#“nature is not a business nor should it be run as one”

[easterncoyoteenthusiast]

The Anthropocene/Conservation Cont.

Individuals across a variety of species alter their environments (e.g., beavers build dams, birds build nests, and earthworms physically/chemically alter soil) in a process called “niche construction.” Humans excel at this kind of activity and often participate in ways that “[use] phenomenal amounts of energy” [1, p. 28]. Unfortunately, this often results in “collateral consequences for climate, species diversity, and landscapes” [1, p. 30]. In response to the acceleration and accumulation of these consequences, it has been proposed that we have left the Holocene and entered into a new geological age called the “Anthropocene.”

Among other things, the Anthropocene is “a tool with which to focus attention on the current role of Homo sapiens in altering the Earth as a whole, and is a shorthand descriptor of that phenomenon” [1, p. 27]. It has become central to many analyses of human-animal relations and has called for us to do away with dualistic thinking of nature/society—with nature existing firmly outside the sphere of human society [2]. Rutherford, for example, has stated that “for all of its conceits around the importance of humans to the stories of the earth, it does invite a recognition that the world only operates via entanglement” [3, p. 215].

In light of this, I would like to acknowledge a study of mammalian movement in response to anthropogenic activity. Tucker et al. have determined that anthropogenic activities are "not only causing the loss of habitat and diversity, but also [affect] how animals move through fragmented and disturbed areas" [4, p. 9; see also 5-8]. Mammalian movements were typically two-to-three times smaller in areas with comparatively high instances of human presence compared to the same movements in areas with lower instances of human presence [4, p. 9]. This was attributed to both (1) an "individual-behavioral effect, where individuals alter their movements relative to" human activity, and (2) "a species-occurrence effect, where certain species that exhibit long-range movement" change their behavior to no longer reside in areas with high instances of human presence [4, pp. 11-12]. In terms of conservation, the authors conclude that animal movements should be considered a key conservation metric and that the goal should be maintaining landscape permeability [4, p. 13].

While most nations have some kind of endangered species legislation in place to prevent the loss of biodiversity, the majority of current conservation policies, practices, and conceptual frameworks are ill-suited to the Anthropocene because they were created "before there was widespread awareness of the unprecedented pace and magnitude of environmental change caused by humans" [9, p. 107]. Kareiva and Fuller recommend that we should instead be anticipating future impacts and "establishing goals that [reflect] the best science as to what is feasible in the future" [9, p. 108]; in short, a review and potential overhaul of current practices and/or conceptual frameworks because "nature is not a business, nor should it be run as one" [9, p. 111].

References:

[1] Boggs, C. (2016). Human Niche Construction and the Anthropocene. RCC Perspectives, 2, 27–32. www.jstor.org/stable/26241355

[2] Fredriksen, A. (2016). Of wildcats and wild cats: Troubling species-based conservation in the Anthropocene. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space, 34(4), 689-705. doi.org/10.1177/0263775815623539

[3] Rutherford, S. (2018). The Anthropocene’s animal? Coywolves as feral cotravelers. Environment and Planning E: Nature and Space, 1(1-2), 206-223. https://doi.org/10.1177/2514848618763250

[4] Tucker, M.A., Böhning-Gaese, K., Fagan, W.F., Fryxell, J., Moorter, B.V., Alberts, S.C., … Mueller, T. (2018). Moving in the Anthropocene: Global reductions in terrestrial mammalian movements. Science, 359(6374), 466-469.

[5] Patterson, B.R., Bondrup-Nielsen, S., & Messier, F. (1999). Activity patterns and daily movements of the eastern coyote, Canis latrans, in Nova Scotia. Canadian Field Naturalist, 113(2), 251-257. https://www.researchgate.net/publication/285966455

[6] Way, J.G. (2011). Eastern coyote/coywolf (Canis latrans x lycaon) movement patterns: Lessons learned in urbanized ecosystems. Cities and the Environment (CATE), 4(1), Article 2. https://digitalcommons.lmu.edu/cate/vol4/iss1/2

[7] Way, J.G. (2021). Coywolf: Eastern coyote genetics, ecology, management, and politics. Eastern Coyote/Coywolf Research, Barnstable, Massachusetts. www.easterncoyoteresearch.com/Coywolf/

[8] Way, J.G., Ortega, I.M., & Strauss, E.G. (2004). Movement and activity patterns of eastern coyotes in a coastal, suburban environment. Northeastern Naturalist, 11(3), 237-254. www.jstor.org/stable/3858416

[9] Kareiva, P. & Fuller, E. (2016). Beyond resilience: How to better prepare for the profound disruption of the Anthropocene. Global Policy, 7(Suppl. 1), 107-118. https://doi.org/10.1111/1758-5899.12330

TL;DR:

Humans are niche constructors who greatly alter the environment

The degree to which anthropogenic alterations occur has led to the suggestion that we have left the Holocene and entered the Anthropocene

The Anthropocene is a central concept in contemporary human-wildlife analyses and invites a recognition of entanglement

Conservation practices, etc. may need an overhaul to account for the degree of anthropogenic impact on wildlife/the environment

Hybridization | DNA Analyses | Range & Diet | Behavior & Ecology | Attitudes | Conservation

[joequiinn]

The Dos & Don'ts of Fake Dating | E.M. x reader | pt. 2

[chap one] | [all chapters here] | [chap three]

summary: You propose a crazy idea to the resident freak of Hawkins, Eddie Munson. But maybe he was even crazier for agreeing to it…

notes & tropes: fem reader, faking dating, opposites attract, bratty rich bitch reader, minor revenge plot, not-quite-enemies-to-lovers

a/n: Oooh I'm excited for this chapter! Would love to hear what everyone thinks about Eddie's characterization! And, after editing this chapter about half a dozen times, I feel like I'm still just not quite conveying the motivations of the character well, so let me know if her thoughts/feelings could be more clear!

taglist: @daisyridleyss @munsonssweets @marrowfrog00 @lotrefcp @rach5ive

wc: 4.0k

Chapter Two

Getting away on Sunday afternoon to meet Eddie was easy. You’d celebrated your birthday on Saturday, with your friends dragging you along on plans that they put together weeks in advance before you returned home for a far too formal dinner with your parents. You probably could have - and should have - been more excited considering that you were toasting your legal adulthood, but if anything, it just stirred even more desire for change and rebellion in you. What good was being a legal adult if you were still trapped in high school, if you were still just following the status quo?

You told your parents as you were leaving the house that afternoon that you were going to the ice rink - your dad grunted in acknowledgement, too caught up in his reading to really hear you, and your mom commended you for how dedicated you were to skating. To both responses, you rolled your eyes, leaving without saying goodbye.

You knew exactly which picnic table Eddie referred to in his note, as you weren’t the first person to meet him there for a drug deal, nor would you be the last. It was a well-known spot for students to meet with the metalhead - although it seemed like no one actually talked about it, probably because they themselves didn’t want to admit to any interaction with him, somehow everyone knew exactly where Eddie made his deals.

There were trails running through a lot of the forest that made it easy to find your destination; you left your car on a neighborhood street not far from the school, and trekked your way into the woods. It was still pretty in late September - leaves weren’t falling to the ground quite yet, and the sounds of wildlife could still be heard up in the trees and low on the ground. Not that you were one to appreciate nature much at all. But it was hard not to at least notice it as you walked quietly along the trail, going over exactly how you might propose this crazy idea of yours while trying your best not to trip over rocks or step in mud puddles.

When you arrived at the picnic area, Eddie was nowhere to be found, which was actually a relief to you. It gave you more time to think, to calm down and find the best means of conveying this idea to him. You felt stupid, having this strange and foreign anxiety in your chest, but it couldn’t be helped. Best you could do was relax and put on a cool face whenever the delinquent did finally show up.

You were about to sit at the picnic table, but quickly decided against it once you took a closer look at the rotting wood - it was disgusting and dirty, and you weren’t going to risk ruining one of your favorite skirts or catching some nasty disease. So, instead, you paced, keeping your mind busy as you waited, taking in your surroundings with an air of boredom as the hour hit 4 and you were still here alone. Eddie better show, or you weren’t going to be happy.

Eventually, the sound of footsteps crunching on twigs and brush caused you to look around, not quite sure which direction the sound was coming from at first. But it didn’t take long for you to spot Eddie hiking his way to you, surprised amusement on his face as he approached. He cocked his head, lips tugged back in a grin, as your heart skipped nervously; god, you felt so stupid being edgy like this, it was so unwarranted.

“Well, well…” He drawled, crossing his arms as he walked closer to you, “I’ve seen a lot, but the ice princess wants something from me? Now I really have seen everything.”

The way he said “ice princess” was jarring, almost as if it was both an insult and an inarguable fact. Yes, you’d heard people call you that before, but never with the gusto that Eddie Munson added to it - you briefly wondered if the nickname was more common than you originally thought, and then you wondered who it was that first came up with it. Was it Eddie? No, if anything it was probably someone in your own circle that started that stupid nickname, maybe even Duncan - you didn’t think Eddie cared enough to come up with a nickname for some popular kid who he’d never even spoken to before.

It’s as if his use of the derogatory nickname immediately reminded you that there was no reason to be nervous, because you could feel your usually cool demeanor coming back to you.

“Don’t cream your pants, Munson.” You replied bluntly, crossing your arms as if to mimic Eddie’s posture. His brows went up in surprise - it briefly crossed your mind that he might not have known what your voice sounded like, let alone how you talked. Well, now he knew.

Eddie tilted his head down slightly as if speaking to you conspiratorially, “I wasn’t expecting a chick like you to be so vulgar.”

You rolled your eyes. Okay, maybe this discussion would be more challenging than you had anticipated. Having never actually interacted with Eddie before today, you couldn’t have predicted what your dynamic together would be. From what you could tell after only this one minute of interacting, your personalities were bound to clash, making your impossible plan all the more impossible.

“I guess I’m full of surprises.” You replied plainly, your tone disinterested. Without thinking, you leaned your rear on the picnic table, but quickly jumped away when you remembered how dirty it was, an affronted sound escaping your lips. As you tried to wipe dirt from your ass, Eddie chuckled. To that, you shot him a cold glare.

“Alright, what are you looking for, princess?” Eddie asked while sitting on the filthy bench - that felt intentional, as if he was mocking your disgust at the grime and muck on the table, “Ask and you shall receive.”

You raised a critical brow at his theatrical tone, at the way he said ‘princess,’ at his entire demeanor. Yup, this was going to be impossible. You were certain that your judgmental expression was clear as day, because you could see the cogs turning behind Eddie’s eyes, how he was analyzing you just as much as you were him.

You stared at him with your arms crossed, your hip jutting out to the side as you briefly considered him, considered what you wanted to ask of him. You made a bit of a harsh face as you responded, “That’s a bold claim, considering that you don’t know what I’m going to ask.”

You met Eddie’s dark eyes as if to make a point, his brow furrowing in curious response. His gaze was mocking as he held your stare, “You think anything you ask for will shock me? Snobby rich kids always want the same stuff.”

“‘Snobby?’” You nearly snapped, glaring smally in offense. To that, Eddie pointed his hand at the empty bench across from him, a defiant look on his face.

“Take a seat then.” He challenged, the corner of his mouth curling up. You make another grossed out face, to which he gives a half-hearted shrug, giving him all the confirmation that he needed, “That’s what I thought.”

You scoffed, turning your back while grumbling, “God, I knew this was a stupid idea…”

You started to walk off in annoyance, trying your best not to trip over rocks or sticks in your haste, but only made it a few steps before Eddie called after you, “Wait, wait, come back…”

You spun back around, but remained planted where you stood, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms as if prompting him to continue, to grovel and earn your trust.

“I’m just joking,” Eddie raised his hands in a lazy surender, his face growing surprisingly sincere after a moment, although that sincerity was also laced with a hint of judgment, “What are you gonna ask for, then?”

He’s patient, watching you as you deliberate what to do. Was it worth it? Did you really need Eddie to make this plan work? Should you call this off while you still had the chance?

No. This plan was stupid as all hell, but you were going to do it. With a determined little stomp of your foot - Eddie smirking in amusement at the mildly childish action - you approached the picnic table, bracing your hands against it as you tried to ignore the feeling of dirt getting under your nails.

“If you laugh at me, I’ll ruin you.” You threatened while meeting his eyes. Again, Eddie grinned, but he otherwise kept his mouth shut, which seemed to be his way of agreeing to your terms, “I don’t need drugs, I need a favor. It’s gonna sound… honestly ridiculous.”

“Okay…” Eddie leaned forward so that your faces were only a foot apart; his expression was one of neutral attentiveness, however, you could see the sparkle of intrigue in his eyes. You don’t pull back from the close proximity he created, studying one another’s faces; it felt strange to be observed by him so closely, as Eddie had a way of scrutinizing you that felt different from those you knew, different from the way people normally looked at you. You tried to find the best way of proposing your dumb idea, but nothing would make your request sound less crazy than it already is.

Finally, you gave up with a sigh and just blurted it out, “I need you to date me.”

Despite your earlier threat, an unexpected bark of a laugh jumped out of Eddie’s mouth. He raised his fist in front of his lips and pretended to cough, as if that would do anything to hide his very clear amusement. Your eyes widened in intense warning. To his credit, Eddie composed himself quickly, acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, although you could still see a little twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Can you repeat that for me?” He prompts, fighting off his laughter and confusion.

Again, you roll your eyes - god, you were going to be doing that a lot with this guy, weren’t you? You were already getting tired of it.

“I don’t want to actually date you,” You said as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world, “Just pretend. You know, like one of your dumb games.”

Eddie’s eyes darkened a little at the insult, but instead of retaliating he simply pulled back, putting a bit of distance between you. He looks you up and down in consideration, his mind racing to understand your unexpected request.

“Care to elaborate?” He questioned, his tone mildly critical.

You purse your lips in annoyance as you consider where to start, eyeing Eddie closely - how the hell did you explain to someone that you wanted them to be your fake boyfriend? You sighed, pulling back from the table, starting to walk in a slow circle around it. The motion was vaguely like skating around a rink, so in an odd way it helped you think.

“I hate literally everything about my life,” You paused, half expecting Eddie to mock your pathetic woes, but he remained silent, “It’s my senior year and I’m only now realizing that nothing in my life is up to me, that I don’t have any control over anything - everything is decided by someone else. And I’m fucking tired of it.”

You could see mild surprise on Eddie’s face, and you wondered if it was because of your foul language - it always seemed to surprise people to hear the way you could talk considering how nice and well-behaved you appeared, although you’d always been anything but.

You continued, “I want to do something stupid, something that’ll piss off my parents, that’ll get everyone to stop treating me like some untouchable, perfect princess.” You chose the word deliberately, looking Eddie dead in the eye, “And what stupider than to date Eddie freaking Munson?”

Now, it was Eddie’s turn to look somewhat offended, “Gee, thanks.”

Maybe it wasn’t the most effective tactic to keep insulting the man you were trying to bribe, but you just couldn’t seem to help yourself. You didn’t exactly know how to be nice to anyone. Eddie’s eyes considered you for a moment before something of a mean look flickered across his face.

“This has something to do with that boyfriend of yours, doesn’t it? What, you break up or something?” And then an almost mirthful realization flashed across his eyes, obviously seeing some change in your demeanor that you didn’t intend for him to notice, “Ooh, I get it. He broke up with you, didn’t he? You trying to win him back?”

You brace yourself against the table again as you glare at him, but otherwise you maintain your composure, your tone condescending and mean as you reply, “I do not want him back. He could drive off a bridge for all I care. I want to get under his skin. I want to get under everyone’s skin.”

You could tell that Eddie didn’t get it - he still didn’t understand why you needed his help in this ridiculous plan of yours, and he didn’t understand why you were feeling the way you did. With a sigh, you try to calm down and unclench your tight jaw.

“Look, Munson,” You caved in and stiffly took a seat on the opposite bench as if to bolster your argument, to make him take you a little more seriously, “I know it sounds crazy, but I just know nothing else will work.”

“And how do you know that?” He urged - you couldn’t tell if he thought you were an idiot or if he was actually interested in hearing you out.

You stared at Eddie for a long moment, trying to find the easiest way to make him understand. He stared back, again showing far more patience than you would have expected from him, especially with the likes of you. As you study his face in thought, you finally sigh, shaking your head as you look away with a vague annoyance set on your features.

“I don’t actually know, okay?” You start, eyeing him out of the corner of your eye for a few moments, “What I want is complete and utter… social suicide. To just stop worrying about my reputation or what people think. I’m sick and tired of expectations and status quos and doing what I’m told or what people expect. I want to piss everyone off. I want to piss Duncan off. I just… it feels like I need to change, you know?”

“Nope, I have no idea what you mean.” Eddie says plainly, and as you glare at him, you realize he’s joking once he finally cracks a smile. His eyes are surprisingly kind as he leans forward on his elbows, parroting your words, “When have I ever subscribed to expectations and status quos and doing what I’m told?”

At that rhetorical response, your face relaxed for the first time this entire conversation. Hell, you even felt a mild excitement wash over you as you consider what his words were implying, “So… you’ll do it?”

Eddie makes a face as if he’s still mulling over the idea, still trying to figure out what exactly your motivations were, “I mean, you’re bratty and rude and this plan is kind of stupid, but I might do it.”

“Might?” You ask, trying not to sound too pushy or annoyed by his casual insults. If this was going to happen, you both had to learn to stop prodding at each other like this, learn to stop picking on each other just because you could. That might prove to be the most challenging part of all of this, though.

Eddie smirks, rising back to his feet as he contemplates, “What do I get out of this? And don’t say money - that’ll make me feel like a prostitute.”

As you pulled a face, Eddie grinned at his own comment, obviously finding that idea amusing in some way. And like a teenage mimicry of a business person, you sat up straighter, looking at him plainly as you presented your offer, “No, but I do have one idea. But if you think of something better…?”

Eddie nods in confirmation, urging you to continue.

“Well, my uncle’s a cop--”

At that, Eddie chuckles abruptly while cutting you off, “Oh, trust me, I know exactly who your uncle is.”

Aside from shooting him a small look, you continue as if he hadn’t said anything, focused on getting this plan hatched, “I think I can help you. You can’t get in trouble with them anymore if I’m the one taking the fall.”

Eddie’s brows rose in surprise at your words, his arms crossing as he studied you, “What, you think your pretty little ass can handle a night in lock up?”

“No, genius,” You roll your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time, “If it falls on me, there will be no jail, no arrest, nothing. The minute I tell someone who my uncle is, they won’t even think about putting a hand on me, that would be stupid. I’m effectively untouchable.”

Eddie nods, rubbing his chin, “But doesn’t that go out the window if you commit… What did you call it? ‘Social suicide?’”

You shrug, “Maybe. Maybe not. But I can probably keep them off your ass for the rest of the school year so long as you don’t do something too stupid.”

“You want to date me until graduation?” Eddie makes a dramatic show of placing his hand to his chest as if he’s flattered.

“Jesus…” You mutter to yourself with a sigh, “We’ll see where it goes.”

Eddie, again, nodded while humming in consideration. You sat quietly, waiting for him to add something to the conversation. You could tell that he was drawing it out, though, milking the moment just for the hell of it, to put you on edge. Suddenly, he slaps his hand down firmly on the table, causing you to jump in your seat.

“We have a deal.” His eyes glint as he smirks at you, “We play happy little couple, we destroy your reputation, piss off all your friends, and you keep me out of trouble. What could possibly go wrong?”

It suddenly felt like he jinxed everything by saying that, ruined it before you could even begin, but you ignored that feeling as you gave him a slight smile, actually pleased with how the conversation had gone. Of course, there was still that strange sense of disbelief at the entire situation - it was the most ridiculous thing you’d ever thought of or done, but that also made it kind of exhilarating in its odd way.

Eddie walked around the table, leisurely sliding onto the bench beside you, intentionally leaning over to bump your shoulder playfully. It was unexpected, causing you to make a slight face at him, but that only seemed to amuse him more.

“Look, princess, you gotta start being nicer to me if you want to convince anyone that we’re a couple.” Although his tone was teasing, you knew what Eddie said was true. Even you, known for your bitchiness, couldn’t be too mean to the man that you were supposedly dating, especially if you wanted to get under Duncan’s skin - the nicer you were to Eddie, the more it would annoy Duncan that you were never that nice to him.

“Fine.” You say plainly, looking him in the eye, “If that’s the case, no more ‘princess.’”

Eddie made a teasing face, “Then what do I call you? It would look strange if your boyfriend didn’t have any pet names for you, right?”

You sighed, but he did make a good point - it made you realize that you needed to lay out some ground rules for this whole fake dating thing, something that you hadn’t accounted for during your planning stage.

“When we’re around other people, just call me something nice. I don’t care what it is.”

Eddie’s playful expression was still in place, “Oh, you’ll regret that…”

You rolled your eyes, and yet this time the corner of your mouth pulled up into an amused grin despite yourself, “Just be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Can’t be too hard, right? And don’t touch me unless it’s in front of people.”

You looked him up and down critically with that comment. It's not that you were worried about him being gross or anything like that, you just hated people touching you unnecessarily.

“Any other commands, my liege?”

“What, you want me to write this down for you or something?”

Eddie pretended to consider the idea, “If only I knew how to read, princess.”

You made a face, knowing that Eddie kept calling you that dumb nickname quite intentionally, that he kept testing you with deliberate aim. Trying to resist rising to the tempting bait, you continued explaining the dos and don’ts of fake dating. 

“Okay,” You started, raising your pointer finger. Eddie made a show of paying close attention, surely just to mock you, as you raised another finger with each new rule you stated, “One: we have to try to be nice to each other. Two: no unnecessary touching if no one’s around. Three: we have to spend a lot of time together, like, not just at school - we have to go out sometimes, especially to places where people will see us. Four: we have to be extra obnoxious when Duncan’s around. Five: … I’m in charge.”

At the last instruction, Eddie laughed right in your face, “You’re in charge? I thought this was a relationship, not a dictatorship.”

You had a response ready to leave your lips, but you let it go - practice for the inevitable niceties to come, you supposed. Eddie studied you for a moment while half smiling, seemingly aware that you were doing your best to bite your tongue.

“Alright, alright, you’re in charge…” He rose to his feet, which seemed to signal that the conversation was coming to an end, “So, what, starting tomorrow I’m your boyfriend?”

“I mean… Should we build up to it first?” The question sounded ridiculous, you knew it sounded juvenile and naive in its way, but it had to be asked. And yet again, Eddie chuckled.

“Sure, we’ll ‘build up to it.’” His tone was teasing, but not quite so mean as before. Eddie studied the look on your face, trying to learn how to read you considering the amount of time you were surely about to start spending together, “Don’t worry, princess, I’ve got this in the bag. Relinquish some of that control a little, okay?”

He slowly began to walk backwards towards the trail, waiting for you to join him, so you stood to walk alongside him. You almost neurotically began dusting yourself, trying in vain to get the dirt and the mud and the dead leaves off of your skirt, out from under your nails.

You caught up to Eddie easily enough, continuing to pick at your well manicured nails, “I’m serious, Munson, please don’t fuck this up.”

Eddie threw his arm around your shoulder, once again disregarding one of your rules without a single care. He looked down at you with a teasing look on his face, confirming that he did that on purpose, confirming that he was sure to keep doing it on purpose, “Relax. I’ll flirt with you tomorrow, I’ll flirt some more throughout the week, I’ll start hanging around your locker or talking to you at lunch, and then by the end of the week I’ll ask you on a date. Deal?”

You stared into Eddie’s eyes a moment before lifting his arm off your shoulders, stepping just out of reach with a mild sneer on your lips, “Okay, deal.”

His smile is wide as he walks alongside you back to your cars. This was going to be one hell of a time, and he, frankly, was all too curious to see how it would turn out.

[javier-pena]

embers

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x f!reader

Word Count: 9.5k

Rating: Explicit

Summary: You're engaged to be married to a man you've never met. Arthur Morgan is supposed to escort you across the country to meet him. You should keep your distance, but the dangers of the road bring you closer and closer together with each passing mile.

Warnings: smoking | drinking | canon-typical violence | allusions to rape | reader is a virgin | loss of virginity | descriptions of injury and medical procedures (Arthur gets stitches) | reader has hair that can be pulled | hand job | oral (m receiving) | masturbation (f and m) | mutual masturbation | dirty talk | voyeurism | exhibitionism | praise kink | fingering | (unprotected) p in v sex

Notes: So there's this post ... and It has been on my mind for months so I had to write this exact scenario with Arthur, naturally. Again, this is way longer than it was supposed to be, but working on this fic allowed me to daydream a lot, so I can't complain. As always, I wouldn't have been able to do it without Dani @alexturner, who pushed me in the right direction and came up with the ending (because I'm not good at writing those)!!

***

You’re not pretty. At least that’s what everyone told you from the moment you could understand those words. Your mother, the maid she hired to look after you, the boys working for your father, the marm, the people in town. Since you were little, you’ve been hearing it over and over again. “It’s such a shame she ain’t pretty, what’s she gonna do with brains?”

The thing is, you also don’t feel very smart. If you were, you’d have found a way to leave your godforsaken town for one of the big cities in the east as soon as you could read the timetable down by the train station. You would’ve found a way to get out of this marriage your father arranged for you. Ambrose Longabaugh was his name. Ambrose Longabaugh. From what you have heard, he shares your lot: anything but handsome, but at least he has money.

No one was sad to see you go, save for your little brother, who held you tight and made you promise to come back if you didn’t like your betrothed. You had promised, knowing you were lying. It didn’t matter if you liked him or not, he was the man you were going to marry. You weren’t getting out of this. Your father had made sure of that.

Mr. Morgan is riding ahead of you, sitting in the saddle with his shoulders slumped, a cigarette dangling between his lips. You can smell the smoke on the crisp fall air, even though you’re trying to keep your distance. It’s not that he scares you – not as much as other men do, not as much as your future husband does – but you don’t like him very much. Your father is paying him to take you out west where Ambrose Longabaugh will one day take over his father’s cattle business. And Mr. Morgan is doing it without complaint, hardly acknowledging your presence. He talks more to his horse than he talks to you.

You let your eyes wander across the mountains around you and sigh. The first time you had seen them, your mouth had hung open in awe. Now you feel trapped by them. You can’t go back, and there’s only one way forward. You sigh again. No, you’re neither pretty nor smart.

“Break?” Mr. Morgan asks from up front. It’s only the fifth word he has said to you today; the others were good morning and let’s go.

“Yes,” you agree, not because you need it but because it gives you something else to do.

You stop near a small river with a shallow bank where Mr. Morgan can refill your waterskins. While he’s busy, you stretch your legs and pick up a few rocks from the riverbed to toss them into the water. The rushing of the water fills your ears, drowning out both thoughts and sounds. You take a deep, calming breath and close your eyes.

When you open them again, Mr. Morgan has taken off his lambskin coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He’s washing his face and neck in the cold water of the river, a wet stain forming on his collar, drops running down his lean, muscular forearms that are still tan from working outdoors all summer. Your face heats up with an emotion you don’t quite understand, and you turn away from him, pretending to be interested in some moss-covered rocks. You’re not supposed to look.

He startles you when he touches your arm lightly, making you turn around. You hadn’t heard him coming over the sounds of the river. His coat is back on, but you can see his neck glistening in a few places still.

“You shouldn’t wander, ma’am,” he says. That’s four more words for today.

You look around. “Indians, right?” you ask with a small laugh.

His face remains serious. “No. White men. Gangs. They like to hide out here.”

You watch his Adam’s apple move as he swallows and your throat immediately mimics his. “Then why are we taking this road if it’s so dangerous?”

He shrugs. You realize he hasn’t let go of your arm yet. “It’s fast.”

“My father –”

“Your father planned this route.”

You swallow again. “I’ll be careful, sir. Thank you.” He lets go of your arm then, and you walk back to your horse, your face now heating up with an emotion you definitely recognize: embarrassment.

You make camp later that day where the trees are standing close together. While he builds a fire, you pick at a pine cone you found on the ground. Somewhere in the distance you hear a howl, but you’ve learned that if it’s not loud enough to make Mr. Morgan look up from his task, then it’s nothing to be worried about. And he stokes the fire, eyes fixed to the flames.

After dinner, he hands you a small bottle and when the sharp taste of whiskey makes you cough, he smirks. So you take another sip, holding his gaze. He looks away first, pulls a torn-up pack of cigarettes from his coat, and offers you one. You accept, surprised.

“Don’t let my father find out you’re corrupting me,” you tease.

He only makes, “Hm,” in response.

The smoke from the cigarette burns your throat, just like the whiskey, but this time you manage to suppress the cough. “Do you have family, Mr. Morgan?” you ask, watching how he uses a branch to stoke the fire.

“No,” is his simple reply.

Now it’s your turn to make, “Hm,” before you add, “No one you’re sweet on?”

You don’t really care about the answer, why would you? But when he gives you another, “No,” a careful one, it makes your heart pound faster. Until he turns the tables.

“What about you?”

“Oh,” you say, “I don’t know, I haven’t met my fiancé yet.” And you don’t want to be thinking about him right now.

Mr. Morgan looks at you, his head cocked to one side. “Come now,” he pushes, as if you’re being evasive on purpose. “That ain’t what I’m askin’.”

You sigh. “It’s not? I’m spoken for. I have no business thinking about other men.” You don’t mean to be so frank, but the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. And you can tell from the look on Mr. Morgan’s face that he still thinks you’re not honest with him.

“Hm,” he makes, and you dread what might be coming next.

“I’m going to bed,” you tell him, putting an end to your conversation. He opens his mouth to add something, but you don’t give him a change. You lie down and pull your thin blanket over your body, face hot with embarrassment. The last thing you see before falling asleep is Mr. Morgan staring at the flames, a quiet smile on his lips.

Later that night, you wake up to shouts. What pulls you from your sleep entirely is a gunshot that reverberates through the forest. “Mr. Morgan?” you shout, because he isn’t sitting next to the fire anymore and you can’t see him anywhere. Then you hear a sound that makes your blood run cold, a snarl, a growl, but animalistic, wild, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. You jump up from your bedroll, ready to run, but then you remember Mr. Morgan’s warning. It’s better to stay here, in the light of the dwindling fire, than to take your chances out there. “Mr. Morgan?” you try again, this time a hiss, as you frantically search the darkness beyond your camp. It gets so dark out here at night.

A shout is your answer, a deep, “Hey!” Short and fast. The horses whinny, and you’re only now realizing they’re stomping the ground, tearing up the soil with their hooves, the whites in their eyes visible, ears pressed tightly back. You try to swallow your panic, but it gets harder with every passing second.

Then something moves between the trees and Mr. Morgan stumbles back into the camp, a gun in one hand, a torch in the other. He has a wild look in his eyes too, just like the horses, but when they land on you, he relaxes, his face assuming its usual, stoic mask. “Mountain lion,” he says. “It’s gone.”

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice trembling.

“Chased it off,” he explains. “It ain’t coming back here.”

“The horses …,” you start.

But he walks toward the fire, toward you. “You did good,” he says, dropping to his knees next to you, so close, too close. You can smell the gunpower on him, and the sweat; you’ve never been so close to a man before, not even your own father. “Here.” He hands you the whiskey again. “It’s gone, I promise.”

You wish your hands wouldn’t shake so much. He grabs yours with one to steady, his warm skin like fire against yours, unscrews the stopper with the other, not with impatience but oh so gently. You manage to take a sip on your own, but he watches you intently for any signs of distress.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he says, stowing away the bottle. “This land out here … it’s wild.”

You nod. Now that the initial burst of panic is dulled, you feel tears sting your eyes.

“But you’ll manage.” His voice is so calming. “You’re a brave girl.”

*******

The hooves of your horse pound out a slow, steady beat against the hard ground. You’re tired, every muscle in your body is sore, but you push on without complaint, following Mr. Morgan up a winding mountain and back down on the other side. The days are so similar they’re bleeding into one – the mountain lion … did it attack three nights ago? Five? You don’t remember. All you know is that your heart picks up speed when he looks at you, that every evening your conversation around the fire becomes a little bit longer, that you wish you could go on like this forever, never to arrive at your destination.

Sometimes at night, when you can’t sleep but you pretend to, you can hear him sing, sometimes to himself, sometimes to the horses. Your heart almost flies out of your chest when he does it. He hasn’t touched you anymore since the night of the mountain lion attack, but you wish he would. Even though everything else about him confuses you, you wish you could feel his skin against yours again; such longing, it almost consumes you.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Did your cousin feel like this when she ran off with that cowboy? Did your mother and father feel like this; is that why they got married? Are you supposed to feel like this when you meet your fiancé? Or is this something else entirely? Is there something wrong with you?

“Break?” he asks once the ground is beginning to even out.

“You know, you keep asking for breaks so much I’m starting to think you don’t want us to reach our destination,” you tease.

He just shrugs and stops his horse. You halt too and climb off, your legs steady when they hit the ground. It wasn’t like that in the beginning; the first few days he had to help you off your horse and you could barely stand. It’s astonishing what a difference a few weeks can make.

You stretch, then begin to walk up and down the path. It’s cold, sitting so still up on that horse, and you flex your fingers, trying to get some feeling back into them. Mr. Morgan, meanwhile, sits down on a tree stump to write in a leather-bound notebook. You’ve seen him use it before but you don’t quite know what it’s for. He’s probably tracking your progress or taking notes on the weather.

Careful to keep him in sight, you veer off into the underbrush, looking at the trees and the different kinds of plants growing on the ground. You pretend you can read the language of the forest, looking for tracks of animals or some mushrooms you might be able to eat. Just like you’ve seen Mr. Morgan do countless of times. When you do find something, you’re not sure what to make of it.

“Mr. Morgan?” Your voice is raised as you try to keep it steady.

You hear his footsteps immediately but you don’t dare to turn around, your eyes fixed on the sight before you. He stops next to you, and you can hear his steady breathing. The knot in your chest immediately dissolves.

“Hm,” he makes.

“What happened here?” you ask. Now the tremor in your voice is all too audible.

He hesitates just for a second, weighing his options, but then he says, “Some people were camping here, a family by the looks of it.”

“Where are they?” you ask, finally turning toward him. The cold, calculating look on his face sends a shiver down your spine.

“Ma’am …,” he says slowly.

“You can tell me. I can handle the truth.”

You look back at the burned-out wagon, the torn clothes hanging from tree branches, all that blood on a log next to a cold fire pit. You don’t need him to tell you. You just want him not to confirm your suspicions.

“They’re dead,” he answers. “Killed. For money.”

“All of them?” you ask.

He winces. “If there were women …”

“Can’t we help them?” You know you can’t, but you wish there was something you could do.

“Stay on the path next time,” he growls. “No more wanderin’ ‘round … ma’am.”

“Mr. Morgan …,” you try, but he’s already trudging back toward the horses.

You spend the rest of the day in silence, riding next to each other but avoiding each other’s gazes. You shouldn’t have called out to him; it was obvious what had happened in that camp. They were a group, and you’re just two people … your father couldn’t have known about the dangers of this journey, or he wouldn’t have made you go. He would’ve found another way. At least that’s what you’re telling yourself. Because you don’t want to even consider the other option and what it would mean. When the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains around you, dread settles onto your heart, the heavy kind you haven’t felt since you were a little girl, afraid of the dark.

Finally, Mr. Morgan stops his horse. “We camp here tonight. No fire.”

“It’s so dark,” you whisper.

“The darkness ain’t what’ll kill you,” he growls.

You can’t sleep; of course not. So you watch him all night, sitting up straight next to you, not so close that you could touch him, but close enough so you’ll always see he’s there. He doesn’t sleep either but he sits very still, keeping his eyes on the path, making sure nothing evil comes out of the dark. And you wish all you had to worry about were mountain lions.

*******

Two days later, Mr. Morgan’s face is pale and you’re frozen through. You haven’t had a warm meal since you found that destroyed camp, and Mr. Morgan has barely slept. You haven’t talked at all, apart from the necessities. And still you haven’t left those mountains and woods behind you. At least the daylight makes you feel less afraid.

“Is it far still?” you ask when the silence becomes unbearable.

“A week,” he answers, looking up at the sky, “if it doesn’t snow.”

The weather is the least of your worries. “And how long before we’re past the mountains?” You hate them now as much as they awed you at first.

“Three days maybe.”

Three more days without warm food. You straighten your back. “Have you come this way before?”

“Yes.”

“Has anything ever happened to you?” You don’t know if you’d prefer confirmation or denial.

“You’re safe with me, so don’t you worry about that.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your grip tighten on the reins.

“I’m not worried,” you lie. “Just curious.”

“Hm,” he makes before going back to observing the surroundings with caution. “Bad people are everywhere. Not just here.”

“That’s a grim way to look at the world.” You try for a teasing tone, but it sounds like you’re reprimanding him instead.

“You ain’t seen much of it then,” he replies.

“More than you know.”

He looks at you curiously, just for a moment. “You –” he starts, but a shout ahead on the path interrupts him.

“Hey!”

You almost jump out of your skin and stop your horse reflexively. That’s your first mistake. The second one is to shout, “Arthur!” Because it costs him valuable seconds, that distraction. He turns around to look at you, and then suddenly two men are on him, pulling him out of the saddle. Two more appear next to you, a young, handsome one with a dark mustache and darker eyes, and a man your father’s age, but scrawny, with a mouth full of yellow teeth that he exposes to you in an ugly grin. You pull on the reins and your horse dances nervously, ears pressed tightly against its head. And then you hear a shot.

A fifth man stands in the middle of the path, a smoking gun held high over his head. His thick, gray beard quivers as he shouts, “Everybody stay calm and no one is gonna get hurt!”

You look at Mr. Morgan for guidance and see him struggle against the two men who are restraining him by holding his arms tightly pressed against his back. His pants are dirty from where he hit the ground when they pulled him off his horse.

“Get her down from there,” the man with the gray beard barks, and before you can do anything, thin but strong fingers have closed around your arm and you tumble out of the saddle with a shout.

The man who is holding you stinks of rotting things and nicotine. He twists one of your arms until it is pressed flush against your back and uses his other hand to hold your chin, so you’re forced to look straight ahead at the man with the mustache.

“Pretty little thing, ain’t she?” he snarls, and the other man licks his lips.

“We just want your valuables,” Graybeard says to Mr. Morgan.

“We ain’t got any,” he growls.

“I’m sure you don’t,” is the calm answer as Graybeard starts going through the saddlebags of Mr. Morgan’s horse.

You roll your shoulders but the man with the rotting teeth only tightens his hold on you. His companion takes a few careful steps toward you. A lump is forming in your throat as you begin to realize just how dangerous this situation is. You try to kick back, like a horse, but you miss your captor. It only earns you a cruel laugh and a pinch to your cheek.

Somewhere to your right, you hear a dull thud and a pained groan coming from Mr. Morgan. You try to look at him, but you can’t move, not because you’re being restrained but because fear has taken over your body and you can’t do anything but relinquish control.

“Check her horse,” Graybeard orders, but the man with the mustache doesn’t move. He’s only a few steps away from you now, his eyes hungrily roaming over your body. “Now!” Graybeard barks.

“There isn’t -,” you start, but the man who is restraining you clamps a hand over your mouth. You could vomit when you taste his skin.

“There’s this,” the man with the mustache says, holding up a cheap necklace your mother gave you as a parting gift.

“Take it,” Graybeard orders.

“What about her?” the rotting man asks and shakes you.

“Her too,” Graybeard answers with a nod. “Shoot the man.”

“No!” you shout, even though it makes the disgusting man get more of his fingers in between your lips.

The man with the mustache stuffs your mother’s necklace into the pocket of his jacket, then walks over to you. You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he grips your skirt and begins to pull it upward so your boots and then your drawers are slowly exposed. A hot tear rolls down your cheek but it only makes him smile.

“I bet you’re lovely.” His voice is deep, almost as deep as Mr. Morgan’s, but hearing him speak only fills you with revulsion. “I bet you’re all tight …” He lightly strokes your cheek, then uses his free hand to unbutton his trousers.

“No!” you shout again, but it’s muffled, and your feeble attempts to free yourself are met with an evil snicker.

Then you hear a shot and all the life goes out of your body. It’s done. You’re alone now. And if you’re lucky, you’ll soon be dead too. Two more shots ring through the forest, each one as painful as if you’ve been hit by the bullets yourself. The man with the mustache doesn’t even flinch. His trousers hang open now, and you can see dark hairs peek out from between the fabric, before he cups one of your breasts hard and licks a broad stripe up your neck.

The other man moans, low, wetly, and it’s the most disgusting sound you’ve ever heard. He lets go of you, but it’s too late; you can’t run anymore. A wet, dull sound is followed by another moan, and you know exactly what he’s doing. You’ve heard people talk about it, even though you don’t quite know what it means when a man touches himself. All you know is that you feel bile rise at the thought of it.

The man with the mustache freezes and looks behind you, his eyes wide with shock. Maybe they have a different bargain, maybe he wants to keep you for himself and feels threatened. But then, so fast he’s only a blur, Mr. Morgan rushes past you, grabs the man by his collar, and pulls him off you, landing a punch against his jaw. You blink a few times as both men go down, not sure if what you’re seeing is real or if it’s a vision your panicked brain conjured up to calm you. The man with the mustache lands a kick between Mr. Morgan’s legs, gaining the upper hand. He pulls a knife from his boot while he straddles your companion to pin him down, but Mr. Morgan doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the man’s arm and bites down until he lets go of the knife. You catch a glimpse of Mr. Morgan’s eyes and where you expected him to be all feral rage, he’s cold and calculating. It sends a shiver down your spine and you stumble back a few paces until you step into something soft that squelches on impact. You don’t have to look down to know what it is.

Despite the loss of his knife, the man with the mustache is putting up a good fight. He lands a blow in Mr. Morgan’s face, then scrambles off him, grabs the knife, and pushes himself upward. Mr. Morgan moves faster than you’ve ever seen him move, jumping up while dodging the glinting blade of the knife.

“Stay down, big boy,” the man sneers.

Mr. Morgan shoves into him with such force the knife ends up in the dirt again, right next to the two men. But this time, Mr. Morgan has the upper hand, landing blow after blow in the face of the other, grunting with grim satisfaction when he draws blood, continuing even when the man retches up blood and spits it in Mr. Morgan’s face. He doesn’t stop until the man doesn’t move anymore and his face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, entirely unrecognizable. Only then does he grunt in pain and rolls off his opponent, lying on the forest floor, breathing labored and hard.

*******

You make camp that night as far away from that spot as you could travel before the light faded. Mr. Morgan gets a fire going while you sit on a log, trying to hide your trembling hands in your lap. You haven’t cried yet but you know it’s coming. He hasn’t said anything yet, and you’re not sure he will.

In the flickering light of the fire, you can see the cuts and bruises in his face, the sleeve of his shirt drenched in blood. And when you close your eyes, you can see the five dead men, their broken bodies left in the dirt for scavengers to feed on. He did that, all on his own.

You force yourself to stand up and walk over to him. He’s not the man who calmed you down after a mountain lion attack anymore; you’ve seen him beat a man to death today with his bare hands. No, he’s someone new now, someone you have to get to know first. And when you crouch down next to him, he looks at you with dark eyes like he’s never looked at you before and you feel all the air being pressed out of you.

“Let me take a look at your arm,” you say, pulling it toward you by his hand. The dried blood on his knuckles is rough against your skin.

He doesn’t protest, just watches as you carefully roll up his sleeve to expose a deep cut, undoubtedly left by the knife. It must have happened so fast you missed it. Even though it’s not bleeding as much as it used to, each pump of Mr. Morgan’ heart pushes some more blood out through the cut.

“You need stitches,” you tell him.

Before you can second-guess what you’re doing or change your mind, you’re next to your saddlebag, looking for the sewing kit your bother gave you. Only you’ve never used it for something like this before. You don’t even know if it’ll work, only ever having read about it in books, but it’s better than doing nothing. You also grab the bottle of whiskey from Mr. Morgan’s bag.

“Drink this,” you order, handing it to him once you’re next to him again.

He takes one big swallow, then another one, his throat working to get the liquid down. You pretend not to notice. Then he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while you stare at the cut with much more focus than necessary. Taking back the bottle, you pour some of its content on the cut, drawing a low groan from Mr. Morgan that heats up your cheeks.

Your hands are shaking as you try to thread the needle. “Have you ever done this before?” Mr. Morgan asks, his face stoic as if he’s ready to accept his fate no matter the answer you give him.

“Technically, no,” you answer, finally pushing the thread through the eye.

“Huh,” he grunts.

“But I’m very good at mending stockings.” You offer him a feeble smile and he nods. “This might hurt a little bit,” you warn before pushing the needle through his skin. Holding his arm in place with your other hand, you can feel his muscles flex at the intrusion, and a short burst of breath tickles the top of your head. He doesn’t complain.

“Have you ever been stitched up before?” you ask him to distract him.

“No,” he replies through gritted teeth.

“Oh, good. Then you have to believe me when I tell you I’m doing a very good job.” What’s wrong with you?

He grunts again, but maybe, possibly that sound could be hiding a laugh.

“Still, when we arrive at our destination, you should have a doctor look at this,” you instruct.

“Eager to hear from a professional how good of a job you did?”

Your cheeks ignite and you drop the needle. “Shit.” He is laughing now, a low chuckle, as you try to locate a glint in the flickering light from the campfire. Luckily, you don’t have to look far – the needle fell straight down and is lying between Mr. Morgan’s boots. You wipe strands of hair from your face, then wipe the needle clean on your dress before getting back to work.

“No,” you answer his question, forcing your voice to sound steady. “Because I have no idea how to prevent an infection. Or if I’m even doing this correctly.”

Mr. Morgan leans down, his big hand closing around the bottle you discarded earlier, and he unscrews the cap with his thumb and forefinger. “Looks to me like you’re doin’ fine.” A big swig, then another one.

You glance up at him just to see his face looking unusually pale. “Does it hurt a lot?” you ask carefully.

“I’ve had worse,” he answers, but flinches when one of your stitches comes too close to the wound.

You blink fast a couple of times, trying to shake the image of him on top of that man, punching and punching until no trace of life was left. The memory of the sheer brutality makes your hands feel clammy. No, this wasn’t his first time getting hurt, just like it wasn’t his first time killing someone. And now the same hands rest peacefully in his lap, cut and bruised, yes, but a far cry from the deadly weapons you saw today.

“Thank you for what you did today,” finishing up with two final stitches, then quickly add, “There,” and pet his arm before he can acknowledge your words of gratitude.

He lifts his hand from his leg and flexes his fingers. “Thanks for this,” he replies, examining the stitches.

Your gaze lands on his knuckles that are covered in blood, his own and that of the men he killed. “Do you want me to take a look at your hands?” you ask, your throat tight all of a sudden.

“I’m used to that.” He stretches out one of his legs so it rests next to you, close enough that you feel the ghost of a presence next to your hip.

“I’ve never met a man who was used to so much violence.” Your eyes are still on his hands, bruised darkly.

“It was either them or us.” He shrugs.

Us. “I was sure they had killed you when I heard that first gunshot,” you tell him, lowering your gaze to your own hands that have some dirt on them, some streaks of Mr. Morgan’s blood, but that look so clean compared to his.

“And break the contract with your father?”

You laugh. “A father who selected this route knowing full well about the dangers we would face?” The silence that follows your question is filled only by the crackle of the campfire and by the sounds of creatures moving through the woods. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to repay you,” you finally say.

“This ain’t the first time I had to save someone,” he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“And how did those other people repay you?” you ask, eager for his answer. Being indebted to him puts you on edge.

“Money,” is his short reply.

“I don’t have any,” you say, feeling a tug at your heartstrings. But maybe that doesn’t matter; maybe when you arrive, you could talk to your fiancé. He’ll want to reward the man who defended your honor and saved you from a horrible fate. Still, you wish there was something you could be doing for him right now. “There’s also other ways,” you say, very slowly.

“Hm,” he makes, a sound that has started to fill you with a certain warmth for reasons you can’t quite explain. Then he shifts, moves his legs a little further apart. And you’re there right between them, looking up into his face that betrays nothing except for the smallest glint in his eyes.

You’ve never even kissed a man, but you’re not stupid. You know what certain gestures and movements mean. You’ve watched your father’s hands when a woman walked past them, you’ve attended dances where everyone around you was getting drunk … growing up on a farm, you’ve seen things. But you also know that those things are wrong and they should only be happening between husband and wife behind closed doors, no matter what everyone else is doing.

It's getting harder to breathe, and you feel a tug low in your stomach, almost like an ache. You’ve never felt anything like this before and you can’t quite place it, but the way he looks at you, mouth slightly opened, his eyes deep and dark, only fuels that sensation. And when you think back to this afternoon, it becomes so strong it makes you shift on your knees.

“You’re a pretty little thing.”

It’s the second time today someone has said that about you. Whereas the first time made your skin crawl, the second time makes your cheeks heat up and your breath get stuck in your throat. You notice that Mr. Morgan unbuckles his belt, eyes locked to yours, and you make sure your gaze stays on his face. It’s only when he groans and his eyelids flutter shut that you look down and see he has his hand wrapped around himself, moving it up and down his length with sure strokes. Something in you is released at that sight.

“Here, let me,” you offer, shuffling closer on your knees until you’re trapped between his legs.

Before you can think better of it, you wrap your fingers around the base of his cock. It’s warmer than you expected, feels heavier than you thought when you move your hand up in the same move you saw him use. He groans again, louder this time, and removes his hand, resting it on your arm. You tremble.

Back home, you were taught that what a wife does in the bedroom is fulfilling the duty to her husband. It sounded neither pleasant nor enjoyable, and so far, you’ve managed to push the thoughts of what is awaiting you at your destination from your mind. But your mother couldn’t have meant this, because this doesn’t feel like duty at all. You stroke the tip of his cock with your thumb, he tightens the grip on your arm in return, and you feel a surge of pride well up. No, your mother couldn’t have been talking about this.

Eager to try more, you twist your wrist on the downstroke, then lower your head and kiss the tip of his cock. He growls this time, and his hand lands on the back of your head, pushing you down. You have no choice but to open your mouth further and take him in. The weight of him presses down against your tongue, the tip of him brushing the back of your throat makes you gag as tears shoot to your eyes. He grips your hair, pulls you off, then pushes you back down again, and you got it. It’s not so different from the hand.

Steadying him at the base with a tight grip, you pull off him again, but let your tongue run along the underside, the sharp taste of him filling every corner of your mouth. It will take some getting used to, but you’re determined to get this right, and from the way his hand trembles at the back of your head, you have a feeling you might be.

You close your eyes, focusing on taking him as deeply inside as possible because he seems to enjoy that. Sometimes, when you think there isn’t any room left, he pushes you onto his cock that little bit further and then groans contently, a sound that tightens parts of your body you didn’t know could tighten. You run your tongue over the tip of him, hum around him when your mouth is full of him, just to find out what kind of sounds you can draw from him. If this is what it’s like, you can’t imagine why anyone would call this a duty.

Mr. Morgan stiffens and pushes his hips upward so you take even more of him into your mouth. This time you can’t help the gagging sound pushing past him. But instead of forcing you to take more, he grips a handful of your hair and pulls you off. Your mouth feels strangely empty for a moment, even though his taste lingers, and you blink in confusion. Was that it?

You lick your lips and look up at him expectantly, waiting for him to say something. But he’s quiet, only placing his forefinger under your chin to tilt your head back a little more. For some reason, that gesture leaves you breathless. And you know why a second later when his lips lock onto yours and your breaths mingle, and you suddenly understand why people would kill for this. Why he killed for you.

You can’t help the moan that comes out of your mouth, don’t even realize at first that the sound is coming from you. His hand glides to the back of your head to grip you and hold you in place, and you push yourself toward him, one hand on his arm, the other on his thigh. He licks into your mouth and you try to mirror him, feeling a strange sense of pride when he opens up for you.

He pulls away, holding you in place by the hair at the nape of your neck. “Did you like havin’ me in your mouth?” he asks and his voice is so low you barely recognize it.

“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” you answer, and you also almost don’t recognize your own.

“Oh, you’re somethin’,” he says with a wicked smile, then stands and pulls you with him.

Your legs are trembling and your knees threaten to give way when he kisses you again, pressing his entire body to yours. Just when you think you could spend eternity like this, he closes his arms around your backside and lifts you up, so you don’t have any chance but to sling your legs around his middle. You squeal against his lips, but he just carries you past the campfire toward your bedroll. Beneath your palms, you can feel the muscles in his shoulders and arms flex and tighten with each step. Something in your stomach flutters as you remember he's strong enough to beat a man to death.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re kissing his jaw and neck, biting down on a tendon that’s jutting out with the effort of keeping you in his arms. When he rumbles deep in his chest, you flick out your tongue to lick across the spot in apology, but he drops you to your feet. You both stand there for a second, looking at each other with heaving chests. His hands come up to grip the neckline of your dress, and he pulls, a tearing sound echoing through the trees. Your torn dress crumbles to the ground around you, exposing your undergarments, and even though your first instinct is to cover up you don’t because he pulls his shirt over his head to expose his naked chest beneath, and that sight is enough to distract you from any embarrassment you might be feeling.

His pants are next, and then he stands before you stark naked. You try to touch his stomach with a trembling hand, but he grabs your wrist and pushes you down to the ground. With precise movements, he pulls off your drawers, taking your shoes with them, then tears open your corset to expose your breasts. Your breath hitches when he cups one in his calloused hand and squeezes, making pleasure spike through your body.

You kiss him again, lean into his touch, and then you discover you can make him tighten his hold on you by licking over his bottom lip. You can make him press his hard length against you by moaning in pleasure. It feels so, so good to have this effect on him, to be able to do that to him without words. Never, in a million years, would you have expected that giving yourself to a man would feel like this, would make heat blossom at the base of your spine, would make you ache between your legs. You shove your fingers into his hair, deepening the kiss, and he sighs against your lips, a sound that makes your knees weak. How can all of this make you feel so good yet fill you with a hunger you don’t know how to satiate?

You run your nails over his scalp, testing to see what other sounds you can elicit from him, when he suddenly shifts both your bodies, pushing you to the ground while caging you in with his body. Your heart hammers in your chest so hard it’s almost painful, but even when your back is uncomfortably pressed against your thin bedroll, you still crane your neck to keep kissing him. God, why can’t you get enough of him?

With a sharp slap against your knee that sends another spike of pleasure through your body, he pushes your legs apart, then draws back to look at you. His lips are red and swollen, and both shadow and light are dancing across his face in quick succession. You reach up to touch his cheek, but he catches your wrist and pins it down next to your head with so much strength it steals the breath from your lungs.

“You’re the prettiest little lady I’ve ever seen,” he mumbles.

You feel your face heat up, but he doesn’t notice how flustered you are. With his free hand, he grabs himself, then lines himself up between your legs. You watch, eyes wide, breathing so fast your head is starting to swim. What comes next is a pressure that is not painful but not quite pleasurable either. And the more it pushes, the more it hurts.

“Stop,” you say, your voice not more than a whisper.

Either he doesn’t hear you or he’s ignoring you, but he continues to push up into you, and now it’s so painful you’ve lost all sense of pleasure entirely.

“Stop,” you try again, bracing your hands against his shoulders, trying to push him off you. He’s too strong for you. “Arthur, stop!” you bellow.

And he hears you. He immediately withdraws, and you scramble to sit up, pulling away from him as best as possible on the small bedroll.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, and the concern in his voice makes you look at him.

“Yes,” you answer, hugging your knees to your chest. You wish you weren’t so naked.

“Have you ever …?” He doesn’t need to finish the question for you to know what he means.

You shake your head.

A deep, red flush creeps up his chest and neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I didn’t know. I wouldn’t –”

“It’s alright,” you interrupt him, his apology embarrassing rather than harming you. “You didn’t know.”

“The way you were kissin’ me …” He trails off again.

Your ears prick up at the compliment. “It all felt … good,” you stutter. “More than good. It’s just …”

“I can … we can slow down,” he offers. “If you still want …”

You look at him, kneeling before you, his skin glowing orange in the light from the fire. His dick is slowly softening between his legs, goosebumps are covering his arms, but he is showing you all of himself without shame. That bold display of his body makes your blood heat up again, but you hesitate. Touching his naked skin is one thing, giving yourself to him entirely is something you’ve been warned of your entire life. And yet … now that you’ve pushed through the initial shock, you slowly realize your body is demanding to feel him again.

You nod. “Yes. I still … I want you.”

Your cheeks are fever-hot, but the way his eyes light up is worth the embarrassment you feel. Arthur moves toward you, loosening the hold you have on yourself, and you relax, dropping your knees, letting him come even closer. He smirks, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up again before he leans in for a searing kiss, and it feels like the last few minutes didn’t happen at all. Without breaking the kiss, he reaches for your wrist, then slowly guides your hand between your own legs, while you tremble in anticipation. He doesn’t touch you, but when he presses your own fingers against all that heat and wetness, you moan deeply.

Arthur breaks the kiss first. “I want you to play with yourself,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear.

“I don’t …,” you start, suddenly unsure.

“Yeah, I know.” He kisses your neck. “You’re gonna figure it out though.”

You take a deep breath and nod, and when he captures your lips for another kiss, you move your fingers over yourself in a motion that makes pleasure shoot through your entire body. A shaky pant escapes you and lands on his mouth, turning his lips into a smirk even while he’s kissing you.

“There you go,” he whispers.

You find a rhythm and pace that makes you feel like you’re about to explode but that doesn’t light the final fuse, and he continues to kiss you for a while before drawing back to watch the hand between your thighs. Any shame you could have felt is replaced by pure lust when you see the arousal in his eyes; you shift to open your legs further, and he raises his eyes in surprise. You shift under his searing gaze and moan when you notice his hand closing around the base of his cock.

You’ve never felt like you’re feeling right now, completely in control but also like you’re surrendering yourself to him. It’s so addictive it makes you wonder how people don’t want to feel like this all the time. “It feels so good,” you groan, struggling to get the words out because your teeth are clenched.

“You’re so pretty,” is Arthur’s answer as he moves his hand up and down his length.

You can’t help but believe him. “I love you strong you are,” you return the compliment, and before you can think better of it, you raise your free hand and cup your breast, squeezing your nipple.

His eyes lock onto your chest. “Fuck.” Pleasure shoots through you from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. “You’re such a good girl,” he adds, and it makes your heart flutter so painfully you feel like it’s about to fly out of your chest.

“Say that again,” you demand, not recognizing yourself at all.

Arthur shifts closer until he’s right between your legs, fisting himself eagerly. You can smell the sweat and arousal on him, a scent so overpowering you wish you could bury your nose in his skin and inhale it forever. “My pretty, brave girl,” he says, and when you lower your gaze, too overwhelmed by what his words make you feel, he grips your chin and lifts your head. “Oh no, you’re gonna look at me.” You blink once but don’t lower your head again. “Yeah, that’s it.” He smirks. “Look at you … so eager to please me. You should see yourself right now … goddamn prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You do lower your gaze then because it feels like too much. Your eyes land on his cock, on the tip that’s glistening wetly, and you lick your lips, remembering the feeling of him in your mouth.

“You want me inside of you, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and you nod. His rough, calloused hand closes around your throat and you can’t help it – you move your own hand faster, a crescendo building in the pit of your stomach. “Use your words, pretty girl. I know you can.”

You swallow hard, knowing he can feel your throat move against his grip. “Yes, I want you inside of me.” Your face doesn’t heat up this time as you realize you’re not only saying that to please him. It’s exactly what you want.

He rewards you with a deep kiss, then mumbles against your lips. “Are you ready?”

You hesitate. “I’m not …”

But Arthur doesn’t let you finish. “Let’s find out together.” He leans back. “Finger yourself.” The way his eyes darken when he says it isn’t lost on you.

You shift and move your hand lower, his eyes fixed to your movements. He has stopped moving, his hand grabbing his cock, holding it between his legs. You feel yourself flutter against your fingers in anticipation at the same time as he licks his lips. And then you push the tip of your finger inside of you, past the initial resistance, deeper and deeper until you can’t go any further.

“Breathe,” he instructs and you exhale sharply. “Did that hurt?”

You shake your head before remembering he likes to hear your voice. “No.”

“How does it feel?” he wants to know.

Carefully, you pull your finger out until only the tip remains inside of you, then you push it back in. “Good,” you manage. “Really good.”

“You’re sweet when you can barely talk,” he says with a smirk and the muscles inside you clamp down on your finger. You moan and close your eyes, unable to keep them open. “You like that, don’t you?” You hear him shift closer. “You like hearing my voice. Bet you’d like me to talk you through it, too.”

Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you feel something building inside you. It’s like a wave that will drown everything out. You lean back further and further until your back connects to the ground, until you can raise your hips to meet your finger, trying to get it as deep inside you as possible.

Then his hand is covering yours and he pushes you to the ground, stilling you. When you open your eyes, you’re met with his, dark with lust, and you’re rewarded with the sight of his chest, flushed so deeply red it looks almost purple. His cock is leaking onto his fingers. “Not yet, sweet girl,” he says in a voice that sounds familiar to the one he uses to calm down his horse. “You’re doing so well, but wait until …”

Arthur removes his hand from yours, but then you feel the tip of his finger right where yours is disappearing inside yourself. You steel yourself for the pain you’re about to feel, but when his finger joins yours, stretching you open, all you feel is pleasure so intense it makes it hard for you to stay conscious.

“Fuck,” you groan, a short outburst, almost like a bark.

“You can say that again.” Arthur’s voice is so husky it’s almost impossible to understand. He cups your hand with his, and then moves the both of you in tandem, pulling back out and pushing back in. You tentatively meet his thrusts by rolling your hips and he growls. “Look at you, spread open just for me.”

You don’t know why his words make you feel like they do, but the muscles between your legs are working hard to keep both your fingers buried as deeply as possible. That earns you a smirk from him and you smile back in return.

“I think you’re ready.” He grips your hand tightly and pulls the both of you out, making you sob. To calm you, he cups your cheek and presses a soft kiss to your lips. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna fill you right back up again.” All you can do is nod.

He positions himself above you, stroking himself a few times, then lining himself up. It’s easier for you to relax this time because you know what to expect, but when he breaches that resisting wall of muscles, you still feel a burn and hiss.

“Shhhh,” he makes and kisses your forehead. “You’re doing so good.”

And then he’s inside of you, stretching you open as much as you can take. His eyes flutter shut and he groans, shifting to adjust himself. “You feel perfect.”

“You’re … you’re big,” you manage, drawing a chuckle from him.

He shifts again, then pulls back out before slamming back into you, making you see stars. “Fuck, I’m sorry,” he apologizes immediately.

“No,” you press out through gritted teeth. “Do that again.”

He does, and you grip his arm, burying your nails in his muscle, slinging your other arm around his back. There’s a strange taste in your mouth and you only slowly realize it’s blood from biting down on your bottom lip. He kisses you, licks over the wound, pulls a sharp moan from you. And then he slams into you so hard you scream, clawing at his skin, leaving bloody streaks down his arm and back. The pain only seems to spur him on and when you pant, “Harder,” he doesn’t hesitate.

You clench around his cock in return and he whispers, “I like you like this.” You feel yourself clench again and he groans. “You’re perfect,” he repeats. You kiss his neck, then bite it, until he pushes you back down. “I bet you’ve never had an orgasm before, have you?” You shake your head and he mimics that motion, tapping your bottom lip with his thumb. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you manage to say, your voice hoarse.

He rocks into you, not as hard and fast as before, but it makes you pant helplessly nonetheless. “Yeah, I thought so,” he mumbles more to himself than to you.

“Please,” you whisper.

He smirks down at you, then shifts his knees ever so slightly to change the angle. Suddenly, he’s brushing against something deep inside of you that makes a sob erupt from deep in your chest.

“Do you even know what you’re asking for?” he teases, but there is a strain in his voice now, as if he’s struggling to hold onto something.

“Please,” you repeat louder, unable to fully grasp the meaning of his question.

Arthur’s thumb is back on your lip and then he pushes it inside your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the tip eagerly, then suck on it, grazing your teeth over his skin. His breathing turns ragged, and the warmth of pride erupts in your chest. With a wet sound, he pulls his thumb out from between your lips and pushes his hand between your bodies until it comes to rest on that small spot you were toying with earlier. You howl and twitch and your whole body erupts. You spill over, you lose sense of where and who you are, you’re shaken by forces beyond your control. All the while, Arthur pounds into you, strokes you inside and out, and you think you hear him say, “That’s it, just let go. You’re so fucking beautiful – just let go.”

As soon as you feel like you can breathe again, he pulls out of you, leaving you aching and empty and cold. Through hooded eyes, you watch as he moves his hand up and down his cock fast until he spills all over his hand and the edge of your bedroll, gaze not directed downwards, but staring at you with insatiable hunger in his eyes. And you return that gaze just as hungrily, wondering what it would feel like to taste his release on your tongue.

Arthur stands unsteadily and retrieves his coat from the other side of the campfire. You feel the cold of the night now and hug your knees to your chest, still trying to make sense of the world. “Now, no more of that,” he says when he gets back, draping his coat over you, the weight of it making your limbs grow soft. He lies down next to you, pressing his front to your back, one arm possessively slung over your chest, the other shoved under your head for you to use as a pillow.

*******

The morning sun is warm on your face as you ride through a slowly thinning forest. The plains and your destination cannot be far from here. Your thoughts are though; they’re still somewhere behind you, stuck at a campfire, busy chasing the feeling of the man next to you between your legs.

When you reach a fork in the path, you stop your horse and look off to your right, back into the forest and the mountains. “What’s back there?” you ask.

Arthur stops his horse next to yours and looks down the path. “Never been over that way,” he answers.

“Do you want to find out?” Your voice is firm, but you don’t look at Arthur.

He’s quiet at first. “Your father –”

“– already paid you,” you finish the sentence.

Arthur nods. “Alright,” he says, then looks back at the path you just put behind you, then off to your right again. “Let’s find out what’s over there.”

***

arthur morgan taglist: @cjillian97 | @hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmsstuff | @imaginativefanatic | @joelmillers-whore | @misspearly1 | @spacecowboyhotch | @tortor-mcgee | @wickedscribbles

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[yuellii]

keep my hopes too high

feat. genshin men

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 there are several ways they admire you from afar ( drabbles )

note. reader’s gender unspecified, no other warnings

He fairly enjoys it, the fluttering feeling as if he’s floating when he sees you. Perhaps it’s a little too enjoyable, because it’s been several times now that he catches himself staring for much longer than he intended—or, perhaps he should not have been staring at all. But he can’t help the way you catch his gaze, nor can he control the smile of blissful contentment that etches itself upon his lips. It’s a natural reaction, he swears, for he’d argue that anyone would be captivated by the sheer, unadulterated human emotion you bring out from even the coldest of persons, or by the joys of life you brought to display.

Maybe one day he’ll approach you, and maybe he’ll tell you of all the graces of genuine humanity and serenity he feels when he catches wind of you. Maybe, but today is not that day.

ALBEDO, Tighnari, Cyno, Kaeya, KAVEH, Zhongli, Kazuha

He’s a master in the art of silent admiration. It could be in a crowded tavern or a silent library, but when he does happen to see you, he appears to not move at all. He’s calm, collected, and most certainly indifferent, like you’re just another passerby he sees as he’s people-watching.

That’s what he thinks, at least. Sure, the usual expression on his face—whether it be a plain smile or a straight up disinterested look—is definitely deceiving, but it was convincing in a manner that even deceived himself. There have been many times he never realized he’d be watching just to analyze what you were doing, analyze your surroundings, and analyze if you were going to be safe. It’s a full rundown of things he notices in his head as his eyes dart around the area. But once he determines everything is clear and you’re safe to continue, he’ll get up, and he will silently leave.

DILUC, Alhaitham, Xiao, ZHONGLI, Scaramouche, Venti, DAINSLEIF, Heizou

There’s an unwanted pit of fear that settled into his stomach every time he sees you. Because if he ever allowed himself any time with you, what would become of his life now? He’s so used to routine—the lifestyle where he was never driven to this distressing, distant infatuation with you.

Maybe it wasn’t about being busy, maybe it wasn’t about having no time. In actuality, maybe there was almost nothing he feared more than opening up about a life only he himself has known—something about putting trust and openness into someone, meanwhile he has not yet even been open with himself. He thought it would be easy to just drown himself in his work just to avoid you. But mindless work quickly turned into dreaded seconds with the grueling thoughts he could be with you now. But, alas, he was not as strong as he thought.

AYATO, Childe, XIAO, Scaramouche, BAIZHU, Dainsleif

He can’t. He simply cannot force himself to remain afar. In fact, he deems it impossible—with your charm, and with your benevolence—to avoid running up to you at every moment he can. He makes claims that you’re some sort of siren, drawing him in whilst he is but a mere bystander. But in truth, though he doesn’t even know himself, it’s a lovestruck selfishness that roars inside his stomach whenever he sees you.

He’ll shout hello from the most random of street corners; He’ll suddenly join you across the table at a cafe. Doesn’t matter if it’s annoying—he can’t really tell when he’s running on pure instinct and craving here. But based on his childlike pining and genuine elation on his lips every time he sees you, it’s so blatantly obvious he just can’t help himself.

CHILDE, Thoma, KAVEH, Gorou, Heizou

[thesirencult]

Pick A Card : Soul Connection

An intuitive reading about a soul meant to find yours. In epic tales there is a literally mechanism called "recognition". The hero and his counterpart recognize eachother even after years of estrangement. Like Penelope and Odysseus. A love so deep not even multiple lifetimes can erase. A soul kindred to yours you would recognize in a sea of people.

"I could recognize him by touch alone, by smell; I would know him blind, by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. I would know him in death, at the end of the world."

disclaimer : a tarot reading should never be used in place of professional counselling. Your reading cannot offer legal, medical, business, or financial advice nor does any portion of your reading herein purport to. You should not rely on a tarot reading to make any decision that would affect your legal, financial, or medical condition. If your inquiry involves the law, finance, or medicine, then you should seek the advice of a licensed or qualified legal, financial, or medical professional. Also, tarot reading cannot replace qualified mental health care. A tarot reading can only facilitate how you cope spiritually with a given situation.

PILE 1

The soul meant to find yours is a gentle one. Themes that come up here remind me of couples like Queen Victoria and Albert. I t will be love at first sight. Whatever your genders are, the "supposed" feminine will be the dominant one.

Your person will take the backseat as you run things. You may come from a wealthier background or simply seem "high value". Lady and the trump vibes.

This person will fight for those who didn't get the same opportunities to grow. They cheer for the underdog. This person will love your firey nature and how "bossy" you are. One thing you have to be careful with in this relationship is to keep things balanced as sometimes they might feel like you do not respect them or you don't spend enough time with them.

They could be an INFJ. Sympathetic, compassionate and protective. Practical and detail oriented, this is the safe place you need to come back to after your long trips towards the stars.

PILE 2

The love of your life will be able to see you. The real you. They won't overlook the greyness in your face. "You're Losing Me" by Taylor Swift is a song that can talk about your past.

No one stopped hurting you even though they knew they wouldn't be able to bring you back. They didn't care.

This person is everything that you deserve. They will help you heal. No sad songs with this one. Your happily ever after. This person is a soldier. They would die for love.

Your people pleasing tendencies won't go unnoticed with this one. They care about YOU, not what you can do about THEM.

Give them a chance when they come around. Sweet energy. Safe. Boy-Girl-They next door energy. A sweetheart with a great smile and a kind glint in their eyes. My heart feels warm writing about them. Hallmark movies ain't got nothing on them. Their love is simple and "perfect". No questions and worries. Your safe place.

Your energy reminds me of those wedding photos you see on Instagram of couples in small American towns posing with their golden retriever and smiling at each other. Don't let your past wounds f*ck this up. Sincerely, from one people pleaser to another. If you picked this pile we would have been besties in real life. Lots of love and hugs your way.

P.S. They will always choose you. You are not the first, but the ONLY choice.

PILE 3

Your whole life you have felt alone and isolated. Like life is a party you have not been invited. I wouldn't say you are a "pick me", you are far from that. You just feel like there is no one there for you to keep your hands warm. You have always longed for someone that will look behind the mirror and realize there is someone is behind it. You struggle with finding your inner voice.

The catch here is that you have the ability to choose anyone behind the mirror. You have the ability to show who you truly are. Be wild and crazy. Unstoppable. You didn't come here to do pretty and quiet. You are here to awake others and break the glass.

The person meant for you, your other half is very different from you. They are way more hedonistic and may find solace is the material realm. They will do everything to make you feel wanted and beautiful. This person will see you for who you truly are and they won't feel intimidated. Your "black cat energy" won't drive them away. They have some skeletons in the closet themselves. Disturbing and compelling, this one would make a great "50 Shades Of Grey" type of movie. lol. They could listen a lot to the Weeknd or they used to live a very "rough" lifestyle in the past. Love at first sight. Intense. You slap them and they will kiss you. They will buffle you. "Why doe sthis mfer stick around somehow?".

In all honesty, in this lifetime, your other half will be overbearing. They won't back down until they take you down with them. Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem come to mind in Jamon Jamon. This person may also come from money or have a lot of money and they want you to be their dark princess/prince. It will feel like taking a panther or feral cat and trying to domesticate it. Good try. You are still dangerous though, but they don't mind a few scratches.

[prythianpages]

Cruel, Wicked Thing | Eris x Reader

summary: you are betrothed to Sawyer Vanserra yet that doesn't stop the eldest Vanserra from wanting you.

warnings: I can't really think of anything? this isn't really fluff or angst, just eris longing. slow burn maybe?

a/n: this can be read as a stand alone imagine but it's a part two to this. I intended the second part to be something else but then I ended up writing this scene and it didn't really fit the vibes I was going with so I decided to just post it separately.

As Eris steps out into the courtyard gardens, his gaze is immediately drawn to you. You’re seated upon one of the stone benches that faces the grand water fountain, the one where he first met you. His steps slow, compelled to take in the sight of you. The sun’s light filters through the clouds, caressing your features with a golden glow as you delicately turn the pages of a book. A gentle breeze rustles through the Autumn trees, creating a ballet of falling leaves and causing loose strands of your hair to dance in the air. As the wind carries the sweet scent of rose and honey to him, Eris inhales deeply.

Among the fluttering leaves, a single one lands atop your head, a delicate crown bestowed by nature itself. Yet, you remain unaware. You’re completely lost to the realm of literature in your lap. The same way Eris is lost in you.

He wonders if he should turn and walk the other way. Much like he has done in the weeks that you’ve moved into the Forest house. He doesn’t want to avoid you but the magnetic pull you exert is thrilling yet fear-inducing. So he's resorted to studying you from afar. He knows you enjoy walking around the gardens, reading and hanging around the stables. He knows you well enough to know you don't belong in a cruel court such as this one.

Yet, the Cauldron has unequivocally marked you as someone special to him and he finds himself wary of the potential depth of affection you might set ablaze within his guarded heart. It’s laughable, how someone as sweet and pure as you is so dangerous to him.

You are engaged to his younger brother, Sawyer. And Eris? He’s engaged in the delicate balance of playing the role of the perfect son—perfect heir—all while conspiring against his own father. He cannot afford to harbor any weakness nor does he want to drag you into the depths of his hell. 

But as he looks around the gardens, he confirms there’s no one else around. He then decides to indulge himself, even if only for a little bit.

As he walks toward you, he deliberately steps on the fallen leaves, allowing them to crunch under his boot. The intentional sound announces his approach and has you looking up. Your eyes widen in surprise as you sit up straight.

“Lord Eris.”

The corner of his lips quirk up and he greets you with the same formality. “Lady y/n.”

His fingers reach out to delicately pluck an orange leaf from the crown of your head. The touch lingers longer than necessary, and “accidentally,” his hand brushes against the softness of your cheek as he lowers it. The lingering contact leaves you slightly flustered, a soft blush creeping up on your face—a reaction he takes delight in.

“I’m surprised you haven’t run away,” he remarks.

Eris knows the past three weeks have been rough for you. He’s not only seen it as you chased Sawyer, your unfortunate husband to be, like a lost puppy but he’s also felt it. On occasion, he sends one of his hounds, Clover, to cheer you up. Even the vicious little creature has fallen victim to you, revealing a softer side in your presence. One she normally only shows Eris.

Your father, a busy and highly esteemed merchant, departed as soon as he signed your marriage contract, leaving you to navigate the Autumn Court alone. Sawyer barely gives you the time of day. It’s a double edged sword because though Sawyer is content with neglecting you, he is the lesser evil of his three remaining brothers. 

Sawyer’s disinterest for you, however, often leaves you vulnerable to his two other brothers, Hunter and Oliver. Hunter, who much like his name, always has a thirst and desire to give chase to anything that isn’t his and Oliver–well, Oliver lusts after anything with two legs. The thought of them touching you–hurting you–sends a fire to course through his veins. It reaches his hand, small flames emerging from his fingertips and the leaf in his hand succumbs to ashes. He brushes them off, feigning nonchalance, grateful that you're unfazed.

With a deft motion, you dog-ear the page you were on before closing your book and gracefully rising to your feet. Upon realizing his attention drifting to the book in your hands, you swiftly hide it behind your back. 

“Why would I run away? Maybe, I’m right where I want to be.”

As his gaze lifts to meet yours, a flicker of surprise and curiosity dances in his amber eyes. Bold words. Unlike you. Despite your hands held behind your back, the subtle nervous twitch of your arm muscles is not lost on him.

“But you’re unhappy,” Eris says and he almost expects the emotions churning within you to come to surface. For you to agree. For you to complain. He leans in closer to you, willing to listen.

You do none of that, though. Instead, you force a smile onto your face. One that fails to reach your eyes. "I'm very happy.”

 “Well, you’re very convincing.” 

“And you’re very nosey.” 

Eris lets out an exhale through his nose and you shrink back, worried you have offended him. The small smirk that lifts the corner of his lips soothes your concern. “I kind of have to be, angel. This is my court and I am to rule over it someday. It is my duty to be aware of everything that goes on.”

“Perhaps, I should start with finding out what had you so captivated earlier.”  Eris adds, eyeing the book you continue to conceal behind your back.

You take a step back, fingers tightening against your book but it’s useless. In a heartbeat, the book disappears from your grasp and reappears in Eris’s thanks to his magic. He holds it up in a taunting manner and you’re running after him.

“Eris!”

A spark ignites in his amber eyes as he recognizes the title, and a chuckle escapes him at your adorable yet desperate attempt to reach for the book. He holds it higher, taking full advantage of his height.

“You shock me, angel. I didn't pin you to be the type to read–”

“Please give it back.” 

Eris pauses for a moment in deep contemplation. You are asking so nicely–begging, more like it. But he finds that he likes the way you’re madly blushing at him too much. He shakes the urge to give into your puppy dog eyes. “I don’t think so…shall I start reading where you left off, hmm?”

Panic flashes in your wide eyes as you desperately lunge forward to retrieve your book. However, Eris's quick reflexes had him turning away, causing you to trip over the pavestone. With Eris's body no longer there to block your path, you found yourself tumbling into the water fountain with a loud splash.

The water is cold and has you gasping, goosebumps rising on your skin. You lift your gaze and though you glare at him, he finds it adorable. Absolutely endearing. He tilts his head back in laughter and the sound softens your gaze.

Eris is still laughing when you hold out your hand to him expectantly. “What?”

Your eyebrows knit together in disbelief. “Aren’t you going to be a gentleman and offer me your hand?”

Unspoken desires stir within him as he gazes at your outstretched hand. In his eyes, there's a subtle ache, a silent wish to offer you more than just his hand. The wave of your hand has him breaking from his thoughts. This time, he takes it. He fails to notice the gleam in your eyes as he does. He doesn’t realize his mistake until it’s already too late–until he’s falling into the fountain and on top of you. Quick reflexes save your book from the water, while one hand is planted at your side to avoid the full weight of his fall.

“Not so funny now, is it?” Your laughter dies in your throat and your voice embarrassingly losing its vigor as you both find yourselves unexpectedly close in the watery aftermath.

Wide amber eyes, bathed in the warm glow of honeyed hues, lock onto yours. His chest is pressed against you and his nose is so close to yours, they’re almost brushing. All you can hear is the soothing sound of running water and his soft breath. You can feel the warmth of it too and the way his chest rises and falls with every breath. 

“You cruel, wicked thing,” he murmurs, voice dripping in velvet, capturing the not so subtle shift in your gaze from his eyes to his lips.

He does the same, also well aware of how close he is to you. Gods, you’re dangerously close to him and as your eyes flutter shut, anticipation charges the air. A mere inch closer, and he could savor the allure of your lips—your pretty but devilish lips. The mere notion sets his heart aflutter. The golden string, binding you both together, seems to tug at him insistently, reeling him in.

Closer, the bond in his chest sings. Closer–

A series of distinct and deliberate chimes has both of you abruptly turning your heads towards the grand clock that oversees the gardens. Eris suppresses a sigh. He has to go but doesn’t want to leave. Reluctantly, he pulls away and rises to his feet, stepping out of the fountain. He then offers you his hand, helping you up. When your shoes slip along the fountain’s tiles, he chuckles and helps steady you by bringing you close to his chest.

“Thanks,” escapes you in a breathless whisper, the frenzy of your mind leaving no room for any other words. 

Once you’re back on steady feet, he distances himself from you, careful not to betray the protest of his heart. While you wrap your arms around your cold, trembling form, your gaze lowers to the book he safeguarded through the entire ordeal. Eris summons every ounce of strength to resist the urge to rush towards you and warm you with his kiss. He has to leave now.

“I’ll return your book to you,” Eris promises, smirking at the small sigh of relief you let out and mischievously adds:  “Once I’m done with it.”

Then, Eris leaves before you can say a single word. Before you can unravel his resolve further. You’re dangerous, he reminds himself. A cruel wicked thing that beckons a wayward soul like his to crave entry into heaven. Not just any heaven, but yours.

a/n: what type of book do we think the lovely reader was reading? lol I do have 2 more parts planned for this little au and maybe more 👀 depending on how the other 2 parts go (they're both inspired by songs and i'm literally just going with the vibes now since I'm really indecisive on how I want to go with this au. I have so many ideas.)

[jadedxhearts]

𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝

Law and you have spent far too much time apart, intimately. When you think you’re going to lose your mind from desperation, he finally gives in, a certain “cure” in mind to treat you.

Originally posted in Oct 8 2023

Please note that this is an old work and isn't representative of my current writing skills! (this one might be slighter better?)

It was difficult to not notice the various things that had set off certain alarms in your mind. Not to say those alarms were concerning nor bad in nature, no.

It started during a routine check up, about two weeks ago. You were sat in a chair in the operation room aboard the Polar Tang, allowing Law to do whatever he needed to check your general health. He’d taken your temperature, other vitals, the basics. But it was when he’d began feeling around your neck, presumably for your lymph nodes, that a shudder went down your spine. 

For one short moment, his hand had wrapped around your neck as though he was possessively holding onto you, much like he did during… other times. Law had been so busy these days, constantly working hard to make sure his submarine was being run correctly and efficiently. He tended to be this way, always, but as of lately, things seemed more hectic on the ship. You really couldn’t come up with an answer why, though.

However, these long working hours for your lover meant that he generally didn’t have much time to spare. Especially not for things such as sex. Your body longed for him, your fingers proving to not be enough. You’d tried to be cool about it, using body language and longing looks to try and get your message across. But Law either seemed too tired, or downright uninterested. You could tell by his mannerisms, though, especially during the checkup, that he longed for you too.

So when his hand had just barely wrapped around your neck, leaving you gasping for air as if he’d choked you, all feelings went straight down between your legs, your heart pounding as you became too excited too quickly. But your routine checkup wasn’t over, and Law had already moved on from his ‘accident’. 

But then another thing happened not even five minutes later. His gloved hands kept grazing your body, touch lingering for much longer than it should have. Again and again, these things kept happening, turning you on even more; making you more desperate for the doctor’s touch.

You’d tried to initiate that evening, but Law was exhausted, barely making an effort to kick off his boots and change into pajama pants before he’d promptly collapsed into bed. 

And now here you were, two entire weeks later, still having gone unsatisfied. You honestly struggled, having to go about your day as normal, meanwhile your brain remained filled with images of Law doing certain things to you. His tattooed chest glistening as he hovered over you, shoving your body down into the pillows as he filled you up so deliciously, among other images of past times with him. God, you needed him so badly.

You were curled up in bed, hugging a pillow tightly as you tried to fall asleep, trying to not lose your sanity as you pushed away any lewd thoughts about Law. It was so, so difficult, though. The pillow was slipping down between your legs as you clung to it, the plushness of it brushing against where you yearned for Law most. Eventually, it was in a spot where you could rub yourself against it, if you so wished. The thought seemed so dirty, and you couldn’t help but hope Law would walk into the bedroom and catch you as you began to move your hips, biting your lip harshly as you slowly humped the pillow.

But then you were interrupted, practically throwing the pillow away from yourself as the den-den-mushi on your nightstand began to ring. Calming yourself down, you answered it with a click, only to be surprised as Law’s voice came through.

“Y/n? You awake?” He asked, voice sounding… off. You couldn’t quite figure it out, though.

“Yes,” you choked out, feeling your heart hammering in your chest as you breathed heavily. Maybe he’d hear how desperate you were and come back to bed.

“Meet me in the operation room,” he instructed, and you now noticed how seductively he spoke. It made your cunt throb, and you obliged happily, already leaping out of the bed. 

You hadn’t even responded to him. You’d honestly forgotten to through your excitement, rushing out of your bedroom to sprint over to the operation room. After all, there could only be one reason why Law was in there, demanding you to meet him there at this hour.

Opening the doors to the large room, you discovered Law leaning against the table, arms folded in front of his chest as he smirked down at you. The tall man wore his doctor's coat over a tank top and his usual jeans. The other key differences were that his hat was removed, sitting on a counter nearby where he stood. And the other two things being that he had on gloves, as well as the fact that there was a not so hidden bulging in his jeans. He looked painfully hard, even through the constricting fabric.

Hands folded in front of you, you quickly moved to stand in front of him, innocently looking up at your lover. “You wanted me, Law?” You asked, voice ever so slightly pitched up to add a sense of cuteness, with an underlying sultriness to it. 

He chuckled, using one gloved finger to tilt your chin up toward him, face inching closer to yours. “Figured you needed a ‘check up’, hm?”

“B-but, I just had one two weeks ago,” you feigned innocence, pretending to be unaware of his antics. Though it was evident that both of you knew what game was being played here.

“I think you need a different kind, though,” Law hummed, firmly kissing you for just a second, before biting down onto your lips. “I want you undressed and up on the table, understood?”

With a sweet giggle, you nodded and eagerly began stripping yourself of your clothing. Once you were down to your panties, you angled your head to face Law, licking your lips as you slowly slid the thin fabric down your legs. Though, before they could even reach under your ass, you felt his hands on you, lifting you up to sit on the operation table. And while he’d quickly gotten you up on it, Law then went at an agonizingly slow pace, carefully pulling your panties down your legs, eyes never leaving yours for a second as they slipped off your feet, now bunched up in his hands.

He didn’t say a word to you. Law simply examined your panties, more than likely noticing the wet spot in them. He smirked, looking between you and the delicate lace for a second, all before setting them down on the counter behind him. 

Then, Law returned to you, placing both hands on either side of you, leaning dangerously close to your nude body. His gray eyes looked you up and down, noticeably stopping to stare at your full breasts. Then back up to your face, where he seemingly lingered on your lips. 

“By simply observing you, I cannot say whether or not you are… sufficient.”

“Sufficient?” You raised an eyebrow, echoing Law’s words.

“In satisfaction,” he explained, before continuing on with the act. “Tell me, Y/n. Do you have any symptoms?”

You slowly nodded, bashfully looking away. “Um… yes, I have this ache. It’s soo painful, like I’m throbbing and need something.”

“Where is the ache?” Law asked, sounding as bored as ever. Perhaps he was more desperate than he’d assumed, and was growing tired of the act?

With that thought in mind, you widen your legs, revealing your wet pussy to him. Taking his right hand in yours, you bring Law’s fingers to the supposed ache, gently pushing the gloved finger tips into your folds with a whine.

“I see,” he hummed. “And I know of the treatment you need.”

“You do?” You bit your lip, deciding you were also growing far too desperate to keep up the act. You needed him. Now.

“Yeah,” he deadpanned, face moving beside yours as he whispered, “you need my fucking cock in you, that’s what.”

His hushed voice so close to your ear sent shivers down your spine. 

“Please, Law,” you whined, grabbing onto him. “Make me feel good, please doctor!”

Law reacted quickly, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans, swiftly pulling out his hard length. He was probably aching just as much as you were. With a low chuckle, he pulled you closer to him, using one hand to rub his cock’s tip against your wet folds, the other hand landing on the side of your face as he brought your lips together, kissing you with such desperate fever. 

“Fuck, Law, please,” you moaned, dragging out your words to show more desperation. “Please fuck me, baby.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, as he fully inserted his length in you, filling you to the brim as his pulsating cock squeezed inside of your velvety walls. 

You both moaned, the lewd noises spilling into each other’s mouths as you swallowed them up. Fuck, he felt so good in you. The stretch was delicious, you thought, as you clamped down on him. There was no way you were lasting long tonight.

Law hissed as you cunt squeezed his cock, trapping him within you. “F-fuck, Y/n,” he choked out, “quit clenching on me like that, I’m gonna cum if you keep it up.”

You whined, trying to relax the muscles within your cunt. And after another moment of sitting like that, Law finally pulled his hips backwards, quickly snapping them forward with force, ripping loud moans from your throat.

He pounded into you, creating the nastiest wet noises you’d ever heard your pussy produce, combined with the sound of his skin slapping against yours.. You were glad the operation room walls were thick, as you had a feeling all the combined sounds would wake your resting crewmates otherwise. 

Your fingernails dug into the fabric of Law’s coat, gripping him as your whole body trembled from the sensations. He held you tightly, hovering over you as you laid back on the table now, legs in the air. If somebody were to walk in, there was no doubt about what you and Law were doing. 

Before long, you were screaming his name, cunt slick with your juices as you felt the tight knot within you about to burst. You were a moaning, desperate mess, ready to succumb to everything Law was doing to you. And it seemed he wasn’t far behind, as his thrusts became sloppy and inconsistent, heavy pants falling from his open mouth.

“Law, fuck, fuck, please cum in me,” you half whined, half begged.

“Already planned on it,” he grunted, snapping his hips against yours harshly, “you need your medicine, after all, hm?”

A whimper escaped you, and you felt your body let go as you began to cum around his cock. Law urged you on, praising you for being such a good girl, saying you needed just a little bit more of his cock.

But, mid-way through his taunting, Law gasped, shoving his head down and between your breasts as his body seemingly locked up, his thrusts stopping while he was fully inside you. Cum spilled from him, filling up your spent pussy. You moaned from the sensations of the hot seed stuffing you, a hand flying to hold onto Law, gripping at his messy black hair. 

As you both calmed down, you put a gentler hold on Law’s hair, using both hands to hold his head as you played with the raven locks. He panted against you, hot breaths landing on the skin of your chest. Eventually, he pulled his upper body away, looking down at you before placing a kiss on your wet lips.

“So… am I cured, doctor?”

[strawberrystepmom]

cw omegaverse, cw yandere, cw predator prey dynamics. f!omega reader, alpha!geto. wc 698

pt. 2

“Fuck,” you mutter to no one in particular while inspecting the ingredients label of a jar of sesame paste to try and hide the flush that you know is painting your cheeks and the bridge of your nose crimson.

It has been a long time since you’ve felt like this and your hand shakes as you barely hold onto the jar enough to slide it onto the shelf in front of you.

You don’t even need sesame paste, you just need a distraction. Something to keep you from focusing on the twist of your stomach and the sweat prickling across your hairline and the back of your neck.

Today was clearly not the day to forego your heat suppressant, limbs feeling simultaneously light as air and heavy as lead as you drag your feet down the aisle with a basket dangling from the crook of your elbow. Your head hurts, your senses are dulled, but you don’t miss the clearing of a throat behind you nor the way it makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

“Excuse me?”

The voice is rich as the cake you allowed yourself to indulge in on your last birthday and it wraps around you like a velvet ribbon. As if you cannot control yourself, you turn your head and gasp looking at the man who is beckoning you in a way that makes you feel completely out of body.

He’s tall, his raven hair spills across his shoulders, and his broad chest blocks out the sight of anyone on either side of him. Swallowing but your throat feels more dry after doing so somehow, your pulse speeds up as realization dawns.

Alpha. This man, Suguru Geto, is an alpha.

“I’m sorry, I know this is a strange thing to ask, but are you…” he trails off, indicating you should know what he’s asking, but your blank stare tells him otherwise. Your eyes are narrowed but suspiciously glossy and he knows, instinctively, the answer is yes.

You are an omega standing in the middle of a busy grocery store filling the entire place with the aroma of bergamot and vanilla. Unbonded, he can tell as his dark eyes dip downward and check out the contents of your small basket - all for one, he can tell. No ring. No visible mating mark.

Brave or stupid, he can’t tell which.

Your scent is overwhelmingly sensual to the man, his mouth filling with saliva if he dares inhale too deeply, and he can feel his natural urges overtaking any sense he has left in your presence.

“Forgot my suppressants for a couple of days,” you clarify with an embarrassed whisper, eyes still narrowed despite the pull you feel to go to him - to give to him - and you take a step backward to put distance between your bodies, giving yourself a victory in the battle of wills.

“Better be careful being out here then, you’re bound to catch a lot of attention.”

His voice is just as velvety despite the low note of warning in it and if you were less controlled by your base urges in this moment, you’d bare your teeth in an overly polite smile and walk away. Right now, though, you are frozen in place and your eyes meet his. They are molten bronze framed by the darkest lashes you’ve ever seen and you’ve never felt as pinned as you do right now, beneath his gaze.

Like a frightened rabbit, you become skittish. Two further steps backward put even more space behind you and you turn on your heel, eyes wide as you look over your shoulder to have the last word.

“Thank you for your concern but I’ll be fine.”

He nods politely and plasters on a serene smile, inhaling just deep enough that his pupils dilate after another overwhelming rush of you inside his head.

“Take care,” he raises his voice to speak back and you shiver, stomach twisting even more as you fumble your way toward the checkout and force yourself to keep looking forward to prevent running back in his direction.

You’ll be back in a day or two, Suguru assumes, and his alpha instincts rarely fail when it comes to getting what he wants and he’s more than content to wait.

[uc1wa]

my song rec of the fic

tags: soft baby jason

at last, the day you had dreaded every week had finally come once more. the day pronouncing the beginning of the week filled with classes, exams, homework, and actual work. the day that would sometimes consist of meal prep, if you were caught in a better mood than usual, and the day that your sweet boyfriend, jason todd, had patrol, just as every other weekend went.

today, though, you rolled over in bed—and while nobody was there, the spot that your lover laid was strangely warmer that you’d expected. your eyes glaze over to your alarm clock which reads that it’s ten o’clock in the morning.

jason had never told you that he was leaving for work later than usual, so your brain is up and running at a faster pace than it should be for just gaining consciousness. he was never late, nor did he ever miss when he was needed.

throwing a pair of sweatpants on, you open and creep around your bedroom door to the kitchen. a scent of breakfast and coffee flooding your senses immediately, and you’re already smiling wide.

"good morning, princess," jason smiles, one hand on a pan, the other outreached for you to close the space between the two of you.

"why didn’t you tell me you were off?" you ask while making your way to your boyfriends side, wrapping both arms around his abdomen while his pulls you close to his warmth. gratefulness enveloping both of your bodies in the form of a tight embrace.

he was wearing a plain white tank top, the ones he always wore to sleep and under his vigilante uniform, and a pair of basketball shorts that were comically long, even for his tall stature.

"wanted to surprise you with breakfast in bed," he smiles, "didn’t cook fast enough to reach the bed part," he laughs a sweet and gentle laugh, one that fills your chest with warmth.

you shake your head as you close your eyes, breathing in the mixture of scents that is the breakfast being cooked in front of you and the natural smell that’s always glued to the man beside you. it was comforting, woodsy, but not overwhelmingly so.

jason’s plating the last of the pancakes he had made beside the plates of already cooked bacon, sausage, and eggs. "i don’t have to go in at all today," jason smiles, grabbing two plates for the two of you, and beginning to give you a portion of everything he’s cooked while you rest your back against the counter, watching him.

"so it’s just me and you, pretty lady," he assures, grabbing a handful of the berries he had washed, piling them on top of your pancakes in no special fashion.

despite jason’s schedule that is only fit for a vigilante, he was the best boyfriend. even when the man had patrols for hours that would go in the double digits, he was checking in on you. he’d text, and sometimes call when he’d get the chance to ask what you had for dinner, always making sure he said goodnight before it hit the later hours in the night. and, he’s still come home to you, whispering a soft, "i love you, gem, goodnight," before wrapping an arm around you and sleeping in the bliss that was the warmth you both shared.

if he knew you had a busy day, he was bringing lunch to wherever you were in the city you lived, writing 'from jason' even though he was hand delivering it to you with a sweet kiss on the cheek apart of the package.

he was always showing you off at galas that his father was making him go to, struggling to find the silver lining that ended up always being able to see you in a pretty dress, hands interlocked as he was forced to greet those who walked in the door.

jason gave the care to you that you gave to him when you had met. when he was heartless and could care less about having a significant other, when you showed him that loving somebody wasn’t all that bad, and that somewhere in him, he had the ability to love back.

and you gave the care to him that he had grown up without knowing, excluding when he was taken in by bruce, of course. the care that only somebody who willingly chose to be in his life, would care to give.

"i vouche for staying in pajamas all day," you smile, as he sets the plate down in front of you, both of you taking your spots on the sofa that was in front of your coffee table. "you read my mind," he grins, beginning to eat alongside you.

once your stomachs were full and plates cleared, you both laid back on the sofa, jason’s arm wrapped around your shoulders while your body burrowed into his side, a movie that you both had picked playing on the television in front of you.

"i wish we could have weekends together more," jason frowns at that, making sure that you don’t see the way his lips changed by continuing to look up at the tv screen. "i do too," he says, hint of sadness in his voice.

redirecting his emotions to now, jason’s bringing a calloused hand to your chin, his touch gently tilting your eyes to meet his. "we have all of today, and we’re gonna spend it being lazy and eating, okay?" he says with a small laugh which instantly pulls your lips upwards, leaning in to press a kiss to his.

and just as promised, you and jason filled the day with movies that filled your list, homemade cookies that gave your shared home a cozy smell, and kisses pressed all over one another.

[sagisbrainrot]

drunk!lian shenanigans pt.2!

a continuation of my drunk!lian fic idea here. this one is longer and fresh out of my head, sorry for the typos!

xie lian has been extremely busy this week, so much so he hasn't been able to go home. he's been on a mission in the north, handling a mission that should have been much easier but turned out to be way more complicated than he thought

to his surprise, some showed up to help him. it was pei ming!

after a long, cruel 7 full days without his husband, xie lian was ready to go HOME. and thanks to pei ming, who helped him greatly and called his subordinates down to handle everything else, he would be able to go home that night.

naturally he let his beloved husband know that he'd be home soon, and that he couldn't wait to see him. before he could leave, pei ming starts complaining about how he hasn't seen his highness in a while! he's always in ghost city, or on missions! so, he asks xie lian to go for a drink before he leaves

xie lian is very hesitant. while he had a lot of fun the last time, he can't help thinking about how he almost ate human thigh, or how he may have run into (and broken) a stall or two, or how san lang had given him a stern talking to (which, all he said was that if xl was going to drink, he needed to be safe! and drink in moderation!).

it was so embarrassing, he couldn't believe he acted like that! no matter how much fun he had, he decided maybe he shouldn't drink anymore!

pei ming insists. he promises they won't drink that much and that he knows xie lian has already gotten wasted. of course shi qingxuan told him! but there was a new place in the area serving new things, and he hadn't had time to check it out and wanted to with a friend

so, reluctantly, they go for drinks. the place pei ming chooses is much fancier than where xie lian went with sqx, and had a much wider selection of drinks. and a much... sweeter collection of drinks. it didn't even feel like he was drinking!

before they knew it, both of them were absolutely wasted, and xie lian's urge to see his beautiful husband has increased 10x. so its time to go home!

pei ming, wasted out of his mind and worried for the stumbling highness, uses his heavenly uber to take xie lian back to ghost city.

half way through the ride, though, xie lian realizes how absolutely fucked he is. he swore he wasn't going to get drunk again and this time, right now, he's worse! so there's only one thing he can do.

sneak into the temple and pretend to be sleep!

now, if xie lian was sober, he'd remember that there was no "sneaking" into ghost city, but thats neither here nor there. he has a plan! turning to tell pei ming, who thinks xie lian's plan is full proof, they decide to leave the heavenly uber outside and xie lian takes the long way through ghost city, avoiding the busy streets

it took a lot of effort, but he FINALLY saw the temple! he decides to sneak in to his bedroom window, trying (and failing) to not make too much noise. he could have went through the main door, but its very visible and he didn't want anyone to let san lang know he was here!

however...

hua cheng, after hearing that his beloved husband was coming back this night, was ecstatic. beyond, honestly. so, he decides to make this welcome back really nice. he plans on making xie lian's favorite meal, drawing him a nice bath and giving him a nice...massage.

he feels when xie lian enters ghost city, but he's surprised that his husband hasn't contacted him. he'll see him soon, so he doesn't worry about it. he goes back to preparing food when he hears a LOUD noise near the bedroom / altar.

now he's curious. so he walks quietly, much quieter than normal, towards the room. he comes to a full stop and can't help but take in the picture before him: his god is muttering to himself faced away from him, a corner of the robe was caught on the window, twigs sticking from his hair (how on earth did he do that?)

hua cheng clears his throat and xie lian stiffens up, freeing his robe from the evil window and turns around. xl can't help but take in how good his husband looks right now, hair pulled back into a ponytail and a raised eyebrow looking at him, clearly waiting on an explanation.

hua cheng knows the answer to the question before he even has to ask. he knows by the swaying, the bright red flush and the disheveled state that his god was drunk. he was extremely amused, he could tell his husband had fun the last time but he swore he'd never drink again. so why now?

as hua cheng opened his mouth to ask, xie lian had another great idea.

RUN!

so before hua cheng could ask about his... current state, xie lian brushes past him and BOLTS towards the door. hua cheng is frozen in shock, of all the things he expected xie lian to do that was the last one.

and whats even worse is that the drunken god who was stumbling, swaying and even got caught in a window was now suddenly very slippery, sliding through hua cheng's hands every time he thinks he finally has the prince.

just as xie lian got to the door, hua cheng sped up and grabbed part of his robe. twisting out of it, it took them a second to notice that hua cheng managed to grab the belt holding his robe together. in shock, they both watch at the belt fell and xie lian's outer robe opened, sliding down his shoulders a bit.

xie lian locks eyes w hua cheng as a mischievous glint enters his eyes, and he giggles.

then bolts out of the door, only in his inner robe.

----

thats all i got. would like to include xie lian destroying another stall or two in the chase (the same stall he destroyed the last time), falling in the mud, and when hua cheng catches him he can't stop giggling and smiling. hua cheng gives him a bath when they get home, which xie lian insists he'll only take if "san lang gets in the bath too!" heehee

i've seen people say they like my ideas, so if you write them i demand a small fee of being tagged or let me know so i can read it!!

[somedaylazysomeday]

A Grand Deception - Part One

As a seamstress, you know your way around a ballgown. A ballroom is a different story, but you are determined to experience it for yourself.

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Personal Disclaimer: I wrote this having only watched the Bridgerton tv show. About a week ago, I discovered that Benedict's book-canon love story shares some similarities with my fic. These similarities are coincidental. After posting a poll about the topic, I decided to share this work anyway. Please know I am aware of the situation!

Rating: Mature. Minors, do not interact

Word Count: 5,200

Warnings: A lot of backstory, trespassing, lying about identity, alcohol consumption, flirting, references to Regency-era values. Author played fast and loose with rules of Regency dining etiquette.

Next | Masterlist

---

It was of some comfort to you that - when the situation inevitably unraveled - you could not claim to have invented the idea yourself. 

You were hardly the first seamstress who used her skills to disguise herself. Nor were you the first to use her overheard knowledge to learn who may be hosting a masquerade ball so she could attend. 

To that end, Madame Delacroix had told you of her own experience infiltrating the ton’s events. You had learned well, but you were merely another follower, not a visionary. The penalty for your transgression would not change, but your conscience would be eased slightly with the knowledge. 

The single inspiration you could claim as entirely your own was that of your shop. You purchased gowns at the end of every season, researched coming trends for the next season, and altered the gowns to fit. 

Ladies of rich and respectable families were willing to part with gowns for a relative pittance, but most of your gowns were from society matrons. When their time playing chaperone to some wide-eyed miss had ended in a successful engagement, the lucky matron retired to a comfortable life in the countryside. What use did she have for extravagant society gowns there? And, with the style of gathers and ruffles for married women, you could easily fashion multiple gowns from one matronly dress. 

Your shop was hardly the most popular one in London, but you ran a brisk enough business. There were no investors to keep fat with your profits, and you poured most of your money back into the materials and help you hired. It could tax the nerves to operate with such a small amount of money in your coffers, but such was the nature of the business. The lead-in to a season was incredibly busy and profitable, but the off season could ruin you.

But you were happy. Your work was varied and interesting. You worked with sumptuous fabrics in the richest colors. It was a necessity to keep abreast of the latest fashion trends. You truly could not have imagined a better life for yourself. 

And yet… you were unbearably curious about how it would feel to wear one of your creations. You were occasionally hired to style a hopeful debutante, but you handed her off to a chaperone before she walked out through the front door of her own home. You witnessed all of the preparations and you had been party to the aftermath, but you had never had the opportunity to attend a ball. 

It was a silly dream. You were the daughter of a tailor, and not one who served the upper echelons of London society. Your mother spent her time running the household herself - a necessity, as your family could not afford to keep servants. Your brother worked at a newspaper, operating the printing presses. Your sister had married well, wedding a butcher who lived above his shop in a respectable section of the city. 

You had already achieved one silly dream when you had opened your own shop. Rather than satisfying you, that achievement only convinced you that you were capable of incredible things. Why should a ball be the exception?

Fortunately, the ton was an uninspired thing and thus wholly predictable. At least once every season, at least one family believed themselves to be the most creative souls and hosted a masquerade. 

Your ability to foresee the trend had allowed you to plan far in advance. After the last season had ended and you made your purchases, you had bought just enough fabric to fashion yourself a dress. The material was simple, but of high quality, and you had embroidered beading and embellishment enough to allot the finished product an artistic simplicity rather than leaving it painfully plain. 

The mask you had chosen only assisted the illusion of being understatedly gilded. It was a shining silver - not a true metallic mask, but a close enough facsimile that it seemed to be a choice due to the weight rather than the price of the silver. There was a delicate tracery over your brow and along the swells where the mask arched over your cheekbones. 

The effect of the outfit was far from dramatic, especially when you very well knew the sort of dresses that the young ladies of the ton would be wearing at the ball, but you had been purposeful about it. You were trying to fade into the background, and it seemed likely that you would succeed. 

One of your more clever ideas had been to cut the dress as a matronly garment rather than a daring one meant for a debutante. Doing so would relegate you to the realm of mamas, chaperones, and spinsters. Few bothered to steal a second glance at that foreboding cloud of judgment, disapproval, and eager plotting. You were too pragmatic to think your plan foolproof, but you had taken as many precautions as you could imagine.

The Lawsons had been the ones to secure a masquerade theme for the season, and you strategically arrived at the home at eleven, a full hour after the ball had begun. It was a simple thing to slip around the corner of the great manor house, entering through a side corridor. When you passed any of the house’s servants, you ducked your head and nervously arranged your hair. 

With that attitude and countenance, they would likely believe you were returning from some secret tryst in a private place, not attempting to sneak in entirely. Servants were paid for their discretion - at least, in the eyes of the ton - so your exploits would not be disseminated until the following morning at the earliest. 

Your matron-styled dress allowed for a more flexible corset than the most fashionable styles, but you still found that your breath was short as you reached the ballroom. You were thankful for the music, as it gave you a better idea of where your ultimate goal was. 

The room was cavernous, yet filled to the brim with intricate details. A second-story balcony curved around the majority of the room, rather like the opera house you’d had the privilege to visit once. A grand staircase descended from the middle of that balcony, and it was full of still-arriving debutantes and their chaperones. 

The orchestra was sat on the balcony along either side of the staircase, and you noted the way each instrument seemed to take precedence in turn as you walked along the length of the floor. They were playing a quadrille at the moment, and the dancing couples seemed as enamored by the music as much as by each other.  

Above and all around, candles glowed and flickered, casting small pools of light across every surface. A chandelier hung overhead, eye-catching in its size and brightness. The crystals set among the candles sent tiny reflected rainbows dancing across the crowd beneath. The reflectors behind the candles on the main floor helped catch the brightness that would otherwise be wasted on the walls, throwing it out into the room until it looked near daylight. The effect was multiplied by an array of mirrors set around the room, refracting both light and the furor of activity in the ballroom. 

Conversations filled any spaces left in the music. Everywhere, men and women chatted, laughed, and told stories. They were eye-catching with their grand gestures, only made more fascinating with their ornate clothing. You longed for a scrap of paper so you could make note of the styles of this season, and how they might be adapted to meet the styles of the next. 

A table at one side of the room was manned by a servant offering refreshments. You knew from the stories you had heard that a supper would be served at one, but there were beverages for any guest or dancer who may need one. You accepted a glass of iced punch with a grateful nod to the servant. It was remarkably hot in the room, especially compared to the chill of the January evening. 

Sipping the strong punch - and abruptly understanding the wisdom of such small glasses - you ventured forth to find a vantage point for observing the crowd. 

You found one buried in the crowd of matrons and chaperones. They were watching the dance floor with great interest, speculating about matches and comparing notes on how the gentlemen and young ladies had been occupying themselves during the season thus far. It was the perfect location - a view of everything and in earshot of all the information you could possibly desire. Some of the information was likely to be nothing more than rumor, but you cared little. It was entertaining enough to compensate for a lack of veracity. 

“Benedict!” one woman called. She was a handsome woman, dark hair perfectly coiffed to match her elegant dress. You recognized her even from behind as the widowed Lady Bridgerton. 

A man separated from a group of other young men and approached, smiling expectantly. He bore a strong resemblance to Lady Bridgerton, and was wearing the simple black mask that seemed popular among the men of the ballroom. “Yes, Mother?” 

“Do dance with Miss Harper this evening,” Lady Bridgerton instructed. “She needs cheering after the loss of her uncle. And she would be quite an excellent match for you.” 

You wrinkled your nose. Arranged marriages were less common than they had been when you were a child, but the aristocracy still tended to take a heavy hand in deciding their children’s future spouses.

Unfortunately, the young Bridgerton glanced over his mother’s shoulder and took in your expression. You hurriedly glanced down at your glass, as if your face had been a reaction to the strong punch, then applied yourself to staring around the room. 

“I will take that under advisement, Mother,” Benedict said. Your wayward glance prevented you from seeing his face, but his voice was filled with laughter. “If you’ll excuse me?” 

He departed then, retreating back across the ballroom. However, you were far from unobservant, and you counted the multiple times he noted your position from among the group of laughing gentlemen. You did your utmost to ignore him, taking solace in the knowledge that your mask protected your identity from whatever scrutiny he may choose to apply. 

You could hardly pretend surprise when you found him standing beside you scarcely an hour after you had overheard the conversation between Lady Bridgerton and her son. He was facing quite the opposite direction, but you could not fail to miss the way he inched closer every time you took a step away. 

At long last, he bumped into you with his broad shoulder, sloshing your punch onto the floor and still refusing to acknowledge you. 

“And to think Bridgertons are said to be well-mannered,” you snipped waspishly. 

He glanced back at you, eyes bright. “I beg your pardon, miss. I did not see you. Allow me to fetch you a new glass of punch in recompense for my rudeness.”

“No, thank you,” you said, the coldness in your voice detracting from the politeness of your words. “I would not take the risk of another incident.” 

“Did it stain your gown?” he asked, taking your elbow and looking you up and down. However solicitous it may have seemed at first, the mischief in his expression belied the gesture. 

You glared at him until he dropped your arm. “You need not feign concern, Lord Bridgerton. You have apologized, I have accepted it, and my gown escaped the incident unscathed. There is no need to continue our acquaintance.” 

With a final frown for good measure, you turned away. Benedict seemed undaunted, keeping step with you as you found a servant to take your near-empty glass. 

“May I ask your name, then?” Benedict asked, for all the world like you had not dismissed him. 

“Lady Sharp.” 

It was a falsehood you had planned well in advance. The Sharps were one of the largest families in London, some branches so far-flung that no one seemed capable of remembering who was who. 

Despite your confidence in your assumed identity, Benedict paused for a moment and your heart stuttered. At long last, he smiled. “Is that so?” 

“Yes.” 

Perhaps if you continued to be short with him, Benedict would understand that he should leave you well enough alone. 

And yet… The young Bridgerton continued to stay close as you watched the dancers, interrupting your overheard bits of gossip with remarks of his own. His commentary was amusing, but you continued to be irked by his presence. He was drawing attention by standing with the chaperones, dowagers, and doting mothers, and some of that attention was reflected onto you by virtue of proximity. 

“You need not remain close as some form of apology, Lord Bridgerton,” you informed him at last. “You have more than adequately apologized for your earlier misstep, and I would rather not be on the receiving end of your mother’s scorn if you miss your dance with Miss Harper.”

Benedict shrugged. “Miss Harper is occupied well enough with other partners. It is my duty to see to it that every lady may dance if she chooses. Shall we?” 

You frowned deeply, staring from his face to his proffered arm and back. “I do not dance.” 

He paused at that. “Surely you are simply being modest…” 

“I assure you, I mean what I say,” you told him, voice appalled, “I do not dance. If you feel a particular urge toward the dance floor, I urge you heed it and find a suitable partner before they have all been otherwise engaged.”

Benedict turned slightly, his gaze traveling from one end of the crowded ballroom to the other. When he had completed the visual circuit, he faced you, grinning engagingly once more. “I appreciate your concern, but I would rather continue our conversation.” 

Your mouth fell inelegantly open. Thankfully, the room was called to attention before you could loose a scathing comment about your time together.

Lady Lawson stood at the bottom of her grand staircase, Lord Lawson standing attentively to her left. A servant you recognized as their butler announced in a booming - yet not abrasive - voice, “Lord and Lady Lawson invite you to adjourn to the dining rooms.”

To your dismay, the men and women of the ballroom paired together. The crowd moved steadily in the direction indicated by the butler. 

Benedict offered his arm once more. “May I escort you to the dining room, Lady Sharp?” 

You paused, frantically searching for a reason you might excuse yourself. If the Lawsons had arranged for their guests to sit in predetermined places, your presence would not only be marked, but commented upon and questioned. And yet, the gathered crowd meant that slipping away would be nigh impossible. 

“Lady Sharp?” Benedict asked again, pulling you from your thoughts. “You are attending dinner, are you not?”

“Yes… yes, of course,” you said, immediately belied by your trembling voice. From a sheer lack of options, you accepted Benedict’s arm. “Thank you, Lord Bridgerton.”

He inclined his head as if to silently acknowledge your thanks and steered you into the dining room. 

Truly, there was far more than one room in which to dine. There seemed to be at least three hosting tables set with full arrays of silver plates and utensils. The dining areas seemed far less brightly lit than the ballroom was, the low lighting offering a soft intimacy that made the surrounding couples perk with excitement. Clearly, the flirtations of the dance floor would not be suspended due to a simple supper. 

“May I help you find your seats, sir?” 

You had been too entranced by your own thoughts - the sudden appearance of the servant made you start like a spooked horse. Benedict patted your hand. The gesture was a bit condescending, but you found it oddly soothing. Far more worrisome, however, was the sight of small name cards resting at every place setting on the tables.

“Benedict Bridgerton,” he said. “I believe I was to be seated with my family a few tables behind you. This is Lady Sharp. I will dine with her this evening.”

“But sir…” The servant looked bemused, white brows drawing together. “Lady Lawson was informed that the Sharps would not be in London for this year’s season. Lady Sharp reported that Miss Rosalie Sharp was far too ill to be moved out of her confinement in the countryside.” 

You stammered weak protests, but Benedict smoothly interrupted. “Surely Lady Lawson is aware that Lady Clara Sharp decided to winter in London this year. The physician said that a change of scenery would be good after leaving a confinement of her own.”

“A confinement of her-?” The servant shook his head. “My mistress said nothing of this when she was preparing the ball.” 

You gathered your nerve. If your ruse were to fall apart, it would not be at the hand of an overly curious servant. You drew yourself up to your full height, giving your best steely-eyed, matronly disapproval. “I had assumed that my lack of an invitation was no more than an ignorant oversight. However, I begin to suspect that it was something far more intentional. Perhaps it would be best if I departed…” 

“My apologies, Lady Sharp,” the servant hurried to say. “Please, allow me to find a place for you.” 

You inclined your head in the shallowest nod you could muster, watching imperiously as he rushed off to find a place setting for the fictitious Lady Clara Sharp. 

“These events are growing less organized by the day,” Benedict confided, shaking his head in mock despair. 

The servant returned, sparing you the effort of inventing a response. “I will guide you to your seat, Lady Sharp. Lord Bridgerton, you requested your seat moved beside Lady Sharp’s, did you not?” 

“Yes, I believe I should like to dine with Lady Sharp,” Benedict said amiably. 

“Very good, sir,” the servant said. “This way.” 

You did not particularly enjoy the tone with which Benedict said ‘Lady Sharp’. In his voice, it sounded less like a title and more like a private sort of jest. 

Fortunately, your arrival in a far dining room provided a much-needed distraction. This was clearly the last table to have been filled, and as such was seated with an interesting amalgamation of people. 

A timid-looking young lady sat nervously adjusting and readjusting the skirt of her dress. Her watchful chaperone eyed the process with fascination and concern. Seated at the chaperone’s other side was an older gentleman who seemed to have overindulged in punch, if you were to guess from his flushed face and exaggerated gestures. 

On the other side of the table was a young man who kept glancing at the young lady and pretending that it had been accidental any time he was caught at it. Beside him were two place settings. From the lack of name cards above the plates, you assumed they were meant for you and Benedict.

Abruptly, a wave of vertigo washed over you. You had accomplished so much to be here, yet how many accomplishments were too many? It was as if you had climbed something terribly tall - every time you moved upward, it only left you with further to fall. And if you were to be discovered during this dinner? You would have very far to fall indeed.

“Are you well?” Benedict asked. 

You blinked. The servant was holding your chair, waiting to help you be seated. You weren’t hungry in the least, but there was no way to excuse yourself that would not draw more attention than was wise. The only way to return to safety was to continue on as if nothing were amiss. 

“Yes, thank you,” you demurred, moving to your seat. 

When the skirt of your dress was safely tucked under the table, the servant offered a slight bow and moved away. The first course was laid out on the table, a manservant lingering nearby incase someone required a dish from a different part of the table. 

“What may I tempt you with?” Benedict asked. His smile was a touch too wide for the question to be entirely innocent. Before you could say something harsh, he half-stood, fork extended toward a dish holding chilled cuts of meat. 

You took a moment to study everything. “Roast chicken, please. And perhaps a few prawns.” 

Benedict took your plate and began transferring the items you had requested. “Soup as well?” 

“Perhaps a little.” 

You eyed the women across the table. The young lady was picking delicately at a few scraps of meat and you were concerned by the quantity of the choices you had made, but her chaperone was tucking into a plate piled high. 

Benedict placed your dishes back in front of you and gathered his own selections. When you were both seated again, you cut a piece of chicken and ate it as delicately as you could manage. It was delicious and you congratulated yourself once more on choosing to attend the ball dressed as a chaperone rather than a debutante. 

“So, a Sharp in London,” Benedict mused. “I rather believed you all traveled together. Like a herd or a pack.” 

You gave him an unamused look at the animal references. “And you pretended to know all of my family’s concerns when we were finding our seats. Do you always lie to achieve your own ends?” 

He gave a wince, but it was decidedly playful. “‘Lie’ is such a harsh word, Lady Sharp. I simply choose the path most likely to lead to my destination and follow it.” 

“By lying?” 

“And I suppose you are a paragon of virtue?” he asked, and you fell silent. It would be rather paradoxical for you to blame him for a lie when you were currently lying to an entire ballroom of people. 

“That was not an admonishment,” he clarified after a moment. “Nor was it a bid to halt our conversation. I was enjoying myself.”

“From what I have gathered of your temperament, I doubt you often suffer from the lack of enjoyment,” you snipped. “You seem to find infinite amusement in everything surrounding you.” 

Benedict’s eyes widened. “I… am flattered, truly, that you’ve taken such pains to truly detail my character. Perhaps I should return the favor.” 

“Do not.” You regretted the warning a moment after you had issued it. Rather than looking dissuaded, Benedict seemed intrigued.

“Indeed, I may be unable to help myself,” he mused. “Your motivations are fascinating, and they would be even more so if you turned out not to be Lady Sharp after all.”

“I am Lady Sharp,” you insisted stubbornly. 

“Of course you are,” he agreed easily. “But imagine if you were not. Why would you pretend to be?” 

Your mind halted abruptly when faced with the task of imagining your own motivations as if they belonged to another. What should you say? What could you say? For all of his casually friendly demeanor, Benedict was not stupid. It was possible that your false theories of your own motivations would provide him with proof that you were the very person you pretended to understand.

But still, the rules of polite conversation required that you provide some sort of an answer. Your voice was slow as you asked, “Who can begin to guess at the motivations of the poor?” 

It was more harsh than you had imagined it would sound, but Benedict did not recoil. Instead, he replied, “Motivations are mysterious, those of the poor and the nobility alike.”

The answer was vague, but you understood why - his eyes were fixed on the young lady at the end of the table and the young man seated across from her. 

“Miss Barrett, I found the most interesting flower in the park yesterday afternoon-” he started. 

He had the young lady’s attention immediately, a shy smile on her thin face, but her chaperone pointedly cleared her throat before the young lady could reply. “Elisa, it is not proper for you to answer him without being formally introduced.” 

“Finnie and I have been friends since before we could walk!” Elisa argued.

“His name is Lord Finlay Spencer,” the chaperone corrected. “And your childhood acquaintanceship does not matter. You have not been officially introduced in the time since he returned to London.” 

The young pair fumed silently, with nothing more than frustrated glances shared between them.

“Lady Barrett,” Benedict said abruptly, drawing the attention of everyone who longed to be distracted from the tension. “I understand you are a most loyal patron of the arts. Is that so?” 

“It is so, Lord Bridgerton,” Lady Barrett confirmed. “I believe in the importance of preserving artwork for years to come.” 

“As do I.” Benedict smiled at her… and at the red-faced man seated to her right. “And our sentiments are shared by our companion, Lord Hopkins. He has recently donated a number of works to your preferred museum. I believe they are to name a wing in his honor.” 

Lady Barrett turned to Lord Hopkins, an expression of mingled surprise and admiration. “I recently took in the Hopkins collection. Most impressive, Lord Hopkins.” 

Lord Hopkins blinked rapidly, clearly attempting to gather himself. He made an admirable effort as he returned her smile. “You are too kind, Lady Barrett. I mourn the loss of those works, yet they were wasted with only my family to appreciate them. And, if you will pardon my directness, I believe I may have been the only one of the Hopkins family to truly appreciate them.” 

“I am certain the Hopkins family has an interest in art ,” Lady Barrett demurred, “though I understand the sense that one has a keener appreciation for art than those around oneself.” 

With such a topic brought up, the pair slipped into conversation. Lord Finlay Spencer and Lady Elisa Barrett cast grateful glances in Benedict’s direction and began to speak in softened tones to avoid drawing the attention of the elder Lady Barrett.

“Neatly done,” you complimented lowly. “Yet it prompts me to wonder how often you concern yourself in the affairs of others.” 

Benedict shrugged. “I simply enjoy pulling strings to see what unravels. Perhaps that is why I find you so interesting.” 

You arched your brows. “And precisely what string of mine do you believe yourself to be pulling?” 

“That you are not Lady Sharp, of course.” 

He took a sip of wine as you fought to control your expression, and his utter lack of concern was infuriating. 

“Are we to continue this thought experiment, then?” you asked at last. “In truth, I am beginning to find it tiresome.”

“I do not need you to confirm my theory,” Benedict told you. “I have gathered proof enough of my own since we met.” 

“Proof?” you asked, attempting to sound skeptical rather than afraid. 

“You did not wait for an introduction, you claim not to dance, and you did not shyly simper away when I touched your arm,” he listed. “You are no more a lady than I.” 

These arguments were presented without censure, but you loosed an inelegant snort regardless. It was foolish and you knew it, but you could not prevent yourself from showing your own powers of observation: “You are wearing a fine silk shirt, a perfectly pressed cravat, and more perfume than anyone else in the room. I am a lady, so it follows that you may be one as well.” 

Benedict - unbelievably - grinned at your insults, his eyes crinkling at the edges. You fought not to return the expression, though you found it remarkably contagious. “I believe it is called ‘cologne’ when it is worn by a man. I confess, I’ve never quite understood the difference myself.”

“If you believe I am a fraud, why have you kept me company all evening?” you asked. It was not a confirmation of his suspicions, but it was close enough to make your heart race.

“You are interesting,” he countered. “Certainly the most interesting person here, and among the most interesting people I have ever met.” 

You would have found a reason to cut the conversation short if Benedict had pressed for any further information, but he did not. Instead, you continued speaking plainly together through the remaining courses. He wanted to learn your opinions on all manner of things, from politics to the latest fashions. 

When the time came to return to the dance floor, he stayed close. He was charming and amusing, but refused to be parted from your side. It could have been cloying, but you privately thought him akin to a particularly amiable sort of burr.

After a few dances had passed, Lady Bridgerton approached, nodding to you with an assessing sort of look. However, she spoke to her son rather than question you. You were grateful for the slight. “Benedict, I believe I asked you to dance with Miss Harper.”

“You did, Mother,” Benedict agreed, “but Lady Sharp and I are speaking of important matters. I could not possibly tear myself away.” 

Lady Bridgerton gave him a look filled with motherly disapproval and you cleared your throat. “Lord Bridgerton, we may speak at another time. The number of dances at this ball is limited and the hour grows late. I fear Miss Harper will be fully occupied if you delay longer.” 

Lady Bridgerton turned, triumphant, to her son. Benedict sighed and bowed shallowly in your direction. “I beg your pardon, Lady Sharp. I look forward to continuing our conversation after this dance.” 

He wove his way through the crowd, presumably in the direction of Miss Harper. Lady Bridgerton remained by your side, and you glanced at her in the silence. She met your gaze, tilting her head curiously in a manner that reminded you of her son. “I do not believe we have met, Lady Sharp. I am Lady Violet Bridgerton.” 

You returned her nod with one of your own. “Lady Clara Sharp. Lovely to meet you.” 

“I was unaware that any of the Sharp family were in London this season-” she started. Thankfully, she was interrupted by the arrival of a dark-haired young lady.

“Mama, I need to speak with you-” 

“Eloise, I am not-” 

“Mama, please!” the girl insisted, tugging at her mother’s elbow. Lady Bridgerton studied you for another moment before giving an apologetic smile and allowing her daughter to pull her away. 

As cues went, it was a fairly clear one. You steadily worked your way through the crowd until you could slip into an unguarded hall. From there, it was a simple thing to leave the Lawson house, find the cloak you had stored in a disused shed, and travel back to your shop. 

When you had removed the mask and the dress, you took careful stock of the evening. The dress and mask would need to be destroyed, and you regretted not bidding a true farewell to Benedict Bridgerton, but you considered the endeavor a success. 

One that could never be repeated.

---

Author's Note - As usual with Fanfic February fics, this is a two-parter. Tomorrow's chapter will have spice in it, so please be warned.

Thanks for reading!

[steddieas-shegoes]

“We should probably just do vanilla cake, right?”

“Our daughter is not boring. She should have confetti cake.”

“Vanilla isn’t boring!”

“It’s literally called being vanilla when someone doesn’t like a little fun in the bedroom, Steve.”

“First of all, don’t call me that. Second of all, she’s turning one. She’s not gonna care. She’s never had most of this stuff.”

“So her first adventure with it should be fun!”

Steve and Eddie had been arguing about Ella’s first birthday for a month now. It was starting to become an issue as it was two weeks away and they’d planned nothing except for the guest list.

Even Robin was starting to get worried they wouldn’t be able to pull it off.

“What if we let her pick?”

“She’s one.”

“Yeah, and? We give her two options on pieces of paper and she picks one.”

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“Because what if she picks princess plates but dinosaur decorations?”

“Why can’t she have both?”

Steve glared at him.

“I’m just saying, she’s one. This party is more for us than her, and she won’t remember it.”

“But there’ll be pictures.”

“And when we all look back at them, she’ll be happy that we let her have whatever made her little one year old brain happy.”

Steve sighed, which meant Eddie was winning. This was the first time he’d had the upper hand the whole time.

“Where can we get a confetti cake?”

“You know Lena? Owns the bakery by the tattoo place?”

“The one who gave you the notebook of all the queer friendly spots in town?”

Eddie snaps his fingers and points at Steve.

“That’s her! She already offered to make one.”

“And you told her yes already, didn’t you?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny such allegations.”

Steve rolled his eyes and turned to continue writing things on his checklist that had nothing checked off.

“We also should check with Joyce about using the cabin. I know we said renting the bar out in the morning would be good, but imagine a first birthday in a bar.”

“It’s metal as hell, Stevie.”

“It’s questionable parenting, Eds.”

And here they were at another problem.

————————————

“So you’ve accomplished nothing?”

“We got a cake!”

Eddie was sitting on the couch supervising Ella’s play time while Steve and Robin were “planning” her party in the kitchen.

Eddie had been banished from all party endeavors after he brought home a baby-sized electric guitar and drum set and said it was for her to play at the party.

Robin took over and, admittedly, they’d accomplished a lot more already.

But this was their first official meeting and Robin was shocked to find out that they had next to nothing with only one week until the party.

“You stop talking!” Robin yelled back at him.

So he focused on entertaining Ella.

“Baby girl, I don’t know about you, but this party planning business is not what it’s cracked up to be. Maybe we should just give you your presents here and call it a day, hm?”

“Dada! Pay!”

“Yes, baby, I’m playin’.”

He helped her build a castle with her alphabet blocks, smiling when she pointed to the D and said “D. Dada!”

She was so fucking smart, it was scary.

When she got bored with the blocks, she started tapping on her plastic keyboard, hitting the same two notes again and again.

Eddie showed her the D key.

“This is D, Ella. See this one? You push this and it makes a D note. D like Dada!”

Ella pushed the key and then clapped.

“D! D!”

“Yeah, D!”

She kept smacking the D key, and Eddie kept smiling at her.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and he turned to see Steve smiling down at them, hands on his hips.

“Oh. Ella, show Daddy what you learned.”

“D! Dada! Daddy!” She said as she banged the D key.

Steve sat down next to Eddie and put his hand on his knee, squeezing it once before running his thumb back and forth over the hole in his jeans.

“You showed her that?”

“I’m gonna make her into a baby Mozart,” he said as he nodded. “She’s a natural.”

“Okay, love.”

“How’d the planning go?”

“Robin’s handling it.”

“All of it?”

Steve sighed.

“She said I’m being unreasonable.”

“But when I say it, I’m being rude and not giving you a chance.”

“When she says it, I know it’s true. When you say it, I know it’s because you’re not getting your way.”

“Do you hear this Ella? Slander from your father. I remember when it was just you and me, playing some tunes…”

“Oh my god,” Steve said around a laugh.

“Sometimes three’s a crowd, huh Ella?”

“Dada song!”

“Here, I play, you help.”

Eddie sat Ella in his lap and moved the keyboard in front of them, holding her tiny hands in his to guide them through Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

Steve clapped at the end of it, beaming at them both as if they’d just performed at Madison Square Garden.

“Incredible. I’d offer you a record deal on the spot.”

“Already had that, I’m retired. Thank you, though.”

Eddie kissed the top of Ella’s head as she kept banging on the keys, then leaned over to kiss Steve’s forehead.

————————————

Robin pulled off a hell of a party.

Not only did she manage to find princess rock star decorations, but she managed to find a live band that was willing to play kids songs, and a caterer who was willing to serve an entirely new menu so last minute.

There was even an open bar for the adults.

Eddie’s entire band and their families were there, the Hawkins crew and their families, Steve’s coworkers and their families, and most surprising of all, Steve’s mom.

He’d gone back and forth on whether to even invite her, but since she’d left his dad, she’d been trying to reconcile and get to know him again.

She brought a Barbie dream house because she didn’t seem to understand that one year olds weren’t quite at Barbie level, but it was the thought that counted or so Eddie kept reminding Steve when he got mad about “thoughtless gifts that just take up space.”

Ella loved playing with all the kids and sharing her new toys. Eddie and Steve had built her a play set at home that she didn’t even see yet.

She was spoiled, but it was the best kind.

Not the kind that Steve had growing up; useless and thoughtless gifts that were flashy and expensive because that’s what helped his parents feel better about leaving him with nannies or alone.

The kind where love was in abundance, where everyone wanted her to have the best because they loved her, where the best was sometimes the dollar store magic wand and tiara set so she could play princess and sometimes was a toddler sized drum set. Everyone came to her party because they were excited she was part of the family, not because they expected a big blowout with the finest food and drinks money can buy.

Eddie took a moment to look around at everyone. He never knew he’d end up here, he couldn’t have even dreamed it in his wildest ones that came from being cross faded in high school.

Steve wrapped his arms around him from behind, kissing his shoulder when he started to lean back.

“Turned out great, right?”

“It did, sweetheart. Always does with you.”

[ihaechans]

Die 4 You || L.JN — TEASER

❝ You won't find no one that's better... ❞

PAIRING ▸ street racer!Jeno x flag girl!reader

GENRES ▸ smut. angst. fluff

WARNINGS ▸ profanity. sexual content. more tba

SUMMARY ▸ There's a new guy in town. That's the word from the others. Typical news, so typical you don't pay him any attention, minding your business as usual before being interrupted by none other than the 'new guy'. A simple encounter erupts into much more, spiraling into something only he could fix. A broken heart.

WORD COUNT▸ Estimated 20k-22k

RELEASE DATE ▸ February 2023 (Put on hold)

Part of the upcoming "The Weeknd" Series

Note to self: Buy sound-proof headphones.

Sometimes, you wished you weren’t driven by thrill and attention, maybe then you wouldn’t be a flag girl. Wasting entire weekends just to do a single gesture before stepping aside, completely nonexistent to most of the crowd once a race began was not as easy as it sounded.

Although it’s a well-paying job, dressing up like an attention-seeking whore just to wave a flag around for a few seconds took lots of courage. Creepy old men in the crowd cat-calling you was something you would never get used to, shivers running down your spine every time it happened.

In this state, it was almost ten times easier to be taken advantage of by men, but that was your job after all. Dress like a slut, wave a flag around, sleep, repeat. That was your life. Weekend after weekend, it was the same.

Nothing around here was interesting enough for you to care about, not even your flag girl co-workers fawning over the new guy. The one you had never seen before.

“God Y/n,” Hands find place on your shoulders, shaking you slightly as a high-pitched voice fills your ears, “He’s so dreamy, and those arms of his, god the things I would do to him are unimaginable.”

“I’ll buy you candy if you shut the fuck up,” you offer, finally turning your head to face Chuu, one of your good friends. 

Her smile falters, “Well, I guess I do like candy.” and with that, she walks off, leaving you alone in the tiny shed where all the flag girls rested before and after races. 

Genuinely, you adored Chuu, but she should know you well enough by now that you whole-heartedly had no interest in any of the racers here. You had one job and one job only, wave the flag and dip. You weren’t here to make friends nor hook up with the racers like many others who worked here.

Something you had that many others didn’t was self-respect.

In the distance, you hear the rev of engines, assuming the previous race had ended and another one was about to start, Chuu acting as the flag girl this time around. She was always cute and charismatic, one of the most loved workers around the place.

Compared to you, she was the complete opposite, her baby face and cute colorful clothing contrasting your serious and stubborn demeanor. One thing about her was she was a natural people-pleaser, something you forced yourself to be while at work.

Sighing, you grab a water bottle from the minifridge beside you, nearly choking on the beverage as an unknown voice speaks from behind you. “Jesus!” you scream, water dribbling down your chin, a wet patch forming on your shirt.

“Didn’t mean to startle you, just wanted to say hello and properly introduce myself. I’m Jeno.”

“And I’m not interested. Get out.”

Author's note: It took nearly 4 hours to plan this entire fic out because I wanted everything to be perfect. If I actually end up working hard on this fic I believe I can actually get it done on time. This is supposed to be my first full fic and I'm lowk nervous but I'm just gonna write my heart out and hope y'all enjoy it! 😸

[cebwrites]

hi hi Ceb! It’s me Nico! And I was wondering if you could write some zoro fluff with a ftm reader who’s having a tough time with back issues and improperly binding? If not that is absolutely a okay and I hope you have a great evening, night or day!

a/n: hell yeah i can do that!! trans guys are my bread and butter >:3 you asked for zoro but this kind of turned into a nakama piece from the SHs supporting their friend too oops

binding pains (Zoro x Reader)

pre-timeskip, t4t mlm zoro and reader, smut mention but no details word count: 1.2k

Zoro was the first to notice.

Well, maybe some of the others have too, but only few others out of the Strawhats are able to pinpoint the exact reason behind the discomfort you desperately try to hide; how you can never find a comfortable angle to lounge on the couch, the awkward ways you have to sit at the table to eat without irritating the dull throb that's become a near-constant in your day to day, and your perpetual slouch getting worse.

It was getting more difficult to hide that pain in the aftermath of simple sparring, too, let alone actual fights with the usual suspects you and your crew had to contend with.

You'd shut down any concern shown your way by older members of the crew; queer elders that knew precisely what the problem was, but you weren't ready to be vulnerable enough with them to hear out any potential solution yet. Everyone had only just gotten together, picking up a funny old skeleton on some fucked up Warlord's travelling island a week or so back and having only saved Robin from the clutches of the government a month or two before that.

You understood that Robin was only trying to be proactive in comforting her newfound family but you weren't ready yet—a fact she seemingly understood and kept from prying accordingly, but made sure you knew you'd always have a shoulder to lean on with her. This influenced Franky's support to be a little less high-flown too, somehow.

This sparked new, unrelated, but curious questions in your mind about the nature of their relationship these past few weeks but that - was none of your business. Just as you had your right to privacy, Franky and Robin deserved to come forward about if they were... complimentary to one another or not. Frankly the thought kind of did make you blush a bit, though, like a kid watching their parents share tender but casual affection in the comfort of domesticity.

Now, Roronoa, the beautiful light reflecting off your blade, Zoro - caught on to your act almost immediately. Because this was this was the exact kind of dumb shit he'd pull in the lawless, early days of his transition where he had no one to tell him not to, back when he didn't have nearly half the self-confidence in the man that he was today. Or rather, no one to tell him that he was doing it incorrectly.

The issue he runs into is more of, how, he'd approach this with you instead of if, since he knows he should. Zoro considered going to Chopper first since that little reindeer was the resident doctor, but he didn't know if that would fly into the territory of outing you, and that threw out the possibility of asking for advice from the others too. Not that Zoro could be particularly subtle even if he tried, everyone would know he was talking about his partner the moment he asked.

So he resigns to just approaching you about it himself.

Tucked away in one of the hammocks hung in the men's quarters one lazy evening, Luffy and Usopp's laughter rang loudly, but muffled above the floorboards. Zoro cradled you with one arm around your waist, the other rest comfortably behind his head. You smiled, moments like these were small but many, one of the joys of being on this crew you assumed.

As Zoro moved to rub his arm against your back, however, you can't quite suppress the way you instinctively tense, nor the growing anxiety deep in your chest every time his hand passed against the fabric of your bindings. Logically, you knew this was nothing to be worried about. Zoro was the same, another beautiful trans guy with the enviable confidence to walk around topless. So what if his boyfriend wasn't quite there yet?

"Hey, how's about we look into getting you a binder?" Zoro was cautious, eyes still closed but he listened intently for your response as his hand drifted further down to your lower back, taking a slight bit of pressure of your mind now that he wasn't actively touching the wrappings.

"You're hurting yourself." He'd roll over to face you properly now, both hands gently cradling your waist.

You'd hesitate to meet his gaze, one you knew to be intense ever since the day he first laid eyes on you, and now, in the tender silence you shared with him you knew that the look in his eyes would rival the sun - the intensity of his love for you, his devotion to you threatening to burn your spirit to a crisp.

Hesitantly, but safe in the sanctuary of his arms, you open up to him about your concerns, your fears. How you're afraid perceptions of you might change if a strange piece of new clothing suddenly shows up in the wash and the other crew members have to watch you claim it as yours. He'd assuage your unease with gentle kisses and small talks of affirmation.

How this crew of all people would never choose to treat someone differently for a silly (but understandable fear) reason like that.

That night he helped undo your wrappings and joked that he could hear your spine realign as you afforded yourself a well earned stretch, laughing at the bindings you threw at his face. He sounded even more pleased when you chose to wrap them around his eyes later on, and with permission granted, devoured your body that night in the crow's nest blind.

The next morning or maybe a few days after, he'd urge you to approach Nami about a little extra pocket money for this particular expense, and maybe some moral support when going shopping for it. For the latter, Robin tags along provided you want her to. Chopper doesn't do his usually overblown reaction of finding out someone on the crew is hurt when you go to him about the back problems that you developed after poor binding, but he does tear up and ask you to come to him immediately the next time something like this happens, and that he's sorry for not being someone you could feel comfortable doing that with a lot sooner.

And I mean—hell, if discomfort with your chest got really bad before the gang could find you the right binder, Nami and Sanji would be more than willing to make you a custom one right at home provided they could get their hands on the proper materials. You're surprised that Sanji knows how to sew so well but not so when Nami says she's taking all her hard time and labor for this out of your allowance.

Your pocket money doesn't change, and in fact gets a slight "bonus" the day you get it.

A little fun money, is all. But only ever just this once.

You're overjoyed, you cry when you see how flat you look in the mirror. You can finally play in the water topless like children, bask in the sun without a shirt and have him tease you about tan lines later, and overall don't have to worry about turning yourself into a shrimp just to feel a shred of personhood.

Zoro's there with you the whole process, holding your hand, sharing the same joys he felt with his gender affirmation with you.

There's a little more spring in your step after this and you think, as you look at him nap against your shoulder, that you've never been more in love in your life.

[kissofthemis]

"I'm surprised you're still in one piece."

Any other day, Luke would have fired back with a sarcastic reply of his own.

Today, he simply did not have the energy.

Nor the heart.

"Keep walking if you still want to stay in one piece," he growled without bothering to lift his gaze from the flowers in front of him. The thick bitterness in his voice should have been enough to intimidate most people, but the undisguised threat that saturated his words and flavored his tone was enough to make even the bravest, cockiest folks turn tail and run for the hills.

Marius von Hagen, evidently, was the bravest, cockiest, and perhaps dumbest of them all.

"For what it's worth," Marius continued talking as he plopped down next to Luke, either ignoring the latter's threats or simply believing he was above them. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I didn't even know you'd be there."

"If you were a decent man, you would have left."

Marius folded his arms over his chest and pouted in response, a sight that looked almost comical as he towered over Luke even when the two of them were sitting. "Are you saying I'm not decent?" he protested. "I'll have you know, I walked away and put my headphones on until I saw you leave. Then I went in to talk to my attorney about my business' legal matters, as is my right." He was clearly indignant about the attack on his character.

Luke simply rolled his eyes. "She's Pax's attorney, not yours. There's a difference."

"She's both."

"Pretty sure that's a conflict of interest, Mr. President."

Luke didn't expect his malicious sarcasm to be met with an amused chuckle. "Good. You're being a brat again."

The hairs on the back of Luke's neck stood up. "Who are you, of all people, calling a brat?" he snapped, finally turning to glare at Marius for the first time since he'd arrived. "You're such a spoiled, whiny piece of work that actual kids think you're bratty!"

"Are you saying I'm a role model?" Marius purred as the corners of his lips curled into a smirk. "Aww, Luke, I didn't know you thought so highly of me." Suddenly his shoulders loosened up and his eyes softened. "You were so gloomy that it was unnerving. If you're making snide remarks again, then you must be feeling a little better, right?"

Flabbergasted.

Luke was so taken aback that he could almost smell the smoke coming out of his ears as the gears in his brain turned frantically in an effort to think of a way to respond. Normally he was quick to react to just about any situation; his field work as an NSB agent required him to be able to act on the fly in life or death situations.

But in a situation like this, without that adrenaline pumping through him? Not even Raven was immune to getting flustered and floundering.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Not wanting to respond directly, Luke tried to ask as casually as he could.

He winced internally. Being indirect and evading difficult topics was what got Luke into trouble with her in the first place, wasn't it? Wasn't he only proving that despite his promises to the contrary, promises he had made just this morning in his desperation to get her to stop crying, he was already falling back on his old bad habits?

Marius didn't seem to notice or care. "I didn't," he answered bluntly. "I just thought the hydrangeas looked nice."

The hydrangeas?

Luke turned his attention back to the colorful array of flower clusters before him. He reached forward and began to gently rub some baby blue petals between his thumb and forefinger. "I guess they do."

"This time of year," Marius continued, "I find a lot of inspiration by spending time in nature." Was he still talking to Luke, or did he just enjoy hearing the sound of his own voice? "The scenery, the colors, the shapes. It's crucial for a painter to stay inspired, after all."

A half-hearted smirk crept onto Luke's lips. "Why don't you just ask your tutor Dr. Richter to host a study session in his garden?"

Marius let out a loud snort and lifted his chin defiantly. "Please. You think I trust Vyn not to stab me with a pair of garden shears the moment I turn my back to grab my books?"

That brought a genuine snicker out of Luke, and Marius couldn't help but laugh along with him. It was a brief, blissful moment, and then the two fell into silence once again.

"For what it's worth," Marius began, as he plucked a nearby petal off a purple hydrangea, "you totally should have told her earlier."

So he was planning to talk about that. Luke grimaced.

Before he could defend himself, fire back, or coordinate any sort of response at all, Marius continued speaking. "But she's not gonna hate you for it. She'll get over her anger real fast."

The confidence in his tone rubbed Luke the wrong way. "You think you know her better than I do? We grew up together," he pointed out, and he didn't care to hide the acerbic notes underlying his words.

"I never said that, guard dog," Marius huffed. "But I know a thing or two about grief." A despondent chuckle left his lips--it was a sound without an ounce of joy, but rather one that suggested 'I have to laugh, or else I will cry.' A sound of desperation.

"Would it have been better to avoid her and die far away, leaving her only with happy memories from your childhood? Would it have been better if she never got to know the person you are now? Or... would it have been better if she got to know you after being gone for so long, to reconnect with you, to see all the ways you'd changed but also the ways you'd stayed the same?" Marius pulled his knees into his chest, and he gingerly plopped the purple petal on top of them. "Ultimately it boils down to one question: Would she have grieved more if she never knew you, or if she knew you and had the chance to love you?" He cast a quick glance at Luke before rapidly averting his gaze to look back at the flowers.

For now, Luke would pretend he didn't see the tears brimming in the corner of Marius' eyes.

"I never knew my mother." Marius rested his chin on top of his knees, trapping the sole lavender petal there. "I think my father and Giann have suffered more, because they knew her. They miss someone who they loved, because they can see the spectre of her in everyday life in a way that I can't.

"But Giann has told me that he feels more sorry for me, because he wishes I had gotten the chance to know her, make memories with her, and love her. He feels my grief must be worse, because all I have are stories from others without any 'love' to call my own."

Marius paused briefly. Luke could hear the shuddering in his breath as he inhaled deeply, and he could see the way Marius' chest trembled as he slowly let that breath go.

"Maybe we're both right. Maybe we're both wrong. And until you came back from the capital and ran into her again.... You already knew you were dying. You just didn't know whether you should tell her or not."

Marius lifted his head and straightened his back to his full height.

"But she knows now, dammit, so you'd better not run away. She knows you, and she knows what you're going through, so you'd better make sure she has enough happy memories to last an eternity. Until the day she sees you again."

Marius' chest was rising and falling at a rapid pace, and he curled back in on himself once he'd said his piece.

"... because if she cries that she didn't get enough time with you, my first order of business in the afterlife will be to kill you a second time." He sighed. "Unless I hire a medium and pay enough to compensate some spirits for haunting you on that end--"

"I won't let you down."

Luke spoke at last. His voice sounded foreign to him, though, with the conviction and confidence it held. He had never felt so comfortable with his fate, but now... for the first time, he finally felt a burden lift off his shoulders.

Whether telling her or not was the right move was no longer the question. She knew, so Luke had to make the best of the situation.

"You know... you're smarter than I gave you credit for."

"Dude, you suck at compliments."

Another shared laugh, a bit lighter than the first, with a backdrop of powder blue, pale purple, and pastel pink hydrangeas blooming around them.

[sunfyresrider]

First Love/Late Spring - Chapter One

Lo'ak Sully x Fem!Metkayina!Reader

Summary: You would do anything he asked if he said he loved you, but his heart belonged to someone else. Tags: Angst, unrequited love, miscommunication, arranged marriages, fluff, Lo'ak being Lo'ak, sibling jealously. I think that covers it but if I missed anything lmk! Translations: Lor - beautiful, Sa'nu - mama, Evi - child, Skxawng - idiot, Kehe - no, Sanhi - bioluminescent freckles Author's Note: First time writing for this boy/fandom, so critiques are welcomed. This was heavily inspired by Amy x Laurie's relationship in Little Women and Mitski's song (the title of the fic)

“What is wrong?” Lo’ak inquired, watching you pace inside of your marui. You forgot his presence inside your tent, too busy letting your thoughts consume you. “I am a failure,” you huffed out. You had never been as good as your sister at little things, you blamed it on your big fingers. 

She was better at you than everything, always the jewel in your mother's eye. Tsireya could bead, braid, heal, sing, dance and was exceptional at all of it. Her personality was so soft, kind, gentle and wise… Everything the future Tshaik needed to be. It was no wonder the boy you admired from afar preferred her., You probably would too.

You weren’t jealous, at least that’s what you told yourself, It was never her fault. There were perks to being second born: lack of expectations, no overbearing parents, and freedom to do almost anything you wanted. Your mother was still encouraging you to mate with Txayì, seeing as you were the last of your siblings to be promised to someone. 

He was an amazing friend, thoughtful, attentive and extremely dutiful. Txayì always did what was asked of him with no complaints, something you could not fathom doing. In truth, he was far too good for you, and he deserved someone who wasn’t pining after someone she could not obtain. 

You’ve loved Lo’ak since he first arrived at your village seven long years ago, running from the sky people who hunted his family. He wasn’t a mighty warrior like his brother nor was he outwardly charming like his father, but he had a strong heart. Lo’ak brought excitement to your life, adventures you would have never dared to go on before his arrival. 

His human nature, jokes and quirks, are what made him so endearing. You loved his lopsided smile that curved upwards when he found something amusing, the way he used his hands when he talked. It was no secret that your eyes followed him when he walked by, that his voice made your heart flutter or the way his dark hair fell into his eyes. 

If Lo’ak asked you to jump off of a cliff with him, you doubted that you’d have the sense of mind to reject him.  Thinking of him in this way made your heart ache, an invisible pressure on your chest that refused to abate. It was your feelings for him that made you miserable for most of your life. Your crush that you buried, unable to move forward with any other man as long as he lived. You would never want to confess it; he was in love with your sister.

Every moment they spent together slowly broke down your resolve, your infatuation growing into something you couldn't ignore anymore. It seemed Ewya took noticed and decided to ease your torture, cease the pain momentarily. Tsireya had found a mate, one that both of your parents adored. She seemed to have no quarrels about marrying him and leaving Lo’ak behind. 

Both of you were destined to never be able to be with the ones your heart desired. “I am no mighty warrior, amazing singer or dancer. I am mediocre at best… at literally everything.” You turned on your heel, outstretched your arms, “Tsireya can do it all, sing, dance, braid, heal and everything a Tsahik should be. Aonung is a great hunter and warrior, destined to be Olo'eyktan. I’m just the second born, forgotten child with no clear path.” 

You lowered your arms to your side and let out a sigh, trying to find some air that wasn't saturated with the weight of your troubles., You were hopeless. “You know, you are way funnier than both. You could be a comedian or jewelry maker- ow!” You slapped his hand, stern eyes boring into him. “I’m being serious, Lo’ak… what’s a comedian?”  

He rubbed his hand, acting like it was actually injured and not just a playful slap. “It’s a human thing. Listen, I think you’re grossly underestimating how cool you are.” You scrunch your brows at his comment, not sure if you were being complimented or insulted.

Lo'ak's expression turned serious, watching your features closely, “I’ve been second best to Neteyam all my life and after the incident with Payakan my future isn’t looking too bright either.” He pressed his lips together, a forlorn look in his eyes, the one you grew up seeing whenever his brother's name was mentioned.

You let out a deep sigh, “but you swore he isn’t evil right? When the clan realizes you’re telling the truth, you could be known as the first Ttulkun rider and become legend… I want to be great or nothing at all.” Lo’ak‘s brows furrowed together, “so you believe mating with Txayì will bring you to greatness?” 

 “Don’t make fun. I think it would make my parents proud of me at least.” You watched him cross his arms across his chest and pout, it was incredibly cute.  “Odd coming from someone who spits in the face of tradition.” You scoffed and gave him an incredulous look, “I do not spit in the face of tradition... Why do you care anyway?” 

Lo'ak paused for a second, seeming to mull over his thoughts before answering. "I have no issue with it as long you love him.” You sucked in a breath, a sharp pain shooting through your chest. Lo’ak cocked his head to the side, noticing your expression, and quickly added, "and it doesn't seem like you do, not from your reaction."

“And do you have someone else in mind, O' wise one?” You crossed your arms and peered down at him with a smirk. “I’m just saying, If you really think you'll never amount to anything then why not mate with me. Like you said… I’m gonna be the first Tulkan rider.”

Your cheeks were beginning to heat up and you looked away from his gaze. He was joking but you were unable to hide the small flicker of hope that bloomed inside your chest. Your heart started to beat faster, the idea of marrying Lo'ak was enticing, something that would have never occurred to you before now.

You noticed Lo'ak had been more touchy than normal, flirtier even, but you blamed it on the lack of attention he was receiving from your sister. He didn't have any other options and your heart was fragile at the moment, so you played it off as nothing more than a joke. He would always belong to your sister, and you would never be able to hold a candle to her. “I should have known not to come to you with serious matters.” You gave him a disapproving look before continuing.

You stalked forward, picking up the beaded top you made just days earlier. It was a mixture of beautiful blues and white shells, a necklace honestly too beautiful to be worn by you. “Help me fasten this before I have to go.” You were happy to change the subject and focus on anything else.

Lo'ak walked forward, his body moving slowly like he was testing the waters, his fingers grazing your back. His touch sent chills down your spine and butterflies in your stomach. You tried to focus on the task at hand, you're a big girl and you're not a child anymore. “Why are you wearing something like this?” 

Lo’ak’s head hovered above yours, his voice deep, reverberating within you. It was impossible to not feel the heat of his breath as it cascaded down your neck, his hands still on your back, gently running along the edge of your tunic. You cleared your throat, pulling away from him and twirling around. “I made it yesterday, what do you think?” 

“it’s beautiful… you’re beautiful,” his voice trailed off, his gaze was soft and full of something you could not place. It wasn't lust or adoration, more longing than anything else. “Thank you, Lo’ak.” You whispered, almost unable to get the words out of your mouth. You shook your head, forcing yourself back into reality. “I have to go help my mother; I’ll see you soon yeah?” He gave you a soft smile and quick nod before opening the flap to let you leave.

⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅∙∘☽༓☾∘∙•⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⊰⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅•⋅⋅

The return of the Tulkun signaled the return of clear skies and calm seas. Your spirit sister, Äiä, had grown even larger since her last visit. This year she was speaking to you about the next breeding cycle, deciding it was time for her to bear her first calf. You were excited for her, proud of how far she’s come from the lonely calf who stuck to her mother’s fin. 

 She was known for being the most dutiful yet filled with mischief she only showed to you. You spoke to Äiä about your own love life, seeking comfort in your sister. Of course, she preferred the boy who did not bond with the outcast. It was as if Ewya had planned it this way, not allowing you the luxury of happiness.

Even though you spent hours beneath the water with her, it still never felt as if it was long enough. Soon the morning sun faded into hues of purple and orange, signaling the night's approach. You wanted nothing more than to escape into the ocean and be with her.

However, your clan had other plans. You made your way to the mats, already prepared for the night, an empty place set for you next to Txayì. The arrival of the Tulkuns was celebrated every year, a moderately large feast and an abundance of music learned from Ewya herself. 

The food was always welcome and the atmosphere always lively, a nice break from the monotony of daily life. “How was your spirit sister?” Txayì asked, his smile soft yet excited as he sat down next to you. You gave him a small smile, “she is well and hoping for a calf by next year.” He let out a hm, placing a palm on his chin.

"That's amazing, I hope she has a successful mating season." He answered, “I’m assuming you are wanting to follow her suit?” His voice was casual but there was a twinge of nervousness behind it. That was good, you didn’t enjoy overconfidence in men. 

"Perhaps, if that is what Ewya wills.” You responded with a shrug. Txayì gave you a soft nod and a small smile. You’re returned to tearing the fish on your plate apart, staring at the Sulli family sitting across the fire. Lo’ak was staring right back, giving you a sly grin.

You rolled your eyes and gave him a quick wave, only causing him to smirk more. Neteyam grasped his neck, whispering something in his ear with a huge grin plastered on his face. Lo'ak scoffed and playfully pushed Neteyam, sending him into a fit of giggles. You shook your head, forcing yourself to look away from them.

"I think you should start the evening with a dance,” your mother nodded in the direction of the man next to you, it was not a suggestion and more of a command. You begrudgingly rose from your mat and stepped over Txayì, your hand grazed his own as you walked by him, an invitation for you to join him for a dance.

You spun around with a wide smile, outstretching your arms preparing to move. The sounds of the flute and drums sending vibrations through you. You closed your eyes, enjoying the beats of the music as it filled your ears. Your body started to move on its own accord, moving with the music.

Dancing was like swimming, the rhythm flowing through you as the water did, pushing and pulling you to where it desired. You let it carry you, jumping and twirling in its current. Your movements were fluid and elegant as you continued to move with the beat. Txayì’s eyes seemed to be transfixed, captivated by the sight.

 You smiled genuinely as you continued your dance, it felt like an outpouring of your soul. He was not as bad of a dancer as you thought, vastly more graceful than Ao’nung who was tripping over his feet in the corner.  You felt someone's gaze on your back, eyes watching all of your moves. 

Your feet spun you around, staring back at the person who was disrupting your dance. Your smile faltered when you realized it was Lo'ak, his face shrouded in an unknown emotion. You followed his eyes to the man behind you, staring back at him with the same intensity. 

"Who is that?" Txayì asked, his voice low and his tone laced with suspicion. "Lo’ak," you replied, shifting your gaze back to Lo'ak who was now getting up to leave the excitement. You sucked in a breath and met his gaze, placing a hand on his arm. "I’ll be right back."

You chased after Lo’ak, following him further outside the village. His movements began to slow as he reached the tree groves. "What are you doing?" You huffed, trying to keep up with him. "Lo'ak, wait for me," you tried again. “What is your problem?” You snapped at him, planting your feet in the sand.

 He finally glanced at you, his gaze softening ever so slightly. "Nothing,” He muttered, turning around to walk away. "Stop being a brat and talk to me," you grasped his arm, pulling him so he was forced to look at you. He took a deep breath, raising his head as if praying to Ewya for strength. "I don't like him," His lips formed into a small pout, reminding you of a child. “Who?”

"Txayì," he scoffed, “the golden boy,” he mocked. You furrowed your brows together, "what has he done to spurn you?” You asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I don’t believe he’s right for you and you’re wasting both your time trying.” Your hand dropped back to your side, face losing its once worried expression, 

“I genuinely do not understand your sudden interest in who I mate with,” you said unamused. He gave you a deep frown and a sigh, his eyes drifting down to your chest. His fingers moved upwards to trace the beads concealing your chest, “this is the one you made earlier, yes?”

Your body tensed, the air between the two of you shifting into something more serious, “Yes but don’t change the subject.” He didn't answer your question, his fingers gently tugging at the necklace around your neck. “It looks really good on you.” You sucked in a breath, your eyes following his.

“You are deflecting,” you said, trying to hold your ground. “Do you really like him,” Lo'ak asked, his voice so soft, it was almost inaudible. His eyes stayed low as he gazed at you, a silent plea behind them. “I haven’t given it much thought,” you started, meeting his stare.

"Not as much as my mother likes him, that’s for sure,” you grinned. Lo'ak smirked back, the air between you once again becoming lighter. "She does have interesting taste in mates," he smiled to himself.  You giggled with him, his demeanor changing from somber to cheerful in an instant. "Was that all that bothered you?”

“Nah. you lied and told me you sucked at dancing like me, but you made everyone else look like real fish out of water.” You laughed at his childish remark. It wasn't often you laughed that hard, a pleasant sound leaving your lips. He smiled at you, his gaze softening as his eyes studied your features. “Ah, I see,” you said, tapping your fingers on your chin.

“You’re just jealous I’m better than you,” you teased. His lips parted in an offended gasp, “no way, not even close. You’ve never even danced with me before.” You giggled as his hand went to his chest. "Oh, great Lo'ak, you humble me." You bowed before him, exaggerating your movements.

"Stop with the theatrics and dance with me already." He moved forward, taking ahold of your hands. "Your jokes are always terrible." You let out another laugh as he began leading. "Better than your pickup lines at least," you joked. His hands went to grip your waist, lifting you up in the air and spinning once. You squealed, he laughed in return, “you’ve never even heard them before!” 

"I didn't need to hear them, I know you too well," you giggled. Lo’ak grasped your hands again, pulling you around in a circle. “This is a human dance! Much more advanced than what you were doing,” he declared. You rolled your eyes, trying not to focus on how warm his hands felt as they held you.

"Whatever you say," you continued to laugh, moving along with him. The two of you twirled around the area, his smile becoming a permanent feature on his face. You noted a few things about human dancing, it was sporadic and spontaneous, you touched each other continuously throughout it, and it was joyful and lighthearted. You had not noticed it before but the music that filled the village seemed to fade, the only sounds being those from your lips. The rest of the world was drowned out as you continued to dance, his body moving with yours, never separating.

You hadn't noticed your surroundings, not until you stumbled into the base of the tree. He moved to steady you, but his balance was far off as well, knocking into you as you stumbled backwards. You let out a sharp gasp, gripping onto his arm for support as you hit the ground. 

He hovered over you, his tail twisted under your leg and his knees incasing you. “I thought you said you were a good dancer,” you groaned. You gazed up at him, his features illuminated by the moonlight, his eyes widened, and his lips parted. "Huh?” 

Lo’ak looked ethereal in the lighting of twilight, his sanhì decorating his face. The air between you shifted, the heat radiating off his body shrouding you. His eyes followed yours down to his lips, your labored breaths synchronizing. It was as if you were in a trance, the world around you becoming nonexistent. You had long since stopped moving, entranced by his presence, his scent surrounding you. He began to lean in closer, his eyes beginning to flutter shut. 

“Little bro! Where did you run off to?!” Neteyam’s voice startled you both. You jerked your head away from him, pushing him off of you as you rose to your feet. Lo'ak sighed in frustration, a hand going to his face, rubbing it gently, “over here, bro!” 

Neteyam rushed up to the two of you, his gaze switching between the two of you, an amused grin on his face.  You stood up, fixing your braid that had fallen out of place. “Neteyam,” you nodded, “I’m going to go back before my mother sends a search party.”

Neteyam moved aside, giving you space to walk past him, his gaze still stuck on Lo'ak. "I see you are taking my brotherly advice," he giggled, glancing at his brother. Lo'ak looked up at Neteyam and groaned, falling back into the sand. “You are a cockblock."

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Ronal roughly pulled her fingers through your hair, untangling the knots that had formed overnight.  You stared out of the Marui, watching the rain drops disrupt the water, the sky was darkening, a major storm brewing.  "Ma evi, you have the unruliest hair out of the clan,” she huffed.

“Can you braid it this time, sa‘nu?” She gave you a quick nod and kept running her fingers through your hair. Your eyes traveled to the horizon, watching Lo’ak attempting tricks with his ilu. Your siblings and all three of his observing him, Ao’nung no doubt goading him on. 

He was so reckless sometimes, always pushing his luck. If something happened to Lo'ak you wouldn't know how you'd cope with the loss. You may just pray Ewya takes you with him instead. You glanced down at the necklace that hung around your neck, a sharp pain shooting through your chest.

The past few nights you’ve been haunted by the memory of the other night, the huge mistake you almost made while in a daze. 

Lo'ak was everything you wanted, yet so far out of your grasp, too far to reach. You were terrified, your future with Txayì was decided, yet your heart still pined for Lo'ak. However, as you watched him interact with your sister, the radiant smile adorning her face, his own just as bright as the sun, you knew the truth. The other night was just an attempt to heal his heart from her previous rejection. 

"You are too quiet," Your mother ceased her braiding and moved her body around yours.  "Apologies, I am just thinking.” You responded, meeting your mothers gaze. Her brows were furrowed together, and her lips were pursed in thought. "Thinking about…?" She prompted you to continue. "Txayì and our future.” You stated, lowering your eyes to the floor, unable to meet her gaze.

She hummed, continuing her work, "I know you better than you know yourself, evi. You are worried about the forest boy and your future with him." You shifted on your mat, meeting her stare. “w-what? No, I just-" You stammered, not able to find your words.

"Let me speak before you lie more to me.” She commanded, a knowing look in her eyes. You sucked in a breath, your body stilling in its spot. “Your father and I will not force you to be with someone you do not want,” she paused, carefully choosing her words.

"But Txayì will bring you much more happiness and stability in the future." She met your gaze, a stern look plastered on her face. “Lo’ak has bonded with the outcast. If you choose him, I fear your life will be filled with pain and turmoil you could avoid.” You sucked in a breath and tried to hold back tears, unable to respond.

Your mother reached forward, placing a warm palm on your cheek, her touch gentle yet strong, just like her. "You deserve to be happy with whom you wish, but you need to understand what you will lose as well as what you will gain and if that is truly worth it.” You gave her a soft nod, not wanting to voice your answer. Your mother released her hand, your face feeling cold in the absence of her touch.

She smiled and moved back to finish your hair. "Meet with Txayì tonight and make your choice later." She tugged at your hair, securing the last of your braids. You felt your stomach churn at the thought and the small bubble of hope that had bloomed inside your chest popping. 

You felt as though you were spilt in two, the currents in your heart ripping you in opposite directions. A part of you yearned for the easy route, the best choice for a promising future. It appeared bright and rosy like a flower that had just bloomed, a vision of Txayì always being there for you.

Your heart didn't agree, however, it pined for the outcast, the Omatikaya boy who held a permanent residence in your mind. It wanted nothing more than to be with him, to live in his chaos and venture into the unknown with him.  It didn’t frighten you, the unforeseen and the dangerous future that would eventually befall your life, but you would follow Lo'ak anywhere, regardless of what would await you, as long as he chose you. 

But he would not choose you. No matter how much you wished for him, he would always pick your sister. You would never be able to compete with her, you didn't possess the same charm or grace as Tsireya. You've seen his eyes wander in the past and you knew it wasn't only the necklace that had him captivated.

You would be no more than second best as always. You would continue to be the shadow to her light, and you could not begrudge him for preferring it. As you stood to leave your mothers gaze followed you, the slight frown she had on her face made your heart sink. "I will go and meet Txayì, sa’nu. I'm sure he has many good qualities I have yet to see." You gave her a weak smile before turning to exit the marui.

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You ventured outside the reef with Txayì, following suit as he spoke endlessly about his own life. It was hard to listen when your mind was some place far away, thinking of someone out of reach.  He was doing his utmost to impress you, wanting to be seen as someone worthy of your time.

And he was worth your time, that is but you were not worth his. It was as your mother had been saying, he was a mighty warrior and a superb hunter. Txayì was handsome, adorned with thick thighs and muscular arms, much different from Lo’ak. You liked to think Lo'ak's features were more refined, more delicate yet still masculine and appealing. 

Txayì proved himself to be loyal, trustworthy, a true leader with a good soul and a promising future.  He spoke about the many great achievements he had under his belt, the great stories he's heard from outside the reef and what he's seen. Txayì seemed to be interested in the few things you spoke of as well, listening intently and absorbing every syllable you uttered. 

The two of you spent most of the morning together, but not once did he make an advance towards you. He seemed to be genuine, but did not possess the charm that Lo'ak did, lacking the charisma and playfulness that made you smile and made your heart flutter. That no longer mattered, you tried to convince yourself.

You had to make a choice soon, to choose what would bring you the most stability, regardless of what you would be leaving behind. "So will I see you later?" Txayì asked, stopping his movements on the shore and turning his head to face you.

"Yes, I’m sure my mother would love for you to sit with us at the evening meal." You answered, giving him a weak smile, unable to commit to a real one. He gave you an enthusiastic nod, "good. I look forward to getting to know you all better.” He placed a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it as he said his goodbyes.

You gave him a quick nod and a tight smile before bidding him farewell. You watched as he left, his form getting smaller as he headed back onto shore. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the nervousness that was building in your gut. This is a good match, you told yourself.

After you had properly cleaned yourself, you escaped to a corner of the beach. The sum was at its highest, its orange glow reflecting off of the water. You dragged a satchel of bead, shells and various materials to make jewelry. Eventually, you needed to craft a courting present for your future mate. But for now, you intended to spend the rest of the day finishing the ones you had already started.

At some point your fingers began to ache from how long you had been braiding the strands of the jewelry together. You had never been meticulous about the bracelets you made but this was a gift. The shells you chose were shades of blue and cerulean, accompanied by nearly translucent beads you stole from Tsireya’s stash. It was coming together nicely, you thought to yourself. 

The soft sounds of sand rusting behind you tore you from your thoughts. Still, you chose to ignore the person quickly approaching. “Why so blue?” Lo’ak’s voice rang in your eyes as he sat down in front of you, legs crossed. A shit eating grin plastering his face. “You’re not funny skxawng,” you scoffed whilst stifling a laugh. 

His eyebrows lifted as he gazed into your lap. “Are those bracelets? For whom?” You tossed the eldest one at him, ignoring his expression. “I never got the chance to give that one to you,” you spoke in a hushed tone. You focused on finishing the most recent one, tying an Amber colored stone onto it. “This is for you too,” you spun around to face him, watching him intently as his fingers ran over the beads. 

Lo'ak looked up at you, eyes widening. You could feel yourself grow more anxious, fidgeting with your fingers and swallowing hard as you tried to keep yourself calm. You spoke fast, interrupting him before he could finish his train of thought. “They’re meant to represent you, the first is to represent the forest when you were an Omatikaya… This one is to represent you as a Metkayina.” 

You were unable to speak as he slowly clasped it around his wrist. He rubbed the surface of it gently, a soft smile painted his lips. “They’re beautiful, thank you… shouldn't you be making these for Txayì?” he teased, speaking in a soft voice.

You shrugged, averting your eyes, “Yes.” You felt a lump in your throat at the thought of him, the thought of your future. “What is he doing these days? I haven’t seen him around.” Lo'ak looked towards the horizon, eyes narrowing as if he could see all of the way to your village. “I would assume he was training with my father.”

Lo’ak stood up, pacing around you and softly disturbing the sand. His tail swayed, as if he was upset hearing about your future mate. You remained silent, only observing his behavior. He spoke again, his voice hushed, eyes focused on the ground. You could see the change in his demeanor, the stiffness in his shoulders, “Don’t mate with him.” 

“Not this again…” you glanced up at him, his face laced with seriousness. You pushed yourself off of the sand and gazed at him. “Why?” Lo’ak stalked forward, placing his hands on your shoulders as if to hold you in place. “You know why, lor.”

You looked up at him, swallowing hard as you felt his warm fingers grip your arms. You stared into his eyes, noticing his dark pupils slowly dilated. Your mouth turned down into a frown, tears threatening to escape your eyes. Lo’ak was giving you false hope, pretending he desired you. “That’s enough, Lo’ak.” 

You attempted to pull away, but he moved closer, trying to pull you back in. He began whispering sweet nothings towards you, his eyes as gentle as his voice. You took a step back and moved out of his grip, "Kehe! Lo’ak! You know better!” your voice trailed off, “I have been second to Tsireya my entire life. I will not be the mate you settle for just because you cannot have her!” 

His face fell, a pained expression appeared on his face as he moved to embrace you. You ignored what your heart yearned for and stalked off in the other direction. Your harsh words cut deep within Lo’ak’s flesh, leaving unseen marks on his heart. He loathed when you were upset with him, especially when he was the cause of it. Lo'ak assumed after the other night you were riding the same wave, obviously not. His tail wrapped around himself as he sat on the sand, the droplets of rain beginning to soak his hair. 

He understood the pain of being second to his sibling and never being someone’s first choice. But he had also wanted you for much longer than you realized. He’ll admit Tsireya was an amazing friend, and truly helped him learn how to be one of the people. But that was all she was to him, a friend. 

Not to mention Txayì would never be able to make you happy, he was too bland and far too perfect. You’d get bored of him after a few moon cycles and regret choosing him for the rest of his life. The thought alone was driving him insane and everyone around him knew it. 

How could he make you see him? To understand just how much he yearned for you too. That you took up the most space in his heart and head, leaving little room for any other thought. He sighed deeply, falling back onto the sand and staring up at the darkened sky. Lo’ak closed his eyes, fantasizing a future that was so close yet completely untouchable. 

To be continued….