#dead flowers fic

[alexthesillybilly]

Take my springtrap x reader angst hurt/comfort idk

You'd been checking on this...thing... for about a week now. It hadn't moved while you were there, but you'd been taking pictures of it before you left, and in every picture, it was in a different position. This thing was moving. And today you were going to figure out why.

Walking up to it and slowly crouching down beside it was the same as always. It stayed perfectly still, no sign of life or movement. But you knew it moved when you weren't there. This time, you were going to trick it. You spent the amount of time you usually did, taking notes, then taking your picture of it. You left the room shut the door, and stood by it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you were already losing your patience wondering if maybe someone else had been moving it, when you heard a noise from inside the room. A mechanical creaking sort of noise.

Perfect.

You opened the door as quickly as you could.

The animatronic was standing up. Its head whipped around towards you, its ears perking up. It made a sort of grunt noise and went perfectly still.

"I know you can move. D'you think I haven't noticed you're never in the same position?"

It looks at you, standing up taller and tilting its head, letting its ears flop to the side slightly. You took in how tall it was - inhumanly tall, even close to seven feet.

"Why wouldn't you move when I was in here?"

Its posture changed again and it looked around. It slowly motioned for you to come closer, as it sat down in the spot it usually sat. You wanted answers, so you did.

It seemed confused for a moment.

"Can you talk?"

It looked at you and tilted its head again. Sitting up a bit straighter, it lifted its head, giving a bit of a cough, followed by a sort of hum, and then nodded.

"You just don't want to?"

It nodded again. It gave a shaky robotic sounding breath, and spoke. "Hurts."

You stared at him for a second. "Oh. I'm sorry. You don't have to, then." He slumped back to the wall and relaxed.

"Should I just ask yes or no questions, or..."

He pointed at your notebook. "Write." He managed to choke out.

"Oh! Sure." You hand him your notebook and a pen. "Uh, do you mind if I ask some questions? I'm just... A little confused as to how you're so... Human-like, I guess. Behavior wise."

He threw his head back, shoulders shaking as if he was laughing.

"You didn't notice?" He writes, before setting the notebook down and lowering his legs, pointing at a rip in the suit.

There were clearly human organs in there.

"I- okay, yeah. I mean, I noticed, but I thought they were just... Really realistic fake parts."

Still laughing, he shook his head, and wrote again. "No, I'm a human inside here. Used to be."

"Used to be." You repeat. "How'd you get stuck in there?"

He paused for a moment. "Ever heard of the Springlock Failure Incidents?"

You'd heard of the accident a few times, but you'd never bothered to research it. You shrugged. "Kind of, I don't know much."

He nodded, and kept writing. "Imagine being in a mascot costume made of metal, but you move too fast and suddenly 500 tiny wires and gears and sharp metal parts puncture and crush your entire body."

You stare at him for a moment, eyes wide. "Holy shit. I'm- I'm so sorry. That's what happened to you?"

He nodded. "Twice. I escaped the suit the first time. I wasn't so lucky this time. I've been sitting in this room since it happened."

"Didn't those failures happen in, like the 80s and 90s, though?"

He tilted his head, confused. "Yes."

You stared at him again.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up with realization. "Wait," he paused, looking around, back at you, then got back to writing, "isn't it 1993?"

Oh no.

You slowly shake your head.

"19...94?"

You hold out your hand and he gives you the pen. On his paper, you write the year.

2023.

He stares at the number for a minute.

He speaks out loud again. "It's been thirty years. I-" he sets the notebook down and stands up. Talking seems to pain him even more, but he does it anyways. "I've been trapped in here for 30 years?" He stumbles and balances himself on the wall.

"Do you want me to leave?" You ask.

He shakes his head quickly, causing himself even more pain. "No- No, please-" he coughs, falling against the wall again, this time not on purpose. He covers his face with his hands. "Please don't go- not... Not yet."

"I won't, I promise." You cautiously step back towards him, and when he doesn't react, you sit down beside him.

"What was your name? I mean, when you weren't in here?" You asked, hoping to ground him again.

He shook his head and looked away.

"I wasn't a good man," he muttered.

"I doubt that. Just... Tell me. Or give me something to call you, at least. Give me a nickname you used."

He shut his eyes and laid his hands on the ground beside him. "Uh... Will." He sighed. He hesitated, and then added, "for, uh, for William."

William.

Oh.

"I... I know who you are, William."

He nodded slowly, then sunk into his corner more, head on his knees.

"You've really been in here for 30 years?"

He didn't respond.

Nervously, you softly placed your hand over his. His posture relaxed a bit. He made a sort of humming noise again.

"Talk to me. I want to know more about you."

He slightly opened his eyes, glancing at you. You started to pull your hand away, but he quickly raised his to touch you again.

"I'm sorry-" he coughed, moving his hand away. "I'm not used to contact. Not anymore."

"Hey, it's alright. Don't worry." You put your hand up against his again, this time letting your fingers intertwine with his a bit.

He leaned slightly closer, relaxing completely and shutting his eyes again.

"It's... It's gonna be okay, Will." You gently placed a hand on his face, getting a soft robotic, almost purring noise out of him. "It's okay. I've got you- I'm here now. I'm here."

That was all it took. He quickly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug, and cried.

You did the same.

[petite-phthora]

So about that dinner…

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first... murder? - part 2]

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Part 1

Ao3

---

Danny lets out a long groan as he enters his apartment.

He’s dead tired— hehe, ‘dead’ tired— due to an exhausting schoolday and having been unable to fall back asleep last night after what happened.

So sure, he might have started having a panic attack when he got back to his apartment when what he had just done had finally fully sunken in.

And he might have spiraled even more, even going as far as to try and trap himself in a Fenton thermos, thinking he was back on the path to becoming Dan.

Luckily for him, a green sticky note, left by his favorite unnecessarily cryptic mentor, appeared.

It let him know that he is no more on the path to becoming Dan than prior to the incident and that the actions he had taken that night, while vexatious, were necessary for the betterment of the timeline.

Whatever that means.

By the time he had come to terms with his actions enough to stop spiraling and remember that he has school soon. He checked the time, noticing that he only had a few minutes left until his next class started.

Which meant he had to sprint to his classes and start the day off already tired and emotionally drained. He hadn’t even been able to at least get a coffee beforehand. And so he spent the rest of the day fighting to stay awake during his lessons, sporting eye bags big enough to carry the weight of his sins.

Danny glances at the space-themed clock on the wall that Jazz had gotten him as a housewarming gift. 6 pm. He should probably get started on dinner.

Deciding to go with something simple, as he simply does not have the energy for anything fancy right now, Danny opens the cupboard and grabs the first thing he sees: a box of mac n cheese. Danny rubs his eyes and squints at the box, trying to read the instructions when he gets interrupted by a knock.

…

On his window.

…

Danny turns around to see Red Hood at his window, outside of his 3rd-floor apartment. He pauses before shrugging it off. Stranger things have happened. He sets the box down and makes his way over to the window. He opens the window once he reaches it, only to come face to face with a bouquet of sweet peas, the colors ranging from white and pink to lavender.

Oh, those are his favorite.

He gingerly takes the flowers before looking over the top of the bouquet at the person who handed them to him. Ah, yes. The crime lord. Who had seen him commit murder.

Danny stares at him, debating on whether he should ask him what he’s doing here or thank him for the flowers. Red Hood speaks up before Danny can make a decision.

“So about that dinner… ” He trails off, tone laced with hope and a slight nervousness.

“Right.” Danny nods with understanding, despite not having a clue what Red Hood was talking about, his joke the night before having slipped from his mind.

“I’ve got the entire night planned out for us. First, we’ll have dinner at Pete’s. They recently rebuilt and they have this amazing cannoli, you have to try it sometime.

“And then after dinner, we’ll go to the Gotham Observatory—“

Danny, not even questioning how the crime lord found out where he lives and that he loves space, cuts him off in excitement.

“Wait! Isn’t that the one with the crystal powered telescope?”

Red Hood nods and holds out a hand to him expectantly.

Danny stares at the hand for a moment before shrugging, setting the flowers down on a table, and taking the offered hand. He lets Red Hood lead him out of his own window.

Once Red Hood has helped him down to the ground and led him to his motorcycle, it dawns on Danny he’s going on a date(?) with a known crime lord— or wasn’t it former crime lord now?

Well, who was Danny to refuse a trip to the observatory and some good cannoli?

Who knows, he might even get a new boyfriend out of it.

---

Red Hood takes his helmet off and sets it down on the table between them so he can eat.

Danny tries not to stare too much but damn, he’s handsome, even if he’s still wearing the mask.

Danny takes a bite of his food to try and distract himself, idly noting that ohhh, this is some good spaghetti. He'll have to try the cannoli if it's as good as their pasta.

Red Hood is the one to start the conversation.

“Hey, so, since we didn’t get to talk more last night, I still wanted to thank you for your service to the city”

“My what?”

“I’ve been wanting to kill that insane clown for years now.” Red Hood continues.

“And while I’m a little disappointed that I didn’t get to end his miserable existence myself, I’m so glad he’s finally gone. So, thank you” he says, looking Danny right in the eye with an earnest expression.

Feeling a mix of flustered at the heavy gaze that’s on him, and confused by the other’s words, Danny stammers out a bewildered “You’re… welcome?”

Red Hood nods at him before continuing.

“And you don’t have to worry about others finding out if you don’t want them to. I ain’t a snitch, and I’ll try to keep the Bats off your back the best I can.”

Danny gives him a nod in gratitude.

“Though honestly, I’d doubt you’d have to deal with much trouble even if people did know it was you who got rid of him.

“The Joker has done a lot of horrid shit and caused a lot of grief for Gotham over the years. He’s had it coming for a long time now, so don’t even feel too bad about it. It might even become a local holiday when his death comes out!”

However, something Red Hood had said stood out to Danny. He stiffens before blurting something out in a tone that sounded even more panicked than when he accidentally killed the clown.

“THAT CLOWN I PUNCHED WAS THE JOKER?!”

[hood-ex]

@dustorange I'm forever going to think about how Thomas kept fresh flowers on Dick's grave, but he neglected Bruce's grave, leaving his vase full of rain water and dead flowers.

That makes what Alfred said in Justice League #23.4 hit so much harder.

"Thomas never found what he was looking for on our earth. He never found the brother he'd always wanted. The brother he knew Bruce could never be. But Dick nearly was."

And even though Thomas initially tried to blame Dick for his own death ("Dick got himself caught. This is his fault."), Alfred believed Thomas felt guilt over his inability to save Dick.

So the flowers on Dick's grave feel like a gesture of respect, affection, remembrance, and an apology all rolled into one.

[helpimstuckposting]

I’m a ghost and you are a shadow

Part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part six | part seven | part eight | part nine | part ten | part eleven

—

They made their way back to the Harrington house in relative quiet. Steve didn’t feel as panicked as he had that morning thanks to the talk he'd had with Eddie. Though, whatever reaction the gate had to Steve was… concerning to say the least.

He felt grimy and sweaty as he trudged through the last few trees and into his backyard. Wearing the same clothes two days in a row wasn’t Steve’s best idea. He was glad no one had commented on it, though he was a bit surprised even Mike hadn’t said anything. He kicked off his muddy shoes at the back door, following the rest of the Jabberwocks into the house.

Yesterday he had felt too weird about going through OtherSteve’s closet, though right now he just felt kind of desperate to change. The others congregated on the couches in the living room while Steve headed straight for the stairs, calling out that he’d change and be right back down. It would be a bit before the rest of the party joined them anyway.

He felt a little more comfortable in the house on his second day, a little less worried that OtherSteve would pop out like some cosmic entity and scold him for the intrusion. It still didn’t feel like he belonged, would take a while for that to happen — if he even got the chance — and Steve was only just beginning to imagine himself staying long enough for that to happen. If Eddie was right, if they figured out a way for him to stay, if he didn’t have to leave, his life would be so different. Maybe he could be okay again.

He walked into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him, and made his way over to the closet. It was a simple wooden door, nothing fancy, not even a mirror hanging from the frame.

He paused when he opened it, unsure of what he was really seeing at that moment. Half of the closet was full of henleys and soft-looking cable knit sweaters, light colored t-shirts and various colored jackets he’d expected from basically his own closet, but the other half was clad in leather and ripped black tank tops, band tees and torn jeans. It looked like Eddie’s clothes. It looked like Eddie lived here.

Did Eddie keep clothes in Steve’s closet? Why? He looked back over his shoulder at the wall of posters full of bands he didn’t know, eyes flitting back and forth between the few posters with names he’d recognized before, the bands from Eddie’s battle jacket.

Was this actually Eddie’s room? But then why didn’t Eddie tell him, force Steve into one of the other spare rooms last night instead of taking one for himself? He clearly knew this was the room Steve expected to be in. There were also trinkets that definitely belonged to Steve on the desk and nightstand, and half the closet were clothes Eddie would never touch, let alone wear in public.

Steve stepped dazedly into the small space, thoughts running around in confused tangles of yarn that weren’t quite connecting. He thought back to the photos on the kitchen wall with Steve and Eddie wrapped around each other, and the countless times since he woke up here yesterday morning where Eddie looked at him like something was missing, like he was thinking of something specific that Steve couldn’t put his finger on.

If Eddie had simply moved into the Harrington house for some reason, that still didn’t explain why this room seemed to be half his, like they shared it. It just… well, Steve wasn’t stupid, he was there when Eddie had come out to him just that morning, he knew what this room and these things implied. Everything here pointed to a life lived together, but Steve was straight as far as he knew so could that be right? Sure, Eddie was comfortable to be around no matter which universe he was in. He was… gentle, despite his loud demeanor, and he was good at quieting the bad thoughts rattling around in Steve’s mind.

Even throughout their first stint in the Upside Down together, a brush of their sides or a squeeze to the shoulder, the soft dimpled smile Eddie had tossed his way, it all settled something in Steve’s chest. He’d thought this Eddie and Steve were closer, really close judging by the way Eddie had disappeared the day before but this was more than he’d ever expected. Was it even possible? Was Steve just reading into things?

Slowly, he reached out to touch a leather sleeve in front of him. It was soft, worn. He thought about today in the woods, how he kept focusing on Eddie’s lips, how he remembered doing that before, too. How often had he been sneaking those glances? Even without realizing?

Steve brought the sleeve to his nose, slowly breathing in the scent of tobacco and leather, and hints of the cologne Eddie sometimes sprayed when he remembered. This was definitely Eddie’s stuff, no doubt in Steve’s mind. This single closet smelled more like home than Steve’s whole house ever did, and maybe that meant he and Eddie weren’t so out-of-left-field as he’d thought.

He stepped back, letting the sleeve drop and opening his eyes. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed them. He’d ask Eddie about this tonight, after the party left and they were alone. For now, Steve turned to the other side of the closet and swapped his shirt for a Hawkins high school band sweatshirt and a pair of gray sweatpants. If they were about to have another planning session that could change Steve’s life, he might as well be comfortable.

He tossed the dirty clothes into a hamper at the back of the closet and turned to leave, his eye catching briefly on a lone shoebox sitting on the top shelf. It was on Steve’s side of the closet, sitting among what he assumed were just boxes of clutter. It would be easily overlooked, a shoebox in a closet, but Steve had the same exact one in his own closet.

It was an old box, weathered at the corners but still sturdy. He’d put every happy thing inside of it; his favorite movie tickets, the yoyo his nanny bought him for his seventh birthday, a pressed flower from his first boutonniere. He’d put photos of him and Nancy inside, some sparkly rocks that Robin had just placed in his hand and called pretty, one of the miniatures the kids had painted and left in his living room one day. Little things. Things that mattered. It’s the box he would grab if the house caught fire.

Hesitantly, he stepped forward and tugged the closet door closed, arms reaching out to grab the box from the shelf before he had even made up his mind. He shouldn’t look. He really shouldn’t look, he didn’t have the right to. But… he was Steve. He should know the kind of life he could have had, he should know what kind of things he’d find important or meaningful. Right?

He took the lid off the box.

It was full of trinkets, just like he'd expected, but the stories they told were of a different life. Instead of a yoyo, there was a little book of nursery songs for beginners to play on the saxophone. There were three miniatures instead of one, painted in matching color palettes. He found more sparkly rocks, different than his own, and friendship bracelets made from chunky beads.

In the corner of the box, tucked away neatly, was a small, clear container with polaroids inside. Steve turned his back to the closet door and slid down it, setting the box in his lap as he hunched over to look.

He picked up the little container with both hands, sliding the pictures out with care. They were just like the photos in the kitchen, of trips to the beach and sleepovers, of pool parties and birthdays. The party in various groups showed up, Robin was in most of them. Eddie was in every single one.

He and Steve stood close, draped over each other or with faces squished together. In some, they were looking directly at the camera or making faces. In others, they looked at each other. There were pictures where Eddie looked at the camera while Steve looked at him, and Steve… Steve looked at him like he hung the moon. Like the sun rose and fell only to see him, like the stars themselves couldn't shine as brightly. Like every other cliche that’s been written and sung and professed about since the dawn of time.

Steve had never looked at anyone that way. Nancy was right, he was just bullshit. Is that how she felt with Jonathan? Is that how it’s supposed to feel?

He traced his own expression, completely enamored. How many times had the Steve of this world sat right here, holding these pictures, seeing the way he looked at Eddie? Did they look at these pictures together? What did it feel like to wear that expression? It was hard to look away, to pull himself from the trance his own face had him in, but there was one more picture and when Steve saw it, it was like the world stopped around him.

They were kissing. He and Eddie. They were kissing. Steve's hand was threaded in Eddie's hair, the brown tendrils curling through his fingertips. Their eyes were closed, fully immersed in the other, lips together in what was definitely not a chaste kiss.

As he stared, he couldn’t help but wonder what Eddie’s lips tasted like, what they felt like to be pressed against his. Eddie knew what they tasted like, knew what he tasted like. Steve wondered if he thought of that every time they locked eyes. Was Eddie the type to kiss fast and hard? Would he push forward with the confidence of all his tabletop lunchroom rants? Would he press hard like he stamped his combat boots into the dirt?

Or did he kiss soft? Soft like the way Steve’s eyes looked in the previous pictures. Soft like the sunset over lovers lake, soft as the tendrils of hair OtherSteves fingers carded through as they kissed.

Steve squeezed his eyes together to stop the burning. He shoved the stack of pictures back into the small container, shoved the image to the back of his mind, too. The Steve in those pictures was dead. The man who looked at Eddie with stars in his eyes was dead. He shouldn’t be thinking about Eddie like that, it had only been six months, he couldn’t image what he was going through, how much Steve’s presence was fucking with him. No wonder he spent the whole first day avoiding Steve, he’s surprised Eddie had spoken to him at all.

He sighed, breath pushing through his lips in a shuddered rush while he tried to pretend his heart wasn’t clawing its way up his throat. Steve carded his fingers through his hair, shoving it out of his face. He reached out to put the Polaroids back into the box and paused. In the crowded corner he’d pulled the pictures from, there was another box. It was small and black, just a cardboard box with a lid, and it was just small enough for the Polaroids to cover up. Or to hide?

He swallowed, suddenly his mouth was too dry. He shouldn’t look. If OtherSteve was hiding it, he shouldn’t look. He shouldn’t be looking at any of this.

He reached out to it, fingers tracing over the plain black lid.

“Steve!” Robins voice shouted from the staircase landing.

He jumped, choking on the heart in his throat and worried that Robin would burst into the room to find him snooping, but no further noises wandered toward his ears. He quickly shoved the Polaroids back into the box, refusing to look at the little black box he just covered back up.

“Just a second!” He called out, carefully putting the shoebox back on the top shelf, hoping it looked like he hadn’t touched it at all.

Robin was waiting for him at the bottom landing of the staircase. The second he looked her in the eye, Steve could tell she was desperately trying to seem casually uninterested. She leaned against the banister, eyes trying to cling to his own but she kept taking glances at his sweatshirt. She knew. She knew he went into the closet, that he saw Eddie’s half. He kept eye contact, knew she would crack eventually, especially as she fidgeted more and more.

She glanced past the stairs, into the living room before darting her eyes back to Steve’s, then the door behind her. The other two groups would be back any minute.

She stepped forward, dropping the façade of ignorance, and put a hand on his arm.

“Ask him when the kids leave, okay?” she whispered, glancing down at the sweatshirt again. He nodded. He’d ask tonight, when the house was cleared and silent, and they were wrapped in the compelling embrace of the darkness. It was always easier to speak honestly at night, whether it was the calm brought by the silence or the dark that obscured your vision, it didn’t feel as vulnerable. It felt safe, like the darkness itself could keep your secrets. He’d wait until then to talk to Eddie.

—

More midnight talks on the horizon for our boys, but next up is figuring out what the fuck that weird tree is doing

@devondespresso @weirdandabsurd42 @sirsnacksalot @space-invading-pigeon @aliea82 @goodolefashionedloverboi @emly03 @bestwifehaver @mentallyundone @13catastrophic-blues @estrellami-1 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @likelylad @aellafreya @wxrmland @shunna @fangirltofangod @howincrediblysapphicofyou @1-8oo-wtfbro @grimmfitzz

[rockcattomato]

The good thing about the life series is that anyone can have angst if you want them to <3

[imalazypandaaa]

Starting Chapter 7 of my superhero Au (Born Ready) and I opened the doc to the biggest word count jumpscare of all time-

(Sneak peak at part of the new chapter as well 👀)

24324 words?! I've never written that much in my life! Jesus!

[jiang-yanli-s-soup]

FLOWER GODDESS XIE LIAN AND HER LITTLE FOX

Part ~ 2/2

Hua Cheng had tried to find Xie Lian, running around places to places, forests, mountains, streets, fountains, she couldn't find her.

She knew Xie Lian would be grief stricken, and scared of the monster coming back. But she didn't know her goddess's cultivation had been decreasing since that day and she got weaker each day. Until she turned into a flower garden herself.

The pet white snake she had when she had nothing had become the sole guardian of the garden and had been keeping her safe and hidden from the world. Before turning, Xie Lian had made a little fox out soil, leaves and red flowers, had kept it close to her chest until her last.

The guardian snake, or Ruoye, as Xie Lian called, kept the tiny fox at the hearth of garden, knowing Xie Lian would've want it.

Hua Cheng had passed the garden who knows how many times, sometimes stopped to admire the white flowers, so similar to her goddess, pure and full of sweet fragrance.

Ruoye remembered her eyes, so much like the tiny fox, the longing look and constant ramblings describing a kind beauty. Ruoye still didn't let her enter the garden though, it takes too much effort to trust someone again, therefore created an illusion of a simple bush full of white flowers, but Hua Cheng still came, every day at least once.

It took 800 years of oblivion for Xie Lian to have a form. She opened her eyes, found herself surrounded by white flowers. The first thing Xie Lian noticed that how lone and colorless the flowers are. She wanted to paint them, she wanted them crimson.

Her body is still a bit incorporeal, glowing with faint light. She hugged Ruoye as soon as it jumped on her. But in excitement, Ruoye forgot to recreate the charm over the place. And so, when Hua Cheng came, she had found Xie Lian, her goddess, the one she's been aching for, there, sitting in a garden, painting white flower petals one by one into crimson red, a stark white snake on her lap.

And Hua Cheng...

She cannot describe in words how she was feeling. Centuries, it's been centuries since she'd seen her. She never admitted the absolute fear she had that she had lost her forever. She was so used to just hoping and dreaming that she had forgotten to decide how would she react IF, If she really found her.

And now she had.

She still couldn't be sure if she's only hallucinating or dreaming again. Maybe she is, and she's not brave enough to check if she's wrong.

But she didn't want to lose her only chance.. What if.. What if it is all real?

What if she's really here, the place she's been visiting everyday to take rest, to take a break from all the running, and searching the earth to bits, to reminiscent the days in her arms.

She held back the overwhelming emotions and the tears threatening to flow.

She approached.

[tsugarubecker]

As a fanfic author, I really love getting comments. I literally turn into the *sobbing, gently holds* emoji when I get one & cry over it. Thank you to folks who comment 🥰

It can be hard tho. What do I say?? How do I show this person I loved their fic??

Here’s a template! 💕

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THIS FIC THO!!! So good! I loved it, thank you for writing!! My god we are all blessed.

Here are <2-5> of my favorite quotes: <list them>. <Bonus: Give reasons why>

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Thanks for writing!!

[reaveries]

▬  an admiration for perennials

summary: arthur meets a woman with an affinity for cliff maids

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan pov x female!reader

warnings: sad introspective arthur, sh*t word (:o), mention of mary, dying from flu, pollen (?? this thing is so fluffy, i'm grasping for straws here)

word count: 6.2k (estimated 26-minute reading time)

a/n: i have proofread this piece so.. many.... times... i'm so ready to finally publish it and get it the eff away from me. i hope y'all like it, i'm really happy with how it turned out! (i think, i can't tell anymore). i have a part two outline in the works so if you'd like to see that, please let me know by interacting w/ the post! also, this is categorized as a reader/self-insert but at one point there is very brief character description. i try to keep that to an absolute minimum and leave it generally gray enough to remain a self-insert fic. if that bothers you, i'm sorry, just overlook it! anyways, njoy, pardners <3

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 1/5/2024.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the harshness of the warm smoke enter his chest with ease. The cigarette had nearly met its end, so he knew it was getting to be that time. He jabs it into the ashtray along with the ashes from all the other bargoers and bids the barkeep a good night, leaving some change for his good company.

Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't found the solace he was searching for in the homely saloon. He’d filled himself to the brim with watered-down beer and a few shots of whiskey when he felt especially plagued by his thoughts. But as he pushes open the swinging doors and steps into the cool night air, his head still swarms with a myriad of upsetting things. 

His life is a complicated mess, though part of him knew it always had been. It just wasn’t until recently that he realized how unnecessary it was for it to be such. On the same street where he currently stands, he’d been responsible for putting lead in the heads of countless men a few weeks prior. He didn't even know their names, and he surely doesn't remember their faces. It was a wholly avoidable disaster. Not to say he’s bothered by the act of killing, for when he finds it justified to end a man’s life, there’s often no reason to dawdle. No, the mess of it all perturbed him the most. 

Undeniably, the land he calls home is becoming a different entity than the one he was born into, a land of law and structure that spits upon his way of life. The West is becoming a docile place, its wildness broken by the cracking whip of civilization. And if the West can’t survive, then all hope is lost for men like him. The only logical step to ensure that he, and the people he cares for, won’t meet their fates at the end of a rope is to adapt to this changing world. This meant mess would have to be a thing of the past. No more massacres over stolen oil wagons and certainly not wiping out an entire town to free a man he didn’t care for from a cell he belonged in. No more innocent bystanders gruesomely losing their lives over foolishly shallow plans like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. No more lives need to be taken for his benefit or the ambitions of the man who guided him. Somehow though, that man didn’t see things the way he did.

Whenever he brought up these concerns, Dutch always told him, “Don’t be so simple-minded, Arthur. Look at the bigger picture.” 

But the bigger picture was all he could see, and it was a terrifying sight.

His heels sink into the damp earth as he makes his way to Saint’s Hotel, crossing his fingers that a room is available for the night. He made the mistake of riding his horse with a stomach full of liquor before, and somehow it almost ended up with him drowning. How he ended up sopping wet and his horse dry as a bone is still a mystery to him. So, a room at Saint's is in order since he doesn’t particularly care to die tonight, even despite the pervasive thoughts that plague him.

Just as he’s about to step onto the hotel’s wooden porch, he hears a loud banging noise come from behind him. He turns around and, in the darkness of night, sees a woman knocking on the front door of the general store across the street. She raps her knuckles a second time against the door, just as loud as the first. The door opens and out steps the store owner, looking irritated.

“Hi, I know you’re about to close, but I’ll just be a second, I promise!” She says this with her hands clasped together.

“Alright, alright. Come on in,” the man says, stepping aside so she can enter.

As the woman moves past the older man, light from inside the store hits her, and he can see her more clearly. She’s dressed simply with her hair loosely pulled back into a plait that falls past her shoulders. These things are ordinary enough, but then the light catches on a dainty pink flower tucked behind her ear on the left side.

He stops in his tracks.

It looks identical to the one he keeps at his bedside, a memento of his mother. However, those flowers, cliff maids, he thinks they’re called, only grow out west in the rocky terrain bordering Oregon and California. He’s a long way from California and possibly even further from a level head, so he dismisses the possibility, chalking it up to the delusions of a drunken old man.

He heads into the hotel, and thankfully a room is available, the same one as always. He closes the door behind him and starts fumbling with his gear, letting it hit the floor haphazardly in a heap. As he stumbles over to the bed, he regretfully catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He usually tries to avoid looking at himself unless it’s absolutely necessary. Simply put, he doesn’t like the look of the man who stares back at him. There’s a residual yellow blotch fading away on his cheekbone from a dust-up he’d been in a few days prior. He doesn’t even remember the reason. His shoulder-length hair has tangles he’s had no energy to comb through, and his eyes are lidded for want of sleep. They have a far-out look even when he’s staring right at himself. 

“Maybe it’s you that’s the mess,” he mumbles, then gives way to his exhaustion and collapses against the mattress. His boots, spurs and all, remain on his feet. So remain his worn trousers and unbuttoned maroon shirt, and so does the dirt caked beneath his nails that never seems to leave. 

He checks out of his room early the following day and rides out beneath a sky as golden as dandelions. His mind feels clearer after a night’s rest, and he thankfully doesn’t feel as dreadful as he did when his head hit the pillows. Dew hangs in the chilled air and mists his face as he takes the beaten winding path leading back to Clemen’s Point, this new place his people called home. As he rides, he passes by some cottages and homesteads a ways off the path. He can recall the inside layout of a few of them, and even which ones filled his pockets the most back when he first arrived in the Heartlands.

Tall, thick-bodied oak trees loom over him and dance in the morning breeze. The way the sunlight flickers through them is beautiful but unfamiliar. It quickly becomes apparent that he’s taken the wrong path somewhere along the way, but just when he’s about to wheel his horse around and turn back, there lies a cottage beyond the tree line. 

It’s a quaint wooden home with a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney. In the window of the cottage sits a vase of pink flowers. The closer he rides, the more confident he is that they’re cliff maids. There must be at least twenty stems in that one vase.

“I’ll be damned….” He says under his breath.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of a woman grunting coming from the side of the home. He presses his heels to his horse’s belly and trots toward the noise source. When he turns the corner of the house, he sees her, the woman he saw last night, pushing a wheelbarrow spilling over with dirt. She attempts to use her weight against the handle, but it hardly makes a difference, and the wheelbarrow doesn’t budge.

He clears his throat to make his presence known to the woman.

“Jesus Christ!” She yelps and turns to face him, shocked to see she has company.

“Didn’t mean to frighten ya. D’ya need any help, ma’am?” He asks.

She looks him over with caution.

“Uh, I’m alright, thanks,” she says slowly, her brows warily drawn together.

Arthur nods his head with a tight-lipped smile and pulls the reins to head back to where he came from. He considers asking her about the flowers in the window but disregards it seeing as she doesn’t seem to care for company. As he begins back down the path, he hears a clattering noise and the sound of the woman cursing.

“Hey, mister!” She shouts. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing with her hands on her hips and the wheelbarrow completely turned over, the dark soil spilling out onto the ground.

“I take that back.” She says with her head cocked to the side and a bashful smile.

He lightly chuckles at the sight and rides over, swiftly dismounting from his horse a few feet from the mild disaster.

“Could you help me scoop it back in?” She asks as she goes to the front of the wheelbarrow and picks up the dirt with yellow gloves.

“Sure,” he says, kneeling beside her. His hands are perpetually dirty as it is, so a little more filth couldn’t hurt. As he helps her pile the dirt back into the cart, he notices she smells earthy and sweet, reminiscent of the air before a storm.

“Alright,” she says, standing up and brushing her dirty gloves against her smock. “Would you mind wheelin’ it for me?”

He moves to grab the handles and pushes them down with ease so that the wheelbarrow can roll properly. 

“What’s all this dirt for anyways?” He asks the woman walking beside him.

“Just a project I’m working on. It’s back behind here, mister.” She points to the rear of the cottage, which quickly becomes dense with plant life the further they step. 

She crosses her arms over her chest as they enter the more secluded area.

“Don’t get any funny ideas, alright?” She says, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.

He furrows his brows at the slight, but he can’t deny it makes sense she’s thinking that way. He looks the part of someone with foul intentions. The brim of his hat darkens his eyes, which would normally obscure them from anyone else. But, given that he's a head taller than the woman, she sees their darkness fine. He internally curses himself when he remembers he's wearing the one jacket stained with animal blood. It's still smeared dark brown across his shoulder. Of course, he looks like a damn menace. To top it all off, the rifle slung on his back casts a long shadow across her cheek like some twisted reminder of who he is, lest a single act of kindness threatens he forgets. 

He glances at her with a small smile that raises up on one side more than the other.

“Most of my ideas are funny, ma’am. But I ain’t gonna hurt you if that’s what you mean.”

Her shoulders drop from their tense position as she lets out a half-hearted laugh.

“I’ll take your word for it, mister,” she says, slightly more relaxed than before.

The grass starts to reach his knees, and all along the path are bushes and fruit-bearing shrubs with dangling under-ripe berries. Various species of flowers grow throughout the backyard in no organized manner, like they’d been living here long before anyone else. White bark trees stand tall amidst the entropic garden. Dark moss creeps up their trunks, and instead of leaves, canopies of draping blossoms erupt from the branches like something out of a storybook. They hang limply in the air, and when the wind tugs on them, they sway in synchronization while their blossoms flutter away in the breeze. It’s all so beautiful. He’s never seen an abundance of such natural beauty in all his life.

“Is this all yours?” He asks, turning to the lady with a near slack-jawed expression. 

“It is now,” she says, nodding her head. “My mama used to care for it, as did her mama before her. But uh- well, the flu took my mama a few years back, and as fate would have it, now my grandma’s flame is startin’ to flicker too. So it’s left to me to care for all this.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he responds. Her voice sounds sad, and it reminds him somewhat of Ms. Adler, the widow staying with them for the time being.

“It’s okay,” she says, waving him off. “Sometimes in the darkness, there’s light, and this is definitely the light. I get to care for this thing, and in a way, it cares for me too. Gives me purpose, ya know?”

“S’Good to have somethin’ that makes you feel that way. Lord knows most people don’t.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Oh! I’ll hold the door open for ya.” She leaves his side and jogs ahead of him.

“Door? What door?” Arthur looks around, but he sees nothing but trees and plants.

Suddenly, she reveals an entrance blocked by the tall grass, and he realizes that a small building made entirely of glass is right before him. It camouflaged against the greenery and the vines that drape across it. Now that the door is ajar, he sees inside plants of all kinds strewn about in terracotta pots and deep soil beds.

“What in the….” He begins to say but trails off, caught off guard by the unexpected reveal.

A sort of giddiness takes her when she sees his expression, and she waves her hand excitedly to usher him inside. 

“Come in! Come in!” 

He rolls the wheelbarrow inside the structure, and once again, he’s greeted by the humble beauty of the natural world. Leaves spill out of pots hanging from the rafters, creating curtains that brush against him as he passes through. She gently closes the door behind him, and the air starts to feel thicker, heavier, like he’s being swaddled in a damp blanket.

The pots each have their own label, but the writing is so messy that he can hardly make out the names. Of the ones he can read, he recognizes names such as Sparrow’s Egg, Clamshell, and Dragon’s Mouth. They’re exotic flowers that the corset man in Saint Denis once asked him to collect, but he never got around to doing it. If only he had enough time to frolic through fields and pluck orchids. He’d prefer that over the menial errands he’s been consumed by as of late.

“Back here!” The woman shouts.

He can’t see her behind the tall plant-filled shelves that take up the center of the room, so he pushes past the vines and turns the corner to see her standing next to an empty plant bed. She looks at him expectantly because his task is clearly to dump the soil. But his mind is elsewhere. Behind her is another plant bed. This one is full and brimming with cliff maids so densely packed that he can hardly see the soil they’re in. He’s never seen so many of these flowers in one place. Whenever he found one in the wild, it was usually nestled between two rocks and sprouted three or four blooms. They weren’t nearly as impressive as the ones infront of him.

“What is it?” She asks when he remains in his spot. She follows his gaze and gasps.

“Why, are you a gardener too, mister?” Her voice gets high with excitement.

“Who, me?” He laughs. “No, ma’am. I’m no gardener. I’d make for a pretty awful one seein’ as I’m not too good at keepin’ things alive.”

“Oh, forgive me. I just- you seemed interested in the perennials. Most people aren’t, considerin’ how unassuming they look. Pretty things but nothing outwardly special about ‘em.” She moves towards the tall blossoms and reaches out her hand to stroke the petals. 

“You know, they don’t like it here,” she continues. “They like the sun, which would be easy enough if they liked the heat that came with it, but no, it’s the cool shade of cliffs and rocks they like. These little blooms aren’t easy to care for, but if you can figure it out, they’ll live all through the years. That’s what perennial means, after all. Anyways, these guys are my favorite. I think it’s cause they give me such a hard time.”

She twiddled with the petals between her fingers as she rambled about the flowers. When she finally looks back at him, it’s like she has stars twinkling in her eyes. There’s a new liveliness about her, something that sparked when she was given room to air out her affinity for the pink blossoms. Arthur stands there, attempting to wrap his mind around the unlikely chance of finding someone who holds this particular flower as close to their heart as he does. He doesn't notice his aforementioned heart beating a little faster in his chest.

“I- I like ‘em too.” The words clumsily stumble from his mouth when he realizes she’s waiting for him to speak. He quickly gathers himself. 

“I mean, it was my ma that liked ‘em, but I guess she sorta rubbed off on me. They're pretty little things.”

“You’re kiddin’... what are the odds?” 

He can tell she’s thinking about something during the half-beat of silence that follows, but he can’t find any hint of what it is when he searches her face.

“I never got your name, mister,” she says abruptly.

“Arthur,” he says. “Just Arthur.”

“What, you ain’t got a last name, Just Arthur?” She laughs.

He considers telling her his real name but quickly dismisses it. On the off-chance she recognizes it from the bounty posters, it would mean that whatever was happening here would come to an unfortunate end. Of course, no harm would befall her, but he’d have to leave and go right back to his mess of a life. He’d rather stay here, in the sanctity of the greenhouse, with this person he strangely feels like he was meant to meet. 

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were on a full name basis, ma’am,” he says flippantly, but he can’t help the smile that forms when she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Well, Arthur, you have good taste,” she says playfully, but her gaze falls to the wheelbarrow he’s still holding, and her eyes widen. “Oh, that must be heavy. I talked so long, I forgot you still had that. Go ahead and pour it into that empty bed right there.” She gestures with a quick wave of her hand.

He looks down at the wheelbarrow he also forgot he was holding and does as she says, tilting the lip of it into the wooden frame and letting the soil spill out. 

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder before leading him out of the greenhouse. They step back outside, and the cool air is a welcome feeling. He props the wheelbarrow against the wall of the structure while she shuts the door behind her.

“Thank you again. I would’ve had a much harder time without you there,” she says.

He wipes his soiled hands on the front of his jeans and opens his mouth to speak, but when he looks at her, she’s already looking at him with a gaze sweet as honey. It makes his breath catch in his chest. Not many women have looked at him like that before, and hardly any were as easy on the eyes as her. A thread of sunlight catches her eyes and reveals faint traces of amber, like sap spilling from the source. Her long lashes flutter when she blinks, and they rest against the soft edge of her brow as she looks up at him. Her hair, woven into a braid, is loose, disheveled like she’d slept in it. Stray strands feather around her jaw and frame the angles of her face, not unlike ornate golden borders that surround paintings in a gallery.

He clears his throat upon realizing he’s been gawking at the poor woman like some boyish fool.

“Ah, it was nothin',” he says, directing his attention elsewhere as heat creeps up his cheeks. 

A dragonfly jitters down from above and lands on the stem of some thyme growing over a narrow creek. Water trickles over smooth stones into a basin where leaves float along the surface. Some of them sprout delicate white flowers that open up to the sky. A thought comes to him as he looks at them.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would it be alright if I draw a picture of this place?” He asks. He’s never had to ask anyone permission for this sort of thing before; it felt unnatural. But it certainly would’ve been more so if he’d asked her what he really wanted, which was to draw her alongside it.

She tilts her head and looks up at him curiously.

“How charming…” She says, then ponders it for a second. “I don’t mind as long as you let me see it after.”

He chuckles, “Alright, just don’t make fun of it.”

“I would never!” She says, feigning indignance. “My mama taught me manners, Arthur! That means if it’s bad, I’ll just make fun of it in my head. Now go do your thing. I also have some work to do.”

She waves him off with a smile and steps back inside the greenhouse, closing the door behind her. He lets out a sigh, the tight feeling in his chest relinquishing now that he’s finally alone. He walks over to a bench along the path and sits down, taking his journal from his satchel and flipping to a new blank page. Before him, tall pink flowers that smell of vanilla cast long, dark shadows over the smaller flowering shrubs surrounding them. If they weren’t so dainty looking, their height and the size of their leaves would give the impression they own the place. He gives them the most detail in his drawing. Then he starts to etch the dirt path, adding the indentation the wheel of the wheelbarrow had left behind and the imprint of the woman’s footprints next to his. Just as he finishes up the sketch, adding minute details in the leaves, he hears light footfall behind him.

On instinct, his hand moves to hover above his holster, but once he sees what’s behind him, he feels ridiculous for it.

“Hey,” she says quietly, a sheepish smile on her face. She holds nearly a dozen cliff maids in her hands, stems clipped and bound together with a thread of twine.

“I thought you might like to have these.”

He looks at her for a moment, unsure what to do or say. She’s giving him flowers. No one has ever given him flowers before. That was usually something a man might do if he were sweet on a lady, a gesture shared between lovers. But maybe for a woman who spends all day surrounded by them, it must not have the same romantic meaning he knows it does.

“Those are for me?” He asks. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

She nods. “If you want.”

The talkative woman from earlier seems to have been replaced by someone different entirely, her sentences suddenly simple and sweet. He also struggles to find the right words.

“That’s too kind of you. Truly.” He reaches out to take them, and she places the bundle gingerly in his hands. 

His hold is gentle for fear he’d snap the stems if not careful. He knows he has to look a little silly. A man as rough around the edges as himself, with ammunition draped across his chest and pistols hanging at his hips, holding an overflowing bouquet of pink blossoms as a gift from a lady. If Dutch could see him now, he’d tell him he lost his edge. But if this is what it feels like to have gone soft, then he doesn't mind that much. The warmth in his chest is too comforting a feeling to let go of.

Her sudden gasp brings him out of his head.

“Is that the drawing?!” She points at the journal lying open on the bench. There’s no time to answer before she reaches over the seat to hold the leatherbound book in her hands.

“Wow… I- you captured it perfectly,” she says, her mouth slightly hanging in awe. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“You’re just minding your manners.”

She lightly thwacks him on the arm.

“You’d know if I was, I’m not a good liar. No, this is something special.”

He hardly knows a thing about this woman, and yet for some reason, her songs of praise feel so good that he wants to make ten more drawings. Hell, he’ll move as much dirt as she wants if it means she’ll look at him the way she is now each time. As her eyes flit between him and the sketch, he feels a fondness growing that he could’ve never anticipated when he first laid eyes on her. God, he almost feels like a boy again. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in ages since he was last with Mary. Though, admittedly those feelings were guided by something less innocent than what he feels right now. What’s happening to him?

She clasps her hands together and takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Arthur, would you, um- would you like something to drink before you head out?” She asks. “I have just about anything.”

Without giving it much thought, he opens his mouth to answer, but a ringing noise sounds before the words can come out. It’s a clear jingling sound of a bell, and it’s coming from the house. 

“Oh, never mind. It seems like my grandmother needs me,” she sighs and hands back his journal. “Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” he agrees with a thin smile, deflating slightly at the abrupt goodbye.

She walks briskly to the back door and slips inside the house, the door swinging shut loudly behind her. He approaches his horse he’d left hitched to the woman’s front porch and goes to find a place to secure the flowers. As he’s slipping them through a notch on the saddle, the front door flies open.

She steps out, looking grateful he hasn’t left yet.

“Hey!” She calls out to him. She stands at the edge of the top step with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes from the sun.

“I’m sure you know already, but those can only last so long now that they’re cut. Perennials live all through the years but only when they’re planted,” she says, shifting her weight on the step.

Arthur’s mouth parts slightly as he searches for the words to respond.

“Oh. Alright.”

She sighs and brings her hand to her forehead in an exasperated motion.

“Okay- what I’m trying to say but failing at, is that when those flowers start to wilt, you come and find me.”

He tilts his head down, so the brim of his hat hides the smile forcing its way onto his lips. He hadn’t been sure if she was just being polite before, if every word was mere courtesy. But now, part of him felt that maybe some of it was more than that. He could at least tell for certain that she liked him, and that was enough.

“I’ll do that, miss. You take care of yourself, now.”

She then waves him goodbye before heading back inside.

The sun has risen high above his head by the time he returns to camp. Everything seems to be just as he left it a few days ago. Dutch is sitting outside his tent with a book in his hands, a finger pensively to his lips. Some men are sharpening their weapons or cleaning their guns and talking to one another while they work. Over by the campfire, Micah gestures wildly to Bill and Javier, who sit on the log by his feet. 

“If we leave at dusk, they should be sittin’ pretty at the station a while before leaving for town. So once things get movin’, I say Javier handles the lockbox, I’ll deal with Walton and his lady wife, and Bill, you hang back in case anyone else shows up.”

Javier looks up from polishing his pistol, “You don’t think Walton’s going to have any extra protection? He’s carrying a lot of goods, it’d be stupid for him not to.”

“Well, that’s what Bill’s for. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

Bill nods his head with a serious expression. “Damn right.”

As Arthur listens to this conversation, it’s as if he can see a dark thread spinning and tangling itself into a knot. A knot on top of a knot, on top of another. Soon enough, the thread will become one giant, twisted mess so tightly entwined it’ll be nearly impossible to unravel. The way things are headed, this seems like the only plausible ending for his people. But before that happens, the Pinkertons will likely find them again, and they’ll be packing their things again, only prolonging this mess of things a little bit longer, letting it become bigger than it ever needed to be. People will keep dying for nothing like they always have, and maybe he’ll be one of them, an unfortunate tally added to their death toll, necessary for the bigger picture.

The young woman had the right of it. Her words still echo in his head even now. 

Perennials live all through the years, but only when they’re planted. Only when they’re planted. 

The world won’t open its arms to drifters, even with a pistol pressed to its head. It’s past time they grow some roots, start living like people, and stop living like wild animals backed into a corner. Sure, there’s no glory in honest work but there sure as hell isn’t any in dying. Arthur had given this idea some thought before. He wouldn’t mind settling, living a simple life working odd jobs, or even finding work on a ranch somewhere. A peaceful life, a predictable one; it sounded just fine in his head.

He passes by Mary Beth and Tilly, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and laughing. Tilly looks up from her busy hands and waves at him.

“Hey, Arthur!”

“Hey there, Miss Jackson,” he says with a friendly nod.

He finds his tent and sets the bundle of flowers down on the cot before reaching into his satchel. 

“Are those flowers, Arthur Morgan?” 

He jumps as Tilly’s voice is suddenly right behind him.

“What the hell! Don’t sneak up on me like that, girl,” he says, turning to face her and Mary Beth standing just outside his tent.

“My goodness, they are!” Mary Beth says, her hand flying to her mouth. “Where did you find those?”

“A lady,” he responds, biting his cheek to force away a smile he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to be stuck rattling off every detail to the excitement-starved women. 

“Like, you purchased them from a lady?” Mary Beth leans forward and raises her eyebrows.

“They were… given to me,” he reluctantly admits as he places the stems inside a gin bottle on the table. He moves a few of them around so they look nice.

“Don’t tell us they’re from Mary, Arthur.” Tilly's voice goes low with disappointment, no longer seeming excited.

He grimaces at the thought. “No! No, they’re not from Mary. I met a woman earlier today, and she gave them to me, that’s all.”

The two women quickly glance at each other and share an enthusiastic look.

“Arthur Morgan, you’re in love!” Mary Beth nearly squeals.

He scoffs loudly, “I am not in love. I hardly know the woman!”

“Well, she’s surely in love then. What kind of person just gives someone flowers if they ain’t sweet on’em?” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

“Exactly! So when are you gonna see her again?” Mary Beth asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He should’ve known this conversation would happen. He should’ve sucked up his pride and said he purchased the flowers for himself to have avoided it entirely. “She told me to come back when they start to die, so whenever that is, I guess.”

Mary Beth hums and looks past him at the flowers in their makeshift vase. 

“Hmm… well, they look a little limp if you ask me. Dare I say… dead even? What do ya think, Tilly?” 

Tilly nods her head dismally, but even she can’t hide her smile, “Yeah, look at ‘em. They’re all sad-lookin’. Seems like you’ll need to head over first thing in the morning. Just to be sure.”

He shakes his head and laughs, “Alright, out. Both of ya. I can’t take it no more.”

He takes both women by their shoulders and guides them away from his tent despite their protests.

“We just want you to be happy, Arthur! Is that so bad?” Tilly cries out.

“I know, I know. Thank you, ladies. But I’m happiest when people ain't meddlin’ in my private business. Now go on.”

“This ain’t the end of it, Arthur!” Mary Beth calls out as they both walk away. They start talking animatedly as they return to work and keep throwing glances that he can only shake his head at.

Later that night, Arthur sits alone at one of the tables, eating his stew and staring off into the water. Most everyone else is off doing their own things, evening chores, and such. He's in the middle of bringing the bowl to his lips to get the last bit of broth when Mary Beth sits down beside him.

She keeps her word, not letting him hear the end of her numerous questions. Some of them he entertains, like when she asks what the garden looked like, and if she can see his drawing to get a better idea. He can practically see the story forming behind her eyes.

"What's she look like?" She asks, leaning against her hand on the table. "I'm picturing a sort of Isabelle Standish type in my head."

"Ah, come on now. You can't ask those sorts of things."

"Oh, Arthur! Please! This is the most exciting thing I've heard in so long. Just give me something to work with!" She gives him a pleading look, to which he dramatically rolls his eyes at.

"Alright. Well, she gives them girls on cigarette cards a run for their money, I'll tell you that."

She giggles, and asks him, "So when are you gonna see her again?"

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know yet."

“You don’t want to keep her waiting too long,” she says, in warning.

“Nah, I think she’ll be plenty busy without me. I’ll give it a few days.”

“A few days? But what if tomorrow another man comes by and sweeps her off her feet? What if she gives him flowers and forgets all about you because you took too long?” Her voice gets higher as she spitfires these potential events. 

“Mary Beth. If I visit her tomorrow, I’ll look like an idiot.” His face scrunches up, cringing at the thought. "And if that's really what happens then I can't do nothin' about that."

“Well, if I were her, I’d find it romantic,” she says and pats his hand on the table.

“Yeah, well, you find a lotta odd things romantic,” he chuckles, thinking back on the strange things in her novellas that have made her kick her feet.

For a second, it looks like she can’t tell if she should be offended. But then she joins him in laughter, giggling at herself.

“You might be right about that!”

Following his talk with Mary Beth, he retreats to his tent and slumps in his cot. He closes his eyes and turns to face the side of the wagon, but sleep doesn't come easy. The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. He groans and rolls over, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. Against the dark canvas of his tent, he can make out the silhouette of the cliff maids standing tall in their bottle. He traces the outline of their leaves and thinks back to the woman and her garden, the tranquility of her home, and the opposing restlessness of his heart whenever she looked at him. Before he’s ushered into unconsciousness, a strange thought enters his head that he can only explain away as the delirium of drowsiness. It was that in the distant future, he could see himself settling down, working odd jobs, or finding work on a ranch, sure. But maybe, the preposterous idea of taking care of flowers wasn't so bad neither.

[alexthesillybilly]

oooooooohhugyghh the springtrap brainrot is hitting real hard today. specifically the angsty parts.

my headcanon is that his actual body, the corpse, is still technically, somehow alive. he's still breathing. he still feels hunger and thirst and tired, but he just...can't do any of them. his body is essentially forced to breathe even with the springlocks puncturing his lungs. he's starving and exhausted and suffocating but he can't die. he is on the verge of death at all times but nothing can push him past that. and that's just the physical side of things. the complete loss of any sense or communication or stimulation while stuck in that room for 30 years wouldve been so, so much worse than any physical sensation. he's stuck in this pitch black room, in his own pain, with nothing to do except think, or do some mindless movement like pacing. he'd tried everything- trying to scream for help until he couldn't make noise at all. throwing himself against the door to force it open. nothing worked. all he could do was hope and beg that someday that door would open and he'd get himself out of this damn room- but until then it was the same every day. forgetting who he was. forgetting any language skills, forgetting people. forgetting how to be a human. delusions and hallucinations constantly tearing at his sense of what was real and what wasn't, until the line between that room, himself, and the outside world became blurred. he wasn't in that room anymore- he was that room. feeling the walls closing in pressing harder and harder until eventually leaving the room was merely a forgotten memory.

you will never leave this room.

[petite-phthora]

Nova... after a supernova

[DP x DC fic]

[Love at first... murder? - part 7]

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Part 1

Ao3

---

In-chat nicknames:

OGnerd = Jason

BatDad = Bruce

Discowing = Dick

BloodSon = Damian

TheHotOne = Steph

TheCuteOne = Cass

Omnipotent = Babs

Flashlight = Duke

---

Clockwork watches as the scenes unfold from the screen in front of him, a fond smile on his face.

He chuckles at the awkward farewell young Danny leaves one of Gotham’s Knights with.

However, as his gaze turns to one of the other screens, his expression switches from amused fondness to one of contemplation.

As he watches the recently deceased manic clown cackle his head off at the revelation of his newly ghostly existence, Clockwork can do no more than let out a weary sigh.

As much as he would like to interfere so young Danny would not have to deal with this endeavor, alas, he is not allowed.

Regardless, he muses, Danny will be able to handle it quite well on his own. Clockwork has complete confidence in him, as he gazes at the many timelines that may yet come to pass.

It will all work out in the end...

---

After taking some deep breaths to calm himself somewhat, Jason puts his glove back on before getting back on his motorcycle and leaving the apartment building behind.

He should probably use the rest of the night to sleep, as it’s already quite late.

However, not too long after he leaves he starts feeling eyes on him. He's being watched, and he has a pretty good guess of just who it could be...

And that guess is confirmed when he sees the shadows moving across the rooftops.

Of course, they followed the tracker to find out what he's up to even after he told them not to follow

He lets out an irritated sigh as he revs the engine and makes his motorcycle pick up more speed. At this point he’s most likely going way over the speed limit but, it’s Gotham, so no one’s gonna care.

At least they only just found him and started following him, rather than when he was still with Danny. Small mercies…

Though, he notes with mild curiosity, interestingly enough Replacement doesn’t seem to be with them.

Jason decides not to jinx his luck by questioning it, for now. Tim’s probably just overworking himself on a case again while doped up on so much of his awful Red Bull, Monster, and coffee mixture monstrosity that he should’ve had a caffeine overdose by now 3 times over.

Either way, Jason’s so not in the mood for their questions

Jason wants to keep his family as far away from Danny as possible, for as long as he can. And not just because of their not date, but he wants to help Danny keep people off his back about the murder of the Joker.

While, as he has mentioned to Danny before, most people will probably celebrate his death more than anything, he wants to spare Danny from B’s disappointment and his 5 hour long morals speech at the very least.

At that point, Jason decides to try to throw his stalkers off by making some unexpected, sharp turns and using a lot of alleys. He avoids the cameras and makes a point to also disable the cam and tracker the Bats ‘sneakily’ left in his helmet, again.

…

After spelling out ‘Fuck off’ with the tracker’s path on the map.

Luckily for him, Jason has just made it to Crime Alley, which is his turf. He knows his way around better than the furry brigade that's still following him does and he’ll gladly use this to his advantage.

With a small grumble that's muffled due to his helmet, he decides to try another more blunt method to try and dissuade them from following him.

Or, at the very least, distract them so that he has an easier time getting away.

---

0 days without the Joker breaking out of Arkham

OGnerd: Stop stalking me.

BatDad: Don’t text and drive.

OGnerd: It's speech to text. Dumbass.

Discowing: Jason!! 😃 What’s up, Little Wing? 🐦 Sooo, why didn’t you patrol tonight?? 👀

OGnerd: That's none of your business dick wad. Fuck off.

OGnerd: What part of don’t follow me did you not understand.

Discowing: I just wanted to catch up with my little brother!! 😁 Is that too much to ask? 🥺

BloodSon: Todd. Who are you courting?

Discowing: Dami!! 😠 I wanted to ease him into it before bombarding him with questions 😩

TheHotOne: no damian id rite

TheHotOne: we ned a more direct aproch >:)

TheHotOne: so jayyyyyyy, whos ur mystery boo ;)

TheHotOne:  dont worry u can tell m privtely ^-^

TheHotOne: i wnt tell, scuts honor o7

TheCuteOne: scuts

Omnipotent: scuts

Discowing: Scuts

Flashlight: scuts

Flashlight: Wait, you were a scout??

TheHotOne: no <3

OGnerd: I was just following up on a lead on a case I’ve been working on.

OGnerd: Besides, shouldn’t you all be focusing on finding that clown freak instead of stalking me after I explicitly said not to.

Omnipotent: Do you buy flowers for all of your ‘leads’ or are those just for the cute ones? 🤨

Discowing: Oh!!!! 😲 He got them flowers?? 🌼 That’s so cute! 🥰 I didn’t take you for such a romantic, Jay 😉

BloodSon: Considering Todd’s reading material it should not have come as much of a surprise, Richard.

BatDad: Red Hood, what do you know about the disappearance of the Joker?

BatDad: Is the person you were meeting with involved?

OGnerd: Nothing and no. Now leave me alone.

OGnerd: Middle finger emoji.

~ OGnerd changed the name of BatDad to WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl ~

~ OGnerd locked the name of WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl ~

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: Red Hood, this is extremely immature.

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: Change my name back and come to the cave for a meeting, now.

WhyDoesClarkCallYouBabyGirl: That was a misunderstanding and you know it.

---

Jason turns his phone back off and mutes the chat once again. He managed to throw them off of his trail a bit ago and just now reached his apartment.

They know where he lives, yes, but it seems that they had finally noticed how not in the mood he was and decided to make the smart decision to give up and leave him the hell alone. For now at least…

Jason wouldn’t be surprised if they showed up at his apartment tomorrow anyway. But the metal baseball bat by the door and the gun in his holster should help.

After getting inside he changes out of his clothes and takes his time taking a shower. After getting out, drying off,  and putting on something comfortable he practically collapses onto the couch.

His eyes fall onto the faded number sequence still scribbled on his hand. With a small smile on his face, while thinking of the person who wrote it, he takes his phone back out again and makes a new contact.

While he’d love to call it some sappy shit like ‘Danny <3’, he knows his family and it has enough hackers in it that he’d rather make the contact name a bit less obviously stand out.

It takes a while, but after thinking back on Danny’s space rambles earlier that evening in the observatory, Jason settles on a contact name.

He names it Nova, after a supernova.

He doesn’t know how right he is.

---

Taglist:

@i-always-say-yea   @uraniumwizard    @why-must-i-be-like-this   @griffinthing

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

One day, you comes across the staffbot in the abandoned theater.

There is a fine layer of dust to them, just as there is on everything else in the room. You are hesitant to even walk in, at first. You climb the stares from stage right, approaching with enough time to let them back away if they wanted to. They don't. You come up so you are face to face with them. Though frozen in an empty, static pose, their eyes are dusky, lifeless. You stare for a while. It's odd, seeing your reflection like this.

You take the time to lower their suspended hands to a more relaxed position. You straighten their hat and adjust the front of their vest, dusting off the shoulders. You stand, looking at them for a while.

You don't check as you leave and carefully, noiselessly, close the door behind you, but you know their head turned to follow your silent departure. Both you know it will be a long time before you return. Hopefully, they do not blame you. No one ever likes coming to a silent theater to look upon the long-cold corpse of themselves.

[beatriceportinari]

Different anon, but now I gotta know what your Ideal Izuna fic would be haha

Hiiiiiii great question.... the hard part abt izuna is that he isn't really a character and when he is he is better dead. so if you want him making sense in your story he's either kind of a different person (wass route) or a ghost (spider lily route). otherwise he si just hanging out in the background awkwardly bc he shouldn't be there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Now as someone acutely aware of this and also not a writer (your humble servant) it is hard for me to say what he /should/ be doing in fics. A ghost would be nice (hi ed). Canon route where his story is told by someone else (preferrable in a way he would hate <3) is good too. Posession is nice as well! I read one where he was posessing sasuke that i was ultimately not too convinced by but the premise is good. Perhaps he could posess a sword like that shisui fic I mentionned... wouldn't that be nice a prized Konoha heirloom that's actually Izuna. Stuck there.

[askamnesiamoonjumper]

Howls moving flower crown idk is this anything

[dulcemapis]

sketches for a fic I'm working on. some of them still need a few touch-ups but they're coming along

[bearsinpotatosacks]

Can't You Come Home? - Whumptober2023

I'll take one final step, all you have to do is make me - Can't you see you're lost without me

It's Carole's funeral and Bradley misses her more than anything.

For day 19 (and 10) of @whumptober . Also on AO3.

Words: 650

Birds tweeted in the background. The sky was an endless blue and summer was setting in. Texas summers were always hotter than hell, humid and sticky. His collar was glued to his neck, his shirt was wet against his skin. He’d been wanting to rip it off for hours but now he was alone in the graveyard, he didn’t know what to do. 

This suit felt too big on him, yet also too small. He kept thinking the ground was going to swallow him, like he was slipping under just a little. His head was going, distance spreading between him and the world around him. What he needed right now was a hug from his mum. Too bad she was six feet under.

The flowers by her gravestone spelt out ‘Mom’ in her favourite flowers. At his feet was compact dirt from where they’d buried her. It was still fresh. The grave, the flowers, her death.

He’d cried so much over the past fews weeks that he didn’t think he had any left. Something within him was on the verge, he’d cried the tears and now the ground was cracking from drought. He wanted to destroy those flowers, the bouquets back in the church, wanted to rip it all apart because it wasn’t fair. He’d lost his dad, now his mum and all he wanted was for things to stop, for everyone to go away so he could possibly hear them talking to him. 

“Why did you have to go?” He said, his voice raw. “You said you’d never leave.”

That broke him. He thought the tears had stopped but the thick feeling in his throat couldn’t be denied. A sharp feeling shot throigh his nostrils as tears welled up and overflowed. They began to cover his face, making it slimy and wet as he wiped them away with the cuff of his blazer. His tie was undone around his neck, he hated formalware like this, you only ever wore it at uncomfortable situations. 

“I need you here, I need my mom,”

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand as snot flowed out of his nose. He hiccuped as he couldn’t hold back the tears he didn’t know he had. An urge to crawl into the ground, to curl around her like he had done the past few months every night, like he still did despite her not being in that bed anymore. He was cradling her blanket every chance he could get. 

“I miss you.”

If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear her talking. He knew it was just in his head but maybe if he really really tried, closed his eyes and screwed them really tight, he could hear her, feel her next to him like she’d been on his dad’s funeral. 

“I’m right here,” she whispered on the wind. “Just listen.”

It didn’t make him stop crying, in fact it made the tears flow harder. But he needed to hear her, needed something to stop the anger that was flowing out even if it was all in his head. She was always good at that, not stifling his emotions but chanelling them, helping him make sense of them. 

Rain began to fall. The wind picked up, wiping the tears off his face, driving the stickiness off him as his mother’s words rippled around him. The petals of the flowers picked up around him, swirling and if he squinted he could almost see her, almost picture the way she’d smile and hold him so close that it made everything feel better. 

As the first few drops fell on his head, he didn’t smile but he felt the anger soothe and lower. She wasn’t here, not really, but if he breathed in the scent of the rain and listened to the wind. She almost was. It was as close as he was going to get.

----

Poor baby :( Just needs a hug from his mum :( This adds to my idea that even if icemav got to raise Bradley for a bit (a headcanon that isn't my favourite as I don't generally ship Icemav that much) then it wouldn't be a great fun time, they'd get an angry, hurt kid who just misses his parents in a way that probably only Mav would relate to. Also this could be interpreted as Bradley seeing ghosts, which is a fic I really want to write someday. Thanks for reading! @whumptober-archive