#light field kin

[fairytalefragments]

❥ | LIGHT FIELD

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[mvlewife]

i would like to write a piece of decent literary analysis on 'pride and prejudice' but do i need to do that? it is enough for me that my heart flutters every time i hear anything related to this book, be it a phrase, a mention of some character, a joke about mr. darcy or an old house. i found this book not only witty, but healing. jane austen singlehandedly (at least partially) healed my heart wounded by all the terrible events of my preceding life year and i dare not ask for more. mr. darcy and elisabeth have caught my heart in the cage of their love and will (hopefully) never let me out. and i am grateful for it. there is just such immaculate thing in our world as a universe of each art piece and pride and prejudice's is extremely pleasing as it warms your heart. field walks, gardens, forests, mansions of the past, balls, books, art, all that matters in life. in spite of the fact this book was published in 1813, everyone could find themselves in one of the characters. the sheer power pride and prejudice holds over me.. 😭

[birchbow]

When u say Travye has bookkind does that mean he literally wacks his opponent with a book?

A startling reminder for me that I presumably have followers on this blog that haven't read/aren't interested in reading the enormous fic Travye appears in lmao. His main combat strife specibus is bonekind! A behemoth jawbone and a huge femur club, specifically. But against a small number of enemies, or especially for one-on-one challenges, he has a big heavy scripture book on a chain with a metal-bound spine that he can flip and swing to attack or defend. Shitty post-work doodling:

""[Your club] hits the spine of the book with a ring like metal as he brings it up shut and blocks you cold.  He swats your club aside with the weight of it, flips it in his frond and brings it around corner-first, and the fuckin’ thing plows in the side of your thorax like a club, knocks you sideways.

“Fuck!” you say, fair well motherfuckin’ impressed, and get your feet back under you to get your breath.  He’s still holding his book—flips it open, grinning at you now, and flips a page all delicate.  “Thought you used bonekind, brother.”

“Change yourself always like sand in the water, you motherfuckers hand-shaped of surf and whimsy,” he quotes at you, and snaps his book shut.  “Flexibility, brother Makara.  You never struggled with it before.  Think you’ll find most trolls don’t get advanced in age without a few tricks up their sleeves.”

“I’ll show you fuckin’ tricks,” you say, and dive back in with aim to knock his teeth out.

You’ve fought fankind before, and clubkind, and it’s a bit of the two each together, but fuck if he don’t use it well.  Lets you batter and work at him and uses that heavy dark cover as a shield and weapon at the same time, hardly moving off his spot, like a pillar you’re trying to tear down with your bare hands.""

[livlaughloveluke]

𝐛𝐞𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 ! - 𝐥.𝐜 🫧

daughter of aphrodite! reader x luke castellan 💘

summary- luke would carry the world on his shoulders for the approval of your mother

warnings- like two cuss words, feminine reader, one slight reference to sex (lukes a virgin lolol), not proofread (yet)

3.3k

You had always been the favorite of your mother, Aphrodite. With the way she frequently delivered extravagant gifts, ranging from beauty supplies to carefully crafted swords, it was clear you were granted special treatment from the typically vain goddess. Others grew envious of your glorious relationship, watching from afar as you had yet another conversation with her. 

The unfortunate truth was that you worked your ass off to receive a fraction of affection from your mother. Waking up at the crack of dawn to get ready, biting your tongue as others gossiped about you, and training hours per day were just some of the cruel circumstances you had to endure in order to keep up your facade. Everything about you had to be seemingly perfect, which is hard to maintain when living in such harsh conditions.

Your ethereal beauty and charming personality gained the attention of many, making Aphrodite proud. However, no matter how many demigods asked you out, they were all politely declined. This wasn’t a personal choice, but instead one forcefully implemented by your mom. 

Every camper knew of the strange rule the goddess had set for you. Not one soul would be allowed to take you on a date without her approval. Unfortunately for you, she was extremely strict and harsh when choosing. It was odd that the ruler of love would prevent her dearest kin from experiencing the joys of having a partner, but the gods did little with rationality.

During your weekly prayer one evening, you found yourself pondering why Aphrodite seemed to reject all suitors. Seeking answers, you broached the subject with her. In response, Aphrodite professed a desire for nothing but the best for you, her words punctuated by the subtle shifts in her mood. Intrigued by her cryptic response, you couldn't help but remain curious, uncertain whether she spoke the truth or spun another detailed tale.

Among the crowd of diligent campers who showered you with attention, there remained one who truly stood out. Luke Castellan, the offspring of Hermes, had harbored a profound admiration for you from the moment of your arrival. While others were fixated solely on your captivating exterior, he found himself drawn to the depths of your enchanting personality. Your passionate expression for the things that ignited your soul—be it delving into the mysteries of ancient artworks or nurturing the vibrant flower fields—held him spellbound.

One day, the immense ache in his lovelorn heart became too agonizing to bear. As the sun awoke from its slumber and you elegantly devoured a ripe pear, he asked you to follow him into the lush forest. Despite the slightly sketchy request, you obliged, trusting Luke with your whole heart.

"I hate to sound blunt, but why are we here again?" You queried, batting away pesky flies and dodging branches that lunged out intrusively.

"I'm determined to take you out," he proclaimed, his voice brimming with confidence, but you couldn't help but feel a twinge of doubt creep in as you cringed with uncertainty.

“Luke, you know how my mom feels-“ 

“Yeah, I know how your mom feels. But how do you feel?” He blurted, his coffee brown eyes staring deep into yours, and for a moment, you saw the deepest part of him that was hidden from the rest of the world. 

“What’d mean?” You questioned him, trying to wrap your head around his statement, like it was a foreign concept for someone to ask how you perceived the situation.

“Do you wanna go out with me?” Luke whispered.

“I’d love to, but she-“ His response was accompanied by a light shake of his head, his voice gaining intensity as he delivered his next sentence with austerity.

“Tell me the truth. If Aphrodite wasn’t your mother, would you date me?”

Silence flooded the woods; it seemed even the birds stopped singing to hear your much-awaited response. 

“Yes, I would.” You said it honestly, twiddling with your hands out of nervousness for your mother’s reaction.

“Okay then. I have a plan; don’t worry.” Luke interlocked your fingers, gently dragging you back to the pavilion with a grin plastered across his face.

As the day unfolded in its familiar rhythm, there was an intriguing twist: you found yourself stealing glances at Luke more frequently, your fondness for him blossoming rapidly. Anticipation brewed as you prayed for the success of whatever scheme Luke had concocted. Yet, the nagging suspicion of your mom’s disapproval gnawed at you, even if Luke was nicknamed the camp's "golden boy."

As dusk approached and dinner was served, the absence of Luke grasped your attention. The atmosphere lacked the presence of a couple other different Hermes offspring, too; the usual crowd at the wooden picnic tables was now missing. Brushing aside budding concerns, you settled beside your siblings, concealing any anxieties that threatened your composure.

You would have thought Hades took a visit to Cabin 11 with the way everyone was scrambling around. Dozens of clothes littered the floor, the room looking as if a freight train plowed through. Luke was in the center of the mess, eyebrows furrowed as he carefully examined his outfit options.

“A suit is definitely too much, right? I mean, I think it would be weird to go completely dressed out.” He started, with Chris standing next to him as they both pondered.

“Yeah, yeah. Ditch the suit.” His friend replied, tossing the crisp attire back into the closet. 

“So do I wear the camp shirt or something else?” Luke interrogated the rest of the children.

“Camp shirt.” Chris said, but another older female camper chimed in.

“Obviously not. It’s a disgusting neon orange.” She declared, rolling her eyes.

“I think it makes him look devoted to the camp.” Chris defended.

“Oh please, it washes him out. Try this navy blue top.” The Hermes girl tossed a crinkled polo at him, turning away as he slipped the shirt on.

Luke looked in the mirror, pleased with his choice. All of his peers stared at him in judgment before coming to the conclusion that the deep blue suited him.

“Told you. Now hurry up. You can’t miss dinner.” She uttered, shooing him out of the packed cabin. 

All eyes were focused on him as he walked to supper since he was out of the appropriate attire. He snagged his dinner, rushing to sit next to you. 

“Cute shirt. A little late though; dinner's almost over.” You complimented, and the rest of your fashion-inclined siblings nodded in agreement. Luke felt his cheeks flush from your words and because of the overwhelming stares provided by campers.

“Thank you. I’m not really hungry anyway." He responded, which wasn’t a complete lie. His stomach was doing cartwheels as he counted down the minutes until the burnt offerings. As soon as the sound echoed through the air, he practically sprinted to be the first.

He slid almost all his food into the metal tin can (which he would definitely miss later that night when he went to bed hungry) and, with shaky hands, lit the dinner. The aroma of multiple dishes mixed into one and then set on fire was putrid, but luckily for Luke, that’s just what he needed to catch the attention of Aphrodite.

As she heard the pleads of the boy, who was begging for a conversation, and smelled the smoke, it was enough to send her spiraling down onto Earth. She was gorgeous—ten times prettier than any image Luke could have pictured in his head.

“I'm Luke Castellan.” He stumbled out nervously, but recollected and gathered his thoughts.

“I want to date your daughter, Y/N.” He declared, noticing the way the goddess looked away with anger. 

“And before you say anything,” he continued, “I swear I have the best intentions.” 

Aphrodite narrowed her eyes, inspecting him.

“I don’t know. Many boys just like you have claimed the same.” She spoke to him with such clarity.

“It’s different; I can promise you that. I’m a good kid.” He pleaded, growing desperate as he swallowed.

“You aren’t sounding much different than the children before you.” She replied, and Luke could tell she was about to walk away, so he did what he thought was best and blurted out what came to mind.

“I’ve never smoked, I pray to the gods every night, and to be honest, I rarely step foot out of camp. I’m healthy, I take care of myself, and I’m the best swordsman in camp—at least that’s what everyone says. I’m still a virgin, and I’ve never even glanced at another girl in any romantic way because the only one I have eyes for is your daughter. Please, ma’am.”

Aphrodite's eyebrows lifted, and her mouth agape at his sudden speil. She had to admit that it was quite impressive.

“Hm, I suppose you have made a compelling argument. I’ll let you take her out on one date, but only if it goes well will you be allowed to see her again. And she must approve of you.”

Luke smiled at her, letting out heavy breaths he didn't even know he was holding on to. 

“Thank you so much. I can assure you, you won’t regret it.” He thanked the goddess, who just shrugged and left him in the dark forest. Too thrilled to care, he joyfully jogged back to the cabins, where his bunkmates patiently waited.

He shoved his way inside, panting, excitement bubbling within him. The air in the cabin seemed to crackle with anticipation as everyone turned their attention toward him, their eyes lit with curiosity, waiting for him to spill the details of what had transpired.

“She said yes!” Luke exclaimed, unable to contain the joy that surged through him. Instantly, the air was filled with the sound of cheers and joyous squeals, his friends erupting into a wave of celebratory exclamations.

“Well, sorta. As long as the first date goes okay,” Luke added, his enthusiasm slightly dampening as he lowered his head, a hint of uncertainty tainting the original exhilaration of his announcement. The cabin fell into a sudden hush, a sense of disappointment crushing the once great news. 

“Then we better get to planning,” Chris interjected, lighting a spark of hope. Everyone returned to their primary delirium, huddling together to craft the picture perfect night.

Campers threw out ideas for the date on the spot, ranging from the location to his preferred mannerisms. His sisters used their experiences with being a women to instruct him on how to act, telling him what was considered acceptable and what to avoid. The rest of his siblings and friends scoped out the land, deciding on the perfect site.

After enduring the lengthy schooling, Luke stole a fleeting moment away from his lesson, his heart set on sharing the newfound momentous revelation with you. The bonfire raged on, campers swarming around it like hungry sharks. Old friendships were being rekindled, and new bonds were forming. Admits the social circle stood you, who laughed as you spoke to the Apollo kids.

With a grin that illuminated his features, Luke observed you from a distance, captivated by the infectious positivity that radiated from you. As you strayed away from the chaotic crowd, your eyes met his. His feet propelled him forward, drawing him towards you. 

“Hey!” you greeted, your voice filled with genuine excitement as he approached.

“Hey! Guess what?” Luke's words tumbled out in a rush, his eagerness present as he awaited your reaction.

“What’s up?” you inquired, intrigued by his anxious body language.

“Your mom said yes,” Luke revealed, his expression a mix of anticipation and restrained enthusiasm.

“What?” you gasped, disbelief coloring your features before giving way to unbridled joy.

“She said yes!” Luke exclaimed, the thrill evident in his voice.

Excitement flourished within you, causing you to leap into his arms, angelic laughter filling the atmosphere as he lifted you up and spun you around. The cutesy scene hooked the attention of others, whispers beginning to travel.

Like a raging wildfire, Luke's announcement spread swiftly through the crowd, resonating with everyone within earshot. Within minutes, the joyous information spread through the gathering. Some were jealous, spreading rumors the moment they heard them, and some were just happy for the two.

Neither of you cared about the whispers and gossiping of those around you, their chatter fading into the background as you were enveloped in his warm embrace. The world seemed to melt away as he gently set you down, his touch lingering on your skin.

As you looked up into his eyes, time seemed to stand still, and the intensity of your love was reflected in the depths of his gaze. With each beat of your heart, you felt a surge of affection wash over you, your gaze softening as you looked upon him with adoration. There, in the depths of his eyes, you found comfort, a sanctuary from the chaos of the world outside.

"7 o'clock okay for tomorrow?" Luke's voice broke through the haze, jolting you back to the present moment. His words sent a tingle of anticipation coursing through your veins.

"Mhm," you murmured in response, your mind still lingering on the warmth of his touch, until a daughter of Demeter called you over, disrupting the spell cast by Luke. As you tore yourself away, a shiver raced down your spine, the absence of his soothing hands leaving you feeling strangely hollow.

In the darkness of the night, neither of you seemed able to sleep with the thought of each other prominent in your minds. Remembering all of the special moments you shared, even before today, summoned a mixture of emotions. If this date didn’t go according to plan, the memories would be permanently lost, drowned out by new experiences.

Eventually, Hypnos blessed you with a night’s rest, and before you knew it, it was 6 p.m., an hour before the long-awaited gathering with Luke. Your siblings were currently helping you get ready in the vast space that was the Aphrodite cabin.

"Do you know where he's taking you?" Urged your closest sister, her fingers deftly working through your hair as she leaned in.

Your heart fluttered with nervous excitement as you met her gaze in the mirror, uncertainty dancing in your eyes. "No, not really," you admitted with a sigh, feeling a knot of anticipation coiling in the pit of your stomach as you nervously tugged at your bottom lip with your teeth.

"Oh gods!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and determination as she dropped the task of defining your hair, her attention now fully focused on the impending dilemma. With a sense of urgency, she hurriedly crossed the room to her bustling closet, the sound of fabric rustling filling the air as she searched for the perfect outfit.

You watched her with amusement, as she rummaged through her collection.

With a triumphant exclamation, she emerged from the depths of her closet, a victorious smile gracing her lips as she presented you with a selection of carefully curated outfits. "I'm sure we can find something that'll work," she declared with confidence, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she began to lay out the options before you.

She presented you with a breathtaking spring dress, its delicate fabric decorated with teensy flowers. You ran your fingers over the dainty material, embracing its beauty.

"It's perfect," you breathed in awe, your voice barely above a whisper, as you marveled at the garment.

"I know, right!" she exclaimed, her excitement infectious as she twirled around in delight. "This is so exciting! Your first date!" she continued, her words bubbling with enthusiasm as she continued to fuss over your appearance.

You attempted to summon a smile, but despite your best efforts, the flicker of unease in your eyes did not go unnoticed by your sister.  She gently squeezed your hand, a silent gesture of support and reassurance.

"What's wrong?" She questioned you softly, her hands pausing in their task of arranging your hair as she turned to look at you through the expansive vanity mirror.

"It's nothing, really. Just... anxious, I guess," you replied, your gaze dropping to the floor as you struggled to find the right words to express the complexity of your thoughts.

"Hey, it'll go great. And if not, there's a long line of suitors out there waiting for you," she reassured you, her voice filled with warmth and understanding, "so I'm sure Mom would approve of at least one of them."

"But I don't want it to be them," you confessed, your voice shaky as you admitted your true feelings. "I want it to be Luke."

She slightly frowned, grabbing your head and leaning into you. You shut your eyes to block the tears, discovering a place of love in her arms. A sudden knock on the wood door interrupted the warmth of silence.

She hopped up with eager anticipation, practically skipping to the door to greet Luke. As she opened it, you seized the opportunity to slip into the closet and change into the dress she had requested.

Luke stood on the doorstep, his hands fidgeting with a bouquet of ethereal flowers, their petals shimmering in the sunlight. A hint of uncertainty flickered in his eyes as he glanced around, searching for you.

"Uh, is Y/N here?" he asked, his voice laced with nervousness as he scratched the back of his head.

"Yes, she is," your friend replied, her tone firm, her gaze locking onto Luke's with determination. "But before you go any further, I need to warn you. You must take excellent care of her, no matter what. Because if you don't, I'll come find you personally."

“I promise.” He stuck out his pinky, interlocking it with hers to signify an agreement he would uphold. Stepping outside the cramped enclosure, you checked your reflection and headed towards the door. 

"Hi!" you exclaimed, your voice ringing out into the air, breaking through the awkward tension that had settled between the two of them. Luke's shoulders visibly relaxed as he turned to face you, a sigh of relief escaping his lips upon noticing your presence.

"Hey." He whispered softly, capturing in the sight of you standing before him, your captivating looks leaving him momentarily speechless. You smiled, threading your arm between his and escaping the cabin. 

"I brought you these." Luke stated, his voice tinged with admiration as he handed you the colorful floral arrangement. You accepted the bouquet with a grateful smile, the fragrance of the flowers filling the air as you gently wafted them in your hand.

"Thank you," you replied sincerely, touched by his thoughtful gesture, "they're beautiful."

Lost in conversation, you continued hiking together, the winding path leading you deeper into the heart of the forest.

Unbeknownst to you, Luke had a destination in mind, his steps purposeful as he guided you along the trail . The scenery around you shifted, the dense foliage giving way to a small deserted landscape.

Atop the grassy bank, a thick picnic blanket lay spread out, its vibrant colors contrasting beautifully with the lush greenery that surrounded it. An assortment of fruits and treats adorned the blanket, ranging from juicy strawberries to decadent chocolates.

As you settled onto the blanket, the soft fabric cushioning your every movement, you couldn't help but marvel at the breathtaking scenery that unfolded before you. Stretching out into the distance was the icy blue lake, its surface shimmering in the golden light of the sun, which peeked over the horizon as if to witness the magic of the moment.

As the minutes flew by, the loud croaking of cicadas immersed and the sky gradually transformed into a canvas of twinkling stars.

Wrapped in Luke's arms, you felt a sense of peace wash over you, the worries and uncertainties of the day melting away.

In that moment, as you lay together under the vast starlit sky, you felt a profound connection to Luke. A realization that filled you with a sense of joy and contentment, knowing that you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Whether your mom approved of your relationship or not (spoiler alert: she did), it didn't matter. What mattered was that you were with Luke, and in his arms, protected from the surrounding cruel world.

[fragileheartbeats]

Can you make an original Valyria house (like Targaryen and Velaryons). A house that had the most beautiful people and rode ice dragons?

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ 𓇼 ࣪ 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐑 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ⭒⠀

꒰͡ ⠀ ִ 𝑃𝐸𝑂𝑃��𝐸 𝑂𝐹 𝐻𝐸𝐴𝑉𝐸𝑁 ⠀ׂ ⠀ ͡꒱

─ 𝘐𝘤𝘦 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘴, 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯 𖤐

─ 𝘍𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘪𝘥 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘻𝘦𝘴, 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘴 𖤐

House Celestyr, descended from the ancient and mystical bloodlines of Old Valyria, stood as a beacon of beauty and grace amidst the dragonlords of their age. Their sigil, a majestic ice dragon mid-flight encircled by a ring of stars on a field of iridescent blue, symbolized their affinity for the heavens and the frozen beasts they tamed. Their words, "Beyond the Flame, Our Essence Soars," whispered of their nature, transcending the fiery passions of their kin to embrace the ethereal and the intellectual. The members of House Celestyr were paragons of ethereal beauty and physical perfection, their stature towering and their features fine. Their senses were sharp, able to detect the faintest whisper of a threat or the subtlest of nature's wonders. Resilient to the ravages of time and ailment, they were the embodiment of the Valyrian ideal, their slender forms housing a strength that belied their graceful appearance. Their connection to the ice dragons of the Shivering Sea, creatures as rare and enigmatic as the house itself, granted them a dominion over realms both frostbitten and arcane. The Celestyrs were lovers of the world's innate splendor, drawn to the sea's endless depths and the night sky's diamond brilliance. Their home, the Fortress of Frostfire, was a marvel of architecture, perched upon the edge of the world where the sea kissed the stars. Libraries and gardens adorned its halls, reflecting the house's unquenchable thirst for knowledge and beauty. Yet, the Celestyrs were not untouched by flaw. Their pursuit of perfection could breed a dangerous pride, and their hearts, though resistant to darkness, were not immune to the lures of power and vanity. It was their challenge to navigate the fine line between their noble pursuits and the temptations that came with their gifts. Among them, the most radiant was Valyra Celestyr, a name that echoed her house's affinity with the skies above. Daughter of a Targaryen princess and a Celestyr king, she possessed a beauty that seemed to cast a spell over all who beheld her. Her hair was a cascade of gold-silver strands that shone with the light of the stars her ancestors adored, and her eyes, a shimmering violet, held the depth of the cosmos. Valyra was the epitome of her house's virtues, a lover of nature, art, and the mysteries of the world. Her intellect was as renowned as her beauty, and her presence was as soothing as the sea breeze. But it was not just her mind and looks that drew people to her; Valyra's spirit, kind and unassuming, was a stark contrast to the ambition and intrigue that often surrounded her. The history of House Celestyr is a tapestry woven with threads of light and shadow, its legacy enduring in the legends of a people who soared beyond the reach of fire, to dance with dragons in the frost-kissed heavens. Their tale is a reminder of the beauty and peril that come with extraordinary gifts, and of the eternal dance between the lofty stars and the mortal hearts that aspire to reach them.

Chapter 1

@fragileheartbeats . Don't plagiarise, repost, or translate any of my works on here or any other websites.

[fallenneziah]

An unexpected spark.

Tag: @heiress-prime

Summary: Your relationship with Optimus is... Complicated. Between the adjustment to life on a new planet and saving your asses from the Decepticons, there was only so much you could handle. And having Optimus' kin had not been on that list for either of you.

Cw: Pregnancy, minor injury, implied sexual encounters, Femme reader. Optimus doesn't have the software update for dadification. Italics for past conversation.

Your relationship with Optimus is... Complicated. Purely for the fact that being sparkmates with a Prime is exactly how you'd expect it to be. 

Yes, Optimus had grown more intimate when you finally decided to stop dancing around each other's afts. Optimus was used to the way of the Prime, so it wasn't in his routine quite yet to acknowledge you romantically. Occasionally when you got some alone time he'd press his helm to yours and remind you how much he appreciated you for sticking by him.

Optimus cares about you, he does. He cares about you to the point that If you didn't contribute so much to the team and were few in numbers he may have yoinked you off the field for good. 

He hates seeing you come back dinged up with scratches glaring in your paint. He hates that exhausted look and he wishes he could keep you safe. 

You knew this, nudging him with your field and smiling softly at him from across the room, excited and lighting up like a puppy when his EM field would brush you back.

You'd sit and have your Energon in the morning together. In the past couple weeks Optimus had noticed the rate at which you had Energon had been increasing. You just found yourself thirsty a lot.

Optimus would tell you to go easy, you only had so much supply after all. It eased the aches you felt after spending the night curled up next to him.

Optimus left you satisfied. You knew it would be a difficult relationship, if not for his duties as Prime, but your survival. 

And you were no stranger to a recon mission, driving down the open Nevada road and taking in the dirt and grime under your tires. Optimus had given you coordinates to an emerging supply with a light squeeze of your shoulder and a loving gaze only he could pull off.

It was nice to spend time away. At least you didn't have to drag one of the kids with you. The children were so interesting. At least, earth children were. 

They were always full of energy, they always asked questions and wanted to be around and play with you. It made you chuckle a little.

Your drive down the road led you to a discarded backroad into the Nevada hills. You shifted your tire and diverted from the pavement off into the trees.

The constant ping from your interior leading the way.

You felt, in a sense, pent up. The way your back struts strained despite being tucked up into the carriage of your car. You could have chalked it up to your latest intimate night with Optimus.

Usually, you shake off the aches in a day or two. Optimus was the kind of 'bot who made up for his less-than-constant intimacy strings with an all-nighter that left you unable to move for the week following.

The weeks prior you had been more sensitive than usual, which Optimus had noticed. It left you both unable to find any time for intimacy because when you got to that point, you just couldn't handle it. But he was gentle. 

"Easy, am I hurting you??"

Your servos gripped onto the plates of his forearm, your expression twisting slightly. "No... I just.." You paused briefly to see if relaxing would ease the unusual pain and sensitivity.

"I don't know..."

"Should I stop?"

"No, no you're fine... I'll be fine."

Optimus' face at the time didn't show he was too convinced. He'd rather be cautious than be sorry later...

"You're coming up on the signal, be careful when you enter." Ratchet's voice broke you from your thoughts, causing you to slow down.

"I'll be careful."

You transformed and shook your pedes along the loose rock of the road. You scanned the area briefly, then continued on foot through the trees. The Energon supply would be right below you soon enough.

You absentmindedly rubbed your abdominal plating to ease the tension in your struts and fuel lines. He must have messed you up good considering the noticeable dent. You'd had it there for a bit, but it was barely noticeable.

The constant beep of the counter led your way through broken foliage and trees barely taller than yourself.

"Coming up on it." You said into your comm. You kept yourself at a good pace as you made it through and found the crater. 

Bingo.

"Get a move on!" A distant voice calls, causing you to duck behind a rock and bushes. 

"Could you useless 'cons work any faster!?"

You shifted and looked through the foliage to see a plateau-heeled Decepticon screeching away.

"Just... Perfect."

You leaned back, "Decepticons got the jump." You whispered into your comm and waited for Ratchet to update.

"How many??"

"Their usual mining crew... I'd say 15- maybe 20?" Your servo pressed against your plating again, feeling the uneasy warmth fill your gut. 

"I'll send Bumblebee and Bulkhead out to you, see if you can get a better idea of who we're up against." Ratchet again replied, giving you something to focus on while waiting for the scout.

You shifted against the rock and ducked back into the foliage. You tread up the small hill. Thankfully the only notable figure among them was Starscream. The rest looked like workers, they wouldn't pose a huge threat. 

You kneeled, your hip plating grinding loudly, making you freeze. The combined sink of your plating and the sound made you cringe. "Fraggin' hell..." 

You grimaced and continued to stay low and wait. It was all you could do. 

You sat there watching them mine the precious Energon that should be for you and the team. That wouldnt be the case if they didn't hurry up and get Bumblebee out here.

Your plating ached. It ached in a way that made you think about Optimus. About his hands on your hips and his denta on your neck cables.

Your plating heated, and the thought of Optimus made your fuel pump thump in your chassis.

"Frag," You whispered.

Your fans kicked on, and your panels clicked.

"Ratchet I- I'm not feeling well..." You swallowed hard.

"Not well?? What are your readings showing?"

You checked your monitor, looking down at the diagnostics on your forearm. You were experiencing intense tightening just above your hip plating. And the rising temperature caused your fuel lines to tangle and a lightheaded feeling to sink in.

"My plating feels... Too tight."

"Is it painful?"

"Yeah."

"Can you make it back?"

"I.. Yeah.." You started to stand.

You paused, and your servo came to your stomach plating. Your Energon levels were down to 40% despite your rationing before you left.

"Bumblebee and Bulkhead are on their way to your coordinates."

Optimus was in the other room, concentrating on some old data pads he skimmed whenever he wasn't on missions.

He heard Ratchet in the other room but tuned him out. A tight warmth grew in his chest which caused him to adjust and shake his shoulders slightly. But as he read the feeling grew more prominent until he couldn't ignore it. His EM field pulsed, feeling that faint pulse of your spark alongside his. It felt uneven. The usual soft pump in rhythm that comforted the Matrix in his chest felt off. 

Optimus pressed his servo to his chassis and tuned in to the feeling. Your spark throbbed against his rhythmically. The tight pulse and pull yearning for him, tugging the Matrix as if new life was growing the strength to stir from your chest.

It made him forget to breathe. He adjusted his optics again and pressed his chassis shut again, unaware it had come slightly ajar.

You leaned up against the rock, listening for anything around you with your servo still pressed against your abdomen. Footsteps softly came up behind you, a servo touching your shoulder. You jumped slightly and looked up to see Bumblebee. He whirred softly and pressed a digit to his helm as he moved toward the 'cons.

Bulkhead was close behind him. You sucked in the minor pain, took a deep breath and got on your feet again. You drew your arm cannon and followed the mechs out into the open.

"Hey, Screamer!" Bulkhead shouted and clanged his fists together. 

Starscream saw the three of you and frowned deeply. "Autobots!" His wings fluttered in a panic. "Get them!" He ordered the 'cons. They abandoned their mining and ran at you three.

You shot at the first wave, taking them down before they could get too close. Bumblebee and Bulkhead worked together to get the bigger bots and leave the smaller ones for you.

As you went to take another shot the ache returned.

You winced, taking down the miner and looking around the area. Starscream was nowhere in sight.

You were about to comm Ratchet, but a sharp pain in your chassis forced you to hunch over and hold yourself.

The energy in your veins is pumps and pulses. Bulkhead noticed you and quickly rushed to your side, defending your flank while you recovered. You recovered and moved toward the Energon reserve. Bumblebee and Bulkhead held their position. You rushed to the middle of the pit, Starscream jumping down in front of you.

"Where are you going?" He grinned and aimed his arm at you, spindly digit threatening to pull the trigger.

"Starscream-" You held a hand up, the other resting against the pain in your plating.

"Oh, you're not getting any mercy today!" He lunged at you and shot a round into your shoulder. You tumbled to the ground, the pain seering your plating. "Frag-" You reached your knee up and kicked him off, deflecting his arm that swung at you, twisting and throwing him off of you. His nimble frame was back on his feet in seconds. Luckily so were you. You raised your fists, blocking his left hook, his sharp arm plating screeching against yours.

His leg swept under your ankle and threw you to the ground again. He stood over you and aimed his arm in your face. "I've been waiting for this... Megatron will praise me." 

You panted and tilted your head back. "I wouldn't be too sure of that..."

A shadow fell over you both. Starscream's wings tucked in defeat as a fist violently shoved him out of the way and threw him against the wall. Starscream yelped, rock falling and landing in his lap.

Optimus stood over you, his servo reached for you and grabbed your arm to pull you up.

You winced and held yourself, feeling your struts and plates shift uncomfortably.

"Thank you."

He nodded firmly, activating his arm cannon and placing a protective arm on your shoulder. He moved you somewhere safer and rejoined the fight. You watched him go and smiled softly. Ratchet split from the group and came over to you. You slowly sat down and looked up at him as he worked. You took a deep breath and looked down. Your spark was warm, and your chest felt like it was going at a million beats per second.

Ratchet checked your diagnostics and nodded. "That was one of my fears... We need to get you out of here." You looked at him. How he looked at you made your spark flutter but for the wrong reasons. "Ratchet it's not..."

"It is. Optimus had a hunch."

You shuddered softly. Ratchet kept you sat down and watched over you protectively until the sound above the reserve grew quiet. Starscream squirmed out from his place and transformed, flying off. 

"We'll get him next time." You said.

"I'd say so." Bulkhead approached.

You tried standing but were met with resistance.

"I can walk," you said stubbornly, moving your hips slightly. Ratchet gave you a firm look and kept you down. Optimus walked over, the other two moving away so he could come close to you.

"It's as you thought, Optimus," Ratchet said and got up. He motioned the others to follow him and they went to look over the Energon.

You looked up at Optimus softly and searched his optics to try and identify any anger in his face. Or, anything. Any emotion would be great right about now. "I... I don't know how I didn't notice sooner... When would we even-"

Optimus gently reached out and took your servo. You looked down and then back up. Optimus fully kneeled to your side, squeezing your servo. "I am not upset. I'm not... anything, right now."

You sighed softly. "I should have known... all the signs were there." You looked down, "I should have known."

Optimus' faceplates softened, "I'm glad you're alright." He let go of your servo and cupped your faceplate, tilting his head down. Your shoulders loosened a little. You reached up to cup his neck when his helm met yours. He welcomed your EM field into his, surrounding you with a mellow warmth that soothed your hydraulics.

You were a nervous wreck. He knew that.

You leaned forward and nuzzled into his neck cables.

"Optimus.."

"I need to get you and the team home." His voice rumbled low in his chassis, soothing you with something fierce. He slowly leaned back and helped you up. Your knees wobbled and crumbled underneath you. Optimus caught you effortlessly, a large hand spreading across your breastplates, helping you lean back up. "Easy.." He kept you close to his body, a comforting weight in your chest that reminded you you were safe.

"I've never had to carry someone so much before."

You smiled up at him. "I wouldn't mind if you did it more often." 

He cracked a small smile at that. He effortlessly pulls you up off your pedes and against his warm chest. The others got the Energon they could, and Ratchet called Arce to open the bridge and bring you back to base. Optimus went first with you in his arms. He held you tightly and protectively as he made his way through the tunnel.

The team followed close behind, Arce shutting the bridge and coming to Ratchet's side.

"What happened out there?"

Ratchet looked up at Optimus, they shared a silent conversation for a moment before Ratchet turned back to his computer. "Mishap, come on, let's get the rest of this, yes?" The others nodded and followed Ratchet's instruction.

Optimus brings you back to your berthroom and slowly sets you down. Now that you were in private you could properly talk.

"I am not mad."

You looked up at him.

"I don't want you to think I am. We are in a dangerous war. I cannot blame you for this, nor am I mad at you for it. You couldn't have predicted this. I couldn't have either." He knew that wasn't entirely the case. You two were sexually reserved, sure. But you could have avoided this.

He gently reached out and touched the side of your helm. You leaned into it and reached up to touch his wrist.

"I am..." He paused. He didn't know what he was. How he felt, it was very mixed emotions. "I don't know what I feel."

You understood.

You leaned forward and nuzzled his wrist. You looked up at him with soft optics, "It doesn't change anything?" 

To that, Optimus shook his helm. "No, not a chance." You looked down, and a smile formed across your derma. "If it means anything... I wouldn't do this with anyone else."

Optimus chuckled softly.

You sat up a bit straighter. 

"I wouldn't feel privileged to raise a sparkling if it weren't with you." He said, his thumb tracing your jaw.

You leaned in and pressed your lips to his. He held you, his hand on your jaw slowly traveling to the back of your helm. His EM field pulsed around you, warming you as it wrapped around your body. He pulled back and pressed his helm to yours.

"I'm glad we're in this together." You whispered. Optimus was quiet in favor of kissing you again. One servo comes down to protectively rest against your abdominal plating.

If Primus brings him a child, then who is he to say no? It may not be the ideal condition, but he wouldn't want to raise a sparkling with someone else.

You gleamed up at him. He returned the soft smile, gently nudging your forehead. "You're going to be a sire," Your smile grew wider, the momentary fear and worry that troubled you replaced by the joyful realization of what was to come.

Optimus couldn't help thinking of the future, of Megatron, of others who would get to hurt you, who surely would try to lay a hand on his child. Megatron wouldn't go that far... Would he?

He didn't fragging care. Not right now. Right now he allowed himself to bring his walls down, to hold you and kiss you all over until you giggled.

"And you, my Cybertronian beauty, the carrier of our sparkling."

A higher honor than anything. And even if sometimes Optimus didn't have it all figured out, he knew that if there was any time to commit to being the best sparkmate he could, it was now. For you, and for your sparkling.

After all... It wouldn't be long. He could feel it in his spark.

[whollysensei]

sensei what would "the left and right hands" wedding look like? more steppe or more capital? in the town or in the fields? would danya wear his snakeskin coat to his own wedding?

pt. 1 wedding ideas steppe edition Ohh, i have so many words in my little head i doubt i can fit them in just one post. Im quite certain people wouldn't care much about my letters so i brought pictures >:) also im currently feeling very nauseous almost 24/7 so pls wait a bit before i get my strength back and post the second part

To make it short, i think they respect each other upbringings and cultures enough to do both.

First of all, since we already have a concrete idea of what a wedding to the Kin is — which is the sacrifice of a Herb Bride in order to wed her to the Earth — there might be a need for an alternative ritual for the declaration of eternal companionship. I think of it as a dance still but not where one is caressing the Earth, but showing her the connection of two people. Of how they complement each other through dance (earthly tango of sorts). As if a silent song of movement and fabric. And so to add even more meaning to the Kin's dance.

Though, frankly speaking, i have a big grudge with such bare (hehe) selection of clothing ipl gave to the Kin. I doubt all the festivities and ceremonies wouldn't require special kind of wardrobe. Atleast for the sake of convenience. (Ohh how i'd love to draw all the different jewelry and accessories the herb brides would wear and everything and anything....)

I pretty much looked for the same cultures which were used for the creation Kin's language ( Tibetan, Mongolian, Buryat ) to imagine my own idea of such costumes. These people have such gorgeous headwear and bright fabrics and beautiful embroidery, I can't be doing it justice with my art. My main goal was to make the costumes use mainly head accessories and visually light materials so the gays can move and dance freely. But thanks to this little question i might draw more of it and maybe even post it!!!!!

All in all, 5/10 execution cause i'm too stupid for beautiful clothes these are literally so pretty i want to stare at it :c

plus a more private sketch with our newlyweds c:

thank you for reading this c:

[blueywrites]

turtle dove and the crow, part three

A 1940s Farm AU, featuring bsf!neighbor!eddie x fem!reader

story tags: 18+ (minors dni). smut; true love; unexpected pregnancy; angst, angst, angst; parental issues; corporal punishment; scheming, plotting, and betrayal; hurt/comfort; period-typical stigma regarding unwed pregnancy; angst with a happy ending.

chapter tags: 18+. p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex, angst, hurt/comfort.

masterlist | part one | part two | part three | interlude | part four | part five | epilogue | playlist

(I have not edited this yet, so please excuse any editing mistakes!)

PART THREE: WOLF LIKE ME (12.7K)

Feel me, completer

Down to my core

Open my heart

And let it bleed onto yours

Feedin' on fever

Down on all fours

Show you what all that howlin's for

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn ft. Shovels & Rope

Deep in the field, two roosts sit side by side. One is built of sturdy, weathered wood painted the color of bright red berries, with deep-set windows and a dark sloping roof that protects it from the elements. The other is made of wide symmetrical clapboards painted blue like the sky on a cloudless day, with knotted-oak shutters slightly worn from the sun and wind and bright white trim that shines in the eager summer light. They are separated only by a tall fence and a stump rotted through to the other side, through which the grasses of their yards mingle to become one. 

These roosts house different birds. One is a trio of turtle doves, a mated pair with a young hen still soft and brown-gray, though her iridescence is maturing now, subduing into adulthood. The other is a pair of long-bonded crows, though the younger spent its fledgling years in the care of another, who pecked and prodded and stole his sustenance until the young one fluttered finally away, seeking to shelter under the safe wing of his older kin. 

They may bear different feathers— one downy gray, one glossy black— but if one were to peep through the windows, one would see these young birds and note how similar they appear right now as they preen. Both turtle dove and crow are drawing their beaks along each feather to clear away the dust, fluttering out their wings in great stretches, and hopping about the expanse of their rooms, caught in restless preparation as the grandfather clock ticks its hand toward seven. 

The turtle dove adorns herself for the crow. She dresses in her Independence Day best, twisting to watch the ankle-length skirt swirl around her legs in swaths of dainty yellow gingham. She dances her fingertips along the hand-sewn embroidery that decorates the square neckline, feeling along the tiny white flowers and vines for the perfect spot. There, she pins two sprigs— one lavender, one jasmine— to nestle amongst the white threads she’d sewn with careful fingers, her first attempt at embellishing her clothing, ventured to celebrate the holiday in mid-July. With a careful hand, she ties a bow of white silk to the side of her head. Now smelling of flowers and gilded in homespun sunshine, she has finished her preparations.

The crow, meanwhile, focuses less on his adornments. He doesn’t possess his own Independence Day best; instead, he dresses in a collared, button-up shirt oft worn, paired with navy blue woolen slacks and a leather belt with a simple buckle. But he made sure to scrub his skin with soap 'til it shone pink over every inch of him— between his toes, behind his ears, on the backs of his knees and the nape of his neck. He has brushed out his hair and tamed the flyaways with pomade, twining the curls around his rough fingers to let them drop into careful coils, working with a delicacy that he feels near-embarrassed about despite not having been observed. Carefully, he picks the dirt from beneath his fingernails and trims them short and neat, though he’d been waylaid momentarily by regretful ruminations on the roughness of his palms. He swipes his thumbs impatiently along the callouses that cannot be softened with warm bathwater as if he might rub them away before giving up and brushing his teeth for the second time instead.

With one last ruffle of feathers and a careful appraisal in the mirror, crow and turtle dove descend their staircases in tandem at five to seven, filled with the flutterings of nervous, jittery excitement that precede such an occasion as this.

When you reach the bottom of the stairs, Mama and Pa are already loitering there; you hurry down the last few steps, swinging around with a hand on the banister to fling yourself toward the kitchen and avoid keeping them waiting too much longer. The pie you’d baked with apples from the tree out back is still wafting steam from its golden, flaky crust, but when you test the glass dish with a little pat of your fingertips, you find it’s cool enough to snatch up with a handtowel plucked from the towelbar beneath the sink. Carefully, you carry it back to your parents, stealing a quick glance at their faces as you group together with them. They’ve dressed nicely— though not quite as fussily as you— and their faces hold the same impassive pleasantness that had been there yesterday when the occasion had been proposed to them by the wild-haired boy next door. 

He’d stood in his muddy boots on the bristly mat, so adamant in his refusal to tell you what the matter was until your parents joined you that you’d had half a mind to think that something terribly grave had occurred. Your worry gave way to confusion once they arrived and Eddie, with uncharacteristic formality, extended an invitation to dinner at the Munson house for seven o’clock the following day. 

Though his delivery was strange, the whole thing was no cause for alarm because you and your family had dined with Wayne at least once each season since before you could remember. But when your parents accepted politely, and Eddie looked then to you, his eyes held a promise unspoken in their umber depths. They were lightened to honey in the sunshine, glossy yet still deep and dark like a pool of rippling water. You had an inkling of what might set this occasion apart from others previous, but you barely dared to think it lest you be disappointed. Still, even without that certainty, you’d taken the time to dress your best, to rouge your cheeks and lips, and set your hair more carefully than usual, just in case that inkling came to pass. And you’d insisted on baking an apple pie to bring over for dessert, prepared to fight had your mother put up any protest, which she had not.

The walk across the grass to the house side by side with yours has never felt so long as it does today. The August air is heavy but dry from the day's heat, wafting with woodsmoke and ablaze with the rhythmic chirping of crickets that are emerging, drawn by the deepening light. And it feels laden with something else, too, as you crunch along the gravel path that connects the front of your property with the Munsons’. Perhaps it’s the promise you think you saw in Eddie’s eyes that wisps along the breeze, ruffling the leaves of the oak trees that stand tall and proud behind that red house. Or perhaps it’s your own unspoken revelation, the one that bloomed in the goat pen those days ago, filling your lungs to swell anew behind your ribs. The heaviness of that unknowable quality makes the walk to Eddie’s house feel long, but it is, in fact, over with quite quickly.

He does live just next door, after all.

You carry your sweet offering up to his porch with eyes fixed on the sturdy, weather-beaten door. There you pause to wait for your parents, and when they join you, your mother raps the doorframe smartly with unhesitant knuckles. They flank you like sentinels as you wait, lips pursing at the faint ruckus you hear behind that thick wood. It’s Ed thumpin’ down the stairs, no doubt, you figure, and your supposition is proven correct when just a moment later the door flies open, quick at first before being slowed with a jerk to a more respectable speed.

You can’t pretend to have chosen the dress you’re wearing for any other reason than the fact he’d mentioned it that day at the creek, but the way Eddie’s face goes slack— the way his dark brows melt into softness and his plush lips part just slightly as he marvels at the sight of you— makes it difficult to keep your composure in front of your parents. As does the sight of Eddie himself. Mama and Pa fade at the sight of him, and you can’t help but pause a moment to take him in, your eyes fluttering over his features like a gentle brush of wings. 

Eddie’s curls, dark and rich like wood stain, look as soft and shiny as liquid silk where they spill over his shoulders, and your fingers twitch with longing as you imagine drawing them through those coils. His skin is radiant, scrubbed noticeably clean, and its paleness makes his freckles stand out stark in contrast, like a dusting of spicy cinnamon across the bridge of his nose. He’s rolled his buttoned shirt up to the elbow, revealing strong forearms and broad, rough-hewn hands that are scrambling now to unburden you from the dessert you’d prepared. 

You allow him to take it, offering a grateful smile. He returns it before ducking to the side to peer around you. “Evenin’, sir. Ma’am.” Eddie greets your Mama and your Pa almost reservedly, and the absence of his typical manic edge or teasing rasp feels odd but also makes a strange thrill thrum in your belly. He explains, “My uncle’s occupied there in the kitchen; dinner’s about finished. Just gotta set the table,” he adds, almost to himself, and you hasten to offer your assistance.

With just a hint of too much sweetness for comfort, you tell Eddie, “I can help you if you like.”

“Thank you.” Eddie’s cheek dimples in a soft, crooked smile. “And for the pie.”

You wave off his regard to keep your cheeks from pinking. “S’nothin.”

You’ve been inside Wayne Munson’s house on occasion since you were small, as have your parents, but Eddie still leads you along the wide worn floorboards and through the archway into the sitting room. This room is as it always is: green paint faded from the westward setting sun on the far wall, Wayne’s sagging armchair nestled in the corner, a hand-hewn coffee table and the striped couch with the crochet blanket draped over its back in a cascade of the merry yellows and oranges you know Wayne is partial to on account of the sunflowers. There’s a pair of eyeglasses on the side table near the armchair atop a magazine that is clearly Wayne’s, but the boot poking from half-beneath it, strewn carelessly as if it had been kicked off in a hurry, is clearly not. A faint smile crosses your face as you spot it, though your father’s loud clomping footsteps draw your attention soon enough. The sizzling of the stove is overtaken by your father’s friendly shout as forges ahead to the kitchen; the gruff warmth of two men greeting one another accompanies you as you cross the living room to join Eddie in the dining room. 

You become mindful of what you’d offered when you see him clearing the runner and the simple centerpiece from the dining table, which dominates the middle of the room despite the tall hutch standing broad against the far wall. You hasten to help him, hovering nearby as he pulls open the hutch drawer. You catch your mother eying the dust on the ridge lining the hutch and prepare yourself for some remark on the matter, but in the end, she doesn’t comment. Instead, she merely watches you and Eddie futz with the silverware for a moment before leaving you to your work to survey the goings-on in the kitchen. You hear the conversation between the two men stall when she enters before continuing, making room for the new addition.

Eddie squats to retrieve the plates as you set out the placemats, lining them with spoons and knives side-by-side and forks placed carefully across from them, with space to nestle the plates in-between. You circle the table methodically, dropping piece after piece on your path as Eddie rotates in the other direction, crossing your path almost as seamlessly as if this is a practiced dance. It’s not something you’ve ever done together— meals typically don’t stand on such ceremony as this, and Eddie certainly doesn’t usually fold the linen napkins into careful squares before dropping them onto the white ceramic. But as you watch him nudge the fabric with the tip of his finger to straighten its crooked lines, his tongue tip peeking pink between his lips as he does, the chore feels distinctly domestic to you, like something that has happened dozens of times before and will continue again for countless more. That sudden uncanny inkling mixes with the feeling that swells up sometimes behind your ribs, which resurges when Eddie sidles up next to you and bumps you lightly out of the way with his hip. 

“Watch it, you,” he pretends to grouse, lips quirking as he drops the napkin square onto the final plate with a flourish. “M’tryn’a set the table here.”

“Oh, and I’m not?” you retort hotly, but when he pinches your waist quick and playful, you can’t help the giggle that squeals its way from your throat. He dances back from your jabbing finger aimed at his side, curls bouncing as his face lights with a smile. Not to be deterred, you snatch up the napkin he’d just put down, and as it unravels from its square to prepare to strike him across the ribs, the familiar gravel of a throat being cleared— aged and croaky with years of tobacco use— has you spinning on your heel and hiding the evidence of your childishness behind your back.

The sight of Eddie’s uncle is wholly more welcome than your own Pa at the moment, though you still want to squirm as he regards you with a squint and a quirked brow. “Hello, Wayne!” you say brightly. You’re fooling no one; it’s an obvious attempt to distract him as you plop the napkin back onto the plate, letting it drop behind your back. 

“Hello, y/n. It’s nice to see you.” Wayne doesn’t react as Eddie reaches slowly around you to fiddle the napkin back into a semblance of orderliness, though you swear his blue eyes— so different from Eddie’s in color but so alike in their expressiveness— are twinkling now as he carries the plate of fried pork chops to the table, setting them carefully down.

“Thanks for having us over for dinner,” you say, clasping your hands demurely in front of your lap. “It’s very kind of you.”

Wayne rasps a chuckle as he straightens, clapping a heavy hand on Eddie’s shoulder briefly before moving with characteristic creakiness toward the kitchen. “No need to thank me; it was all Ed,” he offers offhandedly before disappearing, unaware of how the comment stirs the hope within you to sweet and tender life.

The meal shared with your neighbors is pleasant. More than pleasant, in fact. The pork chops are crispy but tender, yielding easily to your knife; the sweet juice of the fresh corn snaps between your teeth as you bite into the cob, and the sliced tomatoes are buttery smooth and perfectly ripe. Wayne is seated to your right at the head of the table with your father beside you on the left, and you spend the majority of the meal eating and listening rather than speaking, more than content to let them bookend you with their familiar voices made more fervent in the company of friendly company not often seen. Eddie is seated across from you, and when you aren’t listening to the patriarchs reminisce about the drought of ‘36 and lament the inconvenience they’re suffering as a bridge repair forces them to travel in some roundabout way, you’re watching Eddie eat. You’re staring at him with a level of fascination that is almost unnerving, made clear as his brow furrows slightly when he catches your eyes fixed so firmly on him.

But you’re staring because it’s strange, the way he’s eating. You’ve seen Eddie eat many times, and he always does it with a certain disregard for common manners: borderline too-ambitious bites, mouth open more than it’s closed, fingers sucked of grease, crumbs everywhere. Yet, not so tonight. Tonight, every slice is cut to a reasonable size; every bite is measured and chewed thoughtfully; every swallow occurs before he speaks again. And Eddie is even using his napkin. It’s laid across his lap and, miraculously, lifted to his mouth every once in a while to neaten the corners of those plush pink lips before being replaced just as carefully 

The empty space where that napkin is usually balled to the side of his empty plate is not the most uncanny thing, though. What is the most uncanny thing is the way your mother is actively engaging him in conversation about the 4H fair next month. Eddie tells her he plans to enter Merlin as a showhorse, and she nods across to you, donning a soft smile as she says, “Y/n’s really been makin’ strides with her embroidery ahead of the showin’. I think she’ll be ready.”

“She’s gettin’ real good, from what I’ve seen,” Eddie agrees eagerly, bobbing his head maybe a little too wildly. “Did she show you the hoop she’s makin’ for my uncle? The one with our family name in the middle?”

“I think so…” Mama’s head tips as she considers it. “That the one that has sunflowers on it?”

“And chicory flowers, too,” you pipe up, meeting Eddie’s umber eyes across the broad table, watching them soften to honey. Your Mama makes a sound of recognition and keeps talking, and while Eddie nods, replying politely, his gaze doesn’t stray from yours.

When bellies have been filled, and plates have been cleaned of all but the tiniest crumbs, you decide as a group to retire to the living room before indulging in dessert. Your hosts lead the way, and Wayne takes his customary place in his well-worn armchair, sinking down with a bone-weary sigh borne partly of creaking joints and partly of a belly swollen by overindulgence. 

Your mother hovers near the archway, surveying the seating options demurely until Wayne notices and waves her easily toward the couch. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Ed’ll park his seat on the floor, won’t you, son?”

“Oh,” she protests politely, “I’m sure we don’t mind—”

But Eddie has already flopped himself down in front of the hearth, leaning back on the heels of his palms and stretching his lanky legs toward the coffee table, perfectly content. As his foot bobs back in an easy rhythm, Mama’s eyes dart to the hole in the bottom of his sock near the toes, the way the white thread is worn gray and threadbare on the balls and the heel. Quick as a flash, they dart away again as Pa encourages her forward with a hand at the small of her back. Together they take the couch, your mother perching on the edge with her ankles crossed and your father sinking back into the cushions, leaning one elbow comfortably against the arm and letting out his own sigh to match Wayne’s.

You’re about to join Eddie on the floor when you notice, peeking from the corner of the long hall leading toward the back of the house, curves of spruce that beckon your excitement. 

“Oh!” You make a sound not unlike your mother’s, though yours is borne of exuberance as you pick your way around Eddie’s legs. He grunts a light protest as you plant a palm atop his head to steady yourself while stepping over him, but you ignore it in favor of plucking the instrument from its hiding place, brandishing it in the air with wide eyes and a broad grin. “Look, Ed, it’s your guitar!” 

“Yes,” he says, half wry as you toddle towards him, awkward and unwieldy in your inexperience carrying it. “That’d be my guitar, all right. Why, aren’t you the clever one.” 

Your reply is quick and entirely cheerful. “You shush y’r mouth, Eddie Munson,” you say easily, depositing the guitar in his lap and taking a seat cross-legged beside him. In your peripheral, you can see Wayne leaning back in his chair, surveying you as his fingers stroke his grizzled beard, but your eyes are all for the man with wild curls and a teasing grin that stretches his plush pink lips as he glances over at you. “I was thinkin’ y’could play us some songs to pass the time before dessert.”

Eddie sighs beleagueredly, tipping his head back even while already lifting the guitar strap over his shoulders. “What next? Y’gonna ask me to sing too?” He slants another glance at you, chuckling as your eyes light up even further. You clutch his wrist, shaking lightly, only faltering slightly when you notice how hot and smooth his skin is underneath your fingers. The awareness tingles within you, and you snatch your hand back.

You play it off with characteristic banter. “D’you want some o’my apple pie?” you question him, quirking your eyebrows in challenge.

Eddie purses his lips, not quite pouting but close to it. “...Yes,” he replies, and you jerk your chin toward the guitar.

“Then get to singin’, mister,” you say hotly, though you can’t help but smile when Eddie pretends to clutch his heart and sway back as if wounded by your demands. A disapproving tut draws your eyes, and they widen when you see Mama’s narrow. She’s clucking her tongue in a way that means she is dissatisfied with your attitude and wants you to know it. 

Your spine straightens under her silent gaze, and a prickle of shame needles across your shoulders as you clasp your hands in your lap. You look back at her contritely until she finally glances away; if anyone else notices the nonverbal exchange, they don’t let on, and the shame fades as Eddie begins to pluck the first few notes of the song he’s chosen to begin with.

Your mother’s reproach is quickly forgotten as Eddie’s warm rasp fills the room to accompany the twang of the guitar’s strings. The sound is untrained, yet melodic and pleasant nonetheless as he sings, “Well, they tell me, my dear, that you’re going; I will miss your bright eyes and your smile. For with you, you are taking the sunshine that has brightened my life for a while.”

Red River Valley wouldn’t have been your first choice of song for the occasion, though you must admit that Eddie sounds quite nice singing it. And it’s pleasant to watch him play, too: his long lashes dust the pale of his cheeks as he looks down at his fingerwork, and your gaze slides down the slope of his nose to the soft end, then down to the valley between nose and lip, then finally to the pink of his full lips as they form the words. “I have waited a long time my darling for those words that you never would say” A lock of curls behind his ear slips to drape over his cheek, and though your fingers itch to tuck it back for him again, you force them still in your lap. “And alas now my poor heart is breaking for they tell me you’re going away.”

Eddie repeats the chorus one last time and ends with a flourish of strumming, a smile stretching his cheeks wide as your Mama claps politely and her eyes wrinkle pleasedly. Your father is less enthusiastic, though he does nod absently when he sees you looking at him imploringly. “S’pretty good,” he offers, and Eddie accepts it graciously, resetting his fingers on the frets to regale you with some improvised playing. 

He is quiet for a while as he plays, brow furrowed in concentration as he weaves chords and notes into a tapestry of story, not unlike the tales he’s long invented for you since you were merely children playing in the mud. You marvel for a moment at the fact that those broad hands, so rough and worn from labor, are able to create such sweet and delicate sound; you watch his long fingers dance along the frets, the way their strong calluses catch the strings and make them cry out in joyful feeling. His playing is unhurried and peaceful, but watching Eddie fills you with a thrumming sort of happiness that makes you want to join in— something you’ve never done before despite the many times you’ve heard him play. 

That feeling bubbles over as his song eases into a brief silence, and you take the opportunity to ask if you can make a request. Eddie’s brows jerk in surprise for only a moment before he’s nodding quickly, perhaps a little too wild in his effort to encourage you. And though he rolls his eyes lightly when you tell him what you want, a smile still tugs at the corner of his lips as he begins a tune more jaunty and sentimental than the one he’d been playing.

You watch as he plays the introduction, waiting for his eyes to flash to yours promptingly before you begin to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray.” Your voice is not as practiced as Eddie’s— though his is barely so— but it is clear of tone and gains steadiness as you continue, “You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you; please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It becomes clear as you begin to sing this song why people sing songs. Which may seem an odd revelation in and of itself, but it’s something that you’ve just… never really done before. You may hum a tune to yourself as you complete your chores, or warble along with the record player, but that’s not the same as letting your own voice be the one to take the place of silence, to fill a room so full that you cannot be ignored. There is something vulnerable about that choice, and you feel that vulnerability in the itch at the base of your throat, where your skin is heating with the awareness that everyone can hear every crack or falter in your pitch. But as you sing the words out, emboldened by Eddie’s confident playing, you realize there’s a kind of wild disregard for perfection in the act, an impulsive freedom that feels very much like joy. And you see that joy echoed on Eddie’s face when he accompanies you for the final verse, his warm brashness husking up the clearness of yours in a way that sounds, not just good, but right. 

Another smattering of applause follows your performance, and you bask in it; your knee seeks the side of Eddie’s thigh, resting there lightly, and though you don’t glance down at it for fear of drawing too much attention, just knowing that he is warm, and solid, and connected to a small part of you makes happiness perch high in your heart.

“If I could make a request.” 

All eyes turn to Mama, who has now sunk back against the couch, not quite leaning against your father’s side but close to it. “How about ‘John the Rabbit?’ Used to sing that t’you when you were little. D’you remember that?”

Mama’s voice is just the same as it always is— even when it’s calm, the urgency of ‘get this done, knock it off, do this, not that’ is never quite gone. But her expression is buttery soft now as she gazes at you, and as you relax under its comforting weight, your body sags subtly toward the man sitting at your side. “Sure I do,” you tell her, “used to sing it to me in the mornin’, and that’s how I knew we were gonna tend the garden that day.”

Mama hums, beckoning you gently with her chin. “Why don’t you lead us in a round, hm?” She casts glances around at the men, adding, “All you gotta do is say, ‘Yes, ma’am.’”

“‘Til the last line,” you pipe up, “then y’say, ‘No, ma’am.’”

Wayne chuckles, rubbing his palms along his worn blue jeans. “I reckon we can handle it,” he assures her in his slow way, and with that, Eddie strums a simple tune fitting of a nursery school rhyme. 

You sing sweetly, “Oh, John the rabbit—”

“Yes, ma’am,” the rest call, and you smile through the next line:

“Got a mighty habit—”

“Yes’ ma’am.” 

“Jumpin’ in my garden—” you pause for the others, who oblige you readily, before continuing, “Cuttin’ down my cabbage…” and yielding them the floor.

The leader is meant to draw out the next line, to twang the words at the end, and you sway in your seat as you faithfully follow. “My sweet potatoes,” you croon at Eddie, and he leans toward you as he answers louder than the rest,

“Yes ma’am!”

With each successive line, the delight inside you grows, and it echoes through the room, repeated on every face— man and woman, young and old.

“And if I live… to see next fall… I ain’t gonna have… no garden at all—” You heave a great breath, grinning as you throw your head back and chorus with the others,

“No… ma’am!” 

Eddie strums hard and quick to end the song, and your giggle is joined by Wayne’s thick chuckle, and your mother’s polite humming, and your father’s hoarse bark of amusement. And when Eddie throaty, husky chuckles swallow up them all beside you, you think if you could bottle up this sound and keep it forever, you would. You certainly would.

When you return to the dining room, taking your seat beside your father, the air that fills the red roost is thick with the sweetness of shared company, almost enough to rival the flaky pie you’re all indulging in. It’s not the finest you’ve ever tasted, but it’s with a sense of pride that you watch the others enjoy it. Pa is gesturing widely with his fork as he discusses autumn arrangements with Wayne, how they might coordinate their harvests of hay and corn for mutual benefit. Mama is scooping up each bite slowly and chewing thoroughly, which you know means she is stalling to keep herself from devouring the whole thing in one fell swoop. Wayne is already on his second slice despite protesting, when he’d initially been served, that he couldn’t eat another bite. And Eddie…

Well, Eddie has eaten half his pie already, but in the last handful of minutes he’s been pushing the remainder around on his fork— not disinterestedly, as if he doesn’t enjoy it, but with a sort of jerkiness to the motions that belys some tension within him. You have half a mind to ask him what’s bothering him, but you don’t want to embarrass him in front of company. You bury down the tinge of worry, which is what must be kicking up your heart, what must account for the sudden tightness in your own chest, though it feels more akin to anticipation. 

So you eat your pie, and listen to your father, and glance back and forth between Mama and Eddie until the latter finally sets his fork down with a clink that somehow, despite the lack of force, cuts straight through the conversation between Wayne and Pa. It lapses into silence, and your heart pounds harder as you watch a pink tongue swipe at plush lips and an adam’s apple bob in a pale throat before the brash voice of your best friend fills the void.

“Sir,” Eddie says, looking at your father, and a lump grows in your throat as the word wavers just slightly before recovering. “I hope it’s all right, me speaking out of turn, but… there’s something I need to say to you.”

There is a brief pause as all eyes turn to your Pa. He draws his napkin over his lips, and its drag smooths the severe lines around his mouth for just a moment before they spring back up again into place. “S’your house,” your father replies, not unkindly.

Eddie’s eyes dart to Wayne for just a second, and you follow them to see the older man gazing back calmly. When they return to your Pa, Eddie lifts his chin, keeping his gaze and voice steady. “We’ve lived next door to each other for just about ten years now. And in that time, I’ve gotten to know your family well, and you’ve gotten to know mine.” His throat bobs as he pauses. “Y/n and I grown up alongside each other, and maybe my opinion don’t matter all that much in the scheme of things, but I tell you humbly that, well, I think you both done a mighty fine job raisin’ her.”

Eddie looks at your mother beside him, who offers him a slight nod, but he doesn’t look at you. And good thing, too, because that feeling is swelling up to fill your throat so hot and thick, it’s all you can do to keep your chin from trembling. “I know y’don’t need me to tell you this,” Eddie huffs a breathless chuckle, “y’already know how good she is. But I think it warrants bein’ said that there’s somethin’ about y/n that’s special.” His chest expands with a bracing breath, and in that pause, you see it all in Eddie’s umber eyes. In the line of his brow, the gentle slope of his nose, the light flush of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw— all that he could ever say is there, written plain as day across his beloved face.

“Special to me, s’what I’m saying,” he clarifies, and the way his brow furrows just slightly in the middle— tugged up into an expression of sweet earnestness— has your heart beating so wild and fast you think it might leap out of your chest and into the cradle of his arms. 

“Sir,” Eddie says, “I really care about your daughter, and I would like to ask your permission to court her.”

It’s what you hadn’t allowed yourself to hope for when you’d taken out the Fourth of July dress and adorned yourself in sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It’s what shone through Eddie’s eager smile when he opened the door to his home with his face scrubbed clean, waiting there for you. It’s the promise of forever stretched out over the expanse of a wooden dining table, where napkins were carefully folded into squares and pies were baked with fresh apples from the tree outside. Small acts of service committed by two sets of hands, each trailing love like fairy dust in their wake.

Pa clears his throat— not a sharp sound, more of a rumble of consideration as he leans back in his chair, gazing at Mama across from him. He nods his head slowly, thoughtfully, a gradual bobbing that continues as his tongue runs over his teeth behind his lips. It ends with a jerking of his brows and the smack of his lips opening as he replies,

“I appreciate your words, Edward, they’re very kind. But, no.” His eyes hold Eddie’s steadily. “I do not give you permission to court my daughter.”

Your father doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even sound particularly bothered. And yet the pall that settles over the Munson’s dinner table is so oppressive that you feel your shoulders sink under the palpable weight of the silence following his denial. That heaviness drags like a rotten hand down the back of your neck; it melts to viscous ooze, seeping over your clavicle, sinking through your gingham dress and coating the swelling behind your ribs in suffocating shock. 

Distantly, you hear Wayne stiffly ask your parents to accompany him into the living room. You feel your father’s chair scrape out beside you; you want to glance at your Mama’s face, but your eyes are stuck to the flakes of crust and the crystals of sugar dotting the linen napkin laid beside your plate. 

It isn’t until you’re alone with Eddie that the heaviness sloughs off of you to slap like dead meat to the floor. Then you can raise your head and meet the umber eyes of the man who sits across from you, motionless and hollow.

As soon as you see the expression on his face, the feeling shifts in you; with an impatient jerk of your chair, you stand to crane over the table and take up his cheeks in your hands. His head is heavy, his neck loose and pliant, and you hold him steady as you speak quietly and intently. 

“Okay, look, Ed—” You take a shuddering breath, letting it out through your nose, and it ruffles the soft curls that frame his jaw as he looks back at you blankly. You continue in an urgent whisper, “Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’ll put up a bit of a fuss, of course, but if I fight ‘em too hard, they’ll look at me cross, and we won’t get nowhere. By all appearances, we should look like we accept their decision, all right? That’ll buy us time to figure out what to do.” 

Eddie doesn’t react, really; nothing much on his face changes. But you know him too well, so you can see the subtle shifting there, how the dullness in his umber eyes edges into mournfulness. Defeat.

Your heart cracks.

His name whispers through your quivering lips. “Eddie…” Your eyes prick for him, for all the effort he put into making this night so perfect, and how it now had gone all sideways on him. On you both. 

You don’t think much about what you do next. It’s instinct when you surge forward to kiss him hard, pressing your lips to his with all the fervency and yearning and love that swells within your body. Your heart thumps when you feel him respond, when his lips pucker and seek yours, when his trembling fingertips draw lightly down your cheek. 

There is urgency and danger here in the dining room, but you hold the kiss as long as you can before your lungs begin to burn. When you pull away, gasping for breath, Eddie now looks more dazed than sad, and it both reassures you and feeds your fire. 

“I don’t give a hoot what they say,” you whisper fiercely. “I wanna be with you, Ed. We been good at sneakin’ around before, and we can do it now, too.” You search his eyes, panging with hesitation for the first time as you scrape your teeth across your teeth before blurting, “I don’t wanna stop seein’ you. Do… do you wanna stop seein’ me, now that this’s happened?” 

Eddie huffs— a small warm puff of breath that ghosts across your lips— and it’s wry and unbelieving but so incredibly soft. “‘Y/n.” His voice is a gentle rumble in his chest, earnest and hoarse. “Now that I had a chance to know you the way we know each other, I think it’d kill me dead to go back to how it was before. I could barely keep it together then. Can’t imagine doin’ it now that I’ve had you underneath me.” You shiver at the hot promise in his eyes. “‘Sides,” he adds, “I—”

The merciful floorboards warn you of the imminent return of your parents, and you fall back into your chair just in time to appear innocent as they reenter the dining room.

“Well!” Your father sighs the word in that tone people only use when closing something out— a conversation, a get-together, an engagement. You think he will continue, that he will turn to Eddie and perhaps offer an explanation, but that single word just lingers in the pause until your mother jumps in.

“Thank you for dinner, Wayne. Eddie,” Mama says politely, and Eddie manages to bob his head in a single nod to acknowledge her. Wayne has far more composure, accepting her thanks and exchanging a polite word about the next dinner.

Your father shakes Wayne’s hand firmly and then beckons you with a jerk of his head. “C’mon, missy, let’s leave ‘em to their evenin’.” 

It would be odd if it weren’t that you understood what must have happened in the living room— that your father had explained his decision to Wayne, and that they’d managed to come out the other side maintaining, at the very least, a level of friendliness befitting neighbors. 

So you follow suit; with as much decorum as you can muster, you rise primly and thank Wayne, casting one last glance at Eddie before you depart the red roost of the crows.

You wait until you’re back inside your own roost and your front door has closed behind you to turn on them, brow knit tight with righteous indignation. “Why did you deny Eddie, Pa?” you demand. “What’s wrong with him courtin’ me?” You can’t quite keep the heat from your voice; the outrage bubbling beneath the surface is too fresh, too hot as you remember Eddie’s beloved umber eyes, how the light in them dimmed.

Your father does not quail at your display; if anything, he grows taller, raising his chin and regarding you down the bridge of his nose. “Y/n, I’ve been acquainted with Edward for damn near ten years now, and in that time, he has proved himself time after time to be frivolous and uncouth. That boy is entirely lacking in discipline.” In a rare display of restraint, your father does not raise his voice at you in the privacy of your home. Yet he is no less hardened for it; his words fall like heavy stones before your feet. “Edward is downright wild. Your mother and I have let you indulge in this little friendship with him, above all, on account of our respect for Wayne. But he is not the kind of young man I want courtin' my only unwed daughter.”

You could tell them that Eddie’s wildness is what fuels his heart, what makes him so passionate and imaginative and enchanting. You could tell them that he bought you a ribbon and scrubbed his nails clean, that he takes you to wildflower fields because he knows you like them and invents stories to make you happy. You could tell them that you love him, that you always have, that when you envision what your life will be like with your own house and garden, you can’t see anyone but Eddie Munson by your side. 

Yet you fear to voice these things, to breathe life into them and then have them butchered just as quickly at your father’s hand. You glance at your mother, but her face is an impassive mask; you know appealing to her will get you nowhere, so you latch to the only thing you can think of. Despite telling Eddie that you will not fight hard for him since that will only make things more difficult, you find yourself unable to resist.

“But Pa,” you try for earnestness, “Ed is disciplined, don’t you see? Think of all he’s done for us ‘round the house, and with the fence and the kid. I think he’s been tryin’ so hard this past week to show you how serious he is about m—”

A curled lip is all the warning you get before being interrupted. “Never trust a man who acts just because he wants somethin’.” Your father finally snaps; his voice booms in the space between you. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what he done or how he acted this week. It don’t erase a lifetime of evidence to the contrary.”

And you know by the way your Pa’s severe face has petrified into the hardest stone, echoed though less harshly in the wrinkles that line your mother’s eyes, that their decision cannot be budged.

Edward Munson cannot court you, and that is that.

But the fact is, you don’t need Eddie Munson to court you. You’re already his, and you give yourself to him as such.

When you wake the next morning, it appears to your parents as if your ire from the night before was nothing but a feverish dream. You slink around the house with your tail held high, coy as a barnyard cat as you dine with them at the breakfast table, making amiable conversation with your Pa and complimenting your Mama’s cooking without a hint of sourness. You complete your chores without complaining— well, without any more complaining than is typical of you. You sew the buttons on your Mama’s dress with the utmost considerateness and drop kisses on your father’s cheek each night before retiring to bed. This awards you certain freedoms, freedoms that you certainly wouldn’t be gifted had you carried on about their rejection of Eddie the way you truly wanted to deep in your heart.

You keep it buried— the indignance, the sorrow, the swelling you feel when you catch glimpses of him through the cracks in the fence. You cover it in pleasantness and obeisance so that they won’t suspect, and when you visit the stump rotted through to the middle and find the papers wedged inside, you exercise the privileges you’ve won through subterfuge. 

“Nancy asked me to walk with her into town. She wants me to come with her to the dressmakers, so it might take a little while if that’s all right?” You ask your Pa as he’s repairing the sagging barn door, and his hammering pauses only long enough to tell you not to spend any frivolous money there. 

It’s quite easy to agree when you have no real intention of setting foot in the dressmaker’s shop.

Instead, you dip off the road and trail across the far edge of the Wheelers’ field, picking through a copse of trees to access the adjacent clearing that grows wild and unkempt. There, you find a patch of clear earth, and now, you are dropping to your knees to gather your skirt up around your hips. You arch your back shamelessly to expose yourself, presenting your pussy like a cat in heat to the man behind you. When you feel his broad hands ruck your skirt up higher, you press your palms to the earth and dip your cheek to the ground, just waiting to be mounted. When Eddie notches his fat head against your entrance, you teethe the plush of your bottom lip. He presses steadily forward until he pops inside, stretching you tight around his girth, and when you mewl, he hisses in response. In one long stroke— a motion quick and trembling like the tautness of a bowstring, as if he can no longer hold himself back now that he has notched inside you— Eddie presses his hips up tight against your ass and groans out his relief at your joining. His relief echoes your own, manifest in the way your body goes lax: chin dipping to take its rest, shoulders sagging as your breasts mold to the unyielding ground, fingers drawing through strands of green as if yearning for dark coils of ink but settling for second best. Eddie sleeves himself within the wet warmth that welcomes him, and your muscles yawn a sigh of relief even as you flutter and squeeze around that which splits you open.

There, in the dirt and grass, you give yourself to Eddie on your hands and knees. Your face grazes the earth as you let him pound into you from behind, let him grip your hips and claim you with the little imprints of his fingers that he squeezes into your skin. You and Eddie have done gentle; you know what it is to lie with him on the creekbed or in the wildflowers, where time seemed to stretch and bend, and every moment could be savored. But not so now, when the only occasions you can see one another are in moments stolen through lies and trickery. Now, your need for Eddie is dirty and ravenous. You take what he gives you, and you give freely for him to take in return. Each whimper and grunt, each harsh slap of skin against skin, each wet shlick of his cock sheathing in your eager heat sounds to you like a triumphant cry of defiance.

A wicked seed within you relishes in the fantasy of your parents seeing what you are allowing frivolous, uncouth Eddie Munson to do to you. You know your Mama would be scandalized— her eyes would pop out of her head. You know your Pa would be furious— his face would go purple with rage. They refused to allow Eddie to court you, and yet here he is, fucking into you with abandon as you whimper and tremble for him. And you like it; you like the way he spears you roughly with his cock, the way your ass bounces lewdly against his hips, the way your belly tightens with sinful pleasure as he plunges deep and holds himself there, pressing hard to grind himself inside you. Your walls flutter and squeeze around him as you circle your hips, seeking for something more. You angle and work yourself on his length until you jolt, having suddenly found what you sought. That feeling sparks like wicked fire, burning low inside you each time he grazes against that elusive spot inside, and oh, how you like it.

"Please, harder, Eddie," you beg him, whimpering into the earth. "Please— you feel so good." 

“Fuuuck,” Eddie groans, and the hoarse husk makes you shiver with pleasure. "Your pussy’s so sweet. So fuckin' tight and sweet for me, turtle dove. Fuckin’ love being inside your little pussy." 

You moan, long and low, rocking back to meet him as he starts to thrust again, hard and fast. You've learned that Eddie has a filthy mouth, and each dirty word that drips from his sinful lips is both so mortifying and so arousing at the same time. As his fingers tighten on your hips, and his breath harshens into desperate pants, urgency fills you— an urgency to feel him reach the pinnacle he is approaching. You want Eddie to spill inside you, or on your flank, or into the grass, anywhere so long as you can hear the way he whines and moans from the pleasure you’re giving him. “That’s it, Ed,” you encourage him breathlessly, “just like that, just— oh— j-just like that, mmm—” 

You pinch off a whine, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as his rhythm becomes stilted, uneven, desperate— 

And then Eddie gasps raggedly, pulling out and spilling onto the earth between your spread legs. His hands leave you, and you scramble up to your knees, hole mournfully empty but heart so full. You turn as Eddie squeezes the last few drops of his seed from his flushed head onto the ground before catching you in one strong arm as you fall against him, cradling your cheek and kissing you deeply. 

But like the kiss you shared in his dining room those few days ago, floorboards creak in the back of your mind, cutting this one short. They’re reminding you that you will soon need to return home and pretend not to know the taste of Eddie’s lips and the feeling of his arms around you.

And frankly, by the end of the first week, you are already growing tired of having to pretend.

It’s not that you give yourselves away because you don’t. Eddie waves at your Pa over the fence and skirts his eyes from you— never cruelly, only in the way you both had planned— and your father doesn’t suspect a thing. When Eddie brings over a pail of milk so you can churn it to make butter, Mama’s face is carefree when you pass it to her. But your desire is no longer contained to fields and creekbeds; it rises up in the night as your yearnings bid you dip your fingers beneath your nightgown. You draw them through sticky folds and dip them inside the well of your arousal, seeking the smoldering fire that burns within. But you can never make yourself feel the way Eddie does, no matter how hard you try. 

So when you wake again in the middle of the night, this time, you light a candle, scratching a hasty message onto a scrap of paper. And the next morning, you fold your message carefully, tuck it beneath the waistband of your apron, and reach your arm up to the elbow into that rotted stump, leaving it there for Eddie to find.

The night air is heavy with humidity and the chirping of crickets and cicadas, but you leave the window open. You’re laying in your bed, breathing slow and even, staring at a thin crack in your plaster ceiling to keep your nervousness from overwhelming you. Your parents had retired to bed some time ago; you heard the creaking of the floorboards then, and now, if you concentrate, you can hear the chainsaw snoring of your Pa through both closed doors. 

He is sleeping, and Ma is sleeping, and so should you be. But you are waiting— waiting for your best friend to climb through your open window and join you in your bed.

You are waiting for it, but your heart leaps nonetheless when you hear scuffling at the bedroom window. You sit up, and all at once, he’s there, dark eyes gleaming in the faint moonlight. Eddie’s form is near shapeless as he creeps toward your bed, but you would recognize him anywhere; his weight has never dipped the mattress beside you, but it feels exactly as you would expect when one knee sinks beside your calf, only to be joined by the other in the next second. Slowly, feeling around in the dark, Eddie settles his weight on top of you. He is heavy and hot as he presses you into the mattress with his belly and chest; his curls tickle across your clavicle, smelling overwhelmingly like his natural musk in the stagnant air of your bedroom. When he kisses you hello, his mouth tastes slightly sour, as if the heat of the long day and the exertion of scaling the side of your house has dehydrated him. 

Eddie is heavy, hot, musky, sour, and here, here in your bedroom with you. 

It’s everything you could want.

When he breaks your kiss, it’s all you can do to keep from pouncing on him. “Eddie—” you whine, nuzzling the firm bridge of your nose against the side of his as your hands seek the bottom of his thin shirt blindly, tugging insistently though ineffectually. 

He shushes you gently, dropping a peck on your pouting lips before dipping to your neck to murmur against the soft skin there. “Shh—” his breath hushes warm and damp against your skin, and your head tips back of its own accord, begging for more. “You gotta be real quiet, turtle dove,” he whispers. “Don’t want anyone to hear us.”

Your breath deepens as his lips trail down to your collarbone, grazing kisses as he mosies his way down to your chest. In the humid dark, you feel his callused fingers pull down the loose neckline of your nightgown. Eddie says something, and you feel the vibrations of his words against the swell of your breast, but your heart which thumps wildly in your chest and the wooshing of your breath in your ears have rendered you effectively deaf.

 “E—” You manage only the first soft sound of his name before his lips close over your nipple for the first time, sucking firmly. Your hand flies to his head as your body goes rigid; your mouth falls open in a ragged gasp as pleasure jolts straight down to throb between your legs. You squirm against him until he presses your hip down with one broad hand to keep you from rocking the bed, working the nub with his tongue and teeth until your gasping breaks into a faint but audible whimper.

You are dazed when he releases you with a wet pop, murmuring against your breast a little more loudly now, “I guess Harrington was right about that, after all. That bodes well.”

You wrinkle your nose as Eddie crawls back up your body to settle over you. Your legs open automatically to accommodate him, but you’re too preoccupied to fully appreciate the feeling of his hardness pressing against your inner thigh. Frowning lightly, you hiss in a whisper, “What’re you doin’ talkin’ to Steven Harrington, of all people?”

“Never you mind that,” Eddie whispers back, and he heads off your protest with a warm palm cupping the side of your neck, his fingers cradling your jaw. “The conversation is too delicate to discuss with a lady, so I’ll just tell you that… well, he told me to do what I just did, and you liked it, right?”

Though embarrassed heat rushes to your cheeks, you nod your head jerkily, enough so he can feel it even if he doesn’t see it in the dark. “Okay, so… he also said there’s a spot.” His hand leaves your cheek to graze down between your bodies, ghosting lightly against the loose fabric pooled between your legs. “Somewhere I can touch you, down here, that’ll make you have a fit if I do it good enough.”

Your bewilderment rushes up in a tangle of sputtered and furious whispers. “Have a fit?! Ed, what on God’s green Earth makes you think I wanna have a fit?” 

Eddie huffs. “It’s a good thing, y/n. He said girls really like it.” 

Your skepticism is plain as you retort, “Oh, did he now?” 

“Yes.” Eddie is uncharacteristically earnest and solemn, and that’s what finally gives you pause. When you’re quiet, he whispers, “I wanna make you feel so good, my sweet girl. If you let me. Will you let me?” 

In the humid dark of your bedroom, with only the moon to glaze the side of Eddie’s pale face in cool, subtle light, you look into the darkness of his eyes and feel so many stirrings inside… anticipation, nervousness, desire. But in the end, it’s the deepest stirring of all that convinces you, the one that’s been growing slow and steady over the last ten years.

Trust. 

You trust Eddie, more deeply than you’ve trusted any other person in your life, and that trust is what draws you forward into a tentative kiss. 

Your lips part briefly from his before meeting again more firmly. Eddie rumbles low in his throat, and when his lips open to deepen the kiss, yours follow. You allow him to lick into your mouth, to draw his tongue across your teeth, to press closer until the way he’s kissing you is hot, deep, wet, and urgent. 

When Eddie breaks away, his eagerness is plain in the panting of his breath, the quivering of his arms when you draw your fingertips down his biceps, feeling the hot skin there. “That’s my turtle dove,” he hushes against your mouth, and he sounds so proud and pleased with you that you can’t help but whimper. 

Despite his eagerness, Eddie is careful when he climbs off of you to settle at your side, pulling you against him and turning you in his grasp so your back is to his front. Your head falls to the soft down pillow as you feel him work your nightgown up your body, pulling the fabric from where it’s wedged between you. There is the slightest relief from the humidity as your legs, then your hip, then your intimate places are exposed to the air, but you rush even hotter when Eddie’s lips find the shell of your ear so he can murmur, “Spread your legs for me, y/n.” 

Trembling, you lift your knee, and his fingers catch against the plush of your thigh, pulling it back over his hip. He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your eye. “That’s it; good girl.” 

Your breath shudders in your chest as Eddie’s fingers leave your thigh; you throb with anticipation as they ghost over your hip and tummy before dragging through the soft curls covering your mound. “Tell me when it feels the best,” Eddie whispers, resting the side of his temple on top of yours. The weight of his head is grounding as he begins to explore you slowly with one finger, dragging up and down with no apparent pattern to his movements. 

As the moments pass, you relax in his grip, settling into the feeling of his finger dragging through your folds. He doesn’t seem to intend to put them inside you, and what he’s doing feels quite nice, pleasant, almost soothing. The crook of Eddie’s elbow rests against the curve of your ribs, and as your eyes slip closed, you seek his arm with your palm, stroking softly down to his wrist as it moves slowly between your legs—

You jolt as he grazes against something that makes pleasure fizz in a sudden burst, leaving your belly feeling hotter, tighter. As your hips jump, Eddie pauses, his breath catching as he tries to replicate what he’d just done. When it happens again— when pleasure sparks suddenly so might brighter than anywhere else— Eddie’s arm tightens excitedly around your side. 

“S’that it?” his voice is a little too loud in his excitement, and you tightly clutch his wrist. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispers, though the urgency hasn’t left his voice. “That’s it, though, isn’t it? Feels better when I touch you there?”

“Yeah,” you reply, voice small and needy. Eddie dips his hand to draw a sloppy circle briefly around your entrance before returning to the apex of your heat— that place that had tingled when he licked you on the creekbed, you now realize, though the thought hadn’t crossed your mind until you felt that pleasure again. When he presses against it again, his fingertip glides much more smoothly now; it felt good before, but now it feels even better. 

Eddie continues moving his finger slowly and lightly at first as he waits for your reaction, but when you don’t tense or pull away, his actions become more confident. Your pleasure builds under his careful ministrations; he works you slowly but steadily up into a frenzy of heaving breasts, muffled whines, and writhing hips. You begin to arch your ass back against him, grinding slowly, your tender skin dragging against the soft cotton of his pants until you find that stiffness like a brand against your cheek. You press hard against it, rolling your hips only a few times before Eddie grunts and pulls his hand from between your legs, shifting back away from you. 

You know what comes next as you hear the rustling of his clothing; you take the opportunity to catch your breath as he works himself out of his pants, but the wind leaves you just as quickly when he presses back up against you, hard and silky smooth as he guides himself blindly, bumping against your wet, puffy lips. Suddenly overwhelmed with need, you lift your leg higher, whimpering breathily as you reach down between your legs in an attempt to help him. “Fuck’n… c’mon,” Eddie hisses, nudging first too high, then too low, and then— 

Then he sinks right in.

It’s the easiest glide, the sweetest stretch, and simultaneously you and Eddie moan as he slides all the way home. “Oh, baby, baby,” he pants desperately against your cheek, “fuck, that’s… oh, my God—”

You reach up over your shoulder to bury your fingers in his curls, and when he pulses inside you, your breath hitches with the force of your desire, your overwhelming need to have him move. “Eddie, please…” you whine, nearly beside yourself, and his hand clamps to your hip like a vice, holding you still as he pulls out and pushes right back in.

You sag with relief as he wastes no time in beginning to fuck you, splitting you open so deliciously on his cock. Eddie pounds you over and over again like he had those times before, but what you don’t anticipate is how that hand on your hip slinks down between your legs again. 

You strangle your cry in your throat as he finds that spot so easily as if he’d been drawn to it. You whimper through clamped lips as quietly as you can as Eddie presses tight little circles to your bud, pumping into you from behind. Your fingers wrench from his curls to clamp instead around his forearm; the tendons roll under your fingers rhythmically, and your pleasure begins to build so rapidly it’s nearly frightening. 

"That's it, baby,” Eddie encourages you, “You feelin’ good?" 

You nod frantically; something is tightening inside you, growing more than it ever has. "Gonna keep goin' til I get you there," Eddie promises breathlessly, panting out the words between his thrusts. "Don't care how long it takes. I got you, sweetheart. Want you to have a fit." 

"Eddie," you whine quietly, dumbly; only his name can spill from your lips now. "Ed, E-Eddie, Eddie—" 

Your pathetic sounds drive him to fuck you faster, and as he does, your pleasure tightens further, burning hotter, throbbing more and more until the urge to cry out overwhelms you. 

Abruptly, you curl your shoulders forward away from him, snatching up the pillow and burying your face in the soft down to muffle the sound of your moans. 

 You’re still connected where it matters, though Eddie pauses in his movements when you draw away before he realizes what you’re doing. Your sweaty back is exposed to the air for only a moment before he’s following you, unwilling to tolerate any distance— his chin hooks around your shoulder as his hips rut against your ass and his fingers press circles into your clit. 

  "Bein' so good for me,” Eddie rasps in your ear, “using your pillow to keep yourself quiet so your parents don't hear the way I'm fuckin' you in your bed." 

Your moans turn to quiet cries now, rhythmic and constant as your legs squeeze closed around his wrist. And he doesn’t falter; through the plush of your thighs, Eddie fucks you determinedly, thrusting into your fluttering pussy as you gasp and cry raggedly into your pillow. "My girl,” he moans. “They can't take you from me. No one can." 

As that feeling builds and grows, instinct in your body takes over, guiding you where it wants to go. Mindlessly, you begin to grind back on Eddie’s cock, rolling your hips; he pulls his wrist from between your legs, holding onto your hip as he matches the rhythm of your movements. Almost desperately, Eddie drags his open mouth across your cheek, panting out his earnest desire for you. "Come on, turtle dove. That's it—" 

With a soft, hoarse cry, you finally spasm around him. 

The pleasure gapes like a yawn inside you before tightening and bursting outward in a tingling rush, flooding you with mindless euphoria. The intensity of the feeling would be truly frightening had Eddie not been right there behind you, holding you against the solid comfort of his body, whining into your hair. He pumps into you only a few more times before pulling out, and then you feel him spill against your flank. The warm spread of his spend paints your skin, the graze of his cockhead like a hot brand as he squeezes out every drop.

In the aftermath, there is a moment of dazed silence. The only sound that fills your humid bedroom is the chirp of the crickets and the rush of your breaths puffing in unison. When you’ve recovered enough, you break that silence to whisper emphatically, "Oh, Christ on a cracker, Ed, what in the hell was that?!" 

Eddie snorts before burying his face hastily into your neck, muffling his chuckles against your skin as your cheeks rush with embarrassment. “Well, don’t laugh at me,” you insist, heating more when he lifts his head and snatches you up by the chin, smacking a firm, playful kiss to your cheek. 

“You’re cute,” he murmurs, following up his kiss with two shorter ones before letting you go to wipe your hip off with the bottom of the shirt he’s still wearing. 

Your body thrums with contentment, but when the mattress shifts as Eddie climbs carefully down to pull his pants back on, the moment becomes tinged with melancholy. Your eyes track the vague shape of his body for a moment before you whisper, “I wish you could stay, Ed.”

For a moment, all you hear is a heavy sigh, one that leaks with the sadness you’re both beginning to feel. “Me too, sweetheart,” Eddie whispers back. “Can I lay with you, just for a little while?”

The question transforms your sadness into a sharp and poignant swelling— pleasant but painful all at once. “Of course.” You reach blind fingers in the direction of his neck, and Eddie ducks closer so you can draw them through his curls— no longer silky like they were the night of the dinner, yet beloved even more for their frizziness. “I’d really like you to.”

As you laze with Eddie above your bedcovers, tucking your cheek against the side of his chest, sleep begins to swallow the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. Only vaguely do you notice when the bed shifts and the warmth pressed to your side unsticks from your sweaty skin, both a relief and a loss; you feel the brush of lips against your forehead and your closed lids, featherlight and delicate; you hear the scuffle of Eddie climbing back out the window to scale the side of your blue roost and return to his red one next door.

Sleep swallows the pain of knowing Eddie cannot stay. But, though Eddie cannot stay, a part of him is always with you, and it has been for some time now. The evidence of your love is nestled safe inside your body; it is an inevitability ten years in the making, now ten days conceived.

You wake the following morning with an overwhelming desire to have Eddie in your mouth. 

Maybe it’s an odd urge to have so suddenly, but you suppose after your adventurousness last night, your curiosity to try new things must be piqued. You glance around your room, and the only evidence of Eddie’s visit is that your bedsheets more rumpled than usual, so you straighten them out before tying your housecoat around your body and wandering downstairs.

There you find Mama in the kitchen, who is busying herself with the stove until she notices you’re awake. “Morning!” Your greeting is chipper, and she returns your greeting with a smile. As you breakfast together, all feels usual aside from the absence of Pa at the table; she explains that he’s been speaking with a rancher some towns over about possibly purchasing a new horse. You flash with worry, but she soothes it with a pat of her hand atop yours. “Don’t fret. We’re not replacin’ Guinnie, silly girl,” she huffs with some amusement. “We all know that Pa might’ve bought her, but that’s your horse. I told him it’s high time to get one of his own.”

You sag with visible relief, and Mama’s huff turns to a chuckle. “I’m goin’ into town this morning to pick up some things,” she tells you. “You wanna tag along?”

You open your mouth to say yes, but falter as your belly burns with the sudden realization of this opportunity— Pa gone, Mama in town, Eddie just beyond the fence with the stump in between.

“I was actually thinkin’ I could work on my embroidery this morning,” you reply instead. “Finish the hoop for Mr. Munson, maybe.” You smile innocently. “Then I can start on my 4H hoop!”

There’s no reason for Mama to doubt your sincerity, so she doesn’t. And when, an hour later, you wave your embroidery hoop high in the air from your rocking chair as she sets off down the road, she doesn’t question the call of the turtle dove, nor the cackle of the crow that answers.

The hay in the barn loft is soft under your knees, providing a pleasant cushion while you satisfy your desire with kitten licks along the fat head of Eddie’s cock, kneeling between his spread legs. He tastes as you would expect, though you’d only been thinking about the taste for half a morning. It’s salty, a little musky from the heat, the same way his dark curls smell. Occasionally, beads of liquid shine at the tiny slit at the tip, and when you lick them up, they’re more bitter than the rest. Not pleasant, but not unpleasant either, and the sounds Eddie’s making for you right now more than compensate for it.

When you flick your tongue against that dribbling slit, his breath hitches; when you lick a fat stripe up the underside of his cock, he moans. And when you swallow him down, engulfing him in the wet heat of your eager mouth, he gasps some strangled sound that makes you giggle around him.

Eddie’s hips jolt and squirm when you do, and your eyes pop open to find him looking nearly pained. “F— oh, f— shit,” Eddie finally settles on, and you would smile if you weren’t so full of him right now. 

You’ve been exploring him in this new way for a little while, so your curiosity has nearly been sated. Nearly, because you have one thing yet to taste— his seed. And you really want to know what it will feel like to have him spill onto your tongue, to have that hot flesh jerk and pulse within you, to have him feeling just as good as he made you feel yesterday.

So you begin to bob your head, sloppily at first, uneven until you figure out the right angle that keeps your teeth from grazing him and making him hiss. You hum apologetically around him, and his plush lips fall open as you take him a little further while making that sound. Eddie’s cheeks are flushed prettily, his hair like dark ink spilled across the hay as he moans for you. “Shit, baby, that feels so fuckin’ good.”

You rush with satisfaction, growing more enthusiastic as you bob faster, grasping the base to hold him upright so he doesn’t flop around so much. “That’s it,” Eddie pants, “That’s— oh—”

His hand finds the side of your head— not moving you, just resting there as you work him with your mouth and tongue, like he wants to feel the way you’re doting on him. You ignore the soreness in your jaw when his panting gets heavier, and your gaze flashes up to lock on his face— eyes hazy, brow pinched, skin flushed down his neck as he gasps, “Don’t stop, I’m… I’m gonna—”

You moan when he moans, and as you do, Eddie’s cock kicks within the wet heat of your mouth, spilling his seed. It’s thick and tangy, warm but not hot as it spurts to coat your tongue, and you wait motionlessly until the jerking subsides and his fingers relax against your hair. 

Pulling off is a little sloppier than you anticipate, and you chuckle as some of his release leaks before you can fully close your mouth. You catch it with a hasty palm, meeting Eddie’s fond, dazed smile with one of your own, albeit closed-lipped on account of your mouth being occupied. 

As you swallow him down, using your other hand to wipe your bottom lip, you hear the subtle creak of wood below you.

Your only thought is that you don’t want to look. But whether you look or not, it does not change who waits for you beyond the ledge of the hayloft. It was with a perverse sense of satisfaction that you’d imagined Pa’s face would turn purple at the sight of you with Eddie, but you knew, were it to actually occur, that the horror you would feel would leave you reeling.

Instead, you’re greeted with the sight of Mama’s features. They are pallid, so contorted with the force of her seething rage as to be near unrecognizable, and somehow, that is worse.

[fazedlight]

Rings (Kelly character study)

The engagement ring was different.

Kelly couldn’t stop staring. The ring on her hand was a simple gold band - with a small oval diamond embedded on top. This isn’t my engagement ring, she thought to herself. But it is my engagement ring. This is my engagement ring-

She looked up at the skyline of National City, confused. I’m getting married, she thought. I’m getting married- to-

But National City wasn’t National City - the skyscrapers disappeared, leaving brown fields in their wake, sun shining down on a blistering hot day that just tipped into 100F. Kelly could feel the sweat forming under her helmet, cascading down her temple. She watched as a small tank made its way down the road.

Riley.

Her fiancee was inside the tank - she could feel it in her bones, feel it in the way the gold band burned on her finger. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the spare thought of ‘I wasn’t here for this’, but that didn’t matter as she began to race for the road, arms waving, shouting “roadside bomb, roadside bomb!” at the distant vehicle.

But the tank seemed to only get farther as she ran, seemed to slip away as she felt her feet being pulled from under her. When suddenly, it was enveloped in flames.

---

Kelly jolted awake, gasping for air, feeling the sweat pooling down her back. Bewildered, she turned to find a sleeping Alex to her left. To her right, she found her nightstand, with an antique silver engagement ring sitting on top.

Kelly could feel the tension rising in her throat, the tears that pricked at the corner of her eyes, a feeling of overwhelming guilt knowing that her gold band sat in a small box in her closet, packed with a letter she had memorized by heart.

Kelly quietly kicked off her quilt, making her way to the kitchen as adrenaline pulsed in her veins. Numbly, she didn’t remember turning on the lights, or boiling the water, or pulling out the packet of chamomile tea from the box. She took her seat on the couch, pulling out a lighthearted romance novel. But her eyes couldn’t seem to quite catch the page, her mind stuck on her nightmare. The ring. The tank. The flames.

“Hey,” came a quiet voice behind her.

Kelly turned as Alex took a seat next to her. Alex didn’t close in for a hug like she normally would, but instead watched Kelly carefully, seeming to sense her withdrawal. “Are you okay?” Alex asked.

“I’m fine,” Kelly said, giving Alex a small smile. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

Alex tilted her head, worry creasing her brow. “A nightmare?”

“I’m fine,” Kelly said, turning away.

“Self-soothing.”

Kelly’s mouth twitched into a smile. I guess she does listen to me when I talk about therapy, she thought to herself. “And that’s why I’m fine.”

Alex pursed her lips, looking down. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Kelly,” she said.

Kelly swallowed harshly. “We just got engaged,” she said, choking on a small laugh. “I don’t want to make you sad about my nightmares over my dead fiancee when we just got engaged.”

Alex reached over, placing her hands on Kelly’s. “I’m here, Kelly,” she said adamantly, “For all of you.”

Numb and exhausted, Kelly finally allowed her eyes to meet Alex’s - only for the warmth of Alex’s eyes to sweep her under. Kelly struggled to choke back tears for moments as Alex looked on patiently, and finally Kelly reached out, Alex quickly pulling her into a tight embrace as Kelly began to sob.

There was a lifetime to unpack. Black and lesbian and closeted, deeply in love but only able to celebrate in secret. She had received the call of Riley’s death through the grapevine - there was no official channel for her to be next-of-kin, no way to declare ‘secret fiancee due to commanding officer being a bigot’ with her military commanders. To be a perfect woman of color in the military meant the golden engagement ring had to sit in a closet with the rest of her heart, and it all ended with “Hey, did you hear about Riley? Weren’t you close?”

Moments passed as Alex rubbed at her back, quiet and still, and Kelly could feel herself melt into the embrace. In the calm of Alex’s breaths, Kelly’s mind drifted back to Ormfell. How in the aftermath, she had simply asked for Alex to hold space for her. That in her exhaustion, that was what she truly needed. Space for silence, space for the glimmers of experience she felt up for sharing. 

And someday, she would need to. Someday she would need to talk about what it was like to fight for a country where her own breath couldn’t be taken for granted, what it meant for trauma to compound in the loneliness of secrecy. Someday she needed to talk about what that all meant.

But it wasn’t what she needed now. “Can I talk about her?” Kelly whispered.

“Of course,” Alex said, nuzzling into her. “I’m here.”

[fairytalefragments]

❥ | LIGHT FIELD

— rentry graphics for anonymous ; like/rb + credit if using

[bonefall]

Bonefall's Forgotten Warriors

If you've ever set out to make a WC fan project, you've surely heard of Su Susann's Missing Kits. It was a series of authorial statements giving names to previously unnamed cats, and adding interesting little stories to many of them.

But there's also a TON of "Forgotten Warriors" that were created through timeline inconsistencies, offhanded authorial statements, or single throwaway lines in super editions. By their nature, finding these cats on the wiki is a pain in the butt. In this post I hope to compile these cats as a resource for the fandom.

So first, let's define a Forgotten Warrior.

A Forgotten Warrior does not have a big presence. Primrosepaw was first named as a Missing Kit with no mention of her name on the page or in the allegiances. Over time, she has appeared in several books and is now a widely known name in the fandom. But Blossomkit, whose only appearance is in Su Susann's Missing Kits and the worst field guide, will count as a Forgotten Warrior.

A Forgotten Warrior is not just a nondescript Clan cat. For example, if a "ThunderClan warrior" speaks up at a gathering and their name and description is not mentioned, that could be anyone. Same applies to a description that could easily describe an existing character in a Clan-- if a "White ShadowClan Warrior" appears in a modern arc, that may just be Stonewing, BUT, the "Tabby Queen with Distinct Black Markings" of TPB doesn't match any other, so she is a Forgotten Warrior.

A minor appearance inconsistency is not a Forgotten Warrior. Just to pre-empt wiseassery. Blue-eyed Dovewing and Green-eyed Dovewing are not two separate cats-- but I will note down MASSIVE appearance changes in background characters, like the magic color AND gender-changing Stoatfur (just add water!)

(also, I will not be compiling all of the random kittypets, rogues, and loners because there is too many of them. I could, however, be persuaded to compile all cats of a specific group, like The Kin, Sisters, BloodClan, etc.)

This post is an updating list as I find and catalogue more cats. Last update: 8/21/23, version 1.1 Added new category: Sudden Elders

Key: X = No gender F = Female M = Male

Su Susann's Missing Kits (WIP; will update with full descriptions later)

Cranberrypaw

Thistlepaw

Drizzlepaw

Rustlepaw

Elderkit

Tulipkit

Lynxkit

Cherrypaw

Chestnutkit

Cricketkit

Duckkit

Dragonflykit

Rubblekit

Turtlekit

Quietkit

Lavenderkit

Waterkit

Oatkit

Carpkit

Morningkit F Dead child of Graypool. Gray-cream with a white dash.

Splashkit M Dead child of Graypool, gray with lighter flecks.

Swankit F Silver-and-black child of Graypool who lives just long enough to see her take Mistykit and Stonekit as fosters, and then dies.

Splashpaw F RiverClan apprentice of the RiverClan Swallowtail, appears in the allegiances of Dawn, said to have drowned in human nets while fishing with Stonestream.

Storkkit

Quailkit

Eaglekit

Hillkit

Downkit

Swampkit

Blossomkit

Spirit Cats

Skunkpaw M From Goosefeather's Curse, an ancient ThunderClan apprentice who helps him cheat at Hide and Seek. Has a white stripe that parts his face and heterochromia (right blue eye and left green eye)

Fenneldust F A Dark Forest cat killed by Thistleclaw in Spottedleaf's Heart. Light brown tabby from ThunderClan

Batear M Spottedleaf's Heart. Black and white with a disfigured half-face. From ShadowClan

Palefoot M Gray tabby in Night Whispers who speaks to Flametail.

Lightningpaw M Gives Crookedstar a life, from RiverClan

Lilyflower F Gives Crookedstar a life, from RiverClan

Shiningheart, Brightspirit, Braveheart FFM Cats modeled after a real family of WC fans who died in a natural disaster, appearing in Long Shadows

Mallowfur F Spirit who greets Featherwhisker on his first trip to the moonstone.

Inconsistencies and Replacements

Cypresspaw F Brown and white; appears in Thunder and Shadow and is replaced by four Lakeheart kits.

Wavepaw F Silver and white; appears in Thunder and Shadow and is replaced by four Lakeheart kits.

Stoatfur X First appearing as a ginger tom, they become a tortie-and-white molly between books.

Happykit M A fan name for a kitten killed in the Great Battle which the author approved of. Changed to "Weaselkit" by the family tree.

Silverpaw X Appears in the allegiances of Fire and Ice and Forest of Secrets and then vanishes.

Greenflower F Supposed to be the foster mother for Feathertail and Stormfur, forgotten between books and replaced by Mosspelt.

Gorsetail M A pale tom warrior who is trapped by humans during the destruction of the Forest, suddenly replaced by ANOTHER Gorsetail who is a silver-and-white molly in the Po3 arc

Unnamed Background Cats

Distinct Tabby Queen From Into the Wild, greets Goldenflower as she leaves the nursery. ThunderClan.

Tortie Molly From Fire and Ice, seems to be a friend of Morningflower. From WindClan.

Gray Tom From Fire and Ice, another exiled warrior of WindClan who alerts the Clan to Fireheart's presence.

Tabby Tom

From Fire and Ice, another exiled warrior of WindClan. Carries Morningflower's kitten; May be Onewhisker.

Field Guide Exclusives

Smokepaw X From Secrets of the Clans. May be a consistency error, given that the authors forgot that Smokepaw TNP fell off a cliff and they could be Smokefoot. Close with Tawnypelt, likes to climb trees and watch boats.

Pikepaw M Large, dark gray. The only serious apprentice in his training session of BOTC while the siblings squabble. RiverClan.

Duckpaw F Mean to Rushpaw while training. Sister of Tangle and Rush. RiverClan.

Tanglepaw M Large, big-pawed, long-furred. Mean to Rushpaw. Brother of Rush and Duck. RiverClan.

Rushpaw F Short legged, tiny, and pathetic. Awful at swimming. Girlfail. Sister of Duck and Tangle. RiverClan.

Silverpaw X Sees Onestar and the POV kittypets on RiverClan territory, and brings them to Reedwhisker.

Adderkit M Lost spirit baby in Cats of the Clans from WindClan. Killed by an adder and named after it. Forced to listen to Rock say dumb shit about Nightcloud at the world's most uncomfortable sleepover.

Spiderfoot M Anxious, battle-averse ShadowClan warrior fresh out of Apprenticeship at the Eclipse Battle, tormented by RiverClan warriors while hiding in an abandoned building. Said to have left to become a kittypet

Rabbittail M WindClan ancestor of Webfoot who was caught in a human trap for REAL rabbits, but chewed his way out.

Sudden Elders

These cats suddenly appear as elders despite never having been seen before.

Darkfoot M Appears as a WindClan elder without warning when the Clans get to the lake.

Oatwhisker M Appears as a WindClan elder without warning when the Clans get to the lake.

Snaketail M Brown ShadowClan elder with a striped tail

Ivytail F A brown tabby in RiverClan who dies of oil poisoning

[landwriter]

Ok, for the WIP title ask game, would An Eternity of This happen to be the Oaths follow up? 👀

It would be!! This snippet is the first thing that I wrote again after too many months with not enough writing. It's a scene with Thomas and Catte after Hob has gone out after Dream about the. V grateful to it for getting the gears going again, even though it doesn't quite fit in the rest of the coda. Pleased to have a reason to put it somewhere else, like riiiight here. ~1.1K of Oaths Coda under the cut:

When they were small, Catte had teased Hob for his lack of patience. When they were grown, she persisted in doing so, for he persisted in having none.

He took it in good humour, as was his character; just as it was hers to tease him in all the things she knew better about. It was a mercy that he had been born into a saddle and not to any other manner of work. Strong though he was, she suspected he would not be able to withstand waiting even for a dough to rise. Making a simple basket had nearly driven him to grief.

It was only now, that she felt the abashed stirrings of sympathy. Patience. She turned away from the window and sighed.

“By morrow, he told you,” she said, again.

“By morrow,” replied Thomas, again.

“How many times is that now? God’s blood. It’s not as if the answer is going to be different.”

“Four, I think,” he said dryly. “You’re beside yourself.”

Catte shook her head and scoffed. “So I am. Come and comfort your insensible wife, Thomas.”

He stood up from where he was sat by their hearth, and came to wrap his arms around her. Only she was insensible on the inside, and had to shut her eyes to resist the impulse to slide out of his embrace as soon as it caught her and go back to the window. Her husband was warm and solid and smelled of smoke and himself, and she could be still as him, even if she felt less like a woman and rather more like a flystruck horse in the fields, twitching and restive and nearly mad.

Thomas pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. “I’m not sure you can will yourself any calmer than this, hart. The others are surely drinking themselves blind tonight. If it wasn’t that your company was far better, I’d join them. You’ve more grace than us all.”

She smiled at the flattery and turned her face against his chest so she could half look out onto the dark moors. “I do have more practice.”

Thomas drew in a breath. “Is this what it’s like? Each time we ride out?”

Catte looked up. He met her eyes, and she thought of all the long winters, of waking before dawn and starting the day’s labours in the blue-grey light just for a reason to look to the horizon. Waiting for her Thomas before he was even hers, not wanting to put a name to the thing that already had her looking for him in the crowd of returning riders, dry-mouthed, no matter what they called each other.

She cupped his face and thumbed over his cheeks. Her husband now. Not that it made any kind of difference to how it felt, before or after, each and every time. But it was her work to carry the waiting, as riding was theirs. He should never have learned this feeling too. He’d recall it afresh when he rode out again and feel sorry twice over, for leaving and for knowing now how it felt to be left.

“Would you believe me if I say no?” she asked.

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “No. But I’d let you have it.”

“You shouldn’t let me have anything,” she said indignantly.

“Nay, you’d prefer to win it, love,” he said, hiding a smile, and she sighed. It was unjust that he knew her as well as she knew him. “You don’t need to explain. I just don’t know how you bear this.”

“It is like this. But it’s easier, too. Tonight is different.” When Thomas rode out, he was surrounded by good men, brothers and kin, some who she would grant were even as cunning or strong as her man. Hob had gone out with nobody, against a fell enemy they had never met before, not to chance suffering but to pay in it, and no way home but to withstand it all. It didn’t bear saying, so instead she said, “I have you with me. The bed won’t be cold.”

“You’re only trying to make me feel useful,” said Thomas. He pressed his face into hair. “Catte, I hate this,” he murmured.

“I know,” she said. “I hate it too.” Outside, rain gusted down, and they both fell silent, imagining Hob, outside and alone, making his way to Miles Cross.

“I’ll bank the fire,” said Thomas abruptly. Catte looked at the hearth and laughed. It had hours left in it. Thomas had been stoking it ceaselessly. It would take the whole bucket of cold ash.

“And I suppose then we’ll lie in bed and fall asleep,” she said.

He smiled crookedly. “Aye.”

But she did lie down in bed, and soon Thomas joined her, and pressed himself to her back like another bastle wall. Neither of them spoke. Catte had been surprised to discover how much she enjoyed the comfortable marital silence that came in sharing a bed, near as much as the very foremost activities of a marriage bed. Tonight, it hardly warmed her. Tonight, they were only silent because the remainder of their thoughts were too grim to speak aloud. They sounded awful enough inside her head.

Catte wanted to throw off the covers, shake all the fear off with it, but instead, she breathed slowly, and began to paint a picture behind her eyes. It was a childish habit, to soothe and distract. She hadn’t thought about it in years. Her eldest sister had told her to do it when Catte confessed she lost sleep for her nerves as soon her friends began to ride out. Think of someplace else. It doesn’t even need to be real, Effy had said solemnly. Name every detail of it, the smell and the sound and the feel, so you can go into it like another room.

A summer’s evening, she decided. A sky dark blue in the gloaming, the leavings of a perfect clear day. Sweet smelling air and a cool breeze in her hair. Dark enough for bats to be on wing in the field, light enough to point them out still, to her children, who were bonny and hale, and favoured her and Thomas both. But tonight they were indoors, sat at her feet on a yellow woven rug, listening wide-eyed to her fearful recounting of the Faerie Queen and the night their kinsman Hob Gadling won his love. Thomas comes inside, with more lines on his face and more handsome for it, and they pester him with questions, and he laughs—as he does, easily and often now, for here in this little room their future is plentiful and kind—and fetches Hob and his fey husband, both long since returned from the clutches of monstrous creatures, and then Thomas holds Catte in his arms the way he had since they were still half children themselves, and they all together listen to the only fairy story that was true, and ended happily.

WIP Title Ask Game

[thesparklingwriter]

𝒅𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒄𝒆

tags: zhongli x gn!reader, fluff, angst, reader is the sibling of guizhong, themes of loss (please lmk if I've missed any important tags)

word count: 1.6k

notes: before you read, i recommend taking a quick look at the ask this request came from! i may have possibly missed out some scene setting as a result of assuming every knows the context. I had so much fun doing this :) don't tell anyone but i actually shed one or two tears, but i was listening to the ballad of jane doe as i wrote it so can i truly be blamed? @cheezybell , i hope this lives up to your expectations <3 if there's anything formatting-wise that I've forgotten about tell me tomorrow cause it's now past midnight and i'm going to bed :)

Masterlist | taglist form

The world had been silent since you died. The god of war was accustomed to loss, but none had worn on him so heavily but yours. Of course, you weren't his only acquaintance, but the uncertainty of your well-being weighed heavily on him. The others were lost to the winds, their memories infused into fields of lilies and violent sunrises, all of which he observes with a detached melancholy.

To protect yourself after sustaining an almost fatal blow, you'd employed a tactic Morax himself had taught you—a tactic that had a 50 per cent success rate, a tactic for a worst-case scenario, a tactic shared with you because he couldn't bear the thought of you leaving him forever. If he'd have known that he'd be here now, seated beside your lifeless body, quietly begging someone, something, to save you, his friend, his companion, his… It doesn't matter now.

He wouldn't indulge himself in such thoughts. It was selfish. You'd tried to protect yourself for his sake, and here he was, wishing that you'd died so he would have had the chance to find your reincarnated soul in the faces of those in the harbour. You'd sworn you'd always be with him, regardless of the circumstances, irrespective of the fact that you loved him and he didn't–couldn't ever know. You'd watch him from a distance, how he brought smiles to people's faces and how the people of Liyue worshipped the ground he walked on. What would he want with you? The forgotten kin of a well-known adeptus—adept at nothing much but fading into the mist. What could you offer him that thousands of being on Teyvat couldn't?

"If I'm the reason why you aren't returning," Morax says softly, his voice permeating the silence of the cave he hides you in. "Please rest assured that I expect nothing of you upon your return. Simply focus on yourself. That's all I ask."

As long as he knew you were alive, Morax would accept being apart from you. But until he was aware of your recovery, he'd keep visiting.

And so he did.

Millenia go by before there's even a slight change in your appearance. He visits you at the end of every era he finds himself in—the end of the archon war, Liyue's sudden economic boost, his 'death' at the hands of the Fatui… He keeps you up to speed on it all. Of course, if you want to survive in this world once you awaken, you have to know what's going on, do you not?

This time, when he sits beside you to tell you about how Liyue no longer has an archon and the new life he hopes to pursue, his heart swells with hope. In the dim light of the almost freezing cave, Morax is almost convinced that he spies the condensation of your breath in the air. But simultaneously, the years of hoping and praying for your return have hardened his heart to hope. It's a selfish emotion, one he should know better than to entertain. But though there's a voice in the back of his head, telling him that he's hoping and praying and waiting for nothing, it's you he's waiting for. The one who always made him laugh, listened to him as he mused aloud about the wonders of Teyvat, and helped him mediate arguments between Cloud Retainer and Guizhong. He can't let you go.

"Change is constant in this world," He says to you, noting the slight colour in your cheeks and the flicker of your eyelids. "But I will continue to wait for you, to cultivate your memory such that nothing can dull its shine."

It was a promise to a friend, a declaration of love, an acceptance of defeat. He strokes your hair lightly, an intimate gesture he always longed for when you were alive, one he indulges himself in, in case it wakes you up. And the contact shocks you. You can feel it and hear him, but you can't reach out. You can't hold him in your arms and tell him that it's okay, that you loved him then, and you love him now, and nothing he could ever say or do could ever change that.

But you never had the will to do so when you were awake, and now, as you cling onto his voice to drag yourself back into reality, your resolve is too much for your body to bear, and you explode into fine mist, impossible to catch or hold, or trap. Morax realises that, and though his heart disappeared with you, he accepts his fate—forever longing for a being he might never see again.

✧

Finding yourself in Liyue after the years passed is nothing short of a learning curve. You learn early on that Morax was killed by the Fatui in an act of cold cruelty, a discovery that leaves you fuelled with rage. But casting your mind back to past conversations with Morax himself reminds you of a hypothetical game you and Guizhong used to play with him to pass the hours. Morax always had a fascination with the idea of faking his demise if it was what was necessary for Liyue's survival. Or course, that kind of morbid practicality makes Morax who he is, and you struggle to believe that he'd leave Liyue without a fight. He'd waited millennia for your return, but you're supposed to believe that he'd abandon his nation without so much as a second thought? Impossible.

So you set to finding him. Regardless of what form he's taken on or the lies he's employed to stay under the radar, you will find him. It starts with assimilating into Liyue's society, working hard to establish yourself as an upstanding member of the harbour, always found helping with a smile on your face. You'd smile innocently when asked what you charged for your help and services. "I'm something of a history buff," you'd say. "I'm researching Morax's death—undoubtedly this is an important date in the history of Liyue and i'd like to hear more about it from those who experienced it."

Of course, locals were more than happy to help—to share stories of their valiant archon, who left too soon, but left his nation in such good stead for the future. Most, if not all, the leads you were given were dead ends, an impressive mix of decorated truths and half lies. That was, until a passing traveller mentioned a certain Zhongli of the Wangsheng funeral parlour. According to them, he was the man for any kind of Liyuean history, regardless of the era.

You wasted no time hurrying to the funeral parlour with newfound hope. Would this Zhongli know where Morax is? Would he know of you, Guizhong or any other Adepti that were lost to the brutality of the war? Or would he send you away, accusing you of insanity or espionage?

You didn't know, and frankly, you didn't care. When you arrive at the parlour, you're met by a young woman who greets you with a melancholy smile. "How may I help you?"

"I was hoping to speak with a Mr Zhongli? If that's possible, that is."

The woman's expression changes, relaxing from its state of melancholy. "Of course. I can get him for you. Feel free to take a seat."

The seconds seem to drag by as you sit and wait for this man to arrive. Is this yet another dead end? Your mind begins to wander before the woman returns, asking you to follow her to his office. She seems slightly surprised by the words coming out of her mouth—admitting that this isn't something the man often does. The walk to his office is almost stifling. You're silent, your heart pounding helplessly in your chest as you walk.

The woman opens a heavy mahogany door, smiling encouragingly at you as you walk in.

The man before you nods at the woman before turning his attention to you, and you're surprised by his reaction. Years of analysing Morax's stoic face have taught you to pick up on micro reactions like the one Zhongli displays as he looks at you.

His eyes soften as he stands up, bracing himself on the desk as he rises. "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name," he says slowly. You tell him your name, and he chuckles lightly to himself. Of course, you'd find him. Or course you would. You look the same as the day you fell asleep, your eyes wide and excited, a gentle smile playing on your lips despite the absurdity of the situation you find yourself in. He extends his hand to you, and you shake it firmly, muttering the necessary pleasantries.

Zhongli can't believe it. You're real, not a figment of his desperate imagination. You're real, and perfect, and standing right in front of him on your own two feet. Do you know who he is? Is this some cruel joke Celestia is playing on him as punishment for going through with the Fatui's plan? His eyes are familiar to you—they shine with gold as you stare at him, your mind trying to grasp where you remember him from.

"How can I help you?" Zhongli asks. He can't bear to look away from you, the one he's loved since before he could quantify the feeling. The one who listened to him with such care and kindness. The one who made the millennia of duties and solitude worth it. It's you. You've returned to him. And regardless of whether you remember him or not, he swears that he'll express his love for you. He won't make the same mistake twice.

© 2023, thesparklingwriter. please do not copy, edit, repost, or translate.

taglist: @ainescribe

[respectthepetty]

I am way more invested in OMG! Vampire than I should be because I latched onto the parents mentioning that the governor is gone and the general dismissing that the governor would do anything, so now I want to know who the governor is and where he's been.

Because I have not forgotten Pat has a force field or something around him, so vampires can't bite him even when he is distracted.

But also, this show IS color coded,

So I'm just going to use that as an excuse of why I like this show so far.

Phum is light coded.

Pat is dark coded.

And when Phum borrowed Pat's clothes, all he wore was black because that's all Pat has.

When he finally settled on a normal outfit, he combined the light and dark.

But there is also that red.

So I think Pat is the governor!

He wears all black like the other vampires do in Thailight (I cannot believe I wrote that without a hint of irony).

And the red keeps following him just it does the vampires.

Finally, how does his special drink serve as an alternative to blood?

Although the governor could be Kin because I don't think he is dead. I think he took his twin's life and tried to change his color.

Because next week he shows up in BLACK right in-between the color-coded boys (in love).

Like I mentioned, I'm way too invested in this show, but I don't care. Pat, are you the governor? Blink twice for yes.

[muiitoloko]

Hi dear 🤗 I really enjoy your Harry Hart series 😍. I was thinking if you could write more jelaous Harry - maybe there's a rookie at Kingsman who got a crush on Bedivere and is really flirty with her and Harry can't stand that, and can't fire him because the rookie is pretty good at his job. I hope it doesn't look chaotic 😉 take care and thanks ☺️

Author's Notes: You're lucky, I had already written something like this, I just had to change some, I can't say if it's good, but I hope it's to your liking. Thank you very much for your order ❤️ and I hope you are well, please let me know if you have any other requests. 🤗

Title: Secret Messages

Summary: In the secret world of Kingsman, Arthur, also known as Harry Hart, secretly watches as the charismatic recruit Gawain captures the attention of his beloved Bedivere. Consumed by jealousy, Arthur engages in a forbidden and explicit exchange of messages with Bedivere during a mission briefing.

Pairing: Harry Hart ( Kingsman) × Fem!Reader.

Warnings: Explicit content (but not too explicit), jealousy and possessiveness.

Inside the prestigious halls of Kingsman, Harry Hart, codenamed Arthur, sat in his office, his brow furrowed in frustration. He watched through his one good eye as the new recruit, Gawain, a charismatic Londoner with striking red hair and captivating blue eyes, engaged in light banter with Bedivere.

Bedivere, the agency's highly skilled field agent, had secretly been in a relationship with Harry for some time now. Their love had blossomed in the shadows of espionage, a forbidden romance in the world of Kingsman. Harry was deeply enamored with you, but he was also fiercely possessive, especially when it came to other men, like Gawain.

Gawain had quickly made a name for himself in the agency with his remarkable skills and charming personality. But it wasn't just his talent that had caught your attention; it was his charisma, the way he effortlessly flirted with you, making you laugh and blush.

Harry couldn't bear to see your reactions to Gawain's advances. He knew you had a playful, flirtatious nature, but it was different with Gawain. You exchanged teasing remarks and knowing glances, and Harry despised every moment of it.

As he sat in his office, Harry clenched his fists, feeling a wave of jealousy wash over him. He knew he couldn't fire Gawain; the man was simply too good at his job. But that didn't stop Harry from wishing he could remove him from the equation.

He watched you from afar, Gawain and Bedivere, who seemed to have known each other for years instead of mere weeks. Your laughter echoed through the hallways, and Harry's heart twisted with jealousy and insecurity.

In a moment of frustration, Harry sighed and muttered to himself, "Bloody hell, Bedivere. Why does it have to be him?" He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

Outside his office, the playful banter continued. Bedivere and Gawain seemed to be sharing some inside joke, and their camaraderie was undeniable. Harry knew that you were just being yourself, a natural flirt with a magnetic personality, but he couldn't help feeling like he was losing you to Gawain's charms.

Deep down, Harry knew he had to trust you, to have faith in your love. But the green monster of jealousy was a formidable adversary, and it clung to him like a shadow.

As he contemplated his next move, Harry couldn't help but wonder how he could compete with a man like Gawain. He was older than you, and the scar over his missing eye had always made him feel self-conscious, despite your reassurances. But Harry also knew that love had a way of transcending insecurities, and he was willing to fight for your relationship, even if it meant confronting his own demons.

During a meeting, Harry's frustration grew as he watched Bedivere and Gawain exchange playful remarks and flirtatious glances. He knew he had to remind you who you belonged to, and the idea of using your secret connection through your Kingsman glasses appealed to him.

Merlin was speaking about a crucial mission, and Harry took a moment to pretend to focus on the matter at hand. Meanwhile, he discreetly activated the private message feed within his glasses.

With a virtual keyboard appearing on the lens of his glasses, Harry began to type, his one good eye narrowing with determination:

Arthur: You know, my dear, it's hard to concentrate in this meeting when all I can think about is you.

He sent the message and watched as your eyes widened slightly, your cheeks flushing as you read it. Harry pretended not to notice your reaction as he joined the discussion.

Merlin continued briefing the agents, and Harry found a moment to send another message:

Arthur: Do you remember that day in my office, when you were on your knees?

You bit your lip, a hint of desire in your eyes as you read his message. You decided to play along:

Bedivere: Oh, I remember it very well. Such a naughty girl, wasn't I?

Harry smirked, his one eye dancing on the virtual keyboard:

Arthur: You were. And it turns me on just thinking about it. I wish I could feel your lips on me right now.

You shifted in your seat, your gaze locked on your Kingsman glasses as you typed:

Bedivere: You're a wicked man, Harry. But I like it.

Harry couldn't help but chuckle inwardly. The meeting continued, but your secret conversation escalated:

Arthur: You like it when I'm wicked, don't you, my little temptress?

Bedivere: Yes, I do. I like it very much.

Arthur: Good. Because I have a little surprise for you.

Your curiosity was piqued, and you couldn't resist:

Bedivere: Oh? What kind of surprise, Arthur?

Without a word, Harry sent a private video feed from his glasses. It displayed a recording of your intimate encounter in his office a few weeks ago. The explicit video showed you pleasing him in ways that left nothing to the imagination.

As you watched the video, your breath hitched, and your cheeks flushed crimson. You discreetly adjusted yourself in your seat, trying to maintain your composure during the meeting.

Harry continued to send you dirty messages, describing in explicit detail what he wanted to do to you once the meeting was over. You responded eagerly, your words filled with desire and longing.

Despite the serious mission being discussed, the two lovers indulged in their secret exchange, their desire growing with every message sent. Their forbidden love was a thrilling secret, one that added an electrifying edge to their dangerous world of espionage.

Meanwhile, Merlin carried on with the meeting, completely unaware of the heated exchange happening right under his nose.

After the meeting ended, Harry and Bedivere discreetly left the conference room, heading towards the Kingsman tailor shop, downstairs. The tension between them, fueled by secret messages and shared desire, was palpable. Harry's jealousy lit a possessive fire within him, and he needed to remind you who you belonged to.

Once inside the tailor shop, Harry wasted no time. He pushed Bedivere against one of the changing tables, his lips crashing down on yours in a demanding kiss. His hands roamed your body, gripping your waist with a possessiveness that left no room for doubt.

Bedivere responded eagerly, your fingers tangling in his hair as you kissed him back with equal fervor. You could taste him, his hunger for you, and it sent shivers down your spine. Harry’s hold on you was intoxicating and you loved it.

Your mouths moved hungrily against each other, your tongues dancing in a passionate tango. Harry's one good eye bore into yours, filled with a possessive intensity that left you breathless. He knew you flirted with others, but he needed to remind you that you belonged to him, and only him.

Breaking the kiss, Harry trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at your skin. You moaned softly, your grip on him tightening. You had told him countless times that your playful flirting was just that - playful. Your heart and desires were reserved solely for Harry.

"Harry," you whispered, your voice filled with need. "You know you're the only one I want. Always."

Harry's possessive grip on you tightened, and he growled softly against your ear. "Say it again," he demanded, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

"I want only you, my King," Bedivere breathed, her words filled with sincerity.

Satisfied with your response, Harry continued to ravish you with his kisses, his hands exploring every inch of your body as if he wanted to imprint his ownership on you. Bedivere surrendered willingly, lost in the passionate whirlwind of your forbidden love.

In that moment, you both knew that despite the challenges and jealousies that came with your secret relationship, your love was a force that couldn't be denied. Harry Hart, the boss of Kingsman, and Bedivere, the charismatic field agent, were bound together by a love that defied rules and expectations, and you were willing to fight for it, no matter the cost.

[colinmkl]

Kamen Rider NRV Lore Dump!

Manticore

Manticore LLC is a major medical technology company. Publicly, they are most known for their artificial organs and limb prosthesis as well as several other medical devices and equipment used in hospitals worldwide. Less widely publicized are their numerous military contracts, developing cutting edge medical treatment technologies but also advanced weapons, drones, and other offensive hardware.

Nanoderm

The scientific breakthrough that lead Manticore to dominate in the field of med-tech is the invention of micro-sensors that are capable of reading brain signals in the nervous system and translating them into data a computer can interpret with absolute precision. These microscopic sensors can be integrated into programmable nanomachines that interlock in a mesh that forms durable skin-like material called Nanoderm.  If an exposed section of human tissue is covered in Nanoderm and then allowed to heal, the Nanoderm will become integrated with the tissue like a layer of natural skin. Any impulses or signals sent by the brain to that part of the body will be received by the Nanoderm and translated into data. That data can then be read as motor commands by a Manticore prosthesis. Basic prosthesis models can receive this data via magnetic nodes embedded in the surface of the Nanoderm but more advanced models, capable of finer dexterity/expanded functionality, require a “bone spike,” a rod-like data plug that interfaces with a port in the Nanoderm area that is connected to more advanced sensors. The socket and sensor hardware is imbedded in the body through a surgical procedure.

The catch with the Nanoderm system is it must be applied to the body before the exposed tissue heals over and the exposed nerve endings have a chance to close off, or in other words, while the wound is “fresh”, otherwise the healed tissue must be cut away and a fresh wound made. This means that in emergency situations a patient or their next of kin must make a snap decision to undergo the expensive Nanoderm compatibility surgery as part of their emergency treatment. Of course some insurance plans will cover some or all of this cost. Additionally Manticore has deals with some insurance providers that the surgery come standard with higher end coverage plans, forgoing the need for patient consent. Manticore has exclusive patent rights to the Nanoderm system, meaning once you are Nanoderm compatible, you are locked into the Manticore ecosystem of prosthesis and devices. Additionally your devises can only be serviced by Manticore certified technicians and only Manticore doctors are trained in Nanoderm patient care.

Remote Command (RC)

Manticore is a sprawling corporation with many secrets. One such secret is the Remote Command program. A project Manticore has been working on behind closed doors, the Remote Command program involves research into sending brain signals over great distances without a physical connection between the sensor and the receiving devise. With RC a person could control a prosthetic arm in another part of the world as though it were part of their body. This is achieved by broadcasting the impulses across a proprietary electromagnetic wave length to the receiving nodes. The signal travels point to point and back again at light speed. The potential RC has for the future of drone warfare is staggering, not to mention the potential for profit.

Sensitive as this information is, there’s another layer. All Nanoderm currently in use by people around the world is capable of receiving Remote Command. With the right inputs it can reshape its self, self-replicate, and even, under certain conditions, send signals back to the user’s brain, causing brain damage or, theoretically, controlling them. Whether this functionality of Nanoderm was an intentional feature or not is unknown to anyone currently employed at Manticore but the company has no pans currently to use the Nanoderm in this way. What is known, however, is that if this function ever becomes public knowledge it would be disastrous for Manticore, not to mention the chaos that would ensue if a bad actor were to exploit this function for malicious purposes.

Manticore Special Security (Spec-Sec)

Manticore LLC has secrets, and it has enemies. To protect its secrets, combat its enemies, address the threats to public safety those things pose, (and protect its corporate interests), Manticore formed the Manticore Special Security Division. More than just your standard private security outfit, Spec-Sec is a fully equipped task force and strike force designed to identify, target, track, confront, and nullify any threat to the company and its assets. Thanks to Manticore’s history of generous donations and good standing with local police forces, the Spec-Sec Division is able to operate with a certain degree of discretion, allowing them to carry out operations without interference from police or the legal system. Lead by Special Security Director Sloane, her hand-picked crack team of Special Officers have carried out dozens of high risk operations with ruthless efficacy and, so-far, minimal casualties. Spec-Sec utilizes the most cutting edge technology and weaponry Manticore has, often before it’s even close to market ready. In some cases necessity dictates that Spec-Sec operations serve as ad hoc field tests for experimental equipment.

Core Drivers, Data Boosters, and the Kamen Rider program

The Core Driver is a piece of technology that was developed as part of research into the use of Nanoderm to enhance a soldier’s physical performance on the battlefield. The concept was to temporarily cover the user’s entire body in a layer of Nanoderm mesh that could respond to the signals from the user’s brain in such a way that would increase their strength, speed, perception, and reflexes. The solution was the Core Driver, a device that would house the billions of Nanoderm nanomachines and serve as the computational core for the whole mesh network. Along with the Core Driver was the Data Booster, a flash drive-like device shaped like a syringe. The data booster contained the information that told the nanomachines to deploy from the Core Driver and cover the user. Additionally the Booster came with its own payload of nanomachines that, when the plunger of the syringe was depressed, would also be deployed through the Core Diver and take the form of armor and weapons. Basically, a user need only insert the Data Booster into the Core Diver, clearly speak a voice authentication phrase, and depress the plunger and they would instantly be wearing a powerful yet flexible armored body suit. The project was called the “Kamen Rider program” after the masked visage of the user’s armored faceplate (“Kamen” being the Japanese word for “mask”).

The Project had its drawbacks, however. For one a user would need to already be Nanoderm compatible for the suit to work at all, meaning, practically speaking, the user would need to be an amputee, and the prospect of convincing soldiers to sacrifice a limb to use the Driver was deemed a “hard sell” and the idea of a approaching a freshly maimed soldier with the offer of further combat, well, that wouldn’t be a good look either. The second and most important drawback was the simple fact that the Kamen Rider program was far, FAR too expensive to be profitable, and the thousands of man hours it took to produce just one Core Driver meant mass producing them to sell by the battalion, as Manticore had planned, was simply out of the question.

The Kamen Rider Program was not completely abandoned, however. The first completed Core Driver, designation SVR (Special Versatility Rider model or “Sever” colloquially) is currently coded to Director Sloane of Spec-Sec, who happens to be a double transfemeral amputee. With the Director’s input, the device and the suit itself have been modified heavily over its years of use. It now features the ability for additional Data Boosters to be employed, loaded with weapons and tools in the form of appendages that attach to highly advanced versions of Bone Spike sockets on the suit at the amputation sites of the Rider’s body. The nerve signal enhancing properties of the suit allows the Rider to manipulate these complex, non-human-like appendages with a natural ease and minimal adjustment period.

A second Core Driver has just recently been put to use in the field at Spec-Sec. The first Kamen Rider designed from the ground up with Spec-Sec modifications. Designation NRV (Neo Rider Variant or “Nerve” colloquially) is encoded to the Division’s newest member, Special Officer Nat Agbayani. A right shoulder disarticulation amputee, he was promoted to the Special Security Division from the internship program in the research wing by the COO of Manticore himself… wait what? That can’t be right…

The existence of any other Core Drivers, in use or otherwise, is classified.

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