestly I probably couldn't have gotten the motivation to get back on my feet and write again if it wasn't for you. Thanks for everything you do bby and I hope this lives up to your 'if by some miracle you get me for your gift exchange disregard my prompts and write a TGG prequel' (yes she actually said that) idea. Love you lots xxx

taglist: @cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries @delilah-grimes @luvliewriting @mrsarthurmorgan7 @photo1030 @snobbybastard

My Darling Wife,

I’m writing to you from up near Tempest Rim. I’ve tracked this bounty all over the goddamn Grizzlies and I’m ready to come home to you. I miss you so much and I’m real sorry I can’t be home in time for St. Valentines. Hopefully I can catch this bastard soon and make it up to ya. We’ll go to the theatre and sit right at the back, how’s that sound? I’ll move heaven and Earth to be beside you soon, you know I will.

I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart. I’ll be there as fast as I can be with enough money to take you out on the town. Won’t be long, I promise.

All my love, Arthur

Your finger runs over his looped script, over and over as if it will somehow will your husband out of the crumpled paper and into your bed. It’s been 2 months since the letter arrived, 2 months of the agony of not knowing if he’s dead or alive robbing you of sleep each and every night. You miss him, more than you could ever imagine one person could miss another and you honestly don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t come home.

It’s a 600 dollar bounty, it’s sure to be a tough job you constantly reassure yourself, unable to focus on anything but the absence of half of your very soul in every waking moment.

The day he comes home starts like any other. Time's arrow marches on, the sun rises and sets over your makeshift family as they work and plan and rob and hunt. You busy yourself planning a job with Karen, cushioned into your schedule between menial tasks so that it’s just that bit easier to not think about him. As usual, your efforts are in vain, but at least the chores are done, your steed Diesel is happy, and, all being well, you and Karen will have about 30 dollars to split between you when the week is out.

An hour before he comes home, everyone retires to bed, save for John (who’s on watch tonight) and you’re left alone by the campfire. It crackles and pops, embers swirling the air around you. It feels like you stare at the twisting flames until your eyes blur and burn and you can’t tell which are tears of irritation to your senses and which are your heart breaking once more.

Moments before you’re reunited with the second half of your heart, you hear John yelling. It’s instinct that drives your hand into your holster, still resting against your hip despite the late hour, and you perk up like a startled deer, straining to decipher Marston’s words.

“Who is it?!” “Arthur, you dumbass!”

Arthur.

Arthur?

“Arthur?!” It’s a breathless shout, barely heard over the rushing blood in your ears as your feet take you to your husband before your mind can even fathom that he’s here.

But sure enough, when you reach the edge of camp, heart racing, you see Arthur Morgan riding his chestnut mare straight towards you, spurring her into a gallop as soon as he lays his eye on his waiting wife. Marston probably makes some remark about who ‘decided to show up’, but to you, there is nothing but you and Arthur, two magnets parted by an unnatural force finally reaching each other again with a deafening crash.

And it is. A crash, that is, when Arthur all but throws himself off his saddle and your bodies collide, great big arms wrapping around your frame. It is then that the tears fall down your cheek, soaking into Arthur’s coat that smells so much like him it truly feels like a dream.

You thought he was dead.

Only when you’re safely in his arms, when he’s pressing frantic kisses to your head, whispering your name over and over into your hair do you allow yourself to admit that fact. You thought he was never coming back, and yet here he is. Words fail you, the overwhelming emotion settling right in your throat.

“Oh, god… oh, darlin’ I-I missed you so much…”

You feel two large hands cup your cheeks, pulling you in for a kiss that holds everything and anything the past 3 months could have been had you not spent it apart. But everything fits back into place, the world starts spinning again and you’re whole the second Arthur Morgan’s lips meet yours. It lasts a lifetime, it lasts a fraction of a second. You want to stop time, keep Arthur in your arms forever and never again have to go through the torture of being away from each other. The two of you only part to throw near identical scowls at John, who is amusing himself by telling you to get a room.

Unfortunately, as Ms. Grimshaw so often reminds you all, the Van der Linde Camp is not a hotel, so tonight you will not be afforded the luxury of a private suite as John so kindly suggested. There is only your tent, hitched against the gang’s weapons wagon, the old canvas pulled around to offer a little privacy when you and Arthur first started… well, needing the seclusion.

Calloused fingers intertwine with your own digits, Arthur’s other hand flipping John off before his weight pulls you towards your little corner of camp. There's so much purpose in his stride, the need to have you all to himself, not even share you with the lord above or wildlife below, driving him forward. Driving him home.

When you’re finally, truly alone, the tears welling in your eyes glistening in the candlelight, no words are needed. Soon enough, you’ll talk for hours on end, catching each other up on every little detail of the last few months. But for now, all that there is and all that could matter is right this very second, when Arthur reaches for you, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks on your left cheek. His eyes, looking almost emerald in the dark of night, roam over each and every detail of you with such an intensity in him that you think he’s trying to remember this moment for the rest of time. You’re sure it’s one you could never possibly forget.

Arthur snakes both arms around your waist, guiding you backwards until the backs of your knees gently hit the cot and you lay back onto it. He covers the full length of you and then some, making you feel so fragile and small. It’s nice to feel breakable for once, to let go of the need to be the strongest in the room, lest you be ridiculed for being too sensitive or too weak or too womanly. Arthur knows just how strong you are, you need to prove nothing to him, so you can submit to his embrace, allow yourself to just breathe for once knowing you can break and there’s re will always be somebody to put you back together.

He lowers himself to your lips, pressing a kiss to them that doesn’t last nearly long enough. Arthur then kisses your nose, then your cheeks and chin, before trailing down to the crook of your neck. Your skin feels as though it’s on fire, so starved for the man you cannot live without that now he’s finally here everything feels that much more intense. The tiniest scrape of Arthur’s teeth against your flesh shoots through every single nerve in your body and you moan right into his ear. You can actually feel him harden against your thigh at the sweet melody of your pleasure.

Pushing Arthur’s hat off to the side, your fingers rake through his hair, nails scratching at his scalp encouragingly as he nibbles at your skin.

“Oh, Arthur… Oh, I missed you so much…” You breathlessly whisper, feeling your heart skip a beat when he pauses his movements to glance at you from under impossibly long eyelashes, jade green eyes glistening up at you.

“I missed you too, sweetheart. So so much.” His voice is soft, as if he’s handling the peacefulness around you so delicately and it causes the overwhelming emotion to well in your chest and choke up your throat. Arthur sees this, trying not to be too taken with his own surprising amount of emotion himself, and relieves you of your job of a response by directing his attention to the buttons of your shirt. You don’t remember him pushing your jacket off your shoulders, but there it lies on the floor beside the entrance to your tent, so he must have.

Despite the juxtaposition of such dainty buttonholes and such large fingers, Arthur expertly undresses your top half until you’re bare to him. He takes no time at all to take one of your nipples into his mouth, kissing and sucking at it with a hunger you feel right in your toes. You moan loudly, unable to stop yourself after yearning for this very feeling for so long.

Arthur coos and shushes you and it vibrates across your skin, not helping you stay quiet in the slightest. The hand not tugging on his dirty blonde locks reaches between your two longing bodies to begin to unbuckle his belt. You can feel your own heartbeat throbbing between your legs, your coil growing tighter and tighter by the second. It’s been almost 3 months since your bodies have joined like this, and yet you’re not sure you can wait another minute.

You’re purring for Arthur, twitching and grinding as your hand fumbles desperately at the belt. His absence from your skin is agony the second he pulls his hips back to sit up straight. Spotting your downright bratty expression, bottom lip protruding in a pout, Arthur chuckles lowly, “Patience, baby… I gotta get these damn clothes off us.” He gestures to his belt, still very much buckled around his waist. Definitely not your fault. He was being far too distracting.

He’s quick, you’ll give him that, shedding his clothes without taking his eyes off you. You burn under his stare, even more so when he crawls back on top of you to slide your boots off one by one and peel your pants and undergarments down your legs.

The heat radiates off his huge body, his cock pulsing with need. The way he’s putting his weight into his arms to stop from crushing you with his weight adds a definition to his already beautifully sculpted body. Reaching down, you brush the tip of your finger oh so gently over his rosy head, finding a bead of cum already leaking, and you snap. You can’t wait a second longer, scratching and gripping at him like he’s the air you need to breathe.

“Please, Arthur, please I need you. S-So long, it’s been so long-” “Shh, I know, princess, I know. I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Gonna take care of your pretty little cunt, I promise.” He soothes you, though his own voice is shaky from the very effort of restraining himself, maintaining his control to not drive into you and ruin you. While he whispers to you, he lines himself up at your entrance and you quiver in anticipation.

In all your years before you met Arthur, you never really saw sex as anything but something to give, or worse, something to be taken from you. You never truly understood, not until you met Arthur, who taught you it’s something to share, to experience. With Arthur, it’s different. It is connection and pleasure and it’s wonderful and god damn it, it’s addictive. So when Arthur slides into you, letting out a visceral, guttural groan as he does, everything is right in the world.

You feel so full, especially when Arthur pushes all the way to the hilt, connecting you completely at the pelvis. The moan that escapes your lips is downright obscene and Arthur crashes down into your mouth to swallow it.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s been so long, or the emotion of it all, but you swear you can feel everything. Every vein and ridge, every twitch and movement of his perfect cock as Arthur slowly starts to move in and out of you.

“Fuck… s-so good, darlin. So tight- y’feel so fucking good, princess…”

You’ve never hurtled so close towards a climax so quickly in your life. His torturously slow, deep thrusts drag into your sweet spot every fucking time and trying to hold back brings a blur into your vision. Your own hips grind against his, Arthur gripping into your flesh to guide you perfectly in time with him.

“I-I’m so close already, Arthur… fuck…” You breathe out, your breath tickling Arthur’s ear and sending a visible shudder down his spine. He looks proud at your admission.

“You missed me that much, huh? Gonna cum for me already, darlin’?”

He gives you no time to respond, pressing a thumb to your clit and rubbing in time with everything else. You implode, pulling Arthur down to catch the scream you’re about to wake everybody up with. It has never felt so intense, and with every thrust Arthur fucks into you it only grows and grows, shattering you to pieces for Arthur to fix back together again.

When you return, a rhythmic thudding in your ears, the first thing you see is Arthur, of course. His jaw is fluttering madly, a bead of sweat clinging to his forehead but the candlelight makes him look ethereal. You still can’t believe he’s here, alive.

Tears start to glisten in your eyes. You’ve never cried during sex before, not for anything positive, at least, but somehow this doesn’t feel wrong. Arthur slows again, watching you, and you spot an extra shine to his own jade orbs. He knows. He feels it too.

He’s right there with you. As he always is.

He brushes a piece of hair stuck to your forehead away, and the gesture is enough to send the tears falling down the same worn path on your cheeks as before.

“I love you, Mr. Morgan…” “I love you, Mrs. Morgan…”

It seems to become too much for Arthur to stay still, and you’re glad for it. You’re desperate for the friction, already flying towards another orgasm. He’s really fucking into you this time, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in. He’s groaning and growling and you decide in that moment that it’s your favourite sound in all the world.

“I… I ain’t gonna last much longer, baby…”

“C-Cum in me…” “Huh?” He slows, shuddering at the exertion required to control his movements, “I-”

But you’re not listening to his protests, your nails digging into the skin of his back and ass and anywhere else you can reach to urge him forwards again.

“Please Arthur, I-I need you… I need you to cum with me, I need you with me…” you plead with him, not truly understanding your need but honouring it. You’ve been without him for so long, you deserve him with you now.

He appears to consider you for just a moment, before diving down to lock your lips with his. His tongue delves into your mouth, tasting every bit of you and he starts to pump into you unreservedly. His body grinds against yours and the friction is perfect and you’re so fucking full and before you can even try to hold back, you’re cumming again, stars scattering your vision, heart pounding out of your chest to find release from it’s mortal, physical cage. Your inner walls twitch around Arthur’s length and this time, he doesn’t hold back either.

His eyes fly open and lock onto yours as you both climax together. It’s vulnerable and strange, but perhaps more connected than you ever thought possible for two people to be.

Arthur’s cock twitches inside you, pumping out his spend as he groans viscerally, completely losing control of his rhythm as he thrusts into you one last time, harsh and deep. You’ve never experienced this before, with Arthur or any other man, normally erring on the side of caution when it came to such matters, but even as you come down you can’t bring yourself to regret it. Whatever you and Arthur just experienced together felt spiritual, and worth much more than a little risk.

Arthur collapses, even as depleted as he is still considerate enough to collapse onto his elbows and not crush you. He slides out of you, earning a little wince, and rolls to the side so you can rest your head on his chest. It’s like a locket that’s been ripped apart, finally fixed together with the most satisfying click.

═══════☆═══════

Two months later, life has returned to its equilibrium. You and Arthur are perhaps clingier, still in a sort of second honeymoon phase where you just can’t seem to keep your hands off each other, more so than usual. It’s a side effect of prolonged solitude, you’re sure.

The first time it happens, you blame Pearson and think nothing of it. It’s pretty early in the morning and you’re sitting with Tilly and Abigail, peeling potatoes for the stew tonight. Abigail is venting her frustrations about when John did this and John said that, and everything feels so normal. Pearson arrives, throwing a rather large, rather dead fish onto the table you’re leaning against and you feel the thud from the weight of it vibrate against your back.

It isn’t until the smell invades your senses that everything starts to feel off. It smells exactly like all the other fish Pearson has ever slammed onto that poor table, which doesn’t explain why you immediately lurch forwards, grabbing an empty bucket and throwing up your breakfast. The fish stench is suffocating and all you can do is get the hell away from it, not noticing when Abigail’s brows knit together almost… knowingly?

You skip the stew that night.

―

The second time it happens, you try not to think about it. You’re riding Diesel and almost don’t make it off him in time. There is nothing to set you off, no horse shit or rotting animal at the side of the road, and yet in an instant your stomach feels like it has been flipped upside down.

The sheer volume of your retching catches Arthur’s attention and he tugs on the leather reins in his hands to steady his mare.

“Darlin’? Y’alright?”

His concern is evident in his tone and in the tight line between his brows, which deepens when he finds you unable to respond in anything but a frantic nod. He dismounts, spurs clicking against the dusty ground when he approaches you.

“Oh, sweetheart… that’s it, easy, easy… you’re okay…”

You feel gentle circles rubbed into the tense muscles of your back as you try to get through this again. It’s not lost on you that Arthur is speaking to you like a spooked horse, but it actually really does help. (You decide to prioritise peace of mind and not psychoanalyse why that is). Eventually, it relents and you regain your composure, albeit somewhat less gracefully than you’d have liked.

“Sorry… I don’t know what’s gotten into me, maybe I ate somethin’.”

Your apology for something you can’t help earns you a sad smile from your husband, who places a loving kiss on the top of your head before reaching for your discarded hat and putting it back on for you.

“Y’don’t gotta apologise. I gotcha, darlin’.”

You know he does.

He always does.

―

The third time it happens, the luxury of denial is stolen from you. It’s early enough that your view while you sit with Abigail drinking coffee involves glorious hues of orange and pink scattered around the rising sun. It’s peaceful, tranquil. The warmth of the little metal mug in your hands and Arthur’s jacket around your shoulders is enough to ward off the fresh morning chill in the air.

There is absolutely no warning when it hits, when it happens again. You’re so goddamn sick (no pun intended) of hurling. Your eyes water and your throat hurts a little and you curse under your breath when it’s over. Abi is beside you, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you. She waits until it’s over before speaking hesitantly.

“Uh, can I ask you somethin’?”

You nod, eyes still red and glistening as you swirl coffee around your mouth to take away from the awful, acidic taste lingering.

“When did you last bleed?”

“What, like an injury? Uh, I cut my hand couple days back, but I don’t see what-“

… Oh fuck.

═══════☆═══════

The anxiety bounces around your body and you decide that you’ve become far too acquainted with the concept of nausea. You can actually tell the difference between nerves twisting your stomach and… well, let’s say it as it is: morning sickness. This is the former, you deduce, spinning both your engagement and wedding ring around your finger to give your hands something better to do than carve fingernail-shaped moons into your palm. He should be home any minute now. Any minute now and it will all change forever.

It’s quite late, but the poker game Arthur was scoping out for potential jobs is known to last a while. You’re the only one still awake, poking the embers of the campfire to keep yourself as comfortable as possible.

You hear hooves hitting dry dirt first, and it seems to trigger your fight or flight response. God, you’d love to run away from this, but that is pretty much impossible, so fight it is. It’ll be the greatest fight of your life, you’ll soon learn, one you’re privileged to be a part of. But right now, it feels like an all-consuming unknown.

Arthur can tell something is wrong the second he sees you. You’re terrible at hiding things, especially from him. He always reads you as though you have a poster advertising your feelings printed on your forehead. Arthur dismounts, kissing you tenderly on the temple and wrapping his arms around you.

“What’re you still doin’ up, darlin’? Is everything alright?” You can feel his worry vibrating in his chest as you nuzzle into his embrace.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, I just… Can we talk? I kept the fire goin’.” You say it into his shirt, reluctant to move from this hold.

“Of course…” there’s something in his voice, a tense apprehension that really doesn’t help the knot contorting itself in your gut.

While you’re more than capable of keeping a fire going, Arthur is an expert, and has it healthily burning within seconds of you sitting down on the overturned log the gang has fashioned into a bench. You’re back to spinning your beautiful gold bands around your finger, trying to remember to breathe in and out every so often.

“What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” His voice is so soft, so kind that it makes you want to cry. But you promised yourself you wouldn’t until you’d told him, because this might just be the most important conversation you’ve ever had, and you definitely won’t get through it if you’re a blubbering mess.

“I, uh… I… somethin’s happened.”

You hear his breath hitch in his throat and Arthur leans towards you, completely enveloping your hands in his. They’re sandwiched in now and you can’t fiddle with your rings anymore.

“What? What happened? Was it Micah? If he’s said somethin’ to you, I’ll kill him, the rat bastard-”

“No, no, it’s… as much as I’d love to see that, it’s not him.”

The tension releases. Just a little bit.

“I’m pregnant.”

Oh wait, there it is.

The silence is deafening, even though you’re almost certain it isn’t actually silent out here right now. There's a fire going and crickets are just metres away, you’re just shutting down with nerves.

The normally so often tense, fluttering jaw of Arthur Morgan is slack, his eyes wide and gaping at you, occasionally flicking down to your so far bump-less belly. (You should know- you’ve been obsessively looking in a mirror any chance you get for some sort of sign that this is really happening).

Say something. Please say something. Please don’t be angry. Oh, God please don’t hate me.

“I-I… You’re pregnant?” He repeats, reassuring you that you haven’t actually gone deaf, though his tone holds no indication of anything but shock. That’s probably fair…

You nod, hands instinctively reaching over your belly. It feels… weird. Holding your hands over your baby. Yours and Arthur’s baby.

“It happened a couple months back, when you got back from The Grizzlies, I think… I-I’m sorry, Arthur. I shoulda’ been more careful and-and…” You’re rambling, filling a silence that probably should just be allowed to be a silence.

“There… There’s gonna be a baby?”

There. Right there, adorning Arthur’s beautiful features, is the pull of a smile. It chokes you up instantly, so far deep in nightmares of arguments and unhappiness that you hadn’t even considered the good. You start to nod, a little bit of your fringe falling in your face.

“Yeah… There’s gonna be a baby. Our baby…”

“Our baby…” He repeats, his arm raising to brush the hair away from your eyes in such a natural manner it feels like it’s just his instinct to care for you. It is his instinct to care for you, Arthur has shown you that in every minute of every day of your marriage, and suddenly you’re not sure why you’ve been so scared.

“I’m gonna be a dad?” He still seems in disbelief, but that’s normal. It’s taken you a few days to come to terms with it, and even then the fingernail marks in your palms are still red raw.

“You’re gonna be a dad.”

It hits him. Really hits him and he all but throws himself into you, scooping you up and spinning you around as he laughs unreservedly.

“Well goddamn, I’m gonna be a Daddy!”

You laugh with him, worries and anxiety a distant memory as your feet swing around in the air. You’re probably waking the camp up, but you don’t care all that much. Right now, you’re the happiest girl in the world.

A baby. There’s gonna be a baby. Arthur’s baby.

Really, it’s the greatest gift a cowgirl could ask for.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan x f!reader #arthur morgan x y/n #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redepmtion 2 #arthur morgan rdr #rdr2 arthur #rdr valentines change

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manicrouge · 3 months

Text

Episode Four: New Beginnings

[𝙹𝚘𝚑𝚗 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚡 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛] || [𝙰𝚄: 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚢 𝙱𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜] || 𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

[𝙳𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍]: 12/02/24

[𝙰𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝]: Money is rolling in, as are the enemies. Price makes a purchase in an attempt to apologise and cover his tracks.

[𝙲𝚠]: religious mentions, suggestive content, mentions of PTSD, suicidal ideation, threats of violence, blood, gore.

[𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝]: 10.5k

[𝙰/𝙽]: I am so deeply sorry this took so long to come out... I hope this is enough of an apology for my absence !! There may be typos because this is admittedly very long although I have done my best to read through it. This is now the longest part... whoops.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Please don't post my work anywhere else without my permission !!

She was as unforgiving as the harsh tide in the sea.

Whenever she has her mind set to something, he knows she will not change. Not for him- not for anyone. So, the night after, when Kyle was safe in his bed with no more threats coming his way, he felt little shock as she walks through the door of his office. He offers her a look and nothing else, turning his eyes towards the book settled in front of him.

His cigar hangs out of his mouth, grey smoke filling the air as he runs his eyes over the figures they have made. Surprisingly, he notes the sudden increase in just today- the blessing of the horse and Fisher’s death has proven to be beneficial in one regard.

‘I can’t believe you,’ Kate begins, closing the door behind her. ‘The detective is here for the guns.’

‘I know,’ John affirms, keeping his eyes turned down towards the page, ‘heard everythin’ Kyle said; I was in the room when he said it.’

A scoff escapes her as a bullet does from the chamber of a gun. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tugs at the string of her silky blue nightgown, approaching his desk. Pulling his eyes from the page, he takes the cigar from between his lips and sighs.

‘I know I’ve messed up—’

‘You’re lying to them,’ Kate states sharply, ‘he looked up at you with a swollen, bloody fucking face, and you lied, John,’ she sharply says. ‘That detective is going to figure out just exactly who has the guns if you don’t fix this mess.’

John leans further back into his chair, tipping his head up towards the direction of the ceiling. It’s bruising, of course it is. To have looked into the eyes of one of his practical brothers and know that it’s his fuck up that got them all there in the first place.

But, that's the business.

‘We… I can’t get rid of the guns now,’ he confesses shortly.

Her grip on the back of the chair in front of her tightens as she clutches it. Part of him wonders if she’s dreaming of that chair being his neck. It’s a stupid thing to wonder; of course it is. Her fury is written all over his face, he sees it. Sucking on her teeth, she lowers down as her shoulders bunch up, and when she opens her mouth, he notes that she’s clenching her jaw.

In response, he brings his cigar back to his lips for another favourable puff of nicotine.

‘You’re getting rid of the guns.’

‘Not with Fisher’s men doing the rounds. They almost killed you this morning,’ he says, being sure to maintain a low tone as he addresses her.

‘I don’t care about Fisher’s men, John,’ Kate snaps, ‘I care about our own. Kyle is lucky he only got away with a broken nose- but what if that isn’t the end of it? What if they get Simon or Johnny- or me?’

‘They won’t,’ he says, ‘I’d kill them before I left anything like that happen—'

‘It already has happened!’ Kate exclaims, throwing her hands in the air, ‘Kyle got caught out and he got hurt bad. And all for what? A shipment of guns you were doing fine without until you got your hands on them? You don’t need those, you’re capable enough as it is.’

Her words are far from praise.

‘If you keep going like this, John, people are going to get hurt.’

‘Fisher’s men want me dead,’ he says, ‘you know, when I got out of the trenches, I thought I’d seen the end of all this shit,’ he confesses, ‘I thought, when I got home, things would go back to normal. There would be none of this ‘cause everyone realised how bad things can really get- I thought they’d appreciate the fact that they got to come home.’

Clenching his fist, he rolled his neck.

‘But everything we fought for, every man we lost, it’s just the same fuckin’ cycle. Someone thinks they know better- someone thinks that they should be top dog and then a fight breaks out. You weren’t there Kate,’ he says, ‘you know the racing business like the back of your hand, but you don’t know war.’

She stares at him, her hands finding the top of the chair again.

‘But I know you, John,’ she says, all the frustration in her mind coming out in a pitiful plea to be listened to. ‘I know you.’

All the fight in her is gone in the end, he notes the disappointment in her eyes as she lets go of the chair she has been holding onto so tightly and retracts her hands, moving them to fall against her side.

There’s a bitterness in the air, but there is nothing that reeks of ill-will. She offers him one more look before she turns sharply on her heel and heads towards the door of his office.

He knows better than to call out her name, he knows better than to attempt to apologise; in the end, is he really sorry for something he is willingly doing? Or are his apologise simply that of connivence> Had he truly been remorseful, the last thing he would have wanted would be to sit alone in the silence of the room listening to the door shut with click.

Yet, this is where he is and he doesn’t make any effort to move. Instead, he turns his focus back to the book of figures, retrieving the pen he settled down at the side of it. And in her absence, he finds himself reaching for the bottle of whiskey perched at the edge of his desk.

—

In the loneliness of the night, he finds that it is the prime time for the thought of sin to sneak in. Like an insatiable itch that can never be scratched. Every night has been the same. He strips of his clothing when he retires from his duties for the night and retreats to his shabby little bedroom.

Never one for luxury, only ever caring for money's advantage, not what it can buy him.

In his room he's left exposed, his underwear being the only thing protecting his decency from whatever is watching him. It's difficult to describe so he never really talks about it; whether he likes it or not, he is still the same old Captain he was when he was sleeping in the muddy trenches.

Before he sleeps, he lays in bed and smokes a cigar.

Whatever is in it helps ease his weary brain, the faults of the day he has just experienced being forgotten in a brief kiss from nicotine. She lingers in his mouth for a while, even when the stench of his cigar is gone.

Today has been particularly draining so he keeps his cigar in his mouth for a little longer than usual.

The thought of the barmaid is difficult to escape, even though he runs from it as fast as he can inwardly. Inners mean nothing; unless he acts upon this sudden feeling, there's nothing that can be traced back to him. No evidence, no criminal- and he is familiar with that. But, he can't help himself while alone with only himself to think of the flustered expression on your face earlier today. It's different from the mischievous glint he has seen in your eyes, and he's quite sure the pout on your lips is enough to challenge the fires that await him in the depths of hell.

He's melting at the thought, his body feels like water and his pores exude sweat as he attempts to quench his appetite with a kiss of nicotine- the very same thing that has kept him from formidable thoughts in the past.

Yet, you don't feel formidable to him. Much rather permanent.

It's your flattering purity, he's sure of it, and the dishevelment of someone who is clearly unfamiliar with how brutal his line of work with has his heart pounding against his chest. He feels like he's a teenager again, shamefully, unable to escape the emotions running through his veins.

His jaw is clenched as his mind persists on the thought of you- he's hardly seen you and he's thinking of you in ways that would even make Lucifer seem like a committed apostle.

It's not him either, typically, he knows better than to indulge in women; they only ever really cause issues. No one ever wants to commit to him for him either, it's always in terms of status and he's unsure if he's even selfish enough to indulge in desire all to put the life of a pretty lady at risk. And whether he likes it or not, giving his name to someone who isn't prepared nor deserving of the repercussions is not something he's particularly fond of.

He's done it to himself, he know he has. Even then, without the status, without the money, without his name, he's unsure whether anyone would want to stay with him.

He's a fool for even daring to think you would be any different; he's hardly spoken to you, he doesn't know anything about you. All it is is the help you gave Kyle and the panicked expression on your face this morning. Your bravery is admirable and your heart is grand- that much he knows.

Perhaps even too big to fit inside of your chest.

This is the whiskey talking.

Tipping his head back, he rests it against the wall behind his bed, allowing a grey cloud of smoke to spill past his lips, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His free hand rests across his stomach, and while lying against the mattress, he finds his hand taking the skin on the side between his fingers and pinching at it.

The sting is delightful- the tasteful sensation of living.

The delightful sensation of having some form of humanity.

Accompanied with the taste of nicotine and he dare might confess that it's the best he has felt in a long time. But he doesn't speak, keeping to pinching himself every couple of seconds as his eyes grow heavy. The mixture is deadly with the thought of you nestling firmly in his mind. His body is hot at the thought and he knows his thoughts are crude.

You're a stranger. You hardly know each other. Yet, the thought of how his hands fit around your waist and your defiance towards him has his saliva caught in his throat and his mouth dry. Despite such thoughts, he fights against them, using the same old discipline he had used on his troops in the war, telling himself that it's enough.

You know better than to fall into this shit.

So, he relents with the blooming thought in his mind all to find some source of peace in order to drift off and forget he ever thought of you in such a way in the first place. Moving further down his bed, he keeps the covers off of him, his body still beaming with heat. His tongue trails his bottom lip, the saliva drying down with a satisfactory cooling sensation as his eyes slowly grow heavy before they're shut.

His breaths are loud, primarily through his nose. His fingers twitch against his side, maintaining a pattern of allowing himself to drift off before pinching his side just to make sure that he's still very much where he believes he is.

And it's working.

Until he hears it.

It's faint at first, but he hears it.

It's as though a starving dog is located on the other side of the wall as there's this sound. It's slow at first, perhaps his brain is slowing due to his exhaustion or perhaps they're growing tired of the same act that has been following him around since the trenches. It starts from the top of his head, and slowly, it trails downwards, the sound similar to the clinking of a shovel being dragged across gravel.

Then, they get impatient and it's as though they have a spurt of energy when he finally succumbs to the temptation of resting for the night; they know if he did have the energy, he would have gotten rid of them a long time ago. There's someone there, that's what his mind is telling him anyway.

And as he falling into sleep with the image of you standing beside a bloody Kyle, he finds that he isn't overly concerned if he never opens his eyes again after that moment; he caused both the damage to Kyle and the look of distress on your face.

He'd deserve it.

—

There was blood on his hands again. It was there, staining his skin, the feeling of shredded flesh settled beneath his palms as he writhes and fights against the urge to pull away; he's the Captain. He is supposed to know everything- he is their leader and if he falls, then it will be he who punishes the rest of his brigade for their weakness.

There was a stewing anger in his veins as he blocked out the calls from an artificial accent over his shoulder. He swallowed the urge to tell them to leave him alone- to let him handle things; he didn't need a yank telling him what to do. He hadn't for the long four years of the war before they joined in, and he sure as shit wasn't going to fold there.

'Move, you're gonna kill him. You don't know what you're doing,' a brooding voice demanded, grabbing him by the shoulder.

John didn't budge, he stayed and look at the weeping man lying on the ground in front of him, keeping his hand against the bullet would in his knee and thigh as he huffs out a short breath. How could he be expected to do something so careless?

'Captain—'

'Shut it,' he snapped sharply, 'I don't need you telling me what to do, yeah? Do me a favour and go and find out where Garrick is,' he firmly stated, not bothering to look at the man standing behind him as he shrugs his shoulder.

There's a huff, he catches it through the howling guns shots and the sniffles of the man lying on the ground in front of him. His brow is wet with sweat and his hands are soaked with blood as it poured out of the wound. Fortunately, he heard the wet squelch of mud and the calling for a name, allowing him to look back at the man on the ground.

'You're almost outta here, Blake,' he said firmly, 'just have to wait this out and then you'll never have to think of coming to the trenches ever again- you have my word, my promise.'

Despite the snotty, muddy state that the man in front of him has gotten himself into, he offered Price a shaky smile as he reaches his hand forward, placing it on top of Price's red hands. He squeezed his hand tightly, remaining curt with the shake of his head.

'Thank you for everythin', Cap'n.'

—

Over the passing days he gets an idea in his head which sprouts whenever he’s in the Hindsight. It’s a difficult idea to address, even when he has a glass of whiskey in front of him, and most of the time, he finds himself trying to come to terms why he has even conjured up such an idea.

Kyle is slowly getting better, he’s been sure to see to it while keeping his eyes out for the detective, the knowledge that the man is looking for the guns only worsening his mood as he attempts to find some for of way to keep the guns from the grubby little hands of that yank. He has half the mind to blind the bastard and toss him into the docks for injuring his own brother in such a terrible manner.

But he doesn’t.

Rather, he remains reserved and cool knowing better than to make anymore enemies during this time; truthfully, the threat of the Fisher’s is frightening. Fisher’s business spans the entire country and with the attack on Kate, their silence afterwards has been treated with caution.

Of course, he knows his men are the furthest thing from stupid- it’s him who they want. But, he knows better than to make the assumption that they’ll stop at him because, in reality, he knows anyone marked with the hat of a Blinder will be treated as though they are John Price and there’s nothing he can do to fight against that. The framing of the murder is unfortunate, and the longer he and the others have sat with it, the more he’s grown convinced that it’s the work of another group- more specifically the Adams’.

It arrived just after the betting business saw an increase in it’s profits- after news spread that Johnny was going to bless the horse. They might be bigger than their business, yet, that means jackshit and he knows it does. The big guys can squash the small competition when they please- he’s seen it before and he doubts it will be something that will stop. However, the big guys dislike getting their hands dirty, so, instead of doing it directly, they send their little lapdogs to do the dirty work.

In the Adams’ case it was killing Fisher and leaving a razor blade at the scene of the crime- tying the Blinders directly to it.

He’s unable to quite process why the workers would think he’s responsible for such a crime; while he has done some abhorrent things in his life, the last thing he would do is put a deal to risk. The deal they had was something he absolutely wouldn’t ever want to risk and by killing Fisher, it made life harder, not easier. His life is on the line and there’s virtually nothing he can do to make the situation any better… unless he can find the perpetrator of the crime and prove his innocence- but what type of criminal would ever care enough to do that?

And as he’s sitting in the pub, watching as you pour the drinks for the group, he looks around and takes notes of all the money sitting in his back pocket. He’s a rich man- too rich. If he’s to die to one of the men looking to seek some form of sick revenge, the last thing he wants to do is leave the boys without something to fall back on. His death will most likely result in the death of his business. Besides, why would he sit in a place he didn’t own?

‘We should buy this place,’ he says, picking up his glass.

Johnny raises an eyebrow in his direction.

‘What?’ he asks,

‘Well, we have the money, don’t we? Why are we drinkin’ in a pub that we don’t own?’ he says, looking around the place. ‘It’ll be another stream of income- keep the money coming in even if something bad happens to the betting business, ey?’

Despite the mask covering Simon’s face, he notes a glint in the man’s eyes. It’s a rarity, that much he knows. He reads it as excitement before the man even opens his mouth.

‘You really think Kate would say it’s a good idea?’ Kyle says, ‘you know what she’s like with money- and if this purchase doesn’t benefit the business then I don’t see her sayin’ yes to such a big purchase.’

Price pauses for a moment, taking time to reflect on such a possibility. As much as he does respect Kate, he finds he has little care for her input concerning this purchase- and if anything- he’s sure she’ll be more than happy to endorse a payment which will put more money in their pockets. So, he brings his drink up to his mouth, taking a sip from it.

‘Don’t see the harm in doing it; we’re making more than enough money to justify spending it to buy this place,’ he says, turning to the bar where you’re standing idly.

You look tired, standing awkward as you hold a glass in one hand and a cloth in the other. Clearly, you’re supposed to be cleaning them, yet, you’re standing their in a mind of your own, not moving an inch, too busy in that head of yours.

As he observes you, he wonders what you’re thinking of, perhaps something of important or maybe you’re just daydreaming about something random. A part of him wants to know, although, as his brain treads such territory he turns his attention away and takes another sip from his drink.

‘The more money the better,’ Simon agrees, ‘sure James would take a decent deal for this place; he doesn’t really have a choice.’

Price grins.

‘He doesn’t.’

—

It's in the middle of the afternoon and ordered in the pub has been maintained following the absence of James. It's been a few days since the attack against Price's boy and you're more than sure Graves has a death wish. Upon listening to their conversation from behind the door, the only thing you discovered was who was behind the attack. Nothing else of value escaped their lips- other than the fact that they know the detective in town is adamant on finding the guns.

It's difficult to know what exactly Price's reaction was following Kyle's confession and the proposal that they should help the police in finding the guns, only, you know there was some form of disagreement as you heard Kyle's back go up as he addressed an angry sentiment towards Price. Perhaps he simply provided him with a sneer or something along the same lines of such as even Kate seemed confused by whatever he was doing.

Either way, you kept the conversation to yourself, not even planning on sharing it with Graves when you next intend to meet; it seems so minuscule, you're confused why you have even been debating on whether or not you should tell the man. He doesn't need to know everything happening with the gang- only if they have the guns. He's sure they have got them, although now, as you cleaning a glass, you're feeling an uneasy churning sensation in your stomach as you're considering the fact that they might not have the guns and you're been following the stupid fucking trail Graves has persuaded you to stick to.

Truthfully, the lingering sent you caught on to in Mr. Churchill's office is beginning to fade and you're becoming worried that you might have chasing your tail all because of some stupid yank.

Setting the glass in your hand down against the counter behind the bar, you let out a heavy breath, placing the cloth in your hand beside it. Planting your hands flat against the counter, you look down at the ground at you black shoes, taking a deep breath. Being confined to the pub surely isn't helping your nerves; for all you know, Graves could be causing more harm than good and you're standing her serving drunks.

Your heart is beginning to grow fickle at the thought.

The door opens, creaking as it does so. Your back tenses at the sound and a dull ache pulses through you skull. You almost can't bring your head up to address the customer. Yet, when you hear the drunken rambling stopping and a shallow gasp from one of the women, your head shoots up at the possibility that you could be disrespecting Mr. Price.

When you look at the man approaching the bar, your struck with the realisation that he does have a similar head of hair to the man, however, it is not John Price who is approaching you. His smart attire is telling of the fact that he's belonged to a much wealthier part of the country than the place you currently find yourself in. His suit is well tailored, a thick black tie hanging around his neck as he offers you a grin when he catches your eyes.

Taking a seat at the bar, he rests his forearm against it and brushes his thick fingers through his hair. His build is grand- unlike anything you've seen really. All you can liken it to are depictions of Greek Gods you've seen in books during your time in eduction. His forearms are notable in the fabric of the blazer and he has the eyes of a siren as he drags them down your body.

His not subtle in the slightest, and when he grins, he shows you gleaming teeth. He's like one of the stars you've seen in the paper from States.

'What can I get for you, sir?' you chime, managing to find a spare smile somewhere in yourself, offering it to the alluring man.

A strand of brown hair falls from atop his head, resting against his forehead as he tilts his head to the side to get a better look at you. His upper lip is marked with a thick moustache- though it's nowhere near the moustache Mr. Price has. His finger draws a pattern on the dark oak of the bar as he clears his throat.

'What's the dearest bottle you have, lamb?' he asks, his words horrifically smooth as he addresses you. The nickname drips from his tongue with ease- you're no fool, of course you're not the only one he's addressed with the sorts.

'Uhm,' you begin, looking over your shoulder at the array of drinks, 'we have expensive whiskey but─'

'It's reserved for John Price,' he finishes.

You still at the mention of his name, slowly turning your head in the direction of the man as you slowly nod your head. You expect to see a look of frustration etched on his face, however, you find he's smiling at you. It's gentle, yet, you would prefer a scowl to the look on his face right now.

'I'll have a glass of whatever other whiskey I'm allowed to have then, lovely,' he shrugs, pulling out a wad of cash from the inside of blazer, placing a few notes down onto the table with a sly grin. 'Get something for yourself too,' he offers kindly.

To refuse a man who is oozing such a coldness surely isn't the smartest thing you can do in that moment, so, you take the notes he's pushed onto the table and put them into your apron. Grabbing two glasses, you pour yourself a glass of whiskey alongside him one too. Turning around, you set the glass down onto the table and he takes it in his hand.

He almost swallows the glass whole with the grip he has on it and you can only really see any of it because of the small gaps in his fingers. Bringing it to is mouth, he sips the drink before setting the glass down onto the table. You copy him- not meaning to, only realising as you place your glass down onto the counter just as he does.

'Would you mind if I pick your brain for a little while?' he asks. You narrow your eyes in the direction of the man, wrapping an arm around yourself. He chuckles as you do such, shaking his head. 'It's nothing to be afraid of, little lamb, just some questions.'

'About what?' you ask, taking a breath before continuing, 'who are you?'

'Well, if you must know, my name is Caleb Adams,' he begins, 'I'm the owner of one of the biggest race courses in the country.'

'So... you're here about Mr. Price?' you ask.

Smiling, he offers you such a sweet look you feel inclined to reach for his tie and force his head against the counter. But you don't, you play the role of the quaint, cute barmaid as you sweetly nod at the man.

'Smart girl,' he praises, 'have you ever thought of working elsewhere?' he asks, 'I have a feeling you'd be better suited anywhere but here,' he admits.

Oddly enough, he is right, you don't belong here.

'I like working here,' you shrug, to which he nods.

'I'm sure you do,' he says promptly, sucking in a breath, 'what's your relationship with Mr. Price?' he asks with a furrowed brow, 'would you say you're friends?'

'No,' you answer, 'I'm the barmaid at the pub he comes to- there's nothing more to it.'

There's something in the way he looks at you that shows apprehension- almost as though he's fighting against his better judgement to refuse to believe the truth you're telling him. You're not friends with him, you've hardly spoken to one another during your time in the pub.

'Are you here to get dirt on him?' you frankly say, not caring for the attempt of subtlety; it's nothing you've ever really been fond throughout the course of your life, and despite your mind warning you of the repercussions of annoying a man who appears so wealthy, you can't help but let your true character seep into the conversation.

Your comment is something that stops him for a moment. It's unlike him, you're aware of that; he has been forward during the entirety of your conversation, and here he is rendered speechless from your words.

Grabbing the glass you placed down, you swirl the remaining whiskey around in your cup on a baited breath. Despite your nerves, however, you do not look away from him.

'Why does it matter to you?' he asks, ‘if you’re nothing but a barmaid, the my enquiry should mean nothing to you,’ he says, narrowing his eyes, ‘are you telling me the full truth about your association.’

There’s a bubbling rage in the pit of your stomach the longer you entertain this fool. You’re accustomed to all of the games men like him like to play; you’ve built your entire fucking career around being treading like some dumb girl. Still, you fight to maintain the act, to keep your composure.

‘Keep smiling,’ a voice calls. ‘Cause, if you frown at the wrong man… well, it very well might be your last day.’

So, you insist on you act, persist with your calmness and bite back the urge to throw the drink he bought you in his face.

'I have no reason to lie to you,' you respond frankly, 'I don't even know who you are- my assumption about you wanting to get dirt on him is wholly based on how eager you were to ask me questions.'

It's stale and brooding the look his gives you in the midst of your small rant is a tad unsettling, but you can't help yourself. He's sitting right in front of you, accusing you of lying about something you have no involvement is. There's a sour air between the pair of you now and you busy yourself with finishing your drink, looking past the man at the door to the pub as it opens once again.

A small sigh escapes you at the very thought of having another customer to serve to get you away from this uptight asshole. Yet, with your saviour in sight, you startle as you see both Kyle and Mr. Price walking through the door together. Kyle looks somewhat better, one of his eyes is still slightly swollen from the blow he was dealt and his nose is a tad to the left. Only, he can stand on his own and walks with only a small wince with every step.

Any pain is easily masked with the grin plastered on his face and Mr. Price walks with his nose in the air, all for his head to drop at the sight of the man sitting opposite to you. Caleb picks up on your gaze and chooses to turn his head to peer over his shoulder. No one in the pub dares to speak, opting to keep their mouths shut as Price's brow furrows.

'John Price, I thought you'd never show up,' he says, grabbing the glass of whiskey you poured him, holding it out to the man as though to cheers.

'What do you want?' Kyle asks, not giving the man beside him a chance to speak.

'I came all the way out to congratulate you,' Caleb begins, pushing himself up off of the stool he was sitting on with a bright grin. 'I never considered you nor the rest of the Blinders to be a true threat until I opened the newspaper and saw that you were responsible for Fisher's death.'

'It had nothin' to do with us,' John firmly says.

'Sure it doesn't,' you hear the man scoff and imagine him rolling his eyes at his words. You note how Caleb keeps his eyes on Kyle. 'Everyone in the racing community are quite disgruntled at the death of Fisher, you know? There are a lot of people who have invested a lot of money into his company, and none of those below him are good enough to lead it.'

You look at Price with a furrowed brow, tilting your head to the side slightly. Kyle offers you a look similar to yours, his eyes falling to the empty glass in your eyes.

'Real big man you are, yeah?' Kyle asks, 'comin' to our pub and asking our barmaid about us?’

His sudden shift in tone startles you and you're unable to really put together his use of 'our'. Maybe it was just something to make it seem like he has come to the wrong place, or maybe he truly meant every word of it. Besides, the longer you stand and think in the pregnant silence between the men, you're more than aware that James has never really been the owner of the Hindsight.

'Your barmaid?' he asks, looking back at you.

'That's right,' Price affirms, slowly stalking up to the man. ‘And if you ever think of steppin' foot into this pub again- if you ever think of talkin' to her again- I will cut you up, make sure you have no eyes to see her with.’

It's unlike anything you've seen as of you, although, it is everything you've heard. While he is an admittedly large man, the floor barely creaks as he stalks up to Caleb. Tilting his head to the side, he holds the brim of his hat between his fingers. His features are shadowed by the man standing in front of you, although, you don't miss the low chuckle that escapes him.

His voice is low, almost a whisper as he says so to the man. You find all the hairs on your arms stand up as you idly stand by and simply watch.

'I assure you I meant no harm in coming here.’

'You know the business,' John calmly says, 'you know what it means to walk into a place you have no claim to, and while I know me and you haven't talked to each other before, I'm not a idiot.'

Caleb slowly nods his head, holding his hands either side of him as he steps to the side of John, shuffling away from him. He laughs as he does so, looking back at you while you stand behind the bar, holding the empty glass of whiskey he bought you in your hand. Your chest burns as you turn your head away and look at John who offers you a small smile.

'If you continue to treat people like this, Mr. Price, then I assure you you will have a lot of bad people after you,' he warns, his brows furrowing, 'and right now, I assure you that is the last thing that you want to happen.'

John tugs at the hat atop his head, shaking his head at his words, 'get out,' he says frankly, 'if you want to discuss something concerning me, Adams, you talk to me, not the girl, yeah?'

Caleb tilts his head to the side, mustering out a deep sigh. Tugging at the cuffs of his blazer, his fingers curl around the fabric and you watch as he nods his head as though he's agreeing to something.

'Mr. Price,' he says, sucking in a breath, 'as I said, I meant no harm by coming here, I was simply... asking questions; Fisher has been a pain for myself and my family for many years and you got rid of him. Quite frankly, I wanted to strike a deal with you.'

'We don't need anything of yours, and if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're the one who got Fisher. Y'u just didn't wanna deal with the fall out of it so you blame me and my boys,' he says.

Mr. Price doesn't care for whatever sweetness he is being shown in that moment, instead, he has his back up like a feral cat. Of course, you don't need his protection- in fact, if Graves had been there with you, you know for a fact that such a fact most definitely would have been relayed to you.

Still, there's a little part of you that takes a slither of sinful pride, relishing in the way Price so effortlessly defended you in the eyes of a threat. Really, you know nothing of the man who has just bought you a drink and the way he looked at you made you feel so uneasy that you simply find comfort under the watchful eyes of the men who you do know well.

'Well, Mr. Price,' Caleb says briefly, brushing his clothes with his hands as he swallows harshly, a short breath escaping him. You imagine that his formalities are beginning to wear thin. 'I assure you that I have heard you loud and clear... but before I go, I must tell you that you are making a fatal mistake.'

Instead of offering him any form of response, Price moves past the man, settling in the seat he has just been sitting in, keeping his back to him as Kyle also pulls a seat beside him, sitting down. Caleb turns around to look at you again.

'A very big mistake—'

Your temperament seems to dissipate in the brattiness of the posh man, the fire in your stomach raising to flood your throat before you have the chance to fan the flames.

'Did you not hear him?' you ask sharply, narrowing your eyes. 'You're not welcome here. Get out.'

You expect him to want to get the final word in, to allow the patience he has harboured since Mr. Price stepped through the door to melt. Yet, much to your surprise, he simply nods his head without saying another word to you, and with that he heads towards the exit of the pub without a word more.

You almost deflate as you see the door behind him close, placing both your hands on the counter behind the bar, taking a moment to catch your breath.

‘If he comes back in here, don't serve him,’ Mr. Price firmly instructs.

'I'll let James know,' you say, nodding your head.

'Nonsense,' Mr. price says with a smile, 'he's not comin' back here, love; he doesn't own the place anymore.'

Your eyebrows raise as you slowly turn to Kyle who offers you a bright grin. Still, as you're looking at him, you struggle to see him with his healing injuries. It's something that strikes you with guilt for all you see in front of you right now is the bloody and beaten down man who you had helped a few days ago.

'What do you mean?' you slowly ask.

'We own it now,' Kyle confirms, 'John bought it off of James.'

You stare at the man as though he's grown a third head unable to quite understand what exactly he has said to you. For a moment, you take time to process what this means. You're not stupid, of course you understand that you're now working in an establishment owned by the Blinders- John Price is your boss now. Although, you can't help but question what exactly this means in terms of your position.

He seemed pretty sure that I was his barmaid, I doubt he fire me.

'Why didn't he tell me?' you ask, almost offended that the man you have been working under disappeared without even offering his hard-working barmaid something as small as a 'goodbye'.

Decency was never his forte, you suppose, so, you settle by chewing on the corner of your mouth, balling your fists as you tilt your head to the side.

'Busy man,' he simply says, 'he wanted to get out of the city while he still had the chance to, 'thinks things are getting worse. As selfish as it sounds, he was only really thinking of himself,' he explains.

You slowly nod your head, chewing on your tongue as you manage to let out a short breath. You're right in the lions den at this point and while you dislike the fact that you're the one who has to fan the flames, you try and find some form of faith in Graves; he is your partner after all. Besides, you are in the lions den.

You.

'Are you gonna fire me?' you ask.

John laughs.

'Why would I fire you, love?' he asks, 'you're decent at your job and you keep everyone here happy enough not to rip the heads off of each other, yeah? I'd be an idiot to get rid of you.'

They have no idea of your intent and you have slid in so easily you can't help but allow yourself to smile at the thought, your core beaming with excitement as you address both of the men once again by discarding of the glass sitting in front of Mr. Price and grabbing two new glasses from behind you.

'Well, how about a drink to celebrate, hey?' you chirp brightly, noting the smile of Mr. Price's face as you pour a drink of whiskey into his glass. They both take the glasses in their hands and you pour yourself a fresh glass, copying them after Price motions to you to lift your glass up.

'To new beginnings,' he says firmly with a smile as he looks at you. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, your face growing warm under his eyes as both yourself and Kyle nod.

'To new beginnings.'

—

The sun manages to peak through the clouds, a streak soaking him as he walks down the street with his head held high. Sometimes, it's difficult to find the will to smile; his mind has been destroyed. It's no different to the shrapnel discarded from a soldiers wound: plucked free from where trouble reins, all to cut the fingers of those who handle it.

Still, he smiles and takes a moment to inhale the thick air of the city, pulling his hat off of his head. Rubbing his bald head, he firmly plants his hat back onto it, hoping the light action would chase off the demons which left his mind a muddled mess. One could dream, he supposes. At the very least, he is doing something to fix all the issues going on inside.

He does a lot more than some people do and he knows that.

A true family man at heart is Blake, one who works so hard that he never really knows when to give it a break, only really caring to take a seat when he is forced to and not when the old wound in his leg tells him to; that's not what his Captain would want from him and he has been loyal to him since they first met on the battlefield, and even outside the war, he vows to keep his promise to him.

So, he walks with a slight hobble after his shift at the shipyard keeping his head high as he approaches the home of the Blinders with a few minutes to spare before his shift starts there.

It's typical to see the coppers around and on the street during his walk and he's not afraid of them for he knows they'll do very little to him because they truly have no reason to accuse him of anything. Even then, as he's walking, he spots a swell of tall hats gathering at the top of the street. They're similar to a swarm of wasps in the manner that they move, all of them remaining together as the push past the stray people on the street.

From the centre of them emerges as man with light brown hair- he's the only one without a hat. The Queen Bee. He walks with a face like a slapped ass, brooding and commanding as he calls out orders. He stops in his tracks as soon as the man opens his mouth- anyone would think he'd heard news of his arrest as he listens to the man bark like a feral dog.

His face pales as his heart thuds in his ears, and that wretched buzzing in his head returns in the blink of an eye. It's strange, how normalcy can be stripped away from him in such a quick fashion. In a moment, he goes from standing in the street on the way to the Price's house all the way back in time to the trenches.

The road isn't covered in gravel, rather, he feels as though he's sinking into the ground, similar to the thick, gooey mud which caused him to stagger and stumble during his time at war. And then, the police were no longer the saviours, rather, enemy soldiers coming towards him with the intent of killing him.

In a matter of seconds, he sprinting away from the group of men, his eyes trained on the Hindsight with a pounding in his head. The Captain would be in there, he's sure- he needs to warn them that they're back- that the betraying scum are back and they're searching for him. So, he breaks into a sprint, he can’t stop the thoughts once they’ve started and a clear mind is miles away from him.

He runs as though the group of officers are chasing after him, all the while his mind is wrecked with the sounds of gunshots and the fire from the iron works is something he accustoms to the scent of war. It’s everywhere, the enemies are everywhere. It’s impossible to explain how his mind functions during these moments; even he’s unsure why his mind chooses to punish him. When he got out of the war, he thought it was over. Yet, here he is, standing in his home still plagued by the memories of the very thing that ruined him.

A startled breath escapes him as he collides with something and through foggy eyes, he spies an enemy. His words are muffled in his ears, his shouts are something of a threat and he's unable to quite make out what is being said to him. All he knows is that this man is a threat. He's going to do something bad and the aggression in his tone is preemptive to how he is going to hurt him- how he is going to hurt other people.

Blake refuses to back off, not hearing the man's demands to get away from the front of his business. His mind clears momentarily, long enough to see the shining silver in the man's hand, and in a state of terror, he's quick to grab the item and without a second thought, he shoves it into the man's stomach.

A wretch escapes him, and as a wetness soaks his hand, he's back on earth. Back home.

Gasps catch his ears and as he slowly blinks himself back to reality, he's horrified at the sight of the grunting man in front of him. Letting go of the end of the pocket knife he has driven into the man's stomach, he backs away with bloodstained hands, looking around himself at the surrounding civilians who saw what he has done. And then his eyes fall back to the sign located about his head.

Costello's Cures.

A panicked breath escapes him and in the matter of seconds, he sprinting in the opposite direction of the Hindsight, rushing towards home without stopping as people call out for him to return to the scene of the crime.

—

When John hears about the news, his displeasure is imminent, and that night, he's quick to be at Blake's home. It's cold, the night air nipping at his ears as he walks with a stern look etched on his face, all to find the address of the man.

Johnny had sheepishly wandered in his office with the confirmation of who exactly Blake had injured during his episode, and as he sat and listened to the account Johnny had heard, he found his chest tightening the more he continued.

Nothing can ever be easy and it seems as though he's been cursed with bad luck ever since he was sent home and striped of his title.

Standing on the man's doorstep, despite his anger, he was sure to knock lightly before shoving his hands into his pockets, shifting on his feet as he stands idly and waits. There's a creak beyond the door, the sound of heavy footsteps on wood, and before long, the door is pulled open.

Light is situated behind the man at the door, his bulky frame blocking most of it out, the strong smell of lingering dinner filling Price's nose as he stands and observes the man, his lips forming a thin line/

'Cap'n I—'

'Where's your missus and the little one?' he calmly asks, narrowing his eyes.

'Uhm, Dorothy's sleepin' an' Maggie's making supper for the pair of us,' he explains, toying with his hands, 'do you wanna come in and join us? I'm sure we have enough.'

'You know why I'm here,' Price says, 'close the door.'

Blake looks at him with a glint in his eyes as he slowly steps from out of his house, pulling it shut. It closes with a small click and Price steps away from the doorstep with a short breath.

'Cap'n I'm sorry,' blurts the man, 'I- I swear I didn't mean to kill him.'

'Do you have any fuckin' idea what you've done?' Price snaps, looking at the man. It hurts his heart when he sees the man flinch at the harshness in his tone, although, he isn't discouraged. 'Out of everyone you could've done it to, you did it to one of the fuckin' Costello's.'

'H- He wasn't a part of the family.'

'That doesn't matter, Blake,' Price says, 'blood bounds are forever and you know what they're like- they're always lookin' for a reason to start shit between us. Just because Joey is in London doesn't mean anything.'

'I- I—'

'What started it this time, ey?' he asks, 'cause the more you do this, the more I'm convinced there's nothing I can do to help you.'

'I heard that new detectives voice,' he confesses, 'he sounds familiar.'

'All the yanks sound the same,' Price states.

Blake simply stares at him. It' s a look which renders him unsure as there's a teary glint in the man's eye. It's telling that, despite his wounded mind, he knows something.

'I swear 'ave heard his voice before Cap'n, back in the trenches,' he warns.

Price only nods his head.

'Meet me at the boat yard tomorrow,' he simply says, narrowing his eyes. 'Half seven.'

He could tell him why he is wanted, but the gulp that sounds from the man is enough to tell him that he knows exactly why he is wanted there. With that, Price turns away from the man and proceeds to head down the street, his breath fogging in the wind. Despite Blake's adamance, he finds the words they shared together of very little importance as he heads down the street, his mind far too clogged with the issues awaiting him in the morning.

His head aches and as he exits the street and catches sight of the Hindsight with the lights still glowing inside, he's quick to make a change in his journey, opting to head in the direction of the pub rather than the direction of home.

—

In the lateness of the night, you find yourself growing bored of the same tasks you have been committed to for the past few weeks. Your shoulders are stiff and you're growing tired of the smell of tobacco and booze.

John walks through the door of the pub and you're more than happy to grab a glass as he approaches the bar. Despite his high held head and the smile on his face, you're far too aware that there is something else in his eyes. His eyelids droop slightly, highlighted by the slight greyness under his eyes. It subtle, just as he is- you suppose- but you don't miss it.

'Is everything okay?' you ask.

'Just need a drink,' he answers, 'scotch please, love.'

You offer him a short nod as you. turn your back to him and grab a glass from behind you along with the scotch per his request. As you turn back to him, you notice his eyes on you and a distracted air about him. Still, in a state of assumed misery, he appears wise. It's quite striking, hitting your heart like cupids arrow.

'Before James left, he mentioned you used to sing in the pub you worked at,' he says as you pour his drink into the glass.

'I did,' you confirm, 'helped settle people's minds, you know? Everyone needed something uplifting- something to make them forget about everything happening during the war,' you explain.

He offers a short hum, picking the glass up from off of the counter, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip from it. He has little reaction to it, although, you're not surprised counting on the fact that that is all he drinks. Still, you observe him in the hope of seeing his face change.

'We used to sing in the trenches,' he admits, 'nothing special, don't have the voice on me to sing.'

A smile forms on his face as he trails his bottom lip with the pad of his thumb., wiping away the residue of scotch. 'Distract from the gun fire and explosions. Haven't sung since- don't think I ever will.'

His sudden openness with you is somewhat frightening. He addresses you as though you're good friends, not just owner and barmaid, and part of you finds yourself falling into the conversation, the hardened image of John Price melting with the warmth of his body stationed right before you. And how strange it is to address a criminal as a human being- almost inhumane knowing all he has done and why you are there in the first place.

Yet, the heat welling in your stomach with each glance he offers you burns hot enough to melt down the bars of his prison cell and set him free from persecution. Such a fact is something you’re ashamed of even thinking. Truth of the matter is, no matter how terrible of a human he was, he was just like you, a human being.

‘I’ve sung a few times here,’ you confess, ‘nothing special.’

A pass time if nothing else. Something to break up the day and something fun. Besides, your ego absolutely isn’t beyond being fed by the drunken praises of clientele at the Hindsight. In fact, during your time here, you have grown to appreciate it.

‘How come I’ve never heard you sing?’

‘James said you don’t like songs,’ you say, ‘I didn’t want to purposefully upset you if that’s the case.’

He shortly nods, letting out a short breath as rubbing his mouth.

‘It reminds me of the war,’ he explains, ‘I never thought I even think of missing that place, but sometimes I do; at the very least, amidst the chaos, there was still some form of order you know? You shoot a gun without repercussions there, whereas here? Nothin’s the same.’

You perk your ears up at his confession, your eyebrows knitting together.

‘You miss the war?’ you ask.

‘Parts of it,’ he says simply, ‘know I’m probably the one who feels sentimental about the early days, but it’s the truth whether I like it or not.’

He seems to be weighed down by something as he speaks and after finishing, he’s quick to finish off the last of his scotch in his glass before holding it out to you for a refill. You nod your head, happily pouring more into his glass, inwardly hoping that the more he drinks, the more open he’ll be to tell you more. Perhaps even going as far as slipping up.

‘It’s a unique sentiment,’ you confirm, nodding your head.

‘Military has been in my life since I was a teenage,’ he confesses, ‘I served in the war as temporary Captain; had enough experience to get into the position- had been promised by the general that if I made it out alive, I’d be promoted,’ he says.

‘Then how come you’re here?’

He looks at you with a weary look on his face, drinking more liquor from his glass as he stifles out a short laugh. ‘Got caught doin’ somethin’ I shouldn’t have been doin’ and they got rid of me. Lead a brigade which had a hand in winning us the war, but as soon as they’re made aware of one mistake, they threw me to the fuckin’ wolves.’

Anger is present in his tone, and despite your curiosity, you choose not to pry him for answers. So, you simply hum and nod your head, ensuring to maintain politeness. It's the only thing you know for a fact you can do.

'Enough of that,' he says, 'what about you, doll? I hardly know anything about you.'

Unashamedly, you talk into the night with John and the entire time it's as though you're talking with an old friend who you have just only been reunited with. Conversation comes easily to the pair of you and you find yourself being honest for a change. You tell him of your childhood in London, about your position as a barmaid during the war- most things that you know won't cause him to raise any eyebrows.

In return, he tells you of most of the stuff you have read on his file: his rebellious streak during his early years, how long he served in the army, alongside about the boy's in his brigade. During which he speaks how you imagine a proud father would talk about his children. Oddly, you find your heart warming as he speaks about them.

The pair of you talk into the night and it's only when you look past John during a conversation that you've realised the last drunkard has returned home and it's just you and him remaining in the pub. Immediately, your cheeks flush red.

'I- I'm sorry, I didn't realise the time,' you confess, breaking out of the conversation.

John turns to look over his shoulder, acknowledging the empty pub. Despite the conversation the pair of you have shared, you find yourself awaiting some sort of regret to be on his face; he's a busy man, of course.

'It's fine, love,' he reassures, 'c'mon, let me walk you home,' he offers, 'i's too late for you walk home alone.'

—

Rain pours as you step outside of the pub with the man, your gloved hand rooting in the bag across your frame to ensure you haven't forgotten anything inside. You hear his breath fogging in the winter air as he keeps his eyes trained on you, not daring to look away. It's oddly comforting to feel his eyes on you and you feel as though you're safe from any possible threat from the world the pair of you reside in.

A man like him could chase away a cold. Probably be better than any cure from the chemist.

Turning away from him, you hold the keys to the pub in your hands, pulling the golden handle of the open door. Pulling it closed, your eyebrows furrow upon catching the sound of a metallic scraping against the door. Taking a step backwards from the doors of the pub, you knock into John who is standing behind you. Your mouth falls open as you disregard whatever made the sound, finding yourself all too concerned with you misstep.

'I'm sorry- I didn't mean to─'

His fingers dig into the fabric of your red dress as he gently moves you to stand to the side of him. Moving past you, he approaches the door, his hands grabbing whatever was making that noise. It's difficult to see whatever is in his hand as his broad back shelters you from the very thing that has him letting out a short breath. It's easy to hear in the quiet night, although, even if he had been quiet his attempt of secrecy would have been betrayed by the cold weather.

'What is it?' you ask, 'have someone broken the handle?' you proceed, taking a step closer to the man. Resting your hand against his shoulder, you look to see a leather strap in his hand. Your eyes move downwards to see the metal chain of a dog lead. A small laugh escapes you, 'can you believe how stupid people are? Like, why would they─' you quickly shut up when your eyes meet the end of the leash.

Instead of seeing the end as you expect, it curls upwards. The part of the lead which is supposed to be attached to a dogs collar is clipped to form a noose. You swallow thickly, looking to John for some form of answer. There's nothing on his face from what you can decipher through the shadows- he's void of emotion.

Despite not understanding the very basis of why something like this is left outside the pub, you feel your stomach twisting as your brain fights to come up with some form of satisfactory answer. Had James not been half way out of the city right now, you're sure you'd be more than happy to make the assumption that someone has made a mistake by leaving the lead there.

Although, with Price's money in his pocket and the Hindsight being under new ownership, you're more than sure that this being left here is not some silly mistake. It's as intentional as a violent blow to the stomach of an enemy.

He clenches his fist around the leather strap of the leash, gritting his teeth as he nods to himself silently. You expect him to say something, perhaps a choppy one liner to ease the tension swelling in your stomach, yet, there's nothing. Just that look on his face.

'John?' you quietly ask, grabbing his forearm.

Lifting his head from the sight of the noose hanging in the wind, he looks to you and small smile forms on his face. Chewing on the inside of his mouth, he shifted on his feet as he nods to himself.

'How would you like t' come the races, love?'

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byersbootyshorts · 1 year

Note

Hello, I would like to request Bones imagine or headcanon or whatever you'd like of Zack Addy in a romantic and domestic life setting with his S/O please?

The Breakfast Anomaly (Z.A.)

After a long week at work you decide to start your day off by making breakfast for Zack. But when he decides to help you it takes a disastrous turn.

Word Count: 1,864

Warnings: s1!Zack, gn!reader, eating, food, egg violence (you’ll see)

I love geniuses who don’t know how to cook

You were coming home from a long day at work. A long week actually. Identifying bones that had been ground into tiny grains and then finding the killer was no easy feat. The hours were long and the rest was little. But now the case was over. The killer had been caught and you could finally take a break. Dr Brennan had given you all a couple of days off and you were going to make the most of it.

You drove in silence. Zack sat half asleep in the passenger seat, his head knocking against the window at every bump in the road. When you finally made it home you both instantly slouched into bed, too tired to do anything other than kiss each other goodnight.

The next morning you woke up late. You could still hear Zack’s rhythmic breathing beside you, letting you know he was still asleep. Suddenly, you were hit with a wave of hunger. Then you realised that, the last couple of days, you’d been so focused on your job that you barely took time to eat much other than a few oat bars and whatever you could scavenge from the vending machine. Zack was the same. This new, uncomfortable feeling forced you to slowly pull yourself out of bed and make some breakfast. As you pulled on a hoodie you looked down at Zack’s sleeping figure. He shifted slightly, adjusting to the absence of your body beside his. But, from what you could tell, he was still sound asleep. That’s when you decided to do something nice for him. You were going to make him breakfast in bed. It was your day off after all. You had plenty of time.

You quickly rifled through your cupboards for ingredients and finally decided to make him pancakes. You had the ingredients neatly laid on the counter and were about to start baking when you heard movement behind you. You spun around to find Zack walking groggily into the kitchen.

“No! Ugh, you’re not supposed to be here,” you complained.

“Good morning to you too,” he replied, his voice raspy from sleep.

“Sorry,” you said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “It’s just, I wanted to make you breakfast in bed. But since you’re not in bed anymore, I can’t really do that .”

“I’ll happily go back to bed if that’s what you want,” Zack smiled, taking the steaming cup from you.

“Yes, please do. This is our day off and we’re going to do it right,” you said, practically pushing him back towards the bedroom.

“No, no, come on. I can’t let you do this by yourself,” Zack rebutted. “Let me help.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry, you, Zack Addy, want to help me cook? Have you ever cooked anything in your life.”

He thought for a moment, scrunching up his nose. “Does toast count?” he asked.

“No, toast does not count,” you grinned.

“Please let me help,” he begged. “How hard can it be?”

You gave in, letting go of him and walking back over to the counter. “Ok, just please do exactly what I tell you to.”

“I live to serve,” he smiled, way too enthusiastic for the simple task of making pancakes.

You shook your head, laughing at him. “Ok then, first of all, hands,” you began, moving to the sink to wash your hands. Zack followed you. When the water came pouring out of the tap, onto your hands, you playfully flicked some of it at Zack.

“Hey,” he yelled, his shirt staining dark from the water.

“Whoops,” you smirked, grabbing a towel to dry your hands.

Next, you told Zack to read the recipe. “Please just read it,” you pleaded. “Just because you’re a genius doesn’t mean you can randomly guess what the ingredients are.”

Zack picked up the book and spent a minute skimming through it. “Got it,” he said. “It’s locked up in the photographic memory.” He tapped his temple confidently.

“If you’re so confident, what do we have to do first?” you asked.

“We have to mix all the dry ingredients in a bowl,” he explained.

“Good, let’s do that,” you said, looking for a wooden spoon in the drawer.

Zack carefully measured out the flour, sugar and baking powder and poured them into a big bowl where you mixed them together.

“Alright, I’m surprised there’s been no disasters yet, so let’s keep going before I jinx us,” you said when you were done mixing.

“Now we need melt some butter and add it to the dry ingredients,” Zack said, as though he were reciting the recipe in this head.

You melted the butter, which was now a scalding pond of yellow liquid. “If you spill that I will literally kill you,” you threatened as Zack carefully carried it from the stove to the counter.

“I work with delicate bones for a living. I think I can carry a bowl from one place to another.”

When he finally safely made it to the counter you poured the melted butter into the other bowl. Once again you stirred the ingredients together. Meanwhile, Zack walked over to the fridge.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Milk,” he said, walking back over, measuring it out and pouring it into the bowl as well.

“Wow, you’re getting the hang of this,” you smiled.

“Did you ever doubt me?” he replied. “Now, let’s cook them. I’m starving.”

You got out a frying pan and sprayed it with oil. “I’ll do the first one to show you how to do it,” you told him.

You poured a dollop of the mixture onto the searing pan. It looked a little different than you thought it should look, but you shrugged it off. It had been a while since you made pancakes. Maybe you just forgot what it was supposed to look like?

“See these bubbles?” You pointed with your spatula to the bubbles forming at the side of the pancake.

“Mhm,” Zack hummed, leaning in to see what you were talking about.

“When you start to see these, that’s how you know it’s time to flip,” you explained. You lifted the pan off the heat, concentrating on what you were about to do next. You jerked your hands and the pancake flew into the air before landing neatly back on the pan.

“Obviously, you don’t have to do that,” you said, placing the pan back on the flame. “You can just use the spatula.”

“No, I want to,” Zack protested. “It can’t be that hard.”

You chuckled but decided to humour him. “Ok, genius, give it a try.”

When the first pancake was done you allowed Zack to pour more mixture onto the pan. He waited in anticipation for the bubbles to appear, his eyes wide like a puppy.

“Can I do it now?” he asked, excitedly. You looked down to find the edge of the pancake dotted with tiny bubbles.

“Yeah, it’s ready,” you confirmed. Immediately Zack lifted the pan. You instinctively took a step back. “Just, please be careful, Zack.”

Zack exhaled deeply, preparing himself before he dramatically tossed the pan. The pancake rose into the air. You winced as it almost hit the ceiling. But just before it made contact, it started to fall... right onto Zack’s head.

You couldn’t help but burst out laughing as the uncooked side of the pancake slid down Zack’s head, onto his face.

“Oh my God,” you both said in unison.

When you finally recovered from your fit of laughter you grabbed a towel and attempted to wipe Zack’s hair. But instead of cleaning it off it sort of just smeared it in.

“It’s fine,” he sighed. “I’ll shower after we eat.”

“Maybe you should stick to using the spatula from now on,” you suggested. Zack reluctantly grabbed it from you, rolling his eyes.

It took a painfully long time, and by the end of it you were both ravenous, but eventually you used up all the batter.

“Finally,” Zack said, getting plates while you looked in your cupboards for syrup.

You both sat at the table, the stack of pancakes in front of you, Simultaneously, you hungrily reached for one and doused it in syrup. You shoved it in your mouth and the first thing you tasted was the sweet syrup as it coated your mouth. But then, when you started to chew, the taste of the pancake itself became apparent. Your chewing slowed and your face contorted in disgust. You turned to Zack and his expression mirrored yours.

“Ew,” he mumbled through his mouthful of food.

“Yeah, something’s not right,” you said. You placed your fork back on the plate and forced yourself to swallow the mouthful as you got up to check the recipe.

Flour? Check.

Sugar? Check.

Butter? Check.

Milk? Check

Eggs?

“Oh my God, eggs!” you shouted when you realised the fatal ingredient you’d forgotten.

“Ah, that would explain it,” Zack said matter-of-factly.

“You are an idiot,” you chuckled. “So much for that photographic memory of yours. How is it possible that you can literally reconstruct a skull but can’t bake a pancake?”

“Hey, I’m tired. Give me a break,” Zack retorted.

You sighed. What were you going to do now? You were still starving.

“Maybe we should just go to a café for breakfast,” Zack said, as though he were reading your mind. But then you had an idea. You couldn’t tell if you were delusional from still being so tired or if the eggless pancakes had somehow altered your brain chemistry, but you were suddenly overcome by a childish urge.

“We could…” you began, picking the untouched box of eggs off the counter. “But we still have some uncooked batter. We could just add the eggs to it.”

“We do? Where?” Zack questioned, looking puzzledly around the room.

“Right here,” you said, taking an egg from the box and slamming it on the part of Zack’s hair that was still smothered in batter. The egg cracked and its contents dripped onto Zack’s already messy hair and all the way down his face. His jaw dropped and he scoffed in shock.

“Oh my God,” he yelled in the same tone as before.

You didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him. But before you had time to do either, Zack had grabbed an egg from the box in your hand and smashed in on your head.

“Hey, what the hell?” you shouted as the cold egg trickled down your nose.

“Now we’re even,” Zack smirked.

You shook your head but smiled back at him. “You are such a child,” you laughed, wiping some egg off your face that was about to fall into your eye.

“You started it,” Zack replied.

“And now I’m finishing it,” you said, taking the box of eggs out of his grasp before he reached for another one. “Now let’s go and get cleaned up so we can actually go and buy some proper food.”

“Can we get cleaned up together?” Zack asked, raising his brow.

“Oh, grow up,” you smirked. Nevertheless, you began pulling him into the bathroom by the neck of his shirt.

#zack addy #dr zack addy #gn!reader #zack addy fluff #zack addy x reader #zack addy one shot #bones #bones tv #bones tv show #fluff oneshot #fluff fic

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shion-yu · 3 months

Text

Not Your Fault (part 1)

Part 1! Alex, Shu’s foster son, is suspended and not feeling well. Ryo is his safe place. For my @badthingshappenbingo space space “Leave Me Alone.” Original work, 2,718 words, no TW, CW mentions of past parental drug use/death, Alex is 13 here.

Alex's mom never cared whether or not he showed up to school as long as he stayed out of her way, so he didn't understand why Shu thought it was such a big deal when he played hooky or cut the classes he didn't like. Now was being suspended for the third time in the school year since coming to live with Shu, this time for calling the teacher a bitch when she pointed out his absence during fourth period. He'd shown up during her class, so why the hell did she care about the last class? It's not like he had been doing anything bad - he'd been taking a nap in the old science lab nursing a headache that wouldn't go away.

Not that he told them that, but it made him so angry that they assumed he was always up to trouble that he didn't bother. They probably wouldn't have believed him anyways.

He ended up in the office until Shu had to leave work again to talk to the principal and school counselor, and then brought Alex home for the rest of the week where he was to write a formal letter of apology to the teacher. Alex had tried to refuse, but Shu interrupted him loudly saying, "He'll do it," and dragged him home.

The drive back was near silent. Alex crossed his arms defensively and leaned against the door, staring out the window as they drove back to Shu's small two bedroom home. Alex pressed his forehead against the cold glass. It helped the persistent headache a little, but not much. They were just around the block when Shu said, "The principal told me usually the policy is three suspensions in one year and you're out. But given your situation they'll give you one more chance."

Alex could tell Shu wanted him to take this as a sign to shape up, but instead he scowled and said, "Whoop dee doo," with the utmost sarcasm.

Shu winced and was quiet again until they pulled into the driveway of the house. Alex quickly unbuckled and was ready to jump out of the car but Shu said, "Alex, wait."

Listening to Shu was not Alex's forté. He was fourteen and didn't feel like listening to anybody, let alone the prim and proper Shu who just happened to be fostering him. Alex wondered more than once if Shu was just doing it for the check and had decided he'd make it as not-worth it as possible to test that theory. It required no extra work - Alex was always unpleasant without trying.

Alex yanked at the car door handle to exit but Shu hit the automatic locks before he could. "What?" Alex snapped, facing him indignantly. Shu opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked like he couldn't figure out how he wanted to answer Alex. Alex rolled his eyes. This was a waste of time and he didn't have the resolve to wait for idiot Shu any longer. He wanted to get into bed and hide under the covers where he could shut out the whole world. He turned to open the door again when Shu put a hand on his forearm. Alex flinched and pulled it away immediately, gripping his arm with the other hand as if Shu had burned him. "What the fuck? Don't touch me!"

Shu held his hands up defensively. "Sorry, sorry," he said. Alex glared venomously at him. He hated being touched and Shu knew that. "But Alex, please, if you get expelled I don't know if I can keep you. They might take you away from me." Shu sounded like he was pleading and it just made Alex more angry. He didn't want to play this stupid game with Shu; he didn’t want to listen to Shu pretend to care.

"So? I told you to leave me alone," Alex snapped defiantly. "It's not like you're my dad."

"And I'm not trying to be," Shu said. "But I am trying to be your guardian, and that means I want the best for you. One of my coworkers said they took their sister's foster kid away when he got expelled. I don't want that to happen to us."

"Why not?" Alex said, eyes flashing dangerously in anger. "You'd be way happier without me."

"That's not true," Shu said sadly. "I don't want to lose you."

"Why?" Alex challenged him. "I make your life hell when you were living your perfect little suburban life before me."

"It's true that life was easier," Shu said, surprising Alex with his honesty for once. "But it was also empty. You're right, I'm not your dad. But I am your family now and I think you're a really great kid."

Alex looked at Shu like he was insane. "Great kid? I literally just got suspended and the only reason I'm not expelled is ‘coz the principal feels bad I'm messed up." Or Mr. Goodson just thought it was a bad look to expel the kid whose mom died blowing up the meth lab inside their apartment only a few months ago. Alex didn't know and he didn't care. He hated when people felt bad for him. His head pulsed painfully.

“The reason you’re not suspended is because I begged him for one more chance,” Shu said. Oh, so that's what Shu was doing when he took so long just him and Mr. Goodson in the office for like an hour while Alex sat on the bench in the corner picking skin off his cuticles. "I told him I couldn't lose you."

"Lose me? Like a puppy?" Alex snarled. "This is dumb. Get a dog if you're lonely. I'll only hurt you." He opened the door and stalked down the suburban sidewalk with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Where are you going?" He heard Shu’s desperate voice call after him.

"Leave me alone!" Alex shouted, not looking back. His head throbbed and he swallowed back some nausea that had risen to his throat. Ugh, it was still annoyingly cold for early April. Alex shivered and wrapped his arms around himself as he stalked down the street angrily. He needed a cigarette, but this stupid neighborhood wasn't the kind where he could just pay someone at the corner store to buy him some. It was too nice for that shit to fly around here.

Alex walked the three blocks to Ryo's house before remembering Ryo was still at school. It didn't matter, he would still rather be here. Alex scaled the wooden privacy fence easily and then climbed into the tree house that sat in a tree in Ryo's backyard. In the months since they'd become friends, Alex had found this to be his favorite place. Shu didn't know about it and nobody came up here to bother him. It was just him and Ryo, or right now, just him.

Alex felt a chill go through him and he pulled his knees up close to his chest. Usually when they came up here to hang out Ryo would bring a blanket, but they hadn't left one up here this time. Alex coughed into his crossed arms, which reminded him how much his throat and head hurt. The cold, wooden platform was uncomfortable but it was quiet and Alex found his eyes drooping in no time.

Shu definitely thought he was off causing trouble, Alex thought to himself. The guy acted nice, but in the end he was probably the same as all of the adults. Ready to throw him away as soon as he became too inconvenient or got in the way. Shu had lasted a lot longer than Alex had expected, but it wouldn’t be for much longer at this rate.

"Alex?"

Alex startled awake to find Ryo at the entrance of the treehouse, peering at him curiously. "What're you doing here?" Alex mumbled.

"It's my backyard," Ryo laughed and climbed the rest of the way in. He sat in front of Alex cross legged. "You're shivering."

"S'cold."

"It's not that cold," Ryo said, frowning. He took off his own jacket and wrapped it around Alex. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Alex grunted. "Suspended again. Is school already over?"

"Yeah," Ryo said. "Mom told me Shu called the house to see if you were here. She said you weren't, but she didn't check up here."

Alex managed a thin smile. "But you knew to check?"

"Course," Ryo grinned back. They looked at each other for a long moment which was broken only by Alex quickly ducking his face into his elbow and sneezing loudly.

"Heeee' etchiew! Guh..."

The congestion that the sneeze moved around tickled Alex's throat and he began to cough roughly. Ryo grimaced. "Let's go to my bedroom," he said. "You don't look so good."

"I'mb find," Alex said stuffily, his voice betraying him. He shivered, his body also doing him no favors in hiding his apparent unwellness. *"Don't you have homew - wah... W'etchiew! Ugh. Homb worgk?"

"I won't be able to concentrate on it knowing you're up here sick," Ryo said, ignoring Alex's immediate retort of "Ndot sick." "You can warm up in my bed, how's that?" The temptation of being under the covers in Ryo's comfy bed was too much when Alex was feeling so cold and achy, so he gave in and they climbed down from the treehouse one by one.

Ryo led Alex into the house. His mom was in the kitchen and looked at Alex, a little startled. Alex knew she wasn't the biggest fan of him, the new brooding bad boy hanging around her golden child. But she wasn't mean either. "Alex! Shu called looking for you."

Alex waved one hand in the air noncommittally, coughing into the other arm. "Can we have some hot chocolate mom?" Ryo asked. "We're gonna go study in my room."

"Sure honey. After I call Shu back," she said. Alex groaned internally. This meant that Shu would be at Ryo's doorstep in about ten minutes to drag him home. He wanted to take a real nap in Ryo's bed, not get nagged by Mr. Goody Two-shoes again. He'd take what he could get though and followed Ryo upstairs. He dove under the covers of Ryo's bed right away, shivering.

Ryo looked at him worriedly. "Hang on," he said, darting to the bathroom and coming back with a thermometer. "See if you have a fever?"

Alex just burrowed himself deeper under Ryo's covers, grunting, "It doesn't matter. Just let me sleep." Ryo made a pouting face but didn't push it. He sat at his desk and pulled out his school work as Alex tried to warm up, but the cold had made it down to his bones and his whole body hurt. He tried to keep from shivering as much as he could, but every few seconds a strong one would escape and wrack his entire body.

Ryo's bed smelled like him. It was strangely comforting. They had become friends rather quickly when Alex had transferred into Ryo's school that November after being placed with Shu. Alex was grouchy and sullen and refused to talk, while Ryo was constantly smiling. At first Alex tried to ignore his overly eager classmate, but opposites attracted and somehow they became an unlikely, but inseparable, pair. Ryo always just seemed to know what Alex wanted, even if Alex refused to admit it himself. He was good at talking on Alex's behalf and treated Alex like a normal person rather than a feral animal to be poked with a yardstick. He was cheeky and loud and annoying, but Alex stuck with him for reasons he didn't quite understand. Ryo just made him feel safer and he never asked any questions about his past.

Alex didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he heard Shu's voice murmuring in low tones. He was finally warm and comfortable hidden under Ryo's sheets, he didn't want to leave... He waited for Shu to pull back the covers, but he didn't. Alex's eyes grew heavy again and before he knew it, he'd drifted back asleep.

It was dark when Alex finally emerged, stiff and coughing. Thick gunk was coming up now, making it hard to deny he'd moved from the sniffles into a full blown chest cold. He groaned and sat up, looking around. He was alone in the bedroom, but he could hear voices downstairs. He wrapped the throw blanket around himself and slunk down the stairs, looking for Ryo. Alex found him sitting at the dinner table with his parents and Shu, laughing. Confused, Alex thought maybe he was still dreaming. But Ryo noticed him immediately and let out a happy, "Alex!"

Alex blinked at the scene. "What's going on?" He asked hesitantly. The adults were all eyeing him with something close to pity. Ryo jumped up and dragged another chair to the table from the kitchen, patting it for Alex to sit down in.

"I didn't want to wake you up," Shu explained. "Ryo said you have a fever. How do you feel?"

"Fine," Alex lied, sitting in his newly designated chair next to Ryo. In reality he looked pretty miserable, blonde hair sticking up in all directions, nose red, voice stuffy and eyes bloodshot. He hadn't felt this sick this morning, he thought. Maybe the nap outside in the treehouse while he was already coming down with something hadn't been such a good idea.

"Are you hungry?" Ryo's mom asked. Alex shook his head no. The others seemed like they were about done and Shu stood up.

"Shall we get going?" He asked Alex, looking at Alex hopefully. Alex shrugged. It was as close to a yes as Shu was going to get. Shu thanked Ryo's parents repeatedly and Ryo gave Alex a quick hug. This was a new thing, and Ryo was the only person allowed to do it. Alex and Shu went to Shu's car and Shu drove them home.

"Mrs. Fujioka said you're welcome any time, but you ought to let me know first," Shu said. "I'd appreciate that too. I won't say no. Ryo's a good kid."

'Unlike me,' Alex supplied silently. He coughed, wincing when it sounded much wetter than the one he'd woken up with it. He'd managed to avoid Shu at breakfast so Shu wouldn't notice, but there was no point in hiding it now.

"You sound like you need to be in bed," Shu glanced at him, frowning. "How long have you been feeling sick?"

Alex didn't answer. Yesterday after school he'd started feeling off though, and he was pretty sure he'd had a fever and chills last night too because it had been impossible to get warm.

Shu sighed. "Alex, if you hadn't felt well you didn't have to go to school," he said. Alex shrugged. He hadn't wanted Shu to know, because he hadn't wanted to answer tedious questions exactly like this. "You can talk to me," Shu added.

Alex had heard so many people say that in his life who absolutely did not mean it. He wouldn't start believing it now, even if Shu was nice and never seemed to get mad at him no matter what trouble he stirred up. It was a miracle really - Alex wasn't sure he'd ever met someone as patient as Shu. He was still wary though, because that could always change someday, couldn't it?

They parked in the driveway and went into the house. Shu asked him if he was hungry again and Alex shook his head no. He just wanted to sleep. He changed into pajamas and crawled into his own bed, regretting it wasn't as warm as Ryo's had felt. Shu came in with a glass of water and two Tylenol, which he offered Alex. Alex downed them wordlessly and then flopped under the covers.

"Come get me if you feel worse, or if you need anything,” Shu told him. Once again, no answer. Alex had no intentions of going to get Shu like a little kid. He had taken care of himself for thirteen years just fine - a little cold wasn’t going to push him over the edge. He waited for Shu to leave the room before he fell asleep thinking about how Ryo had hugged him and how warm it had felt.

#shionwrites #sickfic #parental relationship #bad things happen bingo #oc: alex #oc: ryo #oc: shu #whump #fever whump #illness whump #flu whump #sicknario #leave me alone #male cold #sick whump #minor whump #OC sickfic

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