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Tell Your Senators: Support Sen. Bernie Sanders’ Resolutions to Block Arms to Israel

Most U.S. voters want to stop U.S. arms sales to Israel and end Israel’s war on Gaza.¹ The Biden administration hasn’t listened. But that c

To all my American friends, the time is now.

Please, execute a BOMBARDMENT. Call your representatives!

In Limbo Masterlist

general masterlist | taglist | mafia!141 masterlist | read on ao3 | playlist

mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

cover created by @alchemyfreak321

is it wrong to fall in love while waiting to die? accepting a job with the mafia was virtually no different than selling your soul to the devil, but that was something Simon Riley was all too willing to do. it wasn't until he met you that he realized there were worse pacts to find yourself trapped in.

Prologue everyone knew not to ask the Riley brothers what they did after dark Chapter 1 it wasn't easy living on borrowed time Chapter 2 It was always better that way; when you didn’t have someone trying to look out for you.  Chapter 3 blood always recognized blood; especially when it screamed. Chapter 4 you wish he wasn't so kind Chapter 5 at least he's not doing this for you Chapter 6 no good deed ever goes unpunished Chapter 7 another deal. another oath. Chapter 8 warm soup and bile Chapter 9 ferocious and stubborn as an ox Chapter 10 crooked fingers and christmas cheer Chapter 11 everything in its place Chapter 12 love notes Chapter 13 in limbo Chapter 14 safe and sound Chapter 15 strings attached Chapter 16 brick by brick

extras

Coloring smoking alternate chapter 7 ending bath time (read after at least chapter 12) artists ice cream pumpkin carving

I highly suggest this series. It’s so incredibly well written and the dynamics are amazing. Tender and romantic with high stakes and drama.

In Limbo [Chapter 16]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

brick by brick

cw: mention of Simon's past (domestic violence, child abuse, attempted drowning), mention of Chip's discomfort with Marco

wc: 4.1k

“So… we talkin’ about Marco and Andrei or…?” 

Simon’s neck hurts. Painfully tense from spending the last handful of nights sleeping on the couch rather than in his bed. It’s a symptom of your skittish tendencies. You’re still keeping an awkward distance from him, which he knows he can’t entirely blame you for. It’s a lot to soak in. His job — the things he’s done. You’re still talkative — at least, not any less than usual — but you’re still hiding. Still making sense of this new mess you’ve found yourself in. So, he gives you the bed.

He rubs at the back of his neck with rigid fingers as he swivels in the computer chair next to Johnny. If he’s lucky, he can work the knots out before they root deep enough to form a migraine. Tight tendons pull at the base of his skull, and they don’t seem to want to relent. The dim incandescence of the security room helps stave off the beast, but the question posed to him only pokes the bear. 

“What’s there to talk about?” Simon’s playing dumb. Even the mere thought of Marco is enough to make his brain throb uncomfortably in his skull. He’d rather snuff this conversation out before it truly begins.

“Aye, I see,” Johnny hums. He eyes the handful of monitors in front of him before spinning around in his chair. “So we’re pretending I never saw anything on the cams?” 

“Would appreciate it,” Simon huffs. His hand falls away from his neck as he tilts his head to either side. There’s a sharp click that accompanies the movement, followed by a sigh. “Don’t need this getting out, yeah? I promised her that I’d keep it between us.” 

Johnny nods. “So, I suppose you wanna keep Price in the dark too?” 

The reply that burns the tip of Simon’s tongue hardly seems to come from a sound mind. Lie to John Price. The John Price. As if his family hasn’t been known for snuffing out undesirables for generations — for keeping the streets safe for those who would otherwise be crushed under steel toed boots. The same boot you’re currently pinned under. He thinks back to the other day and the tears that pooled in your eyes; the fracturing of your voice as you all but begged him not to tell John. 

Or worse; Row.

How did his allegiance switch so abruptly? So violently that an omission of truth suddenly becomes easy if he does it for you? 

“Don’t mention it to anyone. Price included,” Simon confirms. 

Johnny is a good man. An honest one. So much so that his discomfort manifests in the minute clenching of his jaw at the thought of telling such a lie. “Is she safe at least?” 

Safe. Simon thinks about it. You. Curled up in his bed wearing nothing but a plain t-shirt, burrowed beneath heaps of blankets. You’ve been sleeping non-stop lately, like you’ve got a deficit you’re attempting to catch up on. He lets you curl up like a cat and nap the days and nights away, because if you’re comfortable enough to sleep around him, then that must mean something. Something good. 

“She’s stayin’ with me,” Simon shares. “Probably will be for a while.” 

“Ah.” Johnny’s chair squeaks as he leans back. “So… you two official, then?” 

Simon pauses, head tilting to the side. “You’re a funny man.” 

A cheeky remark flits across Johnny’s tongue, but the words are lost on Simon’s ears. His phone buzzes in the pocket of his jeans, and his heart skips a beat. There’s no hesitation in retrieving his phone and allowing the screen to illuminate his face with a text message from you. 

i’m learning new tricks (: 

Your message is quickly followed by a picture. You’ve captured an image of the string you always play cat's cradle with, laid out flat on the coffee table in his living room. It’s in a design he doesn’t recognize. Form fuzzy without fingers holding it taut, but he’s still able to make out the lattice-like rectangle that swirls in the picture. 

it looks better when i’m actually holding it. fun to do!

Simon tries to hide his smile.

Looks great sweetheart.

A playful scoff pulls Simon’s attention away from his phone. He looks up just in time to catch the tail end of Johnny’s rolling eyes before he twists his chair back around to look at the monitors. 

“Aye, right. I’m the funny one,” he mutters, sarcasm dripping from his words. 

Another message from you has him ignoring the man. 

it’s called jacob’s ladder

Simon has to blink several times in order to clear his vision. He rereads your message, convinced he’s seeing it wrong, but nothing changes. Each word is still the same — all the way down to the name. 

Didn’t know they had string versions of that. 

It’s impossible to hide his mirth. That sly chuckle that seeps from his chest as he stares at the screen, waiting for your response. Simon is a simple man. He likes his jokes, no matter how debauched they are. 

i don’t get it

Somehow, he’s not surprised. His fingers hover over the screen as he contemplates his answer. 

I’ll tell you when you’re older. 

Muffled music swells to a crescendo, only to quickly diminish into a hush as the door opens and closes. John Price enters the room with broad shoulders swaying, but it’s impossible for him to hide his exhaustion. He’s jetlagged, and obviously so. Enervation gnaws at the heels of his feet as he strides into the room, bags pulling at his eyes. Still, he manages a smile as Johnny swivels around to greet the boss. 

“Evening boys.” Despite his weariness, his voice is as gruff and sonorous as usual. 

“Missed you, boss,” Johnny teases. “How was your holiday?” 

“Warm,” John chuckles. 

“Looks like you got a bit of color, too,” Simon notes. 

Laughing, John rubs the tip of his rosy nose. He pretends not to notice the slight peeling of his skin. “Like I said; warm. Warm, sunny, and a hell of a lot better than London in December.” 

For a short moment, his eyes flicker to the rows of monitors behind Johnny. Black and white footage of clubbers dancing illuminate the tight space of the room. The building is packed, almost alarmingly so. Full to the brim of tired uni students with nothing better to do over their break, they dance the night away as the New Year approaches.

“And you boys? Got some good R&R, I hope,” John asks, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Well, Lucy was stuck working again,” Johnny sighs. His fingers are buzzing; tapping his knees like he’d rather be clacking away at a keyboard than having this conversation. 

“Hospital hardly lets her catch a breather,” John notes. 

“Aye, but she likes it that way.”

“Course. And you, Simon?” 

His phone buzzes just as the attention is turned on him, but he doesn’t dare look down at his screen. Instead, he nods his head as he adjusts himself on the faux plastic leather seats of the office chair. 

“Yeah. Good. Manchester was cold as hell, but we survived,” he explains coolly. 

“Chip like it?” John continues.

“Her and Joey got along well,” Simon humors. 

“And your brother? Doing well?”

Simon nods. “Happiest I’ve ever seen ‘im.” 

This feels like an interrogation. An uncomfortable insight into his life that he usually doesn’t offer up willingly. For a moment, Simon’s guilty conscience gets the better of him. Has him feeling as thin as cellophane, and he nearly melts under the heat until he realizes John’s looking at him the same way he did all those years ago in that pool house. Hidden away in the locker room, offering him a job. Earnest and amicable.

This is the furthest thing from an interrogation. It’s rapport building. This is the man who has broken jaws to keep children safe and spilt blood over the smallest of cuts on women. John’s known you much longer than Simon has, and he’s simply checking in on the very man he helped save all those years ago. Muscles melting, Simon allows himself to take a proper breath. 

“Glad to hear he’s keepin’ clean,” John praises. “Either of you heard from Kyle?”

Johnny chuckles. “Nothin’ but moaning and groaning. Still hungover from mummy’s Christmas party. Fuckin’ lightweight.”

“I’d self medicate to get through that bureaucratic bullshit too,” Simon chuckles.

Halfway through his sentence, John’s phone begins to buzz. Loud; obnoxious; incessant — a phone call. His sigh is heavy and tense as he retrieves the item from his pocket. His thumb nearly goes to ignore the call until he reads the ID at the top of the screen. 

“Wife calling you home?” Johnny teases. 

“We’ll see,” he chuckles. 

His laughter dies in his throat the moment he answers the call and Row is sobbing on the other end. 

The world continues to rage around them as the room falls into silence. Row’s wailing cuts through the room; bounces off the walls like her voice is nothing more than a toy to be tossed around. Johnny and Simon share a look — wide eyes framed by furrowed brows — while John attempts to calm her. His head dips as his free hand rubs at the back of his neck; a stress response Simon has rarely seen in the man. 

There are a few words that cut through the static of the call, each of them framed by blood curdling cries:

John — please — I can’t do this — not again — I can’t.

There’s an attempt at diffusing the situation. Of gently cooing into the phone, of asking what’s wrong, but nothing calms her. It’s all tears and painful laments that he can’t seem to quell. John doesn’t bother to give either of the boys a second glance before he’s ducking back out the door. Music swells, then quickly dies. Neither of them speak. They just sit in their chairs with Row’s cries echoing in their minds. 

“The last time I heard her cry like that was when her ex-fiancé cheated on her,” Johnny mumbles to himself. He pauses as he looks at Simon; he’s still staring at the door. “Think everything’s alright?” 

“Yeah,” Simon responds after a pause. “If not, we’ll know soon.” 

His tone is even — strong and unwavering — but the truth is, Simon hates the sound of crying. It makes his teeth ache as if he’s scraped his fingernails on a chalkboard. He’s reminded of his mother. Even after all these years her screams haunt him as she braces for the unforgiving impact of a closed fist against her face. He sees her crumpled form on the kitchen floor. A trembling hand covering her eye. 

It reminds him of himself as a child. Pathetic pules and sputtering echoing off the bathroom walls as he begs and screams. High pitched and prepubescent. Water sloshing. Feet kicking. His father always hated the sound of him — every sniffle, every blubber, every cough — and he eventually grew to hate it too until even the sound of his own breathing infuriated him.

Worst of all, it reminds him of you. In the midst of your trashed apartment, hardly able to get a full breath in, tears streaming down your face — terrified. Prattling. Rambling. Hit with an unforgiving concoction of grief and fear; his stomach churns at the mere memory of you trembling against him. 

Pushing it out of his mind, Simon brings his attention back to his phone — back to you. Everything melts away — Row’s cries, the music pounding just beyond the door — and for a moment it’s just him and the notification flashing on his screen. 

i just googled it. the ribbon and woodblock toy, right? jacob’s ladder? i forgot those existed haha

It’s past three in the morning by the time he gets home. You’ve left the kitchen light on for him. He doesn’t know why, but that makes his heart wrench. 

You’re the first thing he checks on. He doesn’t even bother to take his shoes off at the door. The very moment the deadbolt latches behind him, he’s peeking into the bedroom through the gap in the door. Snug, you’re buried under his comforter, head hardly visible as you burrow your face into the pillow. For a moment, he stands there and watches you with nothing but a sliver of light seeping through the doorway to illuminate you. 

Safe. Comfortable. Sleeping. 

Retreating away from the door, Simon hides himself away in the living room. He’s forgotten to lay out clothes to change into, and he curses the idea of sleeping in his jeans as he sinks into the couch. The cushions are flattened. Morphed into the shape of his body after a near week of using it as a makeshift bed. A jolt of electricity shoots through his neck, like his body is already anticipating the ache.

He tosses his arm over the back of the couch as he mindlessly flips through programs on the television. Usually, he’s able to sleep without white noise, but these days it’s hard to get any rest at all. There’s money to save up, debts to pay. A sharp pang echoes throughout his knuckles. It throbs like a heart quivering with memory, and he attempts to quell it by flexing his fingers. It’s a symptom of a larger beast. Of something that demands blood — thirsty for penance.

An eye for an eye. 

He’s satiated this type of reprobate before, and he’ll do it again in due time.

Anything for you.

A nature documentary is Simon’s choice of white noise for the night. Auburn fur blurs on the screen as a red fox bounds along the environs of lush woodlands. Its thin snout pokes up in the air where a wet nose dances with short and sharp inhales. Simon smiles as the narrator — a man with an overly posh accent — drones on about the critter's life. 

As he goes to place the remote on the coffee table, he spots a piece of string. It’s tied in a circle, just about as long as his forearm. Worn fibers fray with years of use, yet it holds strong — well loved. Curious, he picks it up. He thinks about the pictures you sent him that evening. How proud you were of the new trick you learned. How your first instinct was to tell him about it. 

Careful fingers wrap the string around his own hands as he sets up a round of cat's cradle. It’s easy enough — a simple slip of his middle fingers — but he doesn't know how to continue. Hazy memories attempt to surface in his mind as he thinks of your hands. How your fingers moved and danced to manipulate the string so effortlessly. Practiced to the point you can do it without proper thought. 

He tries to move his thumbs. It’s what he recalls you doing, anyway. Weave them between thin lines of string until it feels firm and secure. 

When he drops his pinkies, he’s left with nothing but a knot. 

“Si?”

He doesn’t hear you approach. Doesn’t hear the squeak of the bedroom door or the creak of the floorboards — you appear like an angel swathed in the light of the TV. Freshly awoken and rubbing your eyes, he wants to lay you down. Needs to pull thick blankets over your body and let you get the rest you deserve. It’s an odd urge to feel; one he doesn’t quite understand. Instead, he pulls the string off of his fingers and places it back on the table where he found it. 

“Did I wake you?” he asks. 

Your prostration temporarily clouds your mind, forcing your brows to furrow at his question. He watches as you mull his words over in your mind, then shake your head. 

“No.” The fox on screen begins to cry out some melancholic tune neither of you can decipher, and still your eyes don’t leave Simon. In fact, you stare at him for so long he begins to question the state of your consciousness. “Will you come to bed with me?” 

Simon has to bite his tongue to keep his response from spewing out of his mouth too quickly. His hands reach for the remote where he kills power to the TV. A stillness stretches between the two of you — you swear you can hear him breathe. 

“‘Course.” 

Eager to get out of his jeans, Simon shucks them off in favor of sweatpants while you mindlessly climb back into bed. He’s hardly able to settle in next to you before you’re clamoring for him. Hands pawing at his chest as you nuzzle against his side — he would chuckle if it didn’t make his heart swell to the point of bursting. Arm wrapped around you, he holds you close as he drags the blankets up where he tucks them underneath your chin. 

As you mumble quiet goodnights to one another, and your body goes still, Simon can’t help but think he could die like this. With you in his arms. With you here at his house leaving lights on for him to come home to. Sending him texts while he’s at work. Pictures of things you’re proud of; of things that make you happy. Perhaps that’s what he’s been missing all these years. Someone to take care of. Or, maybe it’s just you. God, he could die like this—

—but really, he’d rather live like this. 

When morning dawns, and pale light seeps through the curtains, Simon is awoken by gentle fingers. Convinced he’s dreaming, he revels in the feeling. Nails carefully ghosting the line of stubble on his jaw, working up, up, up into his hair. Weaving between the short strands, rubbing into his scalp. He’s reminded of the way his mother used to wash him up as a child. Too scared to fit into the tub; leaning over the side instead as she rinses his hair clean of suds.

Refusing to stir, he lays there for a while longer. It would be a lie to say he hasn’t had an appetency for this; for you. Your warmth against his side and your head on his chest, just like things were back in Manchester. That strange longing still has a hold on him. This strange affliction that not even sleep can shake off. It haunts him. Curls up tight at the side of his feet and sits with him like a cat that’s suddenly decided that his body is its home now. 

“You’re awake,” you note. 

He allows his eyes to flutter open when you speak, and his chest expands with a tired sigh. “Am I?” 

Movement ceasing, your fingers leave his hair and Simon almost reaches for you to put them back. “Your heartbeat changed,” you explain. 

Even the mere mention of it has his heart racing. You’ve been listening to it for quite some time this morning, counting each slow and steady beat as it drums against your cheek. It quickened the moment you started to caress the side of his face, lulling him back into the waking world. For a moment, it made you feel powerful; being able to change the beating heart of another person. 

“What time is it?” Simon asks. You feel his legs shift, long limbs stretching the morning ache out. 

“I don’t know,” you admit. “Early.” 

“You’re not a very good watch,” he playfully grumbles. 

“Tick tock.” Things are quiet for a moment as you adjust yourself; head nuzzling further against his ribs as if you won’t be happy until you’re burrowed inside of his chest. “Were you playing with my string last night?” 

He’s glad you can’t see the odd smirk on his lips. “Was tryin’ to figure out how you play cat’s cradle by yourself.” 

You hum. “I meant what I said, you know. About teaching you.” 

Your words set off a reaction within him consisting of flexing arms and fluttering heart. He pulls you closer, and he swears his breathing nearly ceases when he feels you melt into him. 

“Think I’d just like to lay here for now, sweetheart.” 

So you do. Together. Bodies heavy on the mattress as it holds you in place, Simon’s warmth radiating into your bones until you’re sure you’ll dissolve. You stay there laying next to him until the sun’s light transforms from a pale yellow to a glorious gold. Manna hangs heavy in the air as Simon’s thumb begins to gently caress the side of your waist — absentmindedly and sweet. 

This quiet moment ends by the fault of your stomach. It churns and protests with a pathetic growl, and despite how muted it is, Simon still hears it. Staying as still as humanly possible, you pray he doesn’t mention it — that he can allow himself to rest for just a bit longer — but of course, he stirs. 

Simon cradles your head as he moves you to the side, torso leaving the bed as he sits up, and you whine. It’s an unfamiliar sound that leaves your lips; this pathetic whimpering. It’s enough to get him to pause for a moment, body twisting as he gives you his full attention. He rests your head down on the mattress, but he doesn’t retract his hand. 

“What?” he questions. 

There’s a tight pull at the corner of his lips, and you’re suddenly aware of just how close he is. Hovering over you, fingers pressed into the back of your skull, hips locked against yours. Staring up at him, your tongue goes dry as you try to think of a response. How are you supposed to tell him he’s the first comfort you’ve felt that didn’t suffocate you? That removing yourself from him is like tearing a bandaid from your skin — epidermis removing with it?

“Don’t go.” It’s hardly above a whisper. A susurrus that almost fails to drift through the air. 

He chuckles and it’s deep. His voice in the morning is always rough. “Gotta eat at some point today.” 

But he doesn’t move. 

Simon’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Not just into your eyes, but he’s soaking up the way the light filters through your eyelashes and the pressure indents on your cheek from sleeping. You find yourself doing the same thing. Tracing every single faded scar that decorates his face and the subtle curve of his nose. His lips press together just as his thumb brushes along the apple of your cheek. You’re frozen. Forever caught in this moment. 

“Gorgeous.” 

The word leaves Simon’s lips without permission, but he doesn’t retract it. Isn’t ashamed of it either. He refuses to play it off and be coy — he continues to caress your cheek, and you wonder if he can feel the heat brewing inside of you. Firing synapses, blood superheating to the point of sublimation — can he feel it? The way you crumble? How you melt beneath his touch? 

They say Rome was destroyed within a single day, but you know that’s not the case. Like all things, its destruction was systematic. Timed and viscerally demanded. Rome was destroyed the same way all things are — brick by brick. 

Simon takes you apart the same way with this kiss — brick by aching brick. His lips press against yours, setting you ablaze as if he’s lighting you for your immolation. Like he’s trying to burn you away until you’re nothing but ash and cinder. It’s heavy, but soft. A weight so unfamiliar yet it feels like home. It’s simple. Blithe. He neither gives nor takes with this kiss; he only speaks. 

You try to speak back as your lips perk against his, jaws gently moving in sync. It’s an insurmountable task. How are you supposed to pour out all the words you wish to speak into this single union? How can it be possible to convey to him that this is the first kiss that has not ripped you to shreds? How do you explain that you’re trembling out of ardor instead of fear? 

For once, love doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hurt, and it tastes like stale cigarettes. 

Simon’s shaped your lips into a smile by the time he pulls away. Still hovering over you, he brushes a kiss against your forehead. 

“Breakfast?” he asks, muttering the word into your skin. 

He kisses you, and instead of talking about money — like you’re so painfully used to — he speaks of food. Of sharing a quiet moment with you. You don’t know why, but you want to cry. The pressure builds behind your eyes, and instead of crying, you laugh.

For once, everything is quiet. There is nothing but Simon’s soft breath against your skin, and the pounding of your own heart. Your fingers do not twitch. They do not yearn for string. 

Only for him. 

“Yeah,” you smile. “Breakfast sounds good.”

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Fates of the Fateless Ch 11: Got some Dirt in your Eye

TRIGGER WARNINGS: violence against women, attempted sexual assault/non-con, verbal abuse, physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence and corpses

ao3

wattpad

Daniel becomes a regular at that point, popping in to say hello, a quick drink and sometimes an actual conversation.

“Where you from?” 

“Far far away from here.” Your responses are simple and short.

“New York?”

“Even farther.” 

He was always so pleasant and cool headed. The friendly type. Soon enough he was buying you things. At first it was a meal or two. It was like he had a sixth sense on days you’d skipped meals.                                                                           

“Need to put some meat on your bones.” He’d say.

Along with the extra cash, you could finally afford to bath regularly. Finally feeling more human not covered in days of grime. You almost forgot the face of the young woman under all that dirt.

Sometimes she didn’t look so miserable.

On a dusky evening, he came in with a package, donned with a bow of twine. The display earned you dirty looks from the other women. He never seemed to be interested in what they had to offer. 

You didn’t open it until back at the stables, alone with only the eyes of equines to see what was inside. A new dress with a fine yellow pattern of flowers and a matching pair of new shoes.

“Wow.” You utter, pressing the gown to your form, attempting to visualize it on your body without the help of a mirror. You twist and turn, finding Big Enough’s big brown eyes watching you curiously as he chews a mouthful of hay. “What do you think?” you ask him, “Not bad huh?” you smile.

A whistle comes from the stable owner, an amused look in his eye as he deposits another hay bale in Big Enough’s stall. “When’s the wedding?” He smirks, dusting off his calloused, dirty hands. “You’ll be inviting me won’t you?”

His comment is obviously a joke, but he makes you realize the gesture is… alot. Why was Daniel giving you so much? Why go out of his way to help you out?

“And how’re you big guy?” The stable owner strokes Big Enough’s speckled snout. “Quite a sweet heart this one.” He comments, “You’re sure you want to sell him?”

You smile sadly at the horse, big innocent eyes wandering to inspect the man’s hand for a treat. “Yeah… I can’t take care of him. And he needs to be with other horses, not some… lost idiot.”

“Alright, but you know without papers I can’t pay you full price.”

“That’s fine, as long as you give him a good home.” You sadly give the horse a good pat of your own. Tracing the large black spot over his left eye. You watch the man leave in your peripheral. “You’ll be ok huh?” you ask him. He leans forward, inspecting the dress in your arms before attempting to nibble it. “Hey you trouble maker!” you laugh extending the dress out of his reach. He just attempts to extend his neck further. “Yeah, not much bothers you. I think you’ll do fine out there.” You laugh patting the thick muscles of his neck.

You find your eyes drawn back to the dress, hanging from your arm. The yellow color catching the sunlight and practically radiating like a sunbeam. New and pristine. A distinct lack of stains and holes littering its fabric. You’re mind wandering back to Penelope’s warning.

At first it seemed like it was Samson asking about you. But now…

___________________________________________________________

You could tell he was a little disappointed that you weren’t wearing your new gift. Tension in his jaw, making his face look the slightest bit stiff.

“Hey there, looking a little glum today.” He starts, the disappointment gone from his face and back to the chipper Daniel you’ve come to know.

“Oh yeah, been talking to the stable owner… Gonna have to sell Big Enough.”

“Oh that’s too bad, I could talk to him if-“

“No. That’s ok.” You cut him off, “He deserves better than what I could give him.” You pull away a moment to serve another group of men, before having to face him again. “So, what have you been up to? Coming in later than usual.”

“Nothin’ too exciting. Just some errands.” He slides over a couple of coins. Just enough for his favorite gin. You’re about to ask a follow up question for a little more context, but he drops one of his own. “You ever think of leavin’ here?” The question catches you off guard. Your hand lingers on the glass as you deposit it. Mouth a jar slightly.

“I… never really thought about it.”  You retract your hand, eyes fluttering downward as you ponder. Everything that’s happened up till now has been so sudden and insane, you’ve barely had time to even process any of it.

“I guess I’d like to save up a little more and… maybe move to a bigger town.” You pull a somewhat basic answer from thin air. Baby steps, right?

“And how long do you think that’ll take?” His tone is somewhat pessimistic.

“Uh… well…” you fidget a bit. Your little bit of confidence waning. He watches you squirm for a bit, finally breaking the awkward silence with the clink of his empty glass on the stained wooden bar top. Shuffling around in his pocket, placing a handful of bills for you to take.

“Well, hopefully this will get you a little closer to that goal.” He beams a smile, handsome face wrinkling around his eyes and nose. “Who knows, maybe you’ll be outta here sooner than you think.” He winks. Finally standing and deciding a game of cards will do to pass the time.

You graciously pocket the money, 5 crumpled dollars peeking out at you. Daniel’s seemingly characteristic generosity strikes again.

He never asked for anything in return. No boundaries were ever pushed. Didn’t even make a passing comment on the subject of the dress.

Maybe he was genuinely charitable at heart. Just looking out for the little guy.

So what was the harm in accepting?

After all, you needed a new change of clothes. Hygiene was a must. And of course, you would've only lasted for so long on scraps of food. 

Surely it was platonic. Nothing more.

The evening quickly turns to dusk, Daniel walks you to the stables like he does most nights. He’s telling a story about his younger brother, a time when the two were drinking a bit too much.

“I’m shooting the breeze talkin’ about who the hell knows what. And I look up to find him gone.” He slicks his ashy brunette hair back, placing his hat back atop his head. “I’m stumblin’ around lookin’ for the idiot before I give up and sleep the booze off. And the next morning-Haha!- I wake up needin’ to piss, I swing open the outhouse and there I find Colm’s bare ass-ahahaha! P-passed out, trousers around his ankles, his face flat in the corner. I pissed myself laughing so hard!” You both laugh, though yours is more a soft chuckle, coming to a stop just outside the stable. Laughter subsiding, the two of you grinning in silence. His prominent cheek bones accentuated by his cheshire smile. Usually, he begins his departure at this point, letting you head to bed. The awkward silence ticks on a moment longer. You’re fidgeting. Eyes looking around at the dirt, the wooden stable door, the farrier is inconveniently missing tonight.  Daniel again. He’s closer than you remember.

You catch his eyes darting from your eyes down and back again.

“Um… I’ll see you tomorrow.” You hastily put space between the two of you before his arm shoots out and grabs your forearm.

“Hold on sweetheart. We need to talk.”

Shit.

“A-about what?” you feign ignorance, hell you know exactly where this is going.

“You’ve been actin’ real distant. More than your usual self and I can’t help but wonder if I did something to putcha off.”

You stare at the hand holding your arm, long fingers clutching the meat of your arm firmly. He must take notice and releases his hold. You hastily pull away, eyeing him warily.

“Daniel… Why do you do so much for me?” You finally relent. His mouth opens a moment before shutting. His eyes flitting between yours as he seemingly thinks of what words to properly use in the next tense moments.  

“I’m going to be leavin’ here soon.”

Oh?

“And I want you to come with me.” You stare at him blankly a moment. His hand reaches out to grasp yours, far gentler this time, in his calloused cold fingers. “As my woman.”

There it is.

He finally said it, his intense dilated gray eyes boring boldly into your wide and shocked ones. He brings your hands up to his face and pecks your knuckles with a slightly moist kiss. A peck for each hand.

“Daniel, I-I can’t-we don’t-What?!” You stutter out.

“I want you to be my woman. No more scrounging around for cents and scraps, no more sleepin’ in the stable, and no more workin’ yourself to the bone.” He strokes his fingers over the small cuts and callouses that have developed over your hands. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Daniel I-I can’t-“

“Why not?” He cuts you off, his happy demeanor falling slightly. “You want to be stuck in that whore house serving drinks for the rest of your life?!” His voice is raising. “Hell, you know they’re just waiting for the day they can whore you off like the rest!”

“Daniel-“

“You sold your horse! How do you expect to get out of this dust bowl-“

“Daniel-“

“You won’t have to work another day in your life, just sit pretty and-“

“Daniel!” You shriek, ripping your hands out of his and with it his faces falls. “I don’t even know you! I can’t just drop everything to be with-with a stranger!” You take a few steps back, thankfully he stays in place. Shaking your head, “No, Daniel.” You say firmly. He stares. You dig around in your apron pocket, pulling out the tips he’d given you. Shoving them into his hand, quick to step back to a safe distance. “I do appreciate what you’ve done, cause it’s true. Things have been better with your help. But- But I’m sorry if-if I made it seem like this was anything more than just a friendly acquaintance. But I can’t offer anything more than that.” You want to run away, but you’re stuck there staring him down. Gaging his next move, hands nestled over the gun pressed to your belly.

It feels like an eternity of your eyes darting back and forth between his blank eyes. The brim of his hat finally tilts down and over his face, breaking the contact. He doesn’t say anything, just slowly turns around and walks away. Your eyes laser focused on his back as he slowly disappears into the darkness.

You hide yourself in between the hay bale stacks that night.

Daniel doesn’t show up the next day. Or the next. Or the day after that.

______________________________________________________________

The morning stroll to the saloon was windy, whipping your hair about and into your face. Sputtering grains of sand out of your mouth as you enter. The saloon was surprisingly bare today, only a few stragglers at the bar, fewer at the tables. Hamish is in his corner smoking away with a book in his hands. Mr. Roper is nowhere to be seen. Hamish finally takes notice of you.  

“Boss wants you to record and restock the cellar.”

“Where is everyone?” 

“Storm stirring up, everyone’s hunkering down for the day.” As if to make a point the wind screams as it rattles the windows and saloon doors swing roughly into the frame with a loud

Crack!

You ponder the idea of taking shelter at the stables, have a day off just for you. Spend more time with Big Enough before he’s gone. But at this point Hamish and the girls have seen you. No doubt one of them would snitch. You sigh, kicking away the wooly carpet that’s nestled atop the heavy hatch door, revealing the narrow passage down into the darkness. The air dry and musty. Your feet kick up dirt as you finally meet solid ground. It’s pitch dark. There’s a crummy old lantern collecting cob webs hanging in the corner but of course no one’s bothered to fill it with oil. Leaving you dependent on the hatch opening for any sort of light. Which was a struggle as you were practically always casting a shadow on everything you needed to see. Squinting to make out the logs in the barely held together ledger rotting at the spine.

“Hey bar girl? You down there?” you hear a familiar voice call out for you. A shadow blacks out the entire cellar.

You sigh, “Albert, can you not block the light?” You throw your head back towards the hatch opening to see Albert’s head poking through. “You’re not supposed to be behind the bar!” you scold.

“Well get me a drink and I’ll leave!” He sasses back.

You dig around one the gunny sacks, pulling out 2 beers. “Here!” Thrusting them up and into his face. “Now quit blocking my light.” Albert smiles and graciously takes the drinks into his hands. Finally leaving and allowing light to cascade back into the dark cellar.  

As you work, your mind wanders. Every once and a while you think about the gang. About Tilly. You hope she and the other girls are doing ok. Wonder if Samson told them about you. If he had, why hadn’t they come looking? Maybe what Samson said was true. Maybe they were happy you left…

The light is blocked out again.

“Albert!” You yell, eyes straining to read the ledger. “For the love of God can’t you just ask Hamish-“ The hatch door is pulled closed. “Hey! What the hell!?” You yell angrily, cast in complete black. The distinct sound of someone descending the ladder gives you pause. “Albert?” you ask meekly. Your eyes scan the darkness in vain as you hear heavy feet finally meet the dirt floor. It’s silent. Your own feet slowly back away until your heel accidently bumps into a crate, the glass within clinking against one another. You freeze.

There’s a shape. A large one taking form as your eyes adjust. Eventually you can see the distinct contrast of eyes peering out at you from the blackness.

“Took long enough for that guard dog of yours to leave your side.” The voice that rings out sends a chill down your spine. “Guess the bitch wasn’t in heat.” Samson stands in the darkness, between you and the only way out.

It’s like your feet are welded to the ground, too afraid to move. Eyes darting to and fro to each of his. Unsure if moving would somehow trigger his attack.

“W-whatdoyouwant?” you hate how weak your voice comes out. Barely registering as a sound and more like a hoarse whisper. Your hands find themselves to your stomach, grasping at the solid gun hidden under fabric. Sloowwly attempting to unravel the apron without bringing his attention to your motive. Samson’s eyes continue to bore into yours, unmoving, unblinking. They remind you of a corpse.

When he finally speaks it makes you jump so harshly your teeth clink shut and your vision loses him for a moment.

“I want, what’s been denied of me.” His voice is vicious and sharp. Spitting out each word with animosity. Like the strike of a viper.

You know exactly what he wants. A thousand disgusting and dehumanizing thoughts fill your head, each image worse than the last. Your control on your fear is crumbling away with each passing second. Your chest is heaving with each breath, eyes rapidly blinking away tears and every part of your body is shaking violently. Your fingertips finally feel the cold steel and a feeling of desperation takes hold.

“I don’t owe you SHIT you SICK FUCKER!” you shriek, whipping the gun forward and a sharp Bang! echoes off the stone walls. Light illuminates everything for a quick second and descending back into muddled darkness. Everything’s a blur. You’re not sure you managed to pull the trigger again before you find yourself slammed into the hard, cold, dusty floor.

Your eyes go out of focus, and your lungs struggle to take in a breath.

The gun, where’s the gun?!

You don’t feel it in your hand anymore. Hands and fingers blindly feeling around, only to be stalled painfully in their place.

“You Fuckin’ BITCH!”  Samson’s rotten hot breath spits into your face. Oh, dear God how did he manage to get on top of you so fast?! You feel something hot and wet drip onto your neck. “FUCK that hurts!!” he hisses. You’re thrashing around violently. Trying desperately to get away. Crying, screaming, swearing, making all sorts of incoherent noise. But you remain trapped underneath his heavy frame. His knee deliberately digging into your stomach making it difficult to breath.

“GETOFFGETOFFYOUMOTHERFUCKERRAAAAAHHH!!!” You turn your head to one of his hands holding your arms, teeth gnashing and gripping his salty flesh and tearing with all your might. The taste of copper spills onto your tongue.  

“ENOUGH!” he roars, you see stars as a brute force knocks your head to the side. Your entire face burns with pain, and you’re shocked into stillness just long enough for him to engulf your neck with is massive hands. “I wanted to know what kinds of sounds you’d make, the faces I’d get to see.” He squeezes tightly, your eyes bulge and your hands claw at his. “Would’ve rather been able to fuck you alive…” your mind reels in panic, you can feel your pulse drumming painfully around his grip. “All you’re fucking good for! All you sluts!” Struggling in vain to pry his much stronger hands off of you before a whisper of a thought manages to slip into your subconsciousness. Hands finding his face, scratching as he turned his head side to side trying to deter your efforts. Your thumbs finally catch the corners of his eyes and you strike. Jabbing them in like daggers as deeply as possible.

“RRAARGH!” He screams in agony; One of his hands flies off of you relieving his grip’s force just enough to allow your lungs a gracious gulp of air. As much as you want to allow yourself a moment to just breath, it would be a death sentence. Limply you roll away from his other hand, still preoccupied with nursing his damaged eyes. You swing your leg upwards, confirming you hit true to your target as he doubles over and wails.

Get to the ladder

You’re nails claw at the dusty floor, heaving yourself forward toward your one possible escape. If you can just get within range for someone to at least hear you.

Couldn’t they hear me?

Bloody fingers catch the wooden bars, pulling yourself up, desperate to get out of this literal hell hole. Beyond the darkness, behind the ladder your eyes catch something in the shadows. Your body freezes.

The darkness is looking back.

A pair of eyes, staring into you. Dark and narrow. Simply watching. A face begins to materialize, and it’s one you recognize.

Daniel.

Just staring at you. Face empty and cold. Staring.

“Help…” you speak softly, “Please help me…” You struggle to pull the rest of your body up the ladder, stopped by a hand gripping your blouse and practically ripping the entire back open as Samson slams you back down onto the hard cold ground. “HeLp… me…” you gasp out before coughing uncontrollably. 

“Oh now you’re beggin’ for mercy? Too late for that now you fuckin’ slut!” Samson swings a kick into your ribs, the blow leaving you breathless, sharp pain coming in waves sending your vision white. You wait for the next blow. Disoriented, your body instinctively curls up in an attempt to diminish the pain and whatever damage was done. The sound of something wet hitting stone pulls you out of your shock a moment. A gurgle and a thud. Followed by a consistent sound you couldn’t quite identify.

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

Maybe even more confusing was the stall in Samson’s assault. Vision finally came back into focus.  There’s movement in your peripheral, and the strange sound continues.

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! Shunk!

Your limbs are dead weight as you struggle to move yourself, settling for simply rolling towards the strange movement. Your eyes find Daniel. Hovering over Samson swinging his arm down over and over and over again. A large knife clutched in his grip, the blade sinking deeply in Samson’s flesh as he lay limply on the floor. He’s already dead, there’s no way he isn’t. But Daniel doesn’t stop. You just stare. His eyes never leave his target, face blank and emotionless as if he wasn’t using another human being as a pin cushion. 

Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! Shunk! 

The sound finally stops. Uncomfortably quiet. Daniel glaring down at his kill, knife now still and wedged deeply in human flesh.

His gaze finds yours over his shoulder. Staring. 

You don’t register his movement until hands are cradling your head, pushing your hair back as a flask is pushed to your lips.

“Cooome on girly.” You struggle to turn away from the mystery liquid that burns your throat, a small bit entering your esophagus in a coughing fit. “There we go.” Daniel manages to lift you up and over his shoulder as you continue to spew horrendous heaving coughs. Your lungs wheezing painfully. Your vision full of white spots and a ringing in your ears. Obscuring an exchanging of words. Your eyes finally focus to find the familiar wooden floor of the saloon, drifting as your hauled out through the entrance.

“Got a body downstairs. Take care of it.” Daniel speaks again, to who you’re not sure. “Once this storm dies down, folks’ll be pokin’ around.” Your gently laid down onto the wooden surface of the saloon’s outdoor stairs, a hand creeps its way up your back causing your breath to stutter and your body braces itself. “Bastard tore it.” Daniel clicks his tongue, fiddling with the yellow fabric clinging on by a thread. “Knew it’d fit you like a glove.” His eyes crinkle with a smile, specks of blood linger on his cheeks like gory freckles. “But don’tcha worry sweetheart, plenty more where this came from.”

He was there the whole time…

Your stomach lurches, you scramble to the side, the burning of acidic vomit travels your esophagus and you’re spilling your guts into the dusty alley way.

You can hear him chuckle, “Right, well get it all out now. Rather you not throw up on me once we hit the road.” You hurl some more.

“Danny!” Someone calls his attention. You spit the remnants of vomit from your mouth, bracing yourself with the wooden beam of the building. Your watery eyes peeking under your arm.  The familiar faces of some of the brothels best and most popular girls are amongst the group of men, but not with their usual charming smiles. They look scared. Body posture curled in on themselves, a look of panic on their faces waiting to break the service. One of them screams as the body of Samson is finally drug out, taking two men to haul his bloody corpse.

You gag at the sight of the bloody meaty holes littering his chest. And his disgusting bloodshot, dead glazed eyes fall in your direction.

“Oh my God!OHMYGOD!” one of the girls shrieks, her body twisting and turning blindly in a panic.

“Calm down, I’m sure you’ve fucked worse to get a dollar.” One of the men quips, only the other men laugh. The other girls becoming more agitated.

“NONONO!” the panicky girl stutters, pulling viciously out of her captors arms, “NOO!NOOO!AAAAA-!” her screams are put to rest by a rough swing of a fist to her face. You flinch at the sound the contact makes. The other girls cry out in alarm as their friend lies in the dirt nursing a bloody busted lip and more than likely a busted tooth or two.

“Quit playing with the whores and give us a hand!” the cleanup crew yells over the harsh wind. One of them sputters, trying to get sand out of his mouth. The storm was getting worse.

It’s now or never.

You take a shaky step, eyes lingering on the group. Then another and another. You’re nearly out of the alley way.

“Heyheyhey…” you hear Daniels protests, “Hey!” He shouts as you break into a run. “STOP!” the dust bombards your eyes; you can barely open them. And when you could they proved useless, the insistent plague of sand and dirt in the air acted as a blanket of red static. Feet pounding violently forward entering wild uneven terrain. Hearing the muffled cries of Daniel and potentially others in his group lost in the piercing wind.

Running

Running

Running

The grit of sand in your mouth, in your shoes, in your eyes. The ache of your still fresh wounds out of your mind.

Running

Running

Running

Until your next step finds nothing.

And your falling

Falling

Falling

I have deep love for the cat.

Just a reminder I have a throw on Throw and Co! Link here.

you can run but you cant escape

Its been too long since I've properly campaigned for Mona's initiatives on my main blog! Since the last update we have a wide array of projects your donations have contributed to!

She has distributed essential hygiene kits including pads for women!

And a lot lot lot of food package distributions as you can see below!

Please do not hesitate to donate! Every single dollar helps!! P*ypal.

G*f*ndme for distribution of necessities.

G*f*ndme to help Mona and her family.

Instagram to track progress + above links.

(If you live in India or Pakistan and want to donate, contact her through the means listed on her account).

And I am the idiot with the painted face in the corner taking up space

POV Arthur Morgan finds you drunk in a ditch

israel is on the brink of starting a broader regional war on multiple fronts with many people in the government expressing the explicit desire to annex those lands, along with completely wiping out the 2 million people theyve trapped in a ghetto and are now keeping people indefinitely in torture camps, all while the extremely racist israeli population viciously attacks anyone in civil society who doesnt also support the genocide and insist that theyre the victims and the whole world is against them all while every western power appeases them and gives them the materials to carry out their genocide but yeah, its not appropriate to compare israel to nazi germany

he died but he looked so cool

so i've been playing a game

Lines

Please keep your hands out of the enclosure