in the midst of a storm | yandere x reader

04. his virtues or his vices

YOU'RE POSITIVE YOU LIVE IN AN INFERNO—

—no, you're almost certain of it. The swelterin' heat what blasts through the gaps of wood your home's riddled with is proof; solid, burning proof.

"Meemaw, it's scorchin'."

It's more than scorchin', actually.

Sweat sticks itself to your skin, soaks you up real good and leaves you stinkin' of BO. No amount of fannin' could settle the flames wafting through the air, the lines what're visibly carrying the stink of the townsfolk who are struggling just as much as you.

Livin' in a desert ain't fun.

"I know, I'm sorry, pea. Today's a tad hotter than usual," replies your meemaw, her tone laced with the frown on her lips.

"Yeah, well, I don't like it."

The older woman don't say nothin' back, though it ain't 'cause she don't want to—rather—'cause she can't. She's interrupted. By footfall; heavy and quaking and loud.

Your daddy rounds the corner—his Stetson in his hands and a heavy cloak resting over his broad shoulders. It's fluffy, warm with the wool of the sheep you've seen many tend to while bein' out.

The hell's he doin' with such a coat in this heat?

"Daddy?"

Your call falls on deaf ears.

Meemaw don't like that.

"Respond when your daughter calls you, boy!" yells she with eyes squinted and veins practically bulging outta 'er head.

"Huh?"

Your daddy turns, in your direction; but he ain't lookin' at you—no—he's lookin' through you. His eyes ain't all there, glossed over like there's somethin' else he's payin' mind to, like there's somethin' else he's lookin' at.

You turn....

...but find nothin'—and by the time you look back, the gloss is gone.

"Sorry, pea, gotta go tend to the ranch."

Your meemaw scoffs. "In those clothes? Are you crazy?"

Her words are like a trigger—the lever of a gun pulled to shoot a bullet straight through your eyes; one carrying an unwelcome memory—and your lips are tugging down 'fore you can stop 'em.

A plague. The state you found your daddy in just the day 'fore is a plague on your mind; an unrelenting, stubborn little plague. It's causing your hair to stand—goosebumps to riddle your arm—it's causing your eyes to meet with the malicious pair belonging to the cold as it sinks its jaw into your flesh.

It's causing you fear.

"I feel cold."

You look up. "Pa, can I tag along?"

He dismisses you with a wave.

But you're nothin' if you ain't your meemaw's grandchild, if her stubbornness don't run warm in your blood.

"I'm comin' along."

"Pea—"

"Daddy, you're not in the best o' shape. You shouldn't even be goin' to the ranch after yesterday! But I know you, and I know you'll still go—so I'll come with."

A sigh runs heavy from his lips, falls outta 'em like he's aged a couple o' years, and his head shakes all slow-like 'fore he's speakin' again, tone as weighted as his sigh, "You're much too stubborn for your own good."