— a demon who is considerate enough to let you rest...most of the time. nsfw below the break.
𝐱: dubcon, somnophilia, not a gender-exclusive definition for incubus (he comin' for that bussy, too!). 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈
A/N: again...i can't keep up with my holidays apparently, so this is going up the day after halloween (r.i.p). but if you know me, you also know that the spooky-erotica continues regardless.
incubus!alex has been visiting at your bedside for a while, now. he’s non-disruptive, but still making his presence known in your subconscious as you doze off after a long day.
try as you might, those gray-blue eyes are hard to ignore. you start to see them in the faces you dream about, until every visage begins to reflect the same features. only him.
incubus!alex confuses you; there is a tender nature to his being that is almost...angelic.
you don't expect this demon, of all things, to care about something as seemingly insignificant as a mortal life. about you. at least…it feels like he cares when he mind-fucks you slow.
what you quickly learn is that the pleasure he seeks is not his own, getting off on the gratification of watching you cum from the skilled orchestrations of his planted dreams.
you wouldn’t refer to this entity as alex, not at first. it didn't take long before he revealed to you this mortal name, the one that spurs him on when he makes you moan it.
(a̴̢̺͍͕̘̘̘̩̾͋̔͗͂́̈́͆e̶̛̘̱͍͎͚͒͗̅͗͒͒l̸̨̡̢̛͚͈͈̱̱͋͋̊͂̊̒͠ķ̷̢͖͎̹̥̩̪̹͈͌̿͌̅̈͘͠e̶̢̛̹̞̠͎̗͇̫̼͗͊̑͂̾͋͒̍̄l̵̨͍͎̮̔͛̾͗̚ą̵̼͕̹̒͂̇͑̂́͝ķ̵̢̡͍̬̱̰͇͇͒͐̊̓͗͋ was just too complicated, y'know?)
and his wish is granted with a forked tongue that slips and caresses your sex with a special reverence as you stir in your sleep.
despite the slumber, you can feel every ounce of energy drain from your body, dipping you in that groggy, blissful state he loves to keep you in. weak and pliable to his influences.
but he doesn't stop there. oh no, he doesn't have rules to follow.
when alex catches a whiff of your desire, something in him clicks into place—the power of his entire being burning with an everlasting passion, calling him to his true nature.
the machinations of the dreams become too real, flooding your senses as they turn lucid and force you awake. there is a quiet fear when you see those haunting eyes looking back at you from between your legs, nearly glowing under the shroud of your bedsheets.
but the incubus doesn't raise alarm, coaxed by an unnerving familiarity as he continues to lick at your heated skin. you're no novice to his game, or the silent request to feed on your lust; poorly hidden and so painfully human.
and like the many times before, you find your resolve crumbling under his ethereal power, and around the length of his cock. fading between that warbling brink of sleeplessness and gentle pleasure, begging for a release only he can offer. that soul-splitting orgasm that moves you to cry out to god.
alex takes his time with you on his visits, his devotion like an incantation.
you are his favorite target, after all.
he marks you with it before the sun rises, leaving you neatly tucked in your bed. limbs spent and sheets soaked, without a trace otherwise, and you aching for his nightly return.
Roman kept swiping through tumblr, bouncing between his friend’s blog, that one ask blog, that blog for that au he loved, his eyes flicking up to his notifications every few seconds. Oh, that was nice- nothing. That was a cool headcanon -maybe that was-? Oh, no, that was just a like. Oh, they posted another story, nice, he’d have to read that in a bit- anything? No. Still nothing.
Scroll, read, look. Scroll, like, look. Scroll, like and reblog, look.
To his anger and embarrassment, Roman could feel tears starting to well up in his eyes. He held his breath for a long moment, willing the tears away without a second thought.
He hated how irrational this was. He probably had just caught them at the wrong moment! He had posted a lot of stuff at the same time as that drawing, it probably had just gotten buried! They probably had just not seen it! So what if it hadn’t gotten any kind of attention like his previous drawings had? So what if there wasn’t even a single like? It didn’t matter! He was fine!
He turned the volume up on his music, his finger swiping a bit more forcefully across the screen as he swept through his feed. He- He just felt so- So useless. He felt pointless. He’d been really really really proud of that piece. And it was the right time for people to be seeing his stuff as he posted it. And he’d seen people liking and reblogging other stuff on his blog. And- oh! Another notification! Maybe...?
He quickly checked it, only for something sour and heavy to settle in his chest. The beginnings of a forced smile started to creep up his face subconsciously. They’d- they’d reblogged that piece that he’d just reblogged. The one that was so much- better than his was. That… that was fine! He was fine!
He swiped over to his notifications again. They- there was still- nothing. No one had liked it, no responses to it… not even something hateful. He- he was fine. He just. He just really hated being ignored...
Tears started to spill down his face in a rush, a few aborted sobs pressing against his chest painfully as he cried, a familiar, horrible grin making its mark on his face.
He was fine! It’s not like he hadn’t been ignored before! He’d just- continue like nothing had happened! He just had to- to wipe away the tears- smile through the pain- and everything would be fine! People didn’t like it when he cried, anyways! They hated it! They’d told him that so many times before, so why didn’t he just. Listen! For once!
He pulled a pillow to his face, muffling the sobs that were ripping themselves from his throat, the tears that accompanied them quickly soaking the fabric. He’d be fine! He’d be fine! He’d be fine!
thinking a lot about soap, who is now inactive from the military, taking up a new job as a fire watch/ranger after about a year of unemployment.
ghost, who has been in an on-again-off-again with the position, is soap's direct line of contact for all things involving the job (he enjoys the solitude but it's seasonal, otherwise living a private life. also ex-military).
the terrible ache of pining for someone he's never seen, he doesn't know...but oh, does soap fucking PINE for the possibility.
coupled with the inevitable bond over being able to walk away from The Horrors of war.
thinking about how their primary form of contact - walkie talkies and/or emails - and distance opens the door to an undiscovered voice kink..... some voyeurism.... some phone walkie sex...
yeah...thinking....
anyway, you can follow along below.
Watchers — AO3
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: John "Soap" MacTavish x Simon "Ghost" Riley
𝐱: alternate universe - different first meeting, meet-ugly, strangers to lovers, slow burn, mentioned/implied canon-typical violence, major character injury, angst (with a happy ending), hurt/comfort, injury (w/ recovery), eventual smut, suggestive themes. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bandit Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Bounty Hunter M!Reader
𝐱: alternate universe - western, canon-typical violence, a nod to poly!141 (because i literally can't help myself), 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈
(2.6k words)
series masterlist || prev: chapter 3 || next: chapter 5
Gaz was fast, slipping just out of reach before being snatched. You lunged for him, fingers grazing air, and—
Shit.
Your boot skidded over loosened earth, the momentum pulling your balance from under you. The ground came up hard. Adrenaline blanketed the sharp pain as your knee took the force.
You pushed yourself up, breath ragged, pulse hammering under your skin.
Instinct brought your dominant hand to your gun, swiftly pulling it out of its holster to take aim and shoot. Your index pressed over the trigger lightly. Your entire being screamed at you to do it, to make this easier by taking the shot.
The ‘bang’ never came; you weren’t the type to cut corners. Gaz was already crossing the yard as you gathered yourself, running toward the treeline behind the house. Away from the road you came from.
Pomona. Your only chance of catching up was to get to her now.
What are the odds, you thought grimly. Your knee throbbed as you ran through the bushes in a blur of snapping twigs and trampled undergrowth. Still reeling from your talk with the Clarkes, you couldn’t be less prepared for this than you were now; you’d practically stumbled onto Gaz by pure, dumb luck.
It was time to make that luck count.
Your fingers barely registered the grip on the saddle as you hauled yourself onto Pomona’s back, muscles tight with urgency. Your mission came back to you, more clearly than when you’d first received the orders: Track Garrick. Bring him back alive.
“Let’s go, girl!” you barked, snapping the reins. Pomona surged forward with a mighty neigh, kicking up grass as you raced against time.
—
A shrill whistle split the air as Gaz called for backup. His legs burned with the effort to push harder, run faster, move further. His hat nearly ripped free, caught only by the wind strings around his neck as he tore across the backyard.
The haul was long forgotten on the porch.
He shoved through wild foliage. The sting of the branches clawing at his arms was hardly felt past the pounding of his heart. Breaking from the brushwood, lungs raw from the sprint, panic gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Ghost had to be nearby, hopefully, finished with his drop-off and waiting for Gaz to return. Nothing in their plans prepared for crossing a bounty hunter…the Hunter of the Homelands…but it should have.
Especially after the ambush.
Gaz blinked away tears as dirt and sweat pricked his eyes, focusing instead on his path, retracing every desperate step. His breath came fast, shallow and rasping against the dryness in his throat as he crested the hill. He slowed to a stop, but his eyes searched frantically.
Windsor stood right where he’d left him, ears flicking at the sound of his approach. Ghost was gone.
Gaz hunched over himself, unable to catch his breath or his thoughts. Dread lanced sharply through his ribs, deeper than the exhaustion falling over his muscles.
He raked his fingers through his short, coarse hair, pressing into his scalp. A growl of frustration turned his throat sore. This wasn’t right.
If he hadn’t pushed…if he hadn’t made Price move them early—
The world around him felt still. The usual hum of the land settled into something unnatural, pressing in on his ears. A lone birdsong trilled overhead, too delicate against the thick air.
Gaz wiped his hand over his forehead and stood upright, inhaling deeply. There was no use in punishing himself now. Not when there was still time to fix this. He needed to clear the area, find Ghost, and regroup with the others.
He clicked his tongue, feeling like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. The sound ushered Windsor closer and he swung into the saddle. The leather reins felt damp under his grip, his gloves sticking to sweat-slick palms, but he held fast.
Gaz looked over his shoulder. Nothing. No movement, aside from the wind slipping through the canopy of leaves. No hunter.
He purred Windsor forward, sending them flying in the other direction.
—
If Gaz could get the hunter off his trail before making it back to camp, it would offer them enough time to gather what little they owned and leave.
They hadn’t yet planned where they’d migrate to—probably head further west, where it was quiet. It wasn’t like he had family out there waiting for his return. No lover to kiss away the aches of his exploits.
If he got back, he could probably get a favor out of Soap for narrowly avoiding capture. Maybe Ghost could, if he were up for it—
Gaz blinked hard, dry from the rushing wind. He needed to focus on finding Ghost.
He whistled again, hoping against the unfavorable odds that Ghost was close enough to hear him. When there wasn’t a call in return, Gaz pushed on harder.
He cut to the left, changing course to keep the hunter off his tracks, and kept riding. He checked over his shoulder every few steps, checking that he wasn’t being followed.
Thundering steps overlapped his own as another rider closed in on him, making Gaz jump out of his skin as they drew closer. He had been ready to pull out his gun, but the dingy white of skeletal face brought an unsuspecting comfort.
“Jesus Christ, Riley,” he lamented, voice rough. He glanced over with a frown, gripping the reins harder. “I thought he fucking got you.”
Ghost pushed his horse to match Windsor’s speed. “What happened?”
“The drop-off went pear-shaped. I don’t know if it was planned, or not.” They rode out of the woods, entering a sprawling plain, exposed. “The Hunter was there. Would’ve shot me too, if I hadn't hauled ass.”
“The Hunter.”
Gaz looked over to see that Ghost was already staring, eyes giving away nothing behind his usual ensemble. They rode silently for a minute, giving Gaz time to sort out his thoughts.
But he didn’t need to vocalize his worries to Ghost. The man understood with an unnerving certainty what they needed to do, and with a silent command, led Gaz through their getaway.
—
Light sliced through the canopy in fractured rays. The chase had a pulse, a rhythm you melted into as you threaded between branches and jagged rock.
You leaned in, whispering to Pomona, encouraging her speed and feeling the muscles coil beneath you.
At some point you began to bleed, catching a glimpse of crimson blossoming through your jeans, the warmth of it running down your shin. Your knee was pounding now, reminding you of your misstep, and what would be at stake if Gaz escaped.
Gone, but not hard to follow. Hoof prints snaked through the wild, fresh and deep. Gaz was pushing hard to get away. That meant he wasn’t too far.
The world narrowed to the line of tracks and your throbbing pulse. Everything else—trees, houses, the fabric sticking to your skin—fell away with every strong gallop.
Just beyond the next rise, leaving behind the wooded homes of impoverished Longshire, you saw a flash of movement. A shape, and then another, trailed by a thin cloud of dust.
Two horses ran ahead of you with great power, the broad shadows of the men riding them catching your attention.
Gaz had a head start, riding atop a muscled, seal brown horse. You narrowed your eyes on him, measuring the distance as you pushed to close in.
You couldn’t risk Gaz getting hurt, so shooting wasn't an option—which conflicted with everything you trained for. A hand reached down for your lasso, instead.
Closer now, you rode behind the two in a triangular formation. You could practically taste the sweat staining the back of Gaz's shirt, hear his ragged breathing in tandem with your own.
The man on your left glanced over his shoulder, light reflecting off the material of the skull mask. He rode atop a blue Thoroughbred, strength and mystery rippling from them both in waves.
Simon Riley, the Ghost. You gritted your teeth.
“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” you shouted over the thundering horses. “We can be civilized!”
Ghost slowed the Thoroughbred enough to fall back from Gaz, keeping you behind. His eyes were intense behind the mask, pitless under the shadow of his hat. You were lost in them, missing the swift movement of his hand.
“Fat fuckin’ chance,” he growled, lifting a pistol to your eye level.
You steered to the right, ears ringing as the shot went off. Unable to tame her fear, Pomona deviated from your target and attacker.
“No,” you shouted desperately. You demanded control, gripping her bridles to slow the mare. You brought Pomona to a skidding stop, having to hold on tightly as she pivoted anxiously. In a flurry of movement, you looked to your right, flinching as Ghost adjusted his aim, ready to fire again.
“Ghost!” It was Gaz, calling off his man with a frantic request. You watched the two make a break for it, using your horse as a distraction. Ghost lowered his pistol as they rode past, but his eyes remained on you. Daring you to follow.
You took the challenge, kicking Pomona into a gallop. One hand gripped the rope from where it was tied on the saddle. You worked your wrist to untangle it, adjusting the knot as you closed the distance.
You were so determined, so focused on Ghost and Gaz and the chase, that you hadn’t paid attention to where the men were leading you. It wasn’t until you heard the bellowing of an incoming train that pieces of the world began to fall back into place with a crushing momentum.
Your shoulders tensed as you watched the two push their horses harder, further from you and closer to the railroad tracks. The train moved slowly from this distance, but you knew better.
There wasn’t a horse in this world that could outrun a train. But Gaz continued forward with Ghost right by his side. Your grip loosened around the rope.
Gaz looked back, eyes blown with a wild decisiveness you’d never seen in a man before. If they wouldn’t stop, you wouldn’t either.
The train was deafening this close, its engine’s roar filling the space between your ribs. Pomona huffed with each gallop, her stamina dropping, anxiety rising. You cursed as the distance grew.
“Don’t do this!” Your warning went unheard or ignored. They kept going, their horses seeming unafraid. Unlike your own, who was beginning to slow her pace.
You didn’t want to see the gores of men and horses painting the railroad, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away as they neared the tracks.
Even as you yanked Pomona to a halt, you watched—equally annoyed and concerned—as Ghost and Gaz took the leap, the massive train walling them off on the other side.
—
When he felt he was a safe distance from the tracks, Gaz made Windsor stop. His body shook from the adrenaline. Ghost slowed beside him, watching with a silent curiosity.
“That was bloody close,” Gaz breathed. His laughter was humorless, bordering on hysterical. “I’m mean…for fucks sake, Simon.”
“Gave us some breathing room, didn’t it?” Ghost reasoned, adjusting on his saddle.
Gaz nodded. “Thanks for having my back, mate.”
“Should’ve just killed the bastard. Spare us all this trouble,” Ghost reached for his hip, placing a hand over his pistol. “Especially for going after you like that.”
“I know you’re good for it,” Gaz smirked. For the first time today, he was starting to feel the tension fizzle out of his body.
He couldn’t see it, but judging by how the mask moved, Gaz was sure Ghost had smiled, too. His expression quickly smoothed out, the severity of the situation blanketing over his posture.
“We should split,” he said with a roll of his shoulders. “It’ll keep him off our trail long enough to get to camp.”
Gaz didn’t particularly like the idea, but even if he had the energy to argue or propose something different, Ghost's tone was final, telling him there wasn’t room for discussion. Meaning, he’d thought this one out, and Gaz trusted his decision.
“What if he follows?”
The question would have burned a hole in Gaz’s tongue if he hadn’t asked, but he wasn’t a fan of the cut of Ghost’s eyes. “I'd love to see him try.”
Gaz nodded again as Ghost jerked his chin in the direction he wanted him to go. He didn’t look back, calling for Windsor to carry on.
—
The sun was bleeding out, smearing the sky in hues of ember and violet as Gaz stumbled into the clearing with Windsor following his lead.
“What a day,” he sighed. He touched his fingertips along his forehead, grimacing at how sticky he’d gotten from the sweat. What he needed most was a cool, flowing creek to bathe in, to soak and allow his worries to be carried downstream.
The sight of the camp sent a flicker of relief behind his ribs. The tents remained standing, the fire pit cold but undisturbed—but the silence was wrong. He stepped into the camp hesitantly.
“Ghost?” Gaz turned in a slow circle, scanning the perimeter. “Price? Soap, c’mon.”There was no sign of movement. No trace that anyone had returned to the area in a long time.
He shook the feeling off before it could settle, and began to move about the camp. His boots crunched over dry grass as he approached the nearest tent. He pulled back the flap. Empty. The next one, too. A thought made his gut twist.
Ghost had been going easy back there; he wouldn’t give the hunter a chance to capture him, Gaz was sure. But if Ghost hadn’t been caught, where the hell was he? As for Price and Soap, Gaz could only hope that they were close by.
The hairs on his arms stood on end, a chill snaking down his spine as he returned to the center of camp. The realization struck just as he heard it—the faintest shift in the air. There was a whisper of movement behind him.
Gaz stiffened. His skin prickled as something hard and cold pressed into his back, wedging between his shoulder blades.
“Keep still,” the man demanded. The Hunter. Gaz clenched his fists at his sides. “Or so help me, I’ll shoot.”
Gaz waited for a beat. Two, then he spun, reaching for the weapon now aimed at his heart. He knocked it out of the man’s grasp as they struggled against each other, sending it skidding across the ground.
Hands were on him, rough and quick. An arm locked around his throat, the thick muscle pressing harshly under his chin. He trashed, instinct taking over, but the grip was iron-tight as he was pinned in a headlock.
“Got nowhere to go now,” the voice brushed against the shell of his ear, husky and satisfied. Gaz squirmed again, a fruitless effort as he was pulled harder against the man's chest. It earned him a chuckle. “Wild fuckin’ thing.”
Gaz’s vision blurred at the edges as pressure tightened against his windpipe. His fingers clawed at the arm around his neck, blunt nails digging into the thick cotton fabric of a shirt.
“Fuck you,” he managed, lungs burning. It was all he could say as he watched the camp flicker in and out of focus, wishful thinking for a savior slipping out of reach.
Gaz heard the man laugh before darkness swallowed him whole.
read 'coming up snake eyes' on ao3
series masterlist || prev: chapter 3 || next: chapter 5
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bandit Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Bounty Hunter M!Reader
𝐱: alternate universe - western, canon-typical violence, death of a minor character. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈
(4.2k words)
series masterlist || prev: chapter 4 || next: chapter 6
Your body ached, dull in comparison to the way your blood pumped with vicious triumph.
Kyle Garrick was unconscious in your arms, his limbs bound together by your handy rope work.
As proud as you felt, there wasn’t enough time to admire another job well done.
The rest of the gang could return at any moment, and you wanted to be sure you were long gone with the target if they did.
While he didn’t look it, Gaz weighed a shitton. His lean yet muscular body left you straining to carry him, a task further proven difficult with the soreness in your arms.
“Heavy sonuvabitch,” you gritted, taking a leaden step toward your horse.
You laid him face-down across the back of your saddle, taking your time to double-check for any loose threads or openings in the knots.
If he decided to roll off, he would have one hell of a fall. He wouldn’t be able to get far, regardless. After making sure Gaz was secured in the back, you checked on Pomona in the front.
“It’s been quite the day, hm?” you muttered, pressing your forehead to her neck. The adrenaline had long eased from your muscles, leaving you spent.
Nighttime was beginning to stretch overhead, blinking stars freckling the dark sky. You would be satisfied if you could get some distance between you and the valley.
Stonebrook was a long way away now, with Goldshire even further than where you started. Regardless, you’d have to camp with your target, which didn’t sit right with you.
Making Pomona carry twice the weight after having a strenuous day didn’t feel right either.
You took a moment to appreciate the mare, whispering your encouragement and gratitude under the hushed winds. You reached into your pack and fished out your offerings of apple slices, to which Pomona ate graciously.
When you get the chance, you promised, you’ll do more to reward her.
There was movement in the nearby bushes as you went to mount your saddle. The breeze hadn’t been strong enough to push the foliage around that much. Instinctively, your hand moved over your gun as you planted your foot back on the ground.
Don’t be stupid, you thought stormily.
‘Stupid’ would be thinking you could take on three men on your own. Graves’ warning had been faint in the back of your mind, now snaking its way to the front with a vicious hiss.
High-risk.
You hesitated, fingers shaping around the action of your gun. Trained eyes slid across the camp. Past your heartbeat, you could hear Gaz breathing; slightly restrained, but deep, as if he was only taking a nap.
In the moment you turned your back from the camp to grab hold of your saddle, a bruising weight rushed in and crashed into your body, sending you barreling to the ground with the wind knocked out of you.
There was a nasty growl overhead as you gathered your bearings, but unmistakably human. Rough hands that fought past your thrusting arms made a grab at your throat.
You had squeezed your eyes shut on the impact. Opening them now, you took in the attacker straddling you as you fought off his advances.
You flailed and punched and scratched, unable to reach your gun now as his thighs pinned you against the earth.
The man was desperate, messy in the way he fought, but he made sure to make it hurt. The side of his fist came down on your head, your chest—anywhere he could reach, where you weren’t already blocking.
He scratched at you, clung to your limbs like a prickly spur as you scrambled to get from underneath him, and he was relentless. It was clear he had an agenda, even though he didn’t say anything between the wild grunts and yells.
One of his hands pried free from your skin, leaving burning scratches down your arm. He freed you long enough to reach around his hip.
A sudden rage ignited within you, watching the knife he procured from his back pocket catch a glimmer in the moonlight.
He wanted you gone. You weren’t about to let that happen.
You took the chance and grabbed at him, clinging to his wrist until your fingers found that sweet spot around the bone, and the crack of cartilage giving way echoed louder than his shout.
The knife dropped to the ground as you drove your other hand into his chest, effectively pushing the man off of you. He tumbled onto his back, writhing in pain, but he did not cry for backup.
You rose from the ground, feeling your left eye growing heavy as your blood rushed through your body. It pulsed with your heartbeat, tender with its inevitable bruises. You’ll have a bunch of those from today, you were sure of it.
Your attacker shielded his broken wrist with his body, twisting and sliding across the dirt in a desperate attempt to flee. You weren’t about to let that happen, either.
Swiftly removing your gun from its holster, you didn’t blink as you aimed for the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
The jarring bark silenced the world around you, save for Pomona’s neighing. Your attacker’s body flattened, his blood pooling between the blades of grass beneath him.
Each breath came sharp from your nostrils, the adrenaline unable to find a home within you now. You took a hurried step forward, eyes glued to the carnage of your survival.
The man was sprawled out on his back, eyes focused somewhere beyond you as he stared up at the sky. A dark, jagged hole was printed on his forehead. His jaw was slack, covered with a messy scruff of grey hairs. You frowned.
This man looked nothing like the men in the posters Graves showed you. He wasn’t a part of The Vengeful, but that only offered a sliver of relief.
The gang may not be here to take you out, but that meant someone else was. Who the hell sent you?
It was beginning to feel eerie in the camp now, the breeze returning with a soulless howl. You wiped at your eye with the back of your hand and returned to your horse, your captive; the only two things that mattered now, aside from getting the hell out of there.
You climbed into the saddle and didn’t bother looking back.
—
Heat and grit penetrated the tranquil cocoon that Gaz’s mind wrapped itself in.
The veil of sleep was rudely lifted, replaced by the suffocating force wrapped around his body. Memory brought back the tenderness around his neck, the ache of his muscles, the pounding of his head.
He opened his eyes.
Gaz was positioned upright, his back pressed against the jagged, rough surface of a boulder. A panic rose in his chest, quickly replaced with his growing aggravation.
His movements were restricted to abrupt jerks, his wrists and ankles still tied together, arms pinned to his sides by the tight rope.
“You can try all you want,” a voice goaded him, dry and humorless. “Won’t get you far.”
Gaz lifted his head, meeting your eyes with a heavy defiance. His mouth worked like he was chewing you up instead of responding.
You sat a few feet across from him, back against your own rock in the small, makeshift camp hidden away by large boulders and a cliffside.
During the night, you forced as much distance as your injuries—and Pomona—would allow. Until your eye began to swell shut, and your horse refused to run.
You brushed the rough pad of your fingers over your eye now that the swelling has gone down, at least enough for you to open it again. Gaz watched you with a tint of curiosity in his frown.
“Got you good, didn’t I?” His voice was rough, either from being choked out or dehydrated, you weren’t sure. A smile formed, tired but persistent.
You scoffed as you stood to your feet. “Not even close.” His lips fell to a thin line.
Gaz watched each heavy, limping step you took, squirming as if that would keep the distance in front of him from shrinking. You crouched down in front of him, crowding into his personal space.
“There was another man who attacked me. Back at your camp.” You caught the twinkle in Gaz’s eyes at that, something between hope and anticipation.
He schooled his voice to remain neutral. “So?”
“So, I killed him.”
His expression tightened with an edge, sharpened with worry. He looked ready to pounce, his bindings the only thing keeping him from doing so.
You were toying with his feelings, manipulating him in that special way you did during interrogations. He fell for it, the worry for his comrades blatant on his brow. You continued. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, now. He wasn’t one of yours.”
You said the word like it tasted like venom, but it didn’t seem to land as an insult. There was a hint of relief in his features, though it was masked with that stubborn resolve.
Gaz never took his eyes off of you, killing you if only in his head. “What about him, then?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you inched closer, searching his face for a tell. It was a shot in the dark, literally, but you needed to be sure. “Who's in your gang?”
Gaz blinked, once, then choked out a laugh. “You joking?” He looked at you with equal parts curiosity and disbelief, then laughed again. “Bloody hell. ‘Course not.”
You sneered, but waited for any further explanation. He sighed. “There’s only four of us. Looks like someone didn’t do his research.”
Reactively, you balled up your fist, ready to drive it into his gut. You wanted to snap back that all you had was your research. Instead, you rose to your feet with a frustrated huff. “How else would he have known where to look?”
“Can’t say.” Gaz leaned his head back, nonchalant in the way he looked around. Had the situation been different, he would have looked comfortable. “You didn’t seem to have an issue finding it, eh?”
“I don’t have time for your smart mouth,” you frowned, turning your back to him.
The skin around your eye throbbed again, heat searing under its surface as your blood and temper flared. Your head was fucking pounding, and Gaz was only fraying your nerves more.
He made a noise from behind you. A quiet, contemplative hum. “Quite ironic, innit?”
You spun on your feet, the dirt grinding between earth and boot. “I’d stop talking now if I were you.”
He just held your gaze silently, leveling you with an annoying, easy smirk.
You looked away with a roll of your eyes, immediately regretting the move. There wasn’t another word exchanged as you returned to the other rock. You leaned your backside against the surface, pressing shaky hands on your knees.
Gaz surprisingly followed your order, not speaking again as he stretched his neck. He looked around, taking in his new surroundings.
You scrambled through your thoughts, backtracking to the previous night.
The man who attacked you wasn’t one of The Vengeful. That much was confirmed, but it still didn't offer any relief. Instead, it left a hollow space where certainty used to be.
One threat gone only meant another, more obscure one had taken its place.
You weren’t exempt from the whims of the nameless dangers in the Homelands. You’ve been robbed before, ambushed by desperate criminals hoping for a quick payout. Each time, you reminded them why they chose the wrong mark.
But this was different. His violence wasn’t part of some larger design. It was random, personal, and senseless.
You never killed without clarity. You fought off scum to defend what little bit you had, to warn. Never to end a life. The bounties provided clarity.
Last night was something else. It was sloppy, frantic, and so far from your agenda that it felt like watching someone else move your hands.
Still, you remembered the wildness in him. The look in his eyes wasn’t fear or greed. It was conviction. He didn’t just want what you had. His intention was simply to kill you.
It was necessary to kill first, you reminded yourself. He wanted you gone.
You lowered your head into your hands, groaning. It was only high noon, and yet you were already tired. Your body ached, pain seeping past skin and muscle, licking flames into bones.
Your knee, peeking through the torn denim, restricted tedious movements after falling on it. You hadn’t had a chance to look at it after it happened, but taking a glance now, you grimaced at the sight.
The bruise was shaped like a crescent moon, purples and blues blemishing the skin around it. A small cut above your kneecap hid under a thin layer of dry blood, crusted and flaking now as you swiped at it.
“You solid?”
For a moment, you forgot that you weren’t alone.
“No, I’m not fucking solid,” you retorted. There wasn’t a time that came to mind where you’ve felt this bad, every inch of you hurting.
It was like every time you moved, you found a new site of pain. Most dulled out after settling for a few hours, but some were still sharp. Those were a result of the attacker. You raised your head, slowly, not looking Gaz in the eyes. “What do you care, anyway?”
“Looks like you’ve got bigger problems to solve than little ‘ol me,” he sighed, feigning innocence. “Might be easier if you let me go. Forget about the deadweight.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You’re not going anywhere but where I take you.”
Gaz sat up a little straighter, brow knitting closer as he weighed your words. “What’s your play here, mate?”
Your laugh was short and sharp, the air expelling from your lungs like a blade. You stood upright, shoulders squared.
Onyx eyes bore into you like they were searching for your soul, stripping away your button-down and suspenders. They peeled back blemished, scarred skin, exposing a part of you that made your gut sink. You fought the shudder crawling down your spine, gritting your teeth.
“Stop staring at me like that.”
Gaz blinked, that smile returning with a slow curl. “Like…what?”
“Like I got somethin’ on my face!” you yelled, baring teeth. Between being beaten and Gaz’s sarcasm, you’ve had enough.
“Oi!” He scooted back, a feeble attempt to situate himself to appear bigger. “You’ve got somethin’ on your face, alright. And a bad attitude!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, a groan scraping against your throat.
“The sooner I get you to Shepherd and Graves, the better,” you grumbled under your breath.
When you opened your eyes again, Gaz was unmoving. The color, that rich chestnut shade, had drained from his face. His eyes went wide, lips flat.
“Shepherd sent you.”
The tone of his voice shocked you, drastically different in comparison to how he had been speaking to you before. It was dry, tense. Utterly serious as he stated it, not asking.
You scoffed again. “You think I’m just out here for the hell of it? I’ve got orders to follow and money to make.”
Gaz didn’t say a word. Not right away, his eyes breaking contact as he retreated into his mind. He shook his head, closing his eyes.
“Of course,” he muttered. You weren't sure if he was responding to what you said or acknowledging something else entirely. He didn’t look at you again. “Fucking hell.”
You tilted your head, regarding him with a distant glance. “Why are you surprised?”
“I’m surprised at your stupidity,” Gaz muttered, not looking up. “Taking orders from a man like Shepherd.”
His voice was low, more weary than angry. Still, his gaze remained fixed on the grass-stained denim clinging to his legs, like whatever was there made more sense than the situation above it.
You stepped in front of him again, boots planting into the earth on either side of his legs. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” you scolded. “And you’re in no position to ask for one.”
You hovered there for a beat, looming over him, daring him to look up. Gaz didn’t flinch. When he did lift his head, his eyes were unreadable for the first time since his capture.
Whatever expression he wore, it didn’t give anything away. There was a flicker in the deep pools of his irises. Not fear, but something subtler. Calculating.
“Guy must’ve kicked your ass real nice. I’d call it payback for sneakin’ up on me the way you did.” Gaz paused for a beat, that smirk fitting back on his lips. “I walk now, we call it even, yeah?”
Your jaw clenched. You turned away from him, more for your own sake than his, eyes sweeping the ridgeline in the distance.
“Nice try,” you grumbled. “You’re still going back with me. Alive, unless you complicate things by doing something stupid.”
“Sure you need to worry about me complicating things?” This time, his voice had an edge to it. Amusement. “Especially with another one of you running around?”
Your eyes flicked back to him. “I don’t care who that man was or what he was after. He’s dead. You are my responsibility. I’m not letting some rogue get in the way of my job.”
“Right,” Gaz muttered. “Your job.”
You didn’t give him the satisfaction by replying, not wanting to feed into another back-and-forth. You didn’t overlook the way he spoke about Shepherd, tucking the comment in the back of your mind to digest later.
Instead, you decided to forage the surrounding nature for lunch. Spare yourself the growing headache by leaving Gaz tied up at the camp.
—
You had a damp cloth pressed to your eye by nightfall.
Gaz sat on the other end of the fire, feet kicking back and forth in a lame attempt to keep himself occupied, eyes intent on staring at the flames.
Or maybe he stared past them to watch you, the weight of his gaze falling over you every now and then. You did your best to pay him no mind, keeping your face covered by the cloth anyway.
The cool water you procured from the nearby river soothed your blazing skin, even though the temperature had dropped greatly since sundown.
Two fish you’d caught earlier in the afternoon now sizzled over the flames, the crackle of burning wood barely louder than the hiss of oil popping from the skin. The salty, metallic scent of roasting meat drifted on the breeze, mingling with the woodsmoke.
Gaz shifted where he sat, testing the bindings that kept him there. He watched the fish with open hunger, licking at his lips shamelessly.
“How do you expect me to eat if I’m all tied up?” he asked. The amusement in his voice was too casual for someone in his position. You’d never had a captive that was so unserious, as if you were just camping together.
You didn’t bother looking at him. Head tilted back against the sun-warmed boulder, you kept your focus on the smoke curling lazily toward the dusky sky.
“I’ll feed you myself,” you said, waving a hand vaguely in his direction, brushing off the obvious hint. “Even if you deserve nothing but scraps.”
Gaz let out a bark of laughter, full and incredulous. “That’s just cold. Tying a man up, teasing him with roasted fish, then offering to spoon-feed him like a child!”
You lifted your head, holding the cloth in place as you moved. “Yeah, well…you should’ve thought of that before you started robbing elites and starting fires.”
“Ah, so you have done your research,” he mused. Gaz smirked, but something in his eyes flickered, if only for just a second. “That’s the version the Mayor gave you, huh?”
You lowered the cloth to reveal narrowed eyes. “It’s the version backed by reports and witnesses.”
“Uh-huh,” he said, dragging the sounds out. “Funny how the ‘truth’ gets cleaner the closer you are to money.”
You scowled, fixing your mouth to speak before he leaned back in mock surrender, shrugging. The fire crackled between you, and the silence stretched on. Thick and uncertain, but not entirely hostile. Not like before.
“You’re still a criminal.”
Gaz didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re still a lackey.”
The air between you cooled a few degrees. His words pricked at something in you, but he wasn’t wrong. You hated just how right he was.
The fish began to darken around the edges. You grabbed a stick, speared one of the fish, and tore a chunk of flesh free with the blade of your knife.
You walked over to Gaz and crouched low beside him, offering the meat without ceremony.
Gaz raised an eyebrow. “What, no airplane noises?”
“Bite,” you snapped.
He leaned forward, keeping his eyes on you even as his teeth scraped the fish from your blade, smiling around the food like he had already won something. You weren’t sure what it was, but the satisfaction he seemed to have was unnerving.
Sitting this close, the reflection of the fire was clear in his eyes. You decided to focus on the fish instead.
Gaz hummed as he ate, licking at the natural oils spilling onto the knife like a man starved. You watched, half amused, half revolted by the reverence with which he ate.
“How do you know Shepherd, anyway?” You brought the knife back to his lips, watching the plumpness of them wrap around its blade. “You talk about him like it's personal.”
He chewed slowly this time, swallowing with a smack of his lips. Gaz didn’t look at you or even the half-eaten fish in front of him anymore. His focus was on the bonfire, the light of it casting ominous shadows across his face.
“That’s because it is,” he said quietly, his voice measured.
You moved to sit beside him, lowering the knife into your lap as you waited for an explanation. You didn’t think it would come as he sat there, letting the silence settle like dust, the fire breathing and speaking for him.
Gaz’s smile was faint, not quite reaching his eyes. “People like him don’t leave clean footprints. You follow ‘em long enough, you start noticing the dirt.”
You blinked, unsure what to do with that. Shepherd didn’t do dirty work, even when it came to cleaning up the Homelands of crime. You knew that, a bitter reminder as you sat beside Gaz, filthy and bruised and so far from a plush bed.
“Is that supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”
“Maybe not,” he said, leaning back against the rock again. His eyes slid to yours. “Doesn’t save you from being stepped on, though.”
You studied him, caught off guard by the stillness of him. It wasn’t the reckless, smirking man you’ve been tolerating for the past few hours.
Gaz wasn’t trying to charm or manipulate now. He was sitting with something solemn, placing a little bit of it in your lap without meaning to.
In the wake of his words came thoughts about Bishop. The sting of misguided trust and the backlash that followed. You thought about the way Shepherd swept into your life and the way he wheedles your compliance. That twisting in your gut the day he proposed this quest. That felt like it happened ages ago.
It had only been four days, give or take, since the Mayor sent you to Stonebrook. Four days of questions and mysteries stacking atop one another, clouding your vigilance. The sensation of dread hasn’t been soothed; that feeling remained as the only constant.
“I’ve had my reservations towards Shepherd over the years.” You scratched mindlessly at your chin. “He keeps me busy, though. Keeps money in my pocket.”
You weren’t sure why you said it. Blamed it on Gaz’s own transparency or the fire or whatever, but you bit your tongue. Gaz looked at you, equally surprised.
“Didn’t peg you for the disillusioned type.”
You shrugged. “Didn’t peg you for the brooding one, either.”
Gaz rolled his shoulders as much as the ropes would allow him. “You gonna finish feeding me, or will I starve as we bond over disappointments?” He nodded down at the fish.
You plucked some meat off for him, feeding it to him with a grim smile.
“Shepherd might be a pain in the ass,” you started, sorting through your words carefully, “but it doesn’t excuse what you’ve done, either.”
“Is that what you think this is? An excuse?” Gaz swallowed roughly. A dot of oil stuck to the corner of his mouth, leaving a glistening sheen in the firelight. “Bloody hell. You’re more stubborn than I thought.”
Your shoulders tensed as you listened to the fire pop, the moment pulling into something brittle, threatening to shatter. Gaz didn’t move for another bite.
Then you stood, brushing your hands and blade across the thighs of your jeans.
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” you said coldly. “Only what happens next. So get some sleep. We’ve got a long day of traveling ahead.”
You turned away before you could see the look in his eyes. You could feel it, sharp between your shoulder blades as you snuffed out the fire.
The silence behind you thickened as you laid out your bedroll, heavy and still like the air before a breaking storm.
read 'coming up snake eyes' on ao3
series masterlist || prev: chapter 4 || next: chapter 6
— headcanons on how they show affection as your valentine, as well as how they would view the holiday if single.
featuring: 141, alejandro, rudy, valeria, alex, farah, graves, nikolai, and laswell.
safe for work, fluff.
A/N: i know this is being posted late (like...literally the day after valentine's day) but it was on my mind. whether you spent the holiday single, partnered, or in a complicated situationship, know that the point of valentine's day is the yummy candy, duh.
enjoy! x
kyle garrick would be the most suave valentine; nonchalant but in the sweetest way. he has everything planned to a tee. he doesn’t stress about the gifts he’s giving you or the plans for the day because he already knows that he aced it. that shit-eating grin will say it all.
single on v-day, gaz wouldn’t lose an ounce of optimism. "i'm my own valentine,” he’ll assure, though his attention will linger on the sappiness of it all. he can’t help that he’s a romantic.
—
johnny mactavish, your brazen lover; while he’s unabashed in his affections at all times, the holiday would only amplify just how far he’s willing to go to show you off—and in turn, show off for you.
alternatively, you’d think that soap was better off without a valentine by the way he carries himself; "too much heart for this world to handle,” or some shit. it's true, as the lines within his journals would reveal his poeticism.
—
simon riley is the private romantic; begrudgingly reserving a table on one of the busiest nights of the year. but, he pays attention to the things that make your heart sing, which is why he’d have fresh flowers cut and arranged in a clean vase before you're even awake.
single, ghost would treat it no differently than any other day—only this day is accompanied by (more) bad jokes. “they may call me ghost, but i don’t need a ‘boo’.”
—
john price has always been a traditional valentine; he wouldn't get your hopes up by planning with those finicky restaurants. he'd put his everything into a homecooked, candlelit meal, paired with an elaborate set-up and a verbalized list of reasons why you'll always be his.
while price would be fine without a date, that won’t get him to admit his guilty pleasure of receiving chocolates and paper cards from his loved ones.
—
alejandro vargas is an enthusiastic date; he'd want to do anything he could to make the day special, continuing to shower you with his usual displays of affection—today just gives him the excuse to go all out with a vibrant ramo buchón, and a night on the town.
on the other end of the spectrum, ale would feign ignorance of the holiday altogether. in reality, he's just as quick to buy novelty candies when they go on sale.
—
rodolfo parra would be the prepared partner; everything had been planned out in advance. expect the gift of something you made an off-comment about, like...months ago...coupled with a playlist burned into a cd—he's just old-fashioned that way.
without a date, rudy could be found content, going about his day like he would the rest of the year. he wouldn't be ashamed to admit the beauty in it all, though.
—
valeria garza would be your passionate valentine; gift-giving out the ass with this one. she'd present jewelry in particular, adorning you in extravagant stones set in by her affection.
if valentine's day is spent alone, valeria wouldn't hesitate to splurge on herself instead. they say "money can't buy happiness," but she is proof of how wrong that is.
—
alex keller, the pleaser; he lives to see that smile on your face. expect breakfast in bed with blueberry waffles—a touch of his personal favorite—before some scheduled cuddling. he'd want to make it special for you both, eager to go with the flow as you spend the day together.
with no valentine, alex would remain a good sport about it. if anything, he'd be happy to know that those around him are simply having a good time.
—
farah karim being the blatant romantic; she'd present her whole heart to you and carry yours diligently in return. valentine's day would be the day to slow down and reconnect—allowing the world to go by so she can focus on her main orbit.
in the case that farah spends the holiday single, trust that she'd spend it indulging in her own company. the romance media would be a choice, all tied in with the self-care she'd never lose sight of.
—
phillip graves is a secret sap; sure, he'd believe that valetine's day is typical capitalism, but boy does he just love the look on your face when he spoils you rotten. "here's the card, darlin'. you know the pin."
an eye roll is to be expected from graves when hearing the stories from the couples in his life. he would go about the holiday unaffected otherwise.
—
nikolai can't help but be dramatic; not so much as to make a fuss about the holiday, but adding a little—okay, a lot of—flair to a typical day of being his partner. good luck making it through the day without his hands being somewhere on you, too.
being single on v-day wouldn't be a big deal to nik. if anything, it would give him the perfect reason to be as unserious as possible with those around him. "get a room, lovebugs!"
—
kate laswell is begrudgingly romantic; folding at the simple things and not looking for the theatrics. expect to kick it back to the basics, to be reminded of why you carry that ring on your pretty little finger in the first place.
if laswell is to be alone for the holiday, she'd make it work. "it is what it is,"—not taking away from her focus on any other daily activities.
