once he was able to settle into the role of captain and take less orders than he gives, it spiraled a little out of control and into his personal life. his wife turned into another thing to control and boss around. so she left him before they could have any kids. before she was tied to him forever.
he wasn't that heartbroken, just a little annoyed he didn't have anyone to get his cock wet whenever he wanted. finding birds at bars wasn't hard for him, he just couldn't be bothered.
that's when he finds you aimlessly wandering around the base with a big sticker on your sweater that read "CIVILIAN". he asks if you need assistance, you blink up at him and ask him where Kate Laswell is and the lilt in your voice goes straight to his groin. he just smiles and guides you across the hall to where Kate's office is. you'd been a few feet away from the damn nameplate on the wall and still couldn't find it. so pretty and so dumb, his favorite combination.
now...it's his job to help, but it's not his job to stare at your ass as you walk away. but every curve on you was so enticing, he really couldn't help himself. so he waits like a patient predator for you to leave, catching you on the way out and asking if you'd like him to walk you to the entrance so you don't get lost. you just smile up at him and nod.
kate tried to chastise him for dating you, she really did her best to prevent your demise. you were too young, too soft, too innocent for a man like him. the rest of the team held the same thoughts, but would never voice them. everyone was so damn concerned about you and your wellbeing. and you never understood why.
sure, he asked you to move in after 3 months. but he was right! it made more sense since he wasn't home all the time, if you lived with him it made seeing him a lot easier. and yes he proposed only 2 months after you moved in, everyone in your life (and his) telling you it was way too soon and that you didn't really know him yet. but when you know, you know! sometimes the pitiful stares really confused you, the way Kyle and Johnny smiled weakly at you when you visited John on base, belly already round with child #1 only a few months after he slid that diamond on your finger.
it was as if everyone thought you were some trapped animal. snatched from your home in the rainforest and dropped into a cramped cage in the middle of a busy metropolitan city zoo, destined to live out the rest of your pathetic life cooped up there.
but no one understood that you were exactly where you wanted to be. so what if John had a preference over what clothes you wore and food you ate? those types of decisions were boring and quite frankly it was nice to have someone do it for you. yes he made you quit your job so he could "provide for you", but you hated that dead end office anyway. he expected a lot of sex, but he fucked you so good and full it was almost impossible to say no.
so you let everyone think John was in charge. especially John. he really thought he had it made, a pretty little wife that asked how high when he said jump. one that always had tea on the table and a whiskey ready for him when the kids finally went to bed. one that dutifully opened her legs and her mouth whenever he said the word.
but you ran that house with an iron fist. albeit a manicured one.
squeaky cupboard door? he better fix it, no matter how long his day was. favorite heels wearing thin? he better buy you three new pairs in different colors. he wanted to act like a big strong man? he could take the trash out, fix your car, tend the garden, build you furniture, and entertain the kids while you have a nice long soak in the bath.
you let him fuck you six ways to Sunday almost nightly, desecrate and violate you in ways you would never suggest on your own, and get you pregnant mere months after you've pushed out another one of his kids. so damn right you're getting a foot massage even though he's the one who's been on his feet all day.
so yes, you let John (and everyone else) think that he's in control. that you're some sweet little housewife that John caught in his web. too dumb for your own good.
but it takes John three tries to get the kids to quiet down.
it only takes one look from you to get them in line.
You don’t know what you did to make your pack hate you.
But they do hate you, of that, you’re certain. It’s been weeks of avoidance, of glaring when they see you, of “accidentally” hitting you too hard during spars. Ghost and Gaz seem to hate you the most, but you can’t be sure, because you’ve barely even seen Soap in weeks, and whenever you do, he refuses to make eye contact with you, his tail tucked between his legs. Price is slightly less antagonistic, but there is no more warmth in his interactions with you, all of them coldly professional.
It’s tearing you up inside.
You’re considering putting in for a transfer when the news comes—you’re being loaned out to the Americans for a mission that will take several weeks, maybe months. No one else from the 141 will be coming with you.
You hold off on your transfer request, as a favor to Laswell, who apparently personally recommended you. You know it likely won’t be accepted until after the mission is finished, anyway.
You’re up and on the tarmac at 05:00. None of your pack comes to say goodbye.
As the helo lifts off, you feel the bonds you’d formed with each and every one of them—once so strong and a great source of comfort—break, unable to hold up under the strain of rejection any longer. It’s agony, but it’s freedom, too, in a way.
Johnny wakes up with a pained gasp, clawing at his chest as he shoots up in bed. Beside him, Simon sits up sharply as well, reaching for the gun under his pillow before realizing the room is empty.
“Just a nightmare,” he soothes his sergeant, heart breaking at the horrible whines coming from him. He pulls Johnny close, kissing the crown of his head. “S’olright, Soap. Go back ta sleep.”
And Soap does, the ache in his chest slowly fading, but never quite disappearing entirely. He wonders what he was dreaming of, to have such an intense reaction…
141 with a tipsy reader and how they shows affection - but leans to simon x reader
Totally self indulgent
No warnings
Simon likes when you drink.
You're a smart girl, so why you try and match him with your speed and drinking beats him. He finishes his scotch, you take the last swig of your ginger whisky. Steadily standing up with him to go make another. Leaning on his arm and humming. Going on your tippy toes to kiss the side of his mask. Snuggling back into his side as you unevenly pour yourself another drink. Relying on him to tell you what to mix. Cause you're to gone to realize what goes well with what.
The boys all know this version of you. The sweet, affectionate side. The non-blood thirsty, break a man leg side. They all let it slide. Plus, it's rare… when you're not drinking.
“Bleedin’ jesus, she’s at it again” Johnny jokes. He fucking loves it. Loves the drama (PROVE me otherwise)
They’ve all learned to go with it. Your hugs, pecks, and hair ruffles. You always clap price on the shoulder when you leave, or hit the mid way point in your drinking. It’s your version of affection. Of a non-verbal 'thank you". Price knows to leave it there. Or else you'll squeeze the bloody hell out of him.
You lean on Gaz, hum when he speaks and always listening to his every word. You're attentive.
You play fight with Soap when his jitters come in. Snorting and laughing when he throws you on the ground. Clasping his arm to get pulled back up and giving him those awkward man hugs cause youre too numb to correct yourself. Or care.
And simon. You dance with him.
Moving slowly with his movements to the beat and leaning on him. Face shoved into his neck, leaning maybe a bit to much.
It’s just cause your tipsy he's dancing with you. Doesnt want you to start crying an internalizing. That's the lie he tells himself. As he holds your waist and allows you to rest on him and sway to the music on the record player in your room.
As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.
Gaz has a secret. His soft human.
It started as a selective project a way to gauge the general public's current opinion of hybrids. He edited a few pictures so his wings were not visible and made a fake profile.
Out of the 141 Gaz trusts humans the least. He was not thousands of years old like Price. He was never human like Ghost once was. He can not smell emotions like Soap can. He was born this way and forced to face the harsh reality. So, no, he does not trust humans, but he trusts when his flock says someone is worth it.
But then they messaged him. It was about his sweater. They said it was the prettiest blue and they wanted to know where to buy it. He couldn't help himself; he researched them. They were soft in all the ways he could never be. He found himself having deep conversations with them, then video calls where he carefully hid his wings.
They were so sweet and soft. Always in a sweater of some kind, always a size or two big. "like a hug." They were kind. They loved scents. Always had some candle going in the background of their calls. He was addicted to their softness.
Yet he was terrified. They were from a region that was hostile to hybrids. He was always so careful to avoid chirps or any indication he was anything other than human. Then they slipped up one day, and an excited squeak came out. It sounded far too much like a chirp. they covered their mouth and apologized.
Gaz nearly had a heart attack as they started bawling, begging him to stay friends. That they know they are weird. That they normally have better control. Please don't leave. He thanks his training for the ability to calm them down from what is clearly a panic attack. He reassures them that the noise did not bother him about thousand times before he can ask why they made the noise.
They explain through tears that their brain processes information differently. That they did not get along with other kids growing up. They watched a lot of nature documentaries as a child, and some of the sounds got absorbed into their form of communication. That people find it weird, and they have always struggled to make friends.
Gaz just adores their chirps. Even does some back. Of course, the reader thinks this is to be friendly to them, not realizing that Gaz has essentially decided they are flock. He still hides his hybrid status. Gaz sneaks away to make his video call at least once weekly. Gaz starts sending them little trinkets and sweaters and blankets and plushies. They send trinkets back and sweaters. They are essentially courting each other, and Gaz has yet to tell them the truth. They are just excited to finally have a friend. Gaz has to focus really hard to make sure his wings do not fluff into frame when they make happy sounds at opening what he sends them. He had to pretend his camera was acting up the first time he saw them stemming with their sleeves, it looked too much like fluffing wings. Then he found out they nest in the blankets and plushies he sent.
This was all fine and dandy until Gaz did not call for two weeks. Sure, he had gone longer without calling, but he would always give a heads-up or text. Now he was completely radio silent. They feared they had upset their dearest friend in some way, but they knew Gaz was some type of military and could not shake this odd feeling.
So you may have hidden some things from Gaz. Like the fact that you study magic, or like the fact that you are incredibly good at investigating things. You started with the return address from the package he last sent you.
You are not 100% sure how you even got there, but you are in an interrogation room in homemade gear with Laswell across from you, with you only repeating, "I will not stop until I have my person back."
What had actually happened was that you were caught sneaking into a base and hissed at a general who called Laswell, assuming you were a hybrid.
Simply put, the gear you made is laced with magic and sigils but is also loose-fitting and designed to obscure your identity. You are wearing a collar with a tag (extra strong sigil on the tag) and what looks like a muzzle with a voice changer in it and a hood that is literally held in place with hairpins. Unfortunately, this also looks a lot like control gear. Laswell knows from experience that removing gear from a hybrid is not a wise decision if said hybrid is comfortable in it.
The mission that Gaz was on was a collaboration with a human team. Laswell is under the impression that you are a hybrid that believes you are owned by one of those humans. Which means several things. One, she is probably going to have to take one of them into custody. It is some relief to her that you do not refer to them as owner. At minimum, you will help her get her boys home if it means bringing your person home. Laswell also knows from experience that breaking an ownership mindset will have to start with finding said owner. So she agrees to help you get your person back.
You joined a team breaking into where a lead, said they were being held. It was a dead end, but Laswell was certain that the person captured knew where the 141 was taken. The problem he was not talking. You growled in frustration, sounding enough like a wolf that the hybrids near you backed up. "I can make him talk." It was a risk you knew that. Your body was already weak from using so much magic on that mission.
Laswell let you in the room with him, and you sat in the chair across from him as he spat insults about hybrids at you. You calmly took off your goggles, laying them on the table and looked him in the eyes.
From Laswell's perspective, it seemed like the cameras were malfunctioning, the visuals distorting, and the room looking darker and more shadowy. Then the feed was completely cut when you looked him in the eye, "I am-" sounds like death came through the speaker, and she rushed to the door to the interrogation room, trying to get to you. The door would not budge. You had set up wards, making sure there would be no interruptions, and your magic entered his mind. You did no damage, but you made it clear what you could do, then stood as he begged to tell where they were. You opened the door and collapsed into Laswell's arms.
You were placed in the med bay. Exhaustion. Laswell cursed herself for not noticing sooner just how much you had been pushing yourself. You were not like her boys. You did not have the training.
The rescue happened while you were asleep, but the moment you were up, you were waiting outside on their return, pacing so much that Laswell feared you would faint again. So she made you sit in a folding chair and drink some juice and nibble on crackers.
Gaz was the last to step out of the vehicle, and to say everyone was confused was an understatement. One second, you were standing beside Laswell, the next, you were in Kyle's arms, mask muzzle on the ground as you chirped and whined at him, smelling like that place. You rubbed up against him, scent-marking him, trying to fix it as you checked out his injuries. Then, you saw his injured wing, and a legitimate pained whine came out before magic quickly formed in your hand as you cast a spell to speed up his healing and ease the pain. Downside: you were effectively exhausted again. Now barely conscious and just snuggling in Gaz as he holds you up.
His soft human is in his arms. It feels so right, but everything is wrong. They should not be here. They should never be here. His arms are around them, and his wings create a protective shield. They smell like the med bay. He barely contains his rage, "What did they do to you?" His human blinks sleepily at him, just clinging harder like they do not understand. He suspects they are too out of it to comprehend anything anymore. Gaz scoops them up and carries them to the nest, refusing to let anyone, even his own flock, near until he is sure his mate is okay.
Laswell is confused and talks to Price about the new hybrid. They come to the conclusion that it must be a mating thing. Some hybrids use possessive terms for mates. Price is definitely not happy that Kyle hid the fact that he had a mate, but then again, in their line of work, one can never be too careful. Price is, however, very relieved that Gaz brought you to the pack nest even if he will not allow anyone else near. That at least means he wants you to smell like the pack, not just himself. They take turns leaving snacks and such at the edge of the nest for them.
When you finally come to, Gaz is asleep, wing draped over you like a blanket, and you feel too warm, too much. You crawl out from the nest only to be met with Ghost, who is internally panicking because he was just dropping off snacks. What if he scares you? Kyle will kill him. Only you are too busy shedding your gear, feeling nauseous to really care about the hulking figure at first.
Overstimulated and feeling sick, you manage a few words, somehow conveying the problem to Ghost. Ghost barely processes that he is definitely looking at a human before he quickly gets you a cold water and a wet rag. Soap sees Ghost sprinting to and from the kitchen and alerts Price.
So now the entire team is awkwardly standing far enough away that if Gaz wakes up, they won't anger the mating instincts while they try and fail to understand what happened. Soap snaps out of it first, offering to show you where the restrooms are so you can take a cold shower and hopefully fight off the nausea. Price fears Gaz will try to kill Soap after, since this would effectively remove all the scent from you, and points out as such. Ghost retrieves Gaz's bodywash and shampoo while Soap gets you one of Gaz's t-shirts.
Gaz wakes up horrified that you are not in his arms but calms and seems is delighted that his soft human mate is being doted on by his pack, eating ice cream in his clothes. This is also the first time he has ever seen his soft human in a t-shirt, and he can not suppress what his wings do in response.
Like this? Check out the versions for Ghost and Soaps online besties.
Price is going to have a turn too, lol.
@lostintransist, I don't figure this is your normal style, but i thought you might like the angst potential.
outlaw!ghost x afab!reader | masterlist | 1800's wild west
summary: a charged, late night encounter with ghost leaves you wondering when your feelings towards the masked outlaw shifted.
word count: 9.2k
cw: depictions of blood/minor injuries, brief mentions of death and domestic abuse. light harassment. mdni, 18+
You were finally beginning to settle in, finally beginning to accept your new life as your own.
The morning after Kate and John Price arrived, you were put to work. It had been a nice reprieve — those first few days, you’d had nothing to do but sleep, eat, shop, read, and wander around town — but you’d begun to grow bored. You’d never had so much free time in your life, and you weren’t sure you liked it all that much — at least not for the foreseeable future. The idea of it seemed much better in theory than in practice, to have nothing but time for days and days on end.
You’d been grateful to finally have something to do, something that made you feel useful. Something that made you feel like you could pay them back for all that they’d done for you, for all the trouble they’d taken on by bringing you into their fold, even if they insisted it’d been no trouble at all.
Kate had assigned you with the task of some light cleaning, some basic maidservant duties. Upon her apparent return to town — because it became increasingly obvious she wasn’t new to this place, just like the men weren’t — she had assumed the role of proprietor, of manager of The Prairie Rose.
It seemed that everywhere she went, every space she entered, she was in charge. Everyone listened to her, heeded to whatever she said, whatever order she gave — even the men, who you thought could never be tamed, could never bend to the will of another — god forbid that of a woman. It was impressive, the way she commanded a room, the way a simple string of words had everyone falling into line.
You wanted to please her, to impress her even. You wanted her to be satisfied with the work you’d done, with the tasks she assigned you. The effort you put in to sweeping, to scrubbing, to stripping used linens and dusting shelves had nothing to do with the fear of retribution for a poor job done and everything to do with appeasing her, of gaining her approval you so desperately craved. It didn’t hurt that you were paid a small salary, too — the first time you’d ever made money of your own.
It gave you a renewed sense of purpose, you realized. It was easy work, simple; nothing that required much thought or skill, but you were more than happy to take it on, to be of service. It wasn’t an obligation or a chore that could bring about any kind of punishment for anything less than perfection — not anymore.
That alone gave you a sense of peace.
Once your cleaning duties of the day were fulfilled, Kate let you have the rest of the day for yourself. Usually, you strolled through town, exploring streets and shops you hadn’t yet visited and getting to know the city. It was vast, expansive — seemingly never-ending roads of uneven cobblestone and dusty paths winding every which way, stretching endlessly for what felt like miles. You tried to take a different route each day to see more, to learn more about your new home — for however long it would be your home, at least.
These days, you never knew what to expect.
Sometimes, when she was free and willing, Roze joined you. You’d found out that she worked at The Prairie Rose, too, mostly serving as a barkeep in the saloon. She’d tried to get you to work the night with her, had suggested it once while you were out on a walk together. You’d immediately declined, shaking your head at the mere idea of it.
You had yet to venture back down there since that first night you’d arrived, when you’d almost been swallowed whole by the chaos and drunken raucous of the night crawling crowd — so, you couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like to be on the other side of things, trying to manage the madness, to keep up with shouted demands and orders, the spills and the inevitable mess patrons left behind.
The thought alone stressed you out, much less the reality of it.
You knew that the men often spent their nights down there, drinking and smoking and generally taking part in indulging their vices. It was why Ghost came to your shared room late every evening, the moon high in the sky, sweat and smoke and liquor clinging to his skin, his breath, and his clothes. He’d never mentioned it to you, never confirmed where he was, but he didn’t need to. You knew.
Not that it was really any of your business what he did with his time, how he spent his days. You didn’t see him nor the other men much as it was. He always slipped into the room late at night like clockwork, well after the sun had set, and he was gone long before you woke up, nothing left behind but rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him etched into the wrinkled linen.
Sometimes, it felt like he was just a figment of your imagination, like he was someone your twisted and tired brain conjured up to make you feel less alone.
After all, it’s not like you had any real idea of what he looked like.
As the days stretched on, as the nights came and went, you felt yourself growing more and more comfortable around him, sharing that room and that bed with him. It was a gradual transition, a slow change over time — it didn’t happen overnight, wasn’t something you were doing consciously. In fact, you weren’t even sure when it shifted, when his mere existence around yours didn’t make the hair on the back of your neck stand up, didn’t make your spine stiffen and your shoulders bunch up to your ears.
It was just something you finally noticed, a feeling you finally acknowledged. You were half asleep, drifting towards unconsciousness, when you heard the telltale creak of the hinges, the leaden footsteps you’d learned to recognize as his, that slight hitch in his left leg. You didn’t react, barely even stirred as he went about his routine — stirring the ash and reigniting the fire, kicking off his boots and stripping off his clothes. The mattress dipped beneath him, the ropes underneath creaking as he climbed in, tossing the quilt aside like he always did, his body running like a furnace and providing him with more than enough heat for the cold desert nights.
The familiar smell of him filled your lungs, clouding your thoughts as a soft hum slipped from your lips. Eyes still closed and brain still a little foggy, you readjusted instinctively, drifting closer to him without even meaning to. It didn’t occur to you to move away, to put space between your body and his. No, if anything, you were waiting to feel the weight of his arm around your middle, the warmth of him at your back — a sensation you’d grown accustomed to, the way it had been since you’d arrived here.
And it was like he noticed the shift in you, the absence of any hesitation and tension; saw the way your body remained relaxed, your breaths slow, sleepy, and even. Comfortable. Cozy.
He took all of one second to hesitate, the only evidence of his surprise, before he shifted closer to you, erasing the small gap that remained. His thick arm was a band around your stomach, pulling you the rest of the way against him, his neck craned and gaze silently locked on your face to watch for any signs of that usual agitation, the typical discomfort your body showed even when you couldn’t find your voice.
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
It wasn’t until the morning — his warmth long gone — that it occurred to you how monumental that was, how big of a change that had been for the both of you.
You never thought you’d ever be comfortable around a man again, much less one whose face you’d never even seen. Much less one tied to you by these circumstances — a man who’d killed your husband without hesitation, who’d defended your honor without even knowing your name, who’d saved your life and given you a future you never thought you’d have.
So maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that you felt more at ease around him, more comfortable. It wasn’t like your uncertainty around him was completely gone — of course, the man still terrified you in more ways than one. You’d seen what he was capable of, witnessed why his reputation preceded him. Capable of taking a life in cold blood, firing bullets without pause, utterly unmoved and unbothered by the bodies that dropped or the last breaths stolen from gasping lungs.
But you’d seen another side of him, too. One that most people never got close enough to witness, never even considered to be a possibility. A side that those who whispered his name, who shivered at the mention of the man behind the red mask, could never possibly fathom.
A side that was aching gentle, painstakingly kind. Caring, even if it came off as blunt and crass and sometimes rough around the edges.
He cared about you. Whether or not he would ever use his words, would ever admit it to you, it showed. He’d come to your rescue more than once and not just when he killed your abusive ex before he could kill you.
It showed when your father had turned up, demanding to take you back after your husband was no longer able to call you his property. When you’d almost gotten swept up in the tide of the rowdy saloon. When he helped you on and off his black stallion, your legs too short and too weak to mount the giant animal by yourself.
When he let you doze off on the ride towards town, tucked right into the crook of his arm without complaint. When he, and admittedly the others, provided you with lodging and meals every day, multiple times a day.
He slept beside you each and every night, the first line of defense against any threat that might come your way from beyond those four walls. Yes, it was possessive — that much was painfully clear. The way he claimed you in front of others, called you his; the way he refused to let you stray too far from his sight or someone he trusted for too long. But beneath it, there was something else too. Something protective. Preserving. Quietly safeguarding you in a way you’d never known before, had never experienced.
Or maybe, you were falling victim to another version of Stockholm syndrome.
It made you question everything, overthinking it all as you went about your day, changing used sheets and sweeping rooms, scrubbing down surfaces and washing the bathing spaces.
Was it wrong that you felt safe around him, or were you losing your mind? Was it wrong that you were slowly beginning to trust another man after everything you’d gone through, or were you completely brainless?
You weren’t sure what you were supposed to feel, what you were supposed to think. If a more sane, a more reasonable person would feel the same in your position, under your circumstances.
It had been three weeks since you’d arrived in town, about two weeks since Kate and John Price followed behind. Your bruises had long since faded, and the aches in your body had dissipated; the cut on your temple nothing more than a thin, reddish scar. Kate had taken the stitches out awhile ago now, aiding you in keeping it clean. She always checked in on you, always made time for you even amongst her busy schedule, the full plate you knew she had every day without fail.
Now, nothing from your previous life remained but your old brown boots and the old scars scattered across your body. You’d even thrown out your old white dress, the thin hand-me-down that you’d had for far too long — the one that you’d been wearing that day when you’d stumbled into their bar, the one Kate had scrubbed your husband’s blood out of.
You wanted no evidence, no piece of your old life to taint your new one — ridding yourself of anything left behind, anything tangible that could be tossed. You wanted nothing to show for that time — that dark, endless pit that you endured for far longer than any person should’ve.
Later on, once your work for the day was complete, you mindlessly ambled around town, alternating between left and right turns, letting your feet take you wherever they wanted as your mind went elsewhere. You were still completely and utterly fixated on your inner self, overanalyzing and scrutinizing every thought, every feeling, every choice made that related to Ghost. Considering whether or not you were being idiotic and foolish, whether you were letting yourself fall into another trap set by a man with nothing but bad intentions.
You must have been wandering for hours, lost in a mindless haze as the sun dipped toward the horizon, beginning to slip behind the orange mesas far off in the distance. Thankfully, you ended up just a few blocks away from The Prairie Rose, able to spot the red brick building from where you stood. Even though dusk approached, the town was still as busy and vibrant as ever — clomping hooves from passing horses, ragtime tunes spilling out from open doors and windows, laughter and loud chatter, street vendors shouting over one another as they peddled their goods.
You knew better than to linger, quickly making your way back to the saloon and inn. It wasn’t safe to be alone out there once evening fell, once the night sky blanketed the town in darkness. This place, like most towns, morphed into a different beast entirely — people emboldened by their liquor, believing that the twilight hid their depravity, their transgressions.
You always made sure to get back before then, well before then — but you were so caught up in your own head that you hadn’t even noticed what time it was.
Thankfully, you made it back without issue, slinking through the saloon before it got too full. There were already a good number of patrons occupying spots at the bar, lounging in booths and taking over a few tables. You spotted Roze behind the counter — dark hair pinned up, a few loose tendrils hanging around her pretty face, framing her strong features.
Just as you were about to dart into the lobby, you heard her voice call out to you, catching you before you could disappear.
“Fawn!” Her slightly raspy tone rang out, cutting through the loud conversations and clinking glasses. “Don’t think I don’t see you over there!”
Heads turned and bodies shifted, attention drawn to you as you came to a sudden halt, closing your eyes in resignation. You felt your cheeks heat, not all but most observing you, regarding you with intrigue. You tried to ignore it as you made your way over to your friend, who wore a knowing, amused smirk.
“You really thought I wasn’t gonna catch ya?” She arched a dark brow at you as you approached, taking advantage of the few empty spots near the corner of the bar.
You shrugged, propping your elbows up onto the counter. “I mean, I was really hoping not.”
She chuckled as she continued to polish the clean glass in her hands, rag buffing out any leftover streaks and smudges.
“Nothing gets past me, sugar. You know better than that.”
You smiled — because yeah, you did — but it vanished as soon as you glanced over to your right, catching leering gazes already fixed on you. The way some of the men looked at you, watched you, made your skin crawl, eyes dragging over you like you were a slab of fresh meat.
“You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t ya?” One of them jeered with a low whistle, a greasy grin spreading across his face, his eyes gleaming with something wicked, something that made your spine stiffen.
You immediately looked away, shifting uneasily on your feet, fingers nervously picking at the skin around your nail beds.
“Hey. Enough.” Roze snapped, slamming the glass she’d been holding down on the counter, rattling the cups already resting there and gaining everyone’s attention. “Say another word to her and I’ll cut your fucking dick off. That clear?”
The culprit and the others around him straightened immediately, nodding obediently at her warning before pointedly turning their attention anywhere else. Relief loosened the knot in your chest at how quickly they listened to her, how none of them dared challenge her twice.
It, also, thoroughly impressed you.
“Wow.” Your voice was low as you leaned forward, watching the way the men all went back to their business as if you were never even there, didn’t even exist. “How’d you do that?”
Roze didn’t even seem to notice, didn’t seem to be fazed as she started polishing off a new glass. “Do what?”
“Uh, that. Just now.” You tilted your chin subtly in the direction of the chastised patrons. “How you managed to get them to fall in line.”
She scoffed, rolling her blue eyes.
“They’re pigs. All of ‘em.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice as she spoke, completely uncaring whether or not they heard her — and they definitely did. “Gotta treat ‘em like it. And—” she shrugged, “they know there’s a long list of people willing to follow through on the threat I just made. Myself included.”
You had a feeling you knew the entirety of who made up that list.
You bit back a smile, that increasingly familiar warmth unfurling through your chest once more — that same strange sense of safety that seemed to follow you wherever you went these days.
“Can I get you a drink before you disappear for the night?” She asked, eyes flicking back over to you as she topped off a glass of what appeared to be whiskey for one of the patrons who’d actually been quiet during the whole exchange. “On the house.”
You shook your head. “I’m alright. Promise.”
Your gaze drifted over her, taking in her appearance — eyes lined with kohl, black and red corset cinched so tight that her breasts nearly spilled over the neckline.
“You look good,” You complimented her earnestly, even though it wasn’t your own personal style, wasn’t something you had the nerve to ever wear yourself.
A grin tugged at the corners of her lips.
“Really? Huh. I was aiming more for ravishing.” She adjusted herself shamelessly, pushing up her ample chest even higher as she leaned closer to you, lowering her voice so only you could hear. “Gotta make coin somehow. Like I said.” She wrinkled her nose. “Pigs.”
You laughed, the sound catching the attention of a few of the men, but their eyes darted away just as quickly once Roze turned sharply toward them, sending them a warning glare.
You exchanged goodbyes and good nights shortly thereafter, very much ready for the safety and solitude of your room. The music started up as soon as you reached your door, the sounds of the piano and the fiddle traveling all the way up to the third floor.
For the rest of the night, you let yourself relax, your mind and body too worn down from the day’s strain to do much else. You pulled your new book out from beneath the mattress, still wary of Ghost discovering it, of him taking issue with you having it at all.
Deep down, you knew he likely wouldn’t care, probably wouldn’t even mention it — but you still weren’t ready to take that chance, to give him any reason to snap the tenuous balance between you.
You tried your best to focus on the words, to absorb the tales of the dime western you’d purchased with your own earnings, but you couldn’t concentrate, the faded black ink on the page blurring into indecipherable blobs. After a few more minutes, you gave up, finally accepting that you were too tired to actually comprehend any of it. You tucked the book back into its hiding spot and blew out the oil lamp on your bedside table, leaving the other one illuminated for Ghost for whenever he returned, knowing he’d need the small bit of light when he came back.
Settling under the covers, your head resting on the fresh pillowcase you’d changed that morning, you drifted off almost instantly, falling right into a restful sleep.
You weren’t sure when you woke, how much time had passed since you’d first closed your eyes. The fire in the hearth had long since fizzled out, the room significantly cooler. It was quiet, dark — save for the dim glow of the oil lamp still flickering weakly on the far nightstand. Slivers of moonlight trickled in through the sheer curtains, hinting to you of the late hour.
Everything felt normal, typical — except for the fact that beside you, the bed was glaringly empty.
There was no sign, no indication that he’d ever been there, had ever come back while you were sleeping like he usually did. No pile of clothes thrown over the chair, no boots left by the door. Nothing.
It settled over you, your stomach dropping like a stone in a lake as worry seeped through your veins.
He was always back by now. Always.
Sure, he often returned late, never quite at the same hour and usually well after the moon had risen. And sure, it wasn’t as though you had a clock to measure the passing time, but you knew. Knew it was later than it had ever been before.
Something was wrong.
You sat up straight, the sheets pooling around your waist as you stilled, training your ear and listening best you could, trying to see if you could hear any music or sounds or voices trickling in from downstairs.
It was quieter. Much quieter than usual — the faint melody of a guitar, chatter so distant and muffled you could barely make it out. Nothing like the loud, lively revelry that usually raged into the wee hours of the night.
Your heart stuttered, anxiety flooding your chest. You couldn’t shake the feeling, couldn’t ignore the way your gut insisted that something was wrong.
But you were being ridiculous, weren’t you? This was Ghost after all. The man with a reputation that far exceeded itself, a notorious outlaw with a body count higher than you could ever possibly imagine and more blood left in his wake than you cared to know about. He was the biggest man you’d ever seen — the kind that could kill without flinching, could instill fear with just a simple look. You still weren’t even sure he was human, was even susceptible to the same type of harm the average person was.
He was more than capable of handling himself.
Right?
You tried to convince yourself that he was fine, that everything was fine. That you were just overthinking, stressing out about nothing. That you were being completely unreasonable.
But you couldn’t shake the feeling, the unease that took root in your stomach.
You threw off the covers, bare feet landing against the cold floorboards as you rose from the bed. You didn’t know what you were thinking, what you were even doing. Where would you even find him? Where would you even start? Would you go down to the saloon to try and find Roze? Kate? The others? What if they weren’t there? What if they didn’t know where he was, assuming he’d been with you this whole time?
As the questions and uncertainty swirled around in your head, you kept hearing that small nagging voice in the very back corner of your mind — this was absurd. You were absurd. What on earth could you even do in this situation, if he wasn’t down in the saloon? March out into the streets in the middle of the night and search for him yourself?
It didn’t stop you from pulling on your stockings and stuffing your feet into your boots with shaking hands, your pulse thundering in your ears.
He was probably downstairs. He was probably just having an extra drink as the night wound down, draped over an old leather booth with Johnny and Kyle, women all on their laps and begging for their attention.
Wait — where did that come from?
You paused, shaking your head to yourself. A few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have cared that he was gone or what women, if any, were wrapped around him. In fact, you probably would’ve relished in his absence, the freedom it finally gave you, the reprieve from the attention and strange interest he had in you. Sure, you’d gotten used to his presence, the safety he provided by sleeping beside you; comfortable in the way he’d never tried to hurt you, to force himself on you — even if he called you his, claimed you as such in every opportunity he had in front of watching eyes.
And sure, he’d scared you once before, that night not all that long ago where you hadn’t seen him or the others all day and night, when you thought they’d all left you behind. But he’d come back then, and even though it had been late when he did, this surely surpassed it.
…right?
God, were you truly losing your mind?
Swallowing hard, you ignored the racing thoughts, the competing emotions that threatened to take over and render you completely useless. You needed to focus, needed to get your head on straight.
You were just going to look downstairs. If he was there, good. If he wasn’t…well, you’d deal with that when the sun rose.
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief moment to center yourself, to steel yourself for whatever you were about to find, whatever you were about to encounter. The wooden planks creaked under your feet as you crossed the room, tugging the quilt off the bed and throwing it over yourself — there was no way you were going down there in nothing but your thin, white nightgown.
Your hand wrapped around the brass doorknob, fingers curling around the metal as you pulled the door open and nearly jumped right out of your skin, a startled gasp escaping you at what — or rather, who — awaited on the other side.
Ghost. In the flesh.
You stumbled over your own feet, your grip tightening on the handle to keep you from toppling over. You blinked — once, twice — just to make sure you weren’t seeing things, that your mind wasn’t playing tricks on you.
But no, he was there, right in front of you. Cloaked in black from head to toe, his Cattleman pulled low over his eyes, the dim hallway lamp glinting off the red metal of his mask.
“Jesus Christ almighty,” You clutched at your chest as your eyes swept over him, almost like you were looking for further proof that he was real, like your initial glance at him wasn’t enough to prove it. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”
He didn’t say a word. He just stood there, staring down at you through the holes in the mask, dark eyes barely visible. Watching, waiting. Taking in the frazzled state of you, the blanket wrapped around your body and the worn boots on your feet.
A beat passed and then another before his eyes lifted back to yours. You could almost picture the raised brow, the small smirk beneath the mask.
“Going somewhere?”
The low rumble of his voice, the knowing edge to it — it made your cheeks heat, embarrassment crawling through you. There was something infinitely more humiliating about being caught like this than pretending to be asleep.
“I-I was just…” You trailed off once you saw it, having somehow missed it during your first pass of him.
Skin. Pale hands, stark against the black fabric of his clothes. It took you aback for a second, the rare glimpse of it — the flesh of the man that was so often concealed beneath layers of leather and cloth.
But the lack of gloves wasn’t what truly made you pause. No, it was the blood that caught your attention, dark and red and splattered across his battered knuckles.
“You’re bleeding.”
It was obvious, of course it was, but the words slipped from your mouth anyways. Your gaze traveled back up to his, noting his lack of response. There was no urgency, no concern. Not even a twitch of discomfort.
He merely tilted his head in the barest acknowledgment, as though you’d only pointed out a bit of dust on his coat.
“Ghost.”
His eyes remained fixed on yours, seemingly ignoring the worry in your voice, painted all over your face.
“’s not mine.”
You huffed out a breath, as if that was supposed to make you feel any better, to reassure you. Your attention flicked back down to his hands for a moment before you tentatively peeked up at him — almost shy as though you couldn’t fully look at him, like you hadn’t shared a bed with him every night for weeks.
“Can I…” The rest of your question was left unspoken, unsaid. He knew what you were about to say, knew you were looking for permission to approach him, to touch him.
As if you ever had to ask.
His eyes held yours, neither of you making a move, the quiet tension making you swallow to try and soothe your suddenly very dry throat. You thought he was going to ignore you entirely until he shifted, extending a hand out in your direction. It was slight, just barely an adjustment, a gesture so small that anyone else was unlikely to notice it.
But you did. You knew that it meant, what he was allowing you to do. You had a feeling not many people could safely lay a hand on him, could touch or even glimpse at the skin beneath the mask and the darkness he wore like a shield, like a coat of armor.
You shuffled forward, taking a step into his space, your movements so slow as if you were afraid to make any sudden movements, to scare him off like he was some kind of petrified animal. You could feel the weight of his stare the entire time, silently observing as you cautiously took one of his hands in yours and turned it over beneath the candlelight shining in from the hall, examining the split, broken skin marring his knuckles.
“Not yours, huh?”
Your voice was little more than a murmur as you absentmindedly dragged your thumb through the dried blood, smearing it across his skin and revealing more of the damage beneath.
He didn’t say a word.
Your eyes flicked back up to his, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as you weighed your next move, unsure if he would even allow it, if he would hate what you were thinking, what had suddenly popped into your head. It was a foreign feeling, a thought that hadn’t once crossed your mind before, but somehow, it still felt right. Like you owed it to him, at the very least.
“Stay here. Please.”
You hoped he’d listen but doubted it nonetheless, tacking on the polite request more for yourself than for him. He wasn’t exactly the type to bend to the will of anyone — the only exception being Kate, which you only believed because you’d witnessed it with your own two eyes.
He tracked your movements as you stepped around him, his eyes following you all the way to the door. Letting the quilt fall off your shoulders to the floor, you ducked out into the hallway and hurried off to gather what you needed, returning a few minutes later with a pitcher of fresh water balanced against your hip and a clean cloth draped over your arm.
To your surprise, Ghost was right where you’d left him, leaning against the wooden dresser with his arms folded across his chest. His head lifted the moment you stepped back through the doorway, his gaze immediately dropping to the items in your hands, lingering on the pitcher and cloth before returning to your face — but he still didn’t say a word.
“Do you, um…do you think you can…”
The request trailed off awkwardly as you gestured toward the bed with your chin. A low grunt escaped him as he pushed off the chest, silently crossing the room and taking a seat on the edge of the mattress, resting his forearms on his thighs. You blinked in slight surprise, not expecting him to acquiesce so quickly and without argument, but you were quick to move into action, not wanting him to give him a chance to change his mind.
You set the items down before crossing over to the hearth, crouching before it as you stirred the ash and brought the fire back to life. Once the familiar warmth and light slowly spilt into the room again, you moved back over to Ghost, his dark eyes still pinned on you. Your feet brushed his as you stepped closer, eyes sweeping over his bloodied knuckles.
The room was completely quiet, not a word exchanged between either of you, the crackling logs and flickering flames the only sounds breaking up the silence. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze — heavy, unblinking — as you knelt, dipping the cloth into the pitcher and dampening it just enough before your free hand slowly reached for his, fingers gingerly circling his wrist.
You glanced up at him, wordlessly asking if it was okay, but he still said nothing, did nothing other than stare.
You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the task at hand. As gently as you could, you dabbed the damp rag over his skin, watching the white cotton stain with every careful pass, deep, crimson red soaking up into the fabric. Your movements were tender, delicate — almost like you were afraid of hurting him further, worried that your efforts would somehow worsen his wounds — because it was becoming increasingly clear that the blood was, in fact, his and, very likely, someone else’s. Maybe even more than one someone.
With each swipe, the extent of the damage came to light. The cuts were shallow, likely only surface level, his knuckles scraped raw and beginning to swell in places, violet bruises blooming beneath the surface. You gently flexed his fingers, testing the joints, listening for any pops and watching for any winces of pain, but he remained utterly still as a statute.
If it wasn’t for the visible flesh and blood, your lingering suspicion that he really was anything but human would’ve taken further root.
“Do I even want to know?” Your voice was soft, nothing more than a hush, gaze flickering up to meet his.
Ghost merely grunted in response. You weren’t sure why you thought you’d even get a real answer out of him, anyway.
Dipping the cloth back into the pitcher once more, you wrung it out before you returned your attention back to his hand. Your efforts were more focused now, more thorough as you carefully scrubbed at the blood caught under his nails, between the creases of his fingers.
His hands fascinated you. You couldn’t stop staring at them, and you couldn’t chalk it up to the sole purpose of cleaning them. No, it was the sheer size of them that caught your attention. They were enormous, just like the rest of him, probably double the size of yours if you lined them up. Broad palms, thick fingers, callouses built over years of riding, shooting, and lord knew what else. A number of scars crisscrossed the backs of them — some thin enough to be barely noticeable, others larger, thicker, and raised with age.
Your thumb grazed over one in particular, the largest of them, tracing over the path between his middle and ring finger and snaking down to his wrist, following it until it disappeared beneath the cuff of his sleeve. You could’t even imagine what had caused it, what he’d gotten himself into that nearly cost him half his hand and probably his lower arm if it continued as far as you guessed it did.
You decided you didn’t really want to know.
Satisfied with your work, you gently placed his hand back down on his denim-clad thigh before reaching for his other, the skin just as bloodied and battered there.
“There,” You murmured a few moments later, draping the stained cloth over the lip of the pitcher, the water now a cloudy pink. You turned his hand gently, inspecting your work in the light the fire provided. His knuckles were raw, slightly swollen, but clean.
“They’ll heal.”
He let out a low hum as he straightened, causing you to instinctively lean back on your heels, suddenly very aware of how close you were to him, eyes level with his abdomen.
“Always do.”
You glanced up at him with a small frown tugging at your lips. If the old scars scattered across his hands were any indication, he knew better than anyone that they would heal up fine. This wasn’t exactly new to him, after all. With enough time, they’d fade into pale, silvery lines just like all the others etched across his skin, just another addition to the collection spanning there.
“You should, um…you should probably wrap them up tomorrow.” You stood from your crouched spot on the floor, knees stiff and aching after kneeling on the wooden floor for so long. “Make sure they stay clean.”
Still, he said nothing, those dark eyes still half-obscured from beneath his Cattleman and giving nothing away. You pursed your lips and nodded to yourself, something akin to disappointment seeping under your skin as you bent at the waist to grab the pitcher, avoiding his gaze.
“Leave it.”
His gruff voice stopped you, the low rumble sending shivers down your spine. All the time you’d spent around him hadn’t eased the effect it had on you since the day you’d met.
“I’ll take care of it.”
He rose from the bed, unfolding to his full height until he towered over you, tall and broad and looming at least an entire foot or so above you. In an instant, the whole room seemed to shrink, drawing inward as though it, too, had to readjust to the fullness, the intensity of his presence. It was like you forgot how big, how imposing he was when he wasn’t sitting before you.
Your head was level with his chest, the familiar scent of him filling your nostrils. Worn leather, whiskey, woodsmoke, and tobacco. Something heady, masculine; something else just entirely him that you recognized immediately.
You hadn’t realized how accustomed you’d grown to it.
The silence that enveloped you this time felt heavier, thicker. You couldn’t explain it, couldn’t put your finger on what exactly had changed, but you knew that it had. The closeness, the proximity, the lingering feel of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way he’d allowed it — it was all too much all at once.
You took a step back, desperately needing to put space back between you. You thought, for a fleeting moment, that he was about to say something, anything — but instead, he kept quiet, jaw clenched under the fabric covering the bottom half of his face. Your neck craned slightly, your eyes drifting over the red mask as though it would reveal what was going on inside his head, what he was thinking.
It never did.
With a quiet breath, you tore your gaze away, stooping to collect the quilt from the ground where you’d let it slip to the floor. Giving it a quick shake, you crossed back to the bed and spread it over the rumpled sheets, smoothing out the worst of the creases with the flat of your palm.
The simple task gave your hands something to do, somewhere to look.
Anywhere but at him.
Heavy footsteps sounded behind you, his boots thudding against the floor as he moved towards the door, the hinges creaking in protest as he yanked it open. You stole a glance over your shoulder — a small, foolish part of you worried he was going to disappear again — until you spotted the pitcher in his hands, realizing that he was following through on his word. Without so much as a glance back in your direction, he stepped out into the hallway, the door shutting behind you, the room falling quiet once more.
You knew, this time, he’d be back.
You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off your boots and your stockings that you’d thrown on in a hurry, cheeks flushing as you recalled your panic, your inner turmoil at his absence. What could he possibly have thought of you once he’d seen you on the other side of the door? Looking at him as though you'd been expecting the worst, as though you had any right to fret over where he’d been or when he’d return.
The truth was, you had no idea what he thought of you at all, what he saw in you. Why he’d kept you around all this time. Why he’d claimed you as his. Why, after three whole weeks, he hadn’t gotten his own room when another had more than likely opened up by now.
Why his presence made your stomach dip and your skin hum like a cicada on a summer evening.
There was so much uncertainty, so much uncharted territory that you didn’t even know where to begin. You didn’t even know if you’d wanted those answers, if you wanted a glimpse into the inner workings of his mind. Ghost was an enigma — every answer seemed to give rise to two more questions, every small bit of kindness and humanity at utter odds with the ruthless reputation that followed him from town to town.
The first hints of dawn were beginning to break through the darkness of the night outside the window, reminding you of how late it really was, how soon you would have to wake to start the day. You slipped back into the bed, facing away from the door as you settled under the covers.
Not long after, those familiar leaden footsteps returned, growing louder and louder until the doorknob twisted and the hinges creaked, the lock sliding back into place. You didn’t turn, didn’t look back as he undressed, the thud of his boots, the clink of his belt buckle and the stretch of fabric filling the air.
Your body didn’t tense, didn’t stiffen up as he slid in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. A soft sigh fell from your lips as you nestled deeper against the pillow, the exhaustion and crash of adrenaline hitting you all at once, your eyelids growing heavy.
There was a moment of comfortable silence, of nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths and the occasional hiss of the flames across the room. You were beginning to doze off, finally able to relax and get some rest now that you knew he was back, knew that he was in one piece, when you felt the mattress shift beneath you, his arm wrapping around your middle and drawing you back against his chest. Your heart fluttered but you didn’t say a word, didn’t even open your eyes, instead letting his warmth and weight settle over you like a familiar, worn blanket.
Before long, the crackle of the fire and the steady rise and fall of his chest lulled you right towards sleep. You were on the precipice, just about to tumble headfirst into the darkness when you heard it — so faint, so low that you barely registered it, almost missed it completely.
“Thank you.”
When you woke that morning, you were sure you had dreamt it. That it had been nothing more than a figment of your imagination, of fatigue. But you were sure you felt it, the rumble of his chest against your back as he whispered the words into the night, likely believing you were already asleep.
Even if it was all in your head, even if it was just your brain conjuring up what it knew you wanted hear, you chose to believe you’d heard it, anyways.
As always, the bed was empty when you came to. You didn’t think much of it, of the way he always disappeared when morning came. It was just routine, just part of his procedure.
You let yourself linger in bed for a few minutes, listening to the city outside as it came to life under the morning sun, before you forced yourself up. You had things to do, daily tasks to complete for Kate.
It was just like any other day.
After you combed your hair and dressed — a standard, simple black dress that swished around your ankles, clean white apron tied around your waist, old worn boots on your feet — you headed downstairs into the empty saloon to get started.
Except, that morning, it wasn’t empty. There, beside the bar, stood Kyle and Johnny, chatting away with Kate. Your footsteps alerted them of your presence without you having to say a word, all three of them turning to you as you entered.
“There’s our girl!” A bright grin stretched across Johnny’s face as he wrapped his arms around you in a big hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you from how tight he squeezed.
“Haven’t seen ya in ages, lass.” He gripped your shoulders as he pulled away to get a good look at your face. “You been alright, Little Fawn?”
You smiled back, just as glad to see him. You didn’t get to see them much these days, so any glimpse you got of the men who’d done so much for you was entirely welcome.
“Not too bad.” You turned towards Kyle, who tipped his hat at you in greeting, his warm brown eyes and kind face a sight for sore eyes. “You men make yourself scarce around here, don’t you?”
The corners of his mouth curved upwards.
“Laswell’s got us on a tight leash,” Kyle teased, shooting the blonde woman behind the bar an amused glance before turning back to you. “Kept us far too busy lately.” He gestured towards you with a hand. “Eye’s all better now, yeah?”
You nodded, fingers instinctively brushing the spot on your temple where the wound had been, the scar that had been left in its wake.
“Can’t complain.” Your eyes met Kate’s, remembering the day you’d met, the way she’d taken you under her wing and fixed you up with a second thought. “Helps when you’ve got a very capable hand to stitch you back together.”
“Aye.” Johnny agreed with a wink. “Would cheers to that if I had a drink.”
“So, what are you guys doing here?” You asked, settling your hip against the bar top, unable to help your curiosity at their surprise appearance. “You here to help me with my job today?”
“Nah,” Kyle shook his head, stuffing his hands in the back pockets of his light denim jeans. “Don’t think Kate trusts us enough to give a proper clean to those washrooms.”
“You’re right.” She nodded as she polished off a clean plate. “I don’t.”
Her eyes flickered with amusement as she turned her attention to you. “But you’re off for today, Fawn. Best take that apron off.”
You had to do a double take at her words, unsure if you’d heard her correctly, divots forming between your brows in confusion.
“What? Why?” Dread filled in your gut as your biggest fears began to take root in your mind, panicked that you’d let her down in some way. “Did I do something wrong? I swear, I can fix it, whatever it is, I—”
“Fawn. Honey.” Kate cut in, gently interrupting you before you could continue to spiral. “You did nothing wrong, sweetheart. Nothing at all. In fact, you’ve been absolutely fantastic. It’s just an afternoon away from work.”
Her eyes were kind, her tone reassuring as she smiled warmly at you. It instantly settled you, calmed your racing thoughts and worries. You cared far too much about what she thought of you, never wanting to disappoint her in any way, shape, or form.
“Well.” Johnny shifted the wad of tobacco to the other side of his mouth, leaning back against the counter with his forearms braced against the edge. “Think y’all forgot the most important part.”
All three of you turned to him — you with a confused frown, Kate with an exasperated sigh, and Kyle with an amused chuckle.
“Would it kill you to have a little more tact, MacTavish?” Kate fixed him with a look that you could only describe as one you wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of, one that promised she’d get him back for needling her.
Johnny, however, was utterly unbothered by it, just flashing that gold tooth of his in a wide grin before spitting into the brass spittoon at his feet.
“Probably.” He turned his attention to you with a shrug, but you saw the way his gaze flicked up and over your shoulder, catching on something behind you. You turned to follow his gaze, your pulse quickening when you spotted him leaning against the doorway, Ghost’s hulking frame nearly swallowing up the entirety of the open space.
“You’re coming wit’ me.”
Your heart thumped wildly in your chest, the way it always did when he was near, when his eyes locked on you.
He must’ve been the important piece Johnny was talking about, likely the reason you had the day off at all.
“For what?”
You couldn’t help the question from slipping from your lips, always showing your cards without meaning to, a slight bit of unease and apprehension painted across your face. While you’d never really been given a reason to doubt them, to believe that they were leading you into some sort of elaborate trap, you still found yourself waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was instinct now, an unfortunate habit carved into you over long years of experiencing that very reality, the part of you that expected kindness to come with a price refusing to quit.
Maybe over time, it would, but certainly not now. Four weeks were not enough to erase that kind of trauma.
But, as usual, Ghost didn’t respond, didn’t utter another word. Just jerked his chin towards the door and expected you to follow. A silent command, like that was all the instruction you needed as he left through the swinging doors just as quickly as he came.
With a sigh, you untied your apron and draped it over your shoulder. You had to change first, certainly not about to run amok in your maidservant clothes.
“If he comes looking for me, will one of you mind telling him I’ve just gone to change?” You directed the question to all three of them, hoping at least somebody would relay the message. You knew making Ghost wait was a bit like tempting fate, so to speak, but you didn’t have much of a choice. If he’d just stayed in bed that morning for once, you wouldn’t have to make him wait at all while you readied yourself.
The man could survive a gunfight without so much as blinking, yet carrying on a normal conversation seemed beyond him.
“Sure thing, doll.” Kyle gave you his customary tip of his hat, two fingers brushing against the brim like he always did — the perfect gentleman. You still weren’t quite sure how he fit in with the band of outlaws. You smiled in return, about to head back to your room when you realized what you’d been meaning to do for far too long.
“Oh, Johnny?” You doubled back to the young man while Kyle and Kate fell into conversation, paying the two of you no mind. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for my dress for ages.”
You hesitated as you considered that wasn’t quite encompassing all of what he’d so kindly done, a sheepish smile on your lips as you shrugged.
“Well, dresses, I should say. It was incredibly kind of you, and I cannot tell you enough how much it meant to me.”
A puzzled look flashed across his face, his pale blue eyes — clear and bright as the afternoon sky — searching yours for a beat before understanding dawned, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.
“Well, I’d love to take credit for that, lassie, but—” Another wad of tobacco pinged against the metallic tub next to his boots. “—that wasn’t me.”
For a moment, you thought he was joking, thought he was just messing with you like he seemed to have a penchant for, particularly with the others.
You blinked, staring at him like his answer would change. “What?”
Johnny shook his head, still wearing that easy, boyish grin as he held your gaze casually, like everything you thought you knew wasn’t suddenly crashing down around you.
“Nah, wasn’t me. I don’t got that kind of coin.” He gestured towards you with his sun-spotted hand, tanned from years beneath the unforgiving sun and dusted with tufts of dark hair. “But seein’ that look on your face…can’t say I ain’t tempted to claim it myself.”
“But…” Your chest tightened, throat strangely dry as your mind raced a mile a minute. “Why would…”
Johnny huffed a laugh through his nose. “Lassie, you’re askin’ the right questions to the wrong man.”
You started to believe that maybe you’d gotten it all wrong. That maybe, you had just let yourself believe it had been Johnny all along, had wanted him to be the one who’d gone out of his way for you. It made sense, after all. He was friendly, kind. Easy to talk to. Had always treated you like he’d known you all your life, were a close friend instead of a mere stranger.
After all, it made more sense that it had been him instead of the man who slept beside you every night, the man who hadn’t strung together more than five words in your presence. The man who couldn’t even wait past sunrise to leave you behind.
But, you distinctively remembered what Roze had told you that morning when she’d come knocking on your door. That it had been Johnny who’d sent her, claiming that she was there to take you into town for some new things. That he’d given her the pouch of coins to pay for it.
So, why had she lied to you?
“But if it wasn’t you…” You trailed off, all of the pieces beginning to fit together. Now, seeing it with fresh eyes, you knew it could only have been one person, one man — the only one with a key to your room besides yourself to have left that blue dress there for you in the first place. Even if it didn’t make sense, didn’t seem like something he’d do, something a man like him was capable of — it had to be him.
And he hadn’t said a word about it.
The corners of Johnny’s mouth twitched as he watched you put it together.
“My, my, I wonder who it could be.”
a/n: i am so so sorry this took so goddamn long to update, but i hope you enjoyed <3 words cannot describe how much i love and appreciate you all so much for your patience, kindness, and support of my little passion project!! hopefully this longer part makes up for it for now :)
CW: afab reader but no specification, pre established relationship, Illusion to sex, slightly controlling behaviour (gaz)
Simon RIley:
When you tell him he just stares at you for a few seconds before going “....right.” then immediately handing you the tea he was literally just drinking and disappearing into the kitchen. He does a little boomerang getting you comfort items and bringing them to the couch, he doesn’t need to and you don’t have to ask but he just gets it for you happily. You play with the little skull decal on the mug as he looks down at you, just silently watching over you and waiting.
“Simon, I'm fine…it’s not contagious.” you laugh as he just nods in response and keeps his eyes locked on you. “Simon, seriously, relax.” he eventually eases onto the couch next to you just staring.
“Sorry uh…don’t like you bein’....uncomfortable…”
“Well the staring isn’t helping.”
“Just…i want to help.” he nearly grunted slowly moving closer to you on the couch “i don’t know how”
“Just sit with me, Simon.” He spends the next hour slowly scooching closer and closer before he wraps himself around your hand, has his big hand on your stomach and just whispers.
“Am I helping…?” His breath caresses the shell of your ear and as you, not a small content little hum escapes him, a sound that makes your eyes widen because you didn’t think a man like him could even make it. “Good.” he nuzzles deep into your neck.
Johnny Mactavish:
The words “I’m on my period” exit your mouth and he does not even bat an eye, he is not bothered whatsoever. He has sisters, 3, a period means fuck all to him except if you have a particularly bad one to make a pillow fort refuge on the couch incase he does something wrong. But when you cry over stubbing your toe on the counter his hands wrap around the back of your head as he shoves it into his chest, holding you tight and shushing you.
“Ye'r braw, a hurt toe isnae gonnae murdurr ye love,” he kisses along your hairline and slowly guides you to bed letting you cry your heart out.
“But it hurts johnny-” you sniffled as he puts your heating pad on your stomach and turns on the tv, putting on your favorite show.
“A'm sure it does darlin'” he turned off the big lights and put on the lamp on your nightstand before slowly easing into bed with you and manhandling you into his arms with a contented smile. You whine in protest as he constantly feeds you water but he immediately quiets you down with headrubs, massaging and scratching your scalp. “Dinnae fight it sweets...trying tae mak' yer feelin' better alright?” When you nod he smiles and lets you fall asleep snuggled up against his body warmth.
Kyle Garrick:
“I know”
“What the fuck do you mean you know?” you huff after coming out of your bathroom, having told Kyle you were on your period, he doesn’t even look up from his phone.
His eyes flicker up“I have your period tracker on my phone” he shows his phone and it was accurate.
“That's weird- you're weird, Garrick!” you huff as you go to walk away and storm off to your den of solitude in your room but he’s hot on your tail.
“Darling, I just want to look after you…let me?” He holds you by the waist and slowly turns you before leaning down and placing a slow and gentle kiss on your lips. “I’ll delete it if you want…” he nudges at your nose with his own. “I have it mostly for…nefarious purposes” you slap his arm at that but you can’t help but crack a small smile. His whiskey brown eyes gazing down into your own with a kind of love that couldn’t quite be put into words.
“No it’s fine…” you smile, you couldn’t stay mad at him. No, literally you don’t think it’s physically possible for you to stay mad at him when he looks at you like that, with those puppy dog eyes.
“Is that why you bought me a new hot water bottle?”
He pecks your lips “mhm..” he chases your lips as you keep speaking.
“And the bathbombs….” he kept trying to kiss you, holding you gently on either side of the neck, his eyes hooded yet focussed on your lips. “Mhm~” he plants another one on you, his breathing getting a little faster.
“Is that why you bought me a family pack of chocolates?” he smiled and slowly moved the hair away from your face.
“I thought we could share them”
“Oh you’re funny garrick” you grin as you break away and grab the chocolates from the counter before planting yourself in a blanket cocoon.
John price:
He also really isn't all that bothered when you break the news, nor does he mind when you wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him you leaked on the white bed sheets. This bear of a man lifts your bridal style to the bathroom and sits you on the edge of the bath. He retrieves a clean pair of underwear and sleep shorts for you, still seemingly mostly asleep as he mechanically pulls the sheets off the bed and puts them in the wash immediately, switching it on. He knocks on the bathroom toilet.
“Alright love?” he hummed his voice about two octaves lower than normal, you can't see but his forehead is pressed against the door, almost falling asleep right then and there, shirtless pressed against the door of the ensuite.
“Mhm…”you waddle out and press into him, he’s still warm as hell, he always runs warm but he was like a personal heater just for you. “Feel like shit…” you grumble as his coarse chest hair rubs up against your cheek. He sleepily just kisses the intersection of your eye brows blindly trailing kisses down your face hoping to maybe get one somewhere close to your lips.
“Lets go back to bed, silly.” he lifts you by the back of the thighs back into bed and just smushes you into the bed and when you tell him about it the next morning he doesn't even remember a single thing. He was barely awake anyhow.
