#patch prattles

[patches-and-potions]

Tiny, insignificant thing I’m gonna complain about in Reality War. Yes this about Kate Stewart again. This is slowly becoming a Kate blog.

When the Wishfluence has been removed from UNIT, Kate specifically takes off her Wish glasses to read a tablet that someone hands her. While I was watching that, it felt unnatural in the scene, unrealistic. I was rewatching the Zygon Invasion/Inversion, and Kate specifically puts on reading glasses to look at a computer screen. And not delicate fake frames either, proper readers.

Which makes me wonder why not let Kate wear reading glasses? Is it because RTD wants to avoid making her seem older? Tough shit I started wearing readers at 17 when my eyesight started to cock-up. It fits her character too, practical serious glasses for a scientifically minded woman. Like idk if I wanna reach here but is it to avoid making her seem “spinsterly”? We all know how RTD feels about older women.

This is ultimately a little complaining post from a lesbian who thinks glasses are A. Something to be normalized, and B. Hot. Don’t take this too seriously unless you want to have a constructive conversation then I’d totally be down.

[no-i-can-not-shut-up]

This is something I think a lot of people don’t understand about the concept of socialization. Socialization does not mean “men are inherently this and women are inherently that”.

Men are socialized to embody “masculinity”, that includes repressing their emotions to appear strong, viewing themselves as superior to women, etc.

Women are socialized to embody “femininity”: that includes repressing their emotions to appear peaceful, taking on roles in the home and childcare, etc.

Male socialization punishes deviancy from masculinity, female socialization punishes deviancy from the feminine. That is what misogyny and homophobia comes from. Male homosexuality is seen as a feminine identity, as attraction to the male body is considered to be a female trait. As femininity is the opposite of masculinity, it cannot exist in the same body without making the man less of a man, as is the patriarchal belief. And vice versa for homosexual women.

A gnc man is undergoing male socialization when he is told that he must be a woman as he doesn’t have “masculine” traits or behaviors. Ostracism and violence for being “s*ssy” or openly gay, or even vaguely non-masculine is all male socialization.

It’s the same way for women. A woman who emulates “masculine” behavior, ie cutting her hair short or wearing men’s clothing, is similarly punished.

Intersex people also suffer from this, as they often do not fit into either box due to being visibly “other”. An intersex child who is genetically male but appears female might be forced into the feminine role due to the heavy emphasis placed onto female beauty/appearance = worth in patriarchal society. An intersex child who is genetically female but appears male may be socialized male again due to patriarchal influence of value of males over females. These are the rare exceptions to male=male socialized and female=female socialized.

Ultimately, masculinity and femininity are simply regressive societal constraints. The only difference between male and female behavior (*behavior*, not physical characteristics) is how society shapes gendered expectations for either sex.

That is why it is important to remove gender from the equation. An ideal world would only have distinctions in the treatment of male people and female people in the cases of medical care, sports, or anything that deals with the structural differences of the male and female body, with consideration for intersex individuals who may have atypical body structures.

[marshbarks]

thinking about the birthday party au and it might be the one time he has dyed hair

[noctunis]

how do they love? | ffvii | slight nsfw blurbs too..

ᯓ CLOUD STRIFE’s love is subtle — in a way that the naked eye can’t recognize, only the fluttering in your stomach able to distinguish his feelings. to stand so close to him; enough to feel body heat radiating, is a privilege only given to you — words left unsaid, but always heard.

cloud’s not so physically affectionate, especially in public. he doesn’t do candlelit dinners with wine and sweet nothings, or slinging an arm over your shoulder to press you to his side. but when he comes home after a long day with tifa and the rest of avalanche, dark trails of marks littering his arms and back, he comes to you for patching up.

though it takes a long time for cloud to accept the love you truly have for him (and a lot of late nights spent bickering because he doesn’t want to bother you with the wound he can’t get on his back) — one night, he sits on your bed and wordlessly hands you supplies. his eyes can’t tear away from your soft smile and dreary eyes.

he’s grateful for your patience at his awkwardness. cloud hasn’t exactly had much experience with relationships, and not the best for the ones he did have. he means well; although his words come out strained, like the molasses didn’t come up his mouth right and instead sticks to his incisors, the sweetness of his tone absent and replaced with something almost confused. you reassure him it’s okay, that it’s okay to not say anything. he always wonders how you always know what to say to him and instead lets his hand rub circles into your wrist as a response.

and when you lay at night, he’s subtle too. his soft breaths muffled into the crook of your neck as you mewl quietly, soft words spewed through your lips between sighs. he asks you a question and your brain’s so fuzzy you almost can’t hear it, until you feel fingers hook into your waistband, perched there until he asks you again.

his eyes’ll always find you in a room until your own pair meet his — only then does he look away. he can always find you, from a laugh in a crowded room or from your quiet sobs behind the bathroom door. cloud finds comfort in these moments because he didn’t have anyone to lean on like this. he only hopes you’ll find comfort in it, too.

ᯓ ZACK FAIR’s love is boyish — rosy smiles with crinkled eyes, only starlight in them at the way you compliment his technique in battle. proud hands on his hips as he clears his throat with a confident, “yeah? oh, yeah! maybe i’ll teach you sometime!”

when he’s not training under angeal and so busy all the time, being a SOLDIER and all, spending time with you is one of the main ways he shows affection. a hand in yours while the other holds a cup of ice cream, prattling on about how he couldn’t wait to come home; looking over to you once you laugh behind your hand, a grin on his face and a bump of your hip is all he needs and he’d die a happy man.

zack will kiss your tears away and cup your face in his hands, looking down on you with only the softest of gazes. he’ll listen to you talk the same way you listen to him — always. it’s a mutual thing between you two and zack sees nothing but equality in your relationship; so when he’s pulling you close to his chest with a hand on the back of your head, he’ll stand there until his legs hurt and your voice gives out.

he’ll do anything you ask — talk with you, listen to you, pass by the food stall for your favorite on the way home, anything to make you feel better. he’ll even stand there for hours, rubbing circles into your back — cracking only a few jokes to hear the soft rumble in your body, letting a small chuckle of his own slip in.

at night, he’s quick with it even with the hand that cradles the back of your neck; a soft gesture even while he’s rolling his hips harshly and pressing his lips against your own, feeling the smile that breaks out on both his and your face. he can’t help but wanna get closer to you, until your brains meld together with the sweat on your skin and the moon on your faces.

zack smells of citrus and the ground outside; and he can never quite get rid of it. especially since you start using the same body wash and pitter patter along outside to hug him goodbye. he walks away with a grin, his pulse quickening and his stomach tightening with the thought of you.

ᯓ SEPHIROTH’s love is quiet — murmured upon the top of your head where it travels through the flesh and fires your neurons, a softness oozing inside of you. a soft hand at the curve of your lower back, guiding you where he needs you to go, perhaps subconsciously. perceptively eyeing any habits you have; like holding a pencil between your teeth or stumbling over your feet — maybe a few low, playful remarks, too.

he writes you everyday when he’s on long missions. they’re usually short, but the length doesn’t matter compared to the content that’s within them, sweet letters across the page in small handwriting, signed off with his initials at the bottom and the scent of warm leather alongside it.

the warmth of seph’s skin is foreign when you’re so used to his gloves. when he takes them off, it’s a nice change of pace as you can finally feel his skin as he can yours. he’ll come home from dinner, taking off his arm and unsheathing himself for the day — he’s bare and belly-up but seph figures it’s okay as long as it’s you he’s with. he gives a small kiss to your forehead, delicate and careful, as he asks about your day over dinner; and as the lights comes through, glaring at you through the cracks of windows, you tell him.

he’ll talk about you to his friends; angeal and genesis practically rolling their eyes the next time they hear about you. he merely crosses his arms and goes on about you even further to annoy them. what can he say? you have a special place in his mind, inhabiting it 24/7.

sephiroth’s a quiet lover at heart, even while you got your legs wrapped around him, pulling him in closer. his breathing only becomes heavier and you worry he doesn’t feel as good until you involuntarily clench around him; his lashes fluttering with a sudden groan. you crack a grin and he puffs an amused breath through his nose before he leans over you, your pupils dilating at his whispers.

he lies back and lets his eyes flutter close at night. he knows that you only have to press your ear to his chest to hear your name rather than a heartbeat. he only hopes you know, too.

ᯓ ANGEAL HEWLEY’s love is wholehearted — because he figures; why do something if you’re not going to give it your all? angeal doesn’t date often, if at all. he was hesitant to date you only because this relationship with you and his relationship with work would probably be imbalanced and while he did find you attractive both inside and out, he wanted to establish a bond of trust between the two of you before going any further.

angeal is very careful with his love, another perceptive one. even as sleep pulls at his eyelids and a yawn threatens to escape his throat, he will always come home to you and ask how your day’s been, how you’re doing, everything before falling asleep. a soft smile tugs at his lips when he hears you ask the same, following him to the bedroom after the both of you packed and stowed away leftovers. he respects equality and trust within your relationship as well and tries his hardest to maintain a healthy relationship through and through.

he’ll send you lengthy letters full of promises and sweet words, awaiting the day when he comes back home from his longer missions. he’ll tell you about zack, about genesis’ antics, about the dumbapples in his village. he’ll even take you to see them, if you’d like. angeal is also very old fashioned — insisting that you meet his mother and that he asks your parents (or friends) for your hand in marriage when it comes to it.

while not into pda as much, there are times where he’ll sit with you outside and just bask in your presence. hand in his, he’ll turn away to hide the subtlety of his growing smile but only hopes that you don’t hide yours. quality time is especially important to angeal — whenever he has free time to spare, he always spends it with you. a freshly baked cookie; gooey on the inside and crispy on the outside.

angeal is very loving at night, too. though preferring to let you do your own thing unless told otherwise, he is just a sucker for missionary, only because he just wants your space in his; just so you two can clutch onto each other, pulsing excitement threatening to tear a tendon as you both murmur out praises that only make his hips stutter and tilt upward.

as a boy, knee scraped and tears brimming in his eyes, his father told him that something gold waited for angeal. he only truly believed it when he met you, and now everything’s turned to gold.

ᯓ GENESIS RHAPSODOS’ love is poetic — and no, not just because he reads poetry, but because the way he shows his love is almost like a dream. bordering on the brink of a fairytale will genesis’ love be displayed, almost a bit cliché.

obviously he is a first class SOLDIER as well, and balancing all the work he is and public appearances (and his fan club..), he doesn’t want to make you feel neglected! so he’ll come to your home and just want to relax. but at least, he gets to do it with you. waiting for you to finish reading before he turns a page in a book you both have your noses in, until you eventually fall asleep — he resists the urge to keep reading and instantly marks the page, shutting the book altogether and pressing his lips to your forehead in a kiss goodnight.

will also write you letters when he’s far away! (yes, he might be a little sad if he doesn’t get one back) — but the type to do it the most though, as he prefers pen to paper than a call away. yes, he makes sure to kiss the letter before he sends it off. he thinks it helps it navigate itself to you and ensures that it doesn’t get lost. you laugh it off but surprisingly none of your letters have ever gotten lost in the mail. . .

also one to take you to banora to see the dumbapples — he’ll tell you of fond memories and the smell of floral days and sugar slowly creep up on you, and you both smile at it. it might take genesis a while to unfold his secrets, but he’d like to be shown bare with you, nothing hidden. he just doesn’t know how. if you gently clasp his hands and look him in the eye, expressing how okay everything will be even if he doesn’t tell you, you’ve got his hand in marriage.

so talkative even when it’s just the two of you in bed; he’s confident while he’s grinding into you, whispering sweet nothings to you and occasionally laughing at an expression you make. he can’t help but tease you even in your most vulnerable moments. he’ll place two fingers on either side of your jaw and tilt your head up to just look at him — that’s all he wants you to see as you cum. he may be a little possessive.. who knows??

genesis is a lover who shows you that the world is a beautiful place, and that you are but a beautiful piece of nature in this place. he’ll tell you that the wind whispers sweet messages for you, that the sun calls each day wishing to look upon your face, that the ocean sings in its waves in a song just for you — that it’s all for you.

ᯓ RENO’s love is teasing — laughing at you when he has to catch you when you trip, flicking your forehead when you ask him a question you’ve already asked. it’s all lighthearted though, you know it deep down. he’s catlike, one who’ll knock a mug over just to see you scramble to try and catch it or lay across your lap while you’re working.

being a turk also has its downsides for when he’s away from you. he won’t call or write, but reno can never stay away from you for too long or else rude’ll have to endure more of his complaining about the mission being too long. a real whiner, he is. even when he comes home; if you try to give him a hug, he’ll scoff and “try to push you away” which ends up being more like pawing at you instead. oh no, what a predicament he’s in . . whatever will he dooo. . .

he’s much more protective in public or when you’re around friends which is the most you’ll get. his love language is being annoying unfortunately. reno’s not into romantic stuff like that either, no candlelit dinners or dancing in the moonlight. stereotypical romance isn’t for him — even if you try to ask for it.

instead, he’ll wriggle his way behind you when you’re half asleep, nosing his way into your neck as he just . . lays there. he’s got a bruised rib and a wrapped gash across his leg, but he’ll still let you latch onto him when you’re sleeping, as tight as you can — or something, i guess. he doesn’t care. (he totally does).

he tries to act like he knows what he’s doing but reno’s thrusts are a little clumsy, paired with staggered breaths and starved kisses. a hand on his cheek and a soft look in your eyes, though. that’s all he needs before he’s holding back the urge to cum and he kisses you to swallow the whine in the back of his throat.

reno’s love is playful and albeit a little frustrating; but when you feel him reach over to you in the middle of the night for your hand, everything feels right.

taglist ; @xiansiii @alieeelinn @ch3rryfiles @akerasia @meowieesilly @snoopicle

requests are open - april thirteenth, 2025

[ak319]

Lovesick A.M x f!reader

--★ Rose Hats and Rough Hearts

(AN: So, a fic idea I have serves as an inspo for this one-shot. The reader is a morally gray character and doesn't like being part of the gang. Anyway, enjoy reading!.) Syno: When her sharp tongue turns on Dutch, Arthur wonders if she’s gone too far, or if he’s fallen too deep. Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), pining, angst, fluff. ✰ -11k.

“Well, wasn’t that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,” Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.

Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. “Definitely.”

The two rode at a leisurely pace, the quiet night stretching around them like a blanket, the stars casting a soft glow over the landscape. Arthur’s eyes drifted as they moved, catching on a patch of bushes nearby.

Roses.

Even in the faint starlight, their delicate shapes stood out, and an idea bloomed in his mind.

“Uh, Hosea,” Arthur started, breaking the calm, “I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this time of night?” Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. “You oughta rest now, son. You’ve earned it.”

“No, no, jus' need to head into town for a bit. Won’t be long, don’t you worry.”

Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

He handed Hosea the score and with a final farewell, the two parted ways, Arthur veering off towards the town, his thoughts already on the next step of his plan.

Arthur arrived at the shop and dismounted, but instead of heading inside, he lingered by his horse, running a hand over the animal’s neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?

There’s no harm in buying something, right? Just a harmless gesture. He could figure out what to do with it later... later.

For days now, it had been the same cycle.

Don’t think about her. Just don’t.

There’s no harm in it, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t look at her, it’s strange. Keep your distance.

A few stolen glances don’t mean anything when she’s far away, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t buy her a gift. What kind of fool even does that? Who is he to her, anyway?

And here he is, standing outside the shop, heart pounding like a damn fool, a love fool.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, there’s a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps you’d like to try the waistcoats?”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his eyes drifting around the shop. Was he in the right place? He scanned the shelves and displays until his gaze landed on the wall.

Yes, there it was. The item he’d noticed before.

“Can you show me that hat?”

The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. “Our latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.”

Arthur took the hat, turning it over in his hands. The black leather gleamed, unscathed and pristine, a far cry from his well-worn one. His eyes lingered on the rose corsage affixed to the middle, subtle but striking.

He stepped toward the mirror, setting the hat on his head, and studied his reflection. It was a fine hat

"Goes perfectly with your outfit, sir."

Arthur’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. “I saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.”

“Oh, the women’s one! Let me fetch it for you.”

The shopkeeper moved swiftly, his hands deftly retrieving the scarf. He prattled on about its fine quality and craftsmanship, but Arthur barely registered the words. They flew past him like horses leaping over a fence.

His thoughts were elsewhere, on you. On how the scarf would look wrapped around your neck, the way it might frame your face. The image was enough to push him to hand over the dollar bills for both items, not even noticing he’d given more than what was asked.

The shopkeeper’s voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.

He’d be wearing the rose hat, and you’d be wearing the scarf. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a strange mix of warmth and unease. Was he really going to give it to you now?

The wind tugged at his coat, but it couldn’t scatter the doubts and questions circling his mind. Was this... a confession?

Would you, confounding as you were, with your quicksilver moods and quiet distance, accept anything from him? You, who rarely spared him more than a glance, choosing instead to linger with the girls, Molly especially.

It ate at him sometimes, the way you seemed so unreachable. Always just out of his grasp, moving through the camp like a wisp of smoke, untouchable and wholly your own. And yet, he couldn’t stop watching.

Couldn’t stop wanting.

You didn’t belong here, not like him, at least. You carried yourself with an air of defiance, tethered to the camp not by loyalty but necessity. A reluctant, bitter presence that had no reason to look twice at someone as rooted in this life as he was.

He saw the way you didn’t fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe that’s why the thought of you wearing the scarf--his scarf now--stirred something fierce inside him. The idea that, for once, he might give you something that tethered you to him, however briefly. Better than being tied to someone else. God, you have made him so selfish.

He clenched the scarf tighter, his jaw set. Maybe it wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He didn’t know much about you, except years ago when one day he came to the camp and discovered that Hosea and Bessie had found somewhere, taken you in as a baby, and raised you as their own as they always wanted a child. Nobody in the camp knew where they found you except perhaps Dutch but it was never told properly and he didn't pry much too, no one really did. Everything had been fine-peaceful, even, until Bessie passed.

After that, you’d wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldn’t let you go. He was your father, after all, the one who had protected you, shielding you from the blood and grime of their world just as Bessie had wished for.

And then there was himself whose hands were drenched in blood.

All of this screamed doom. Yet, he was doomed... doomed by his stupid feelings and that desperate longing to have someone to call his own, to have someone waiting for him. A foolish wish, considering the life he’d led, the blood he’d spilled, and the world he was tied to.

He slowed the stallion, the weight of bubbling anxiety and frustration pressing down on him. God, it was all a mess. Even if he could manage to stop thinking for a while, to quiet the storm in his head... when he'd return to the camp and see you again, just going about your business, sulking in some corner after an argument, or throwing those sharp, witty remarks, especially at Pearson as you cooked, that pull, that ache, would come rushing back.

Curiosity was the root of it all. He just wanted to know. Why? Why were you like this? Was it because of Molly, how she’d twisted your heart with her bitterness, making you turn your back on Dutch and the rest of the gang? Or did you simply not care at all about any of them?

He huffed at the thought of the stew you probably made, not out of love, but out of duty, or maybe a touch of malice. If it tasted so good, made with nothing but spite, he couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.

❀˖°

With a final pat to Clover’s neck, Arthur made his way back to camp, greeting the men as he passed. But there was something off, a silence hanging heavier than usual. He made his way toward Dutch, figuring he might have some thoughts on the score with Hosea.

"Dutch?"

The older man turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the lake.

"Arthur."

Before Arthur could speak, Dutch continued, his tone slow, almost contemplative. "You know we’re a family, right? That everything we do is for each other, not just for ourselves..."

"Of course, Dutch."

Dutch chuckled softly, the sound more gravel than humor, before crushing the cigar underfoot casually. "Some people, immature people, just can't seem to understand that."

With that, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur standing there.

"Is... something the matter?"

"Thing? No, someone is the matter." Dutch’s words were sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Arthur.

Arthur gave him an impatient look, silently urging him to get to the point. This wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. Not at all. He’d been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift he’d picked out for you, wondering if you'd even notice if you'd even like it. He could already picture himself, the soft scarf fabric between his fingers, tracing the rose pattern as his thoughts wandered, imagining what it would feel like to wrap it around your neck... his gift for you.

Dutch exhaled sharply, clearly agitated. "Hosea has let her get away with too much. You know what she did? When Hosea returned to drop off the share from your little endeavor, she-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "She thought I wasn’t here. She came charging out, and started an argument, telling him he was doing the wrong thing--the wrong thing! Can you believe that?"

Dutch shook his head in disbelief. "She actually had the nerve to say that, Arthur. And that instead of doing this--helping us all--he should be out saving for them both and getting away from this life. "I swear, Arthur... turning one of my most trusted men, a friend, against me? Over some damn bills? But Hosea... being Hosea...what does he do? Runs out of camp to bring her back."

"So what did you suggest?!" Hosea’s voice cut through the tension as he entered the tent, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Let my daughter go out in the wild alone? At night? How could you do that, say 'get lost' just like that? Knowing she will take it seriously? She grew up right in front of you!"

"Oh, so it hurt her ego, huh?! Like I care. For me , nothing’s worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"

"Enough! No! Don’t you dare bring that up."

With a heavy sigh, Hosea turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, leaving Dutch to seethe in silence.

Dutch watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Take those damn dollars you bestowed on us, Hosea, and gift her a house, for all I care! Fine by my ass!"

Arthur’s mind was a tangled mess, unable to process the whirlwind of events. So much had happened, so many emotions he could hardly keep up. Confusion clouded his mind, frustration clawed at his chest, exhaustion weighed down on his bones, and fury burned in his gut. But none of it made sense. He couldn't even figure out who--or what--his anger was really directed at.

Was it you? Was it your reckless, thoughtless actions that set this all in motion? Or was it Dutch's words and how casually he was ready to kick a girl out, kick you out, just like that?

It was at both.

It was both, but more than anything, it was you. Because you’d started it, hadn’t you? You always had a problem with Dutch’s authority, even when you kept your sweet little mouth shut. It was in your eyes, those eyes. The eyes he could never get enough of, the ones he craved to meet his own. If only for a second. A second where the same longing, the same hunger for something more, reflected back at him.

But instead, there you were. Acting like everything was just... nothing. Like none of it mattered. Like he didn’t matter. You went out there recklessly and carelessly, as if you could just walk away from everything. From him. How fucking could you? What if it had gotten worse and someone just decided to harm you because of your damn tongue in the camp and even Hosea couldn't do anything-

"Arthur?"

"U-Um, yes?"

"What do you think? Hm?"

"About...what happened? I--it’s... yeah, she shouldn’t have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthur’s response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didn’t wait for more. He muttered a farewell and slipped out of the tent, the cool air doing little to clear the haze in his mind.

His eyes found Hosea almost immediately. The old man was sitting on his bedroll, his posture stiff and guarded. His eyes screamed of hurt, Dutch's words had affected him deeply. After some seconds his eyes would flicker at your tent. The sight made Arthur’s chest ache. Hosea’s protectiveness was undeniable.

Because no matter how much Hosea wanted to protect you, Arthur wanted something deeper, something more selfish.

What the hell am I even thinking? he chastised himself, shaking his head. She’s not my responsibility. She’s not mine.

He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldn’t move. Instead, he turned away, retreating to his own tent with a heavy sigh. Once inside, he shut the flaps, placed his hat on the table, and dropped onto the cot with a grunt of annoyance.

Reaching for the scarf, Arthur held it above him, the dim light tracing over its soft, silken material. He let it graze his face, the faint scent of the shop lingering on it, but it was his mind that did the real work. He imagined the fabric tangled in your hair, how it would feel wrapped around you as he held you close. He could almost feel the tickle of those strands against his skin, his breath hot against the side of your neck.

The thought of having you here, in his arms, that close, his hands gripping you, pulling you to him, ignited something fierce inside him. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only you’d let him. He clenched the scarf tighter, frustration and something darker simmering in his chest.

With that vision playing in his mind, he let the scarf fall, draping it across his face and chest, the weight of it somehow both comforting and unbearable.

Lying there in the dark, his lips brushed over the fabric absently, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. It was maddening, the way you consumed his thoughts without even trying. Even now, with frustration still simmering under his skin, all he wanted was to see you, to watch your expression, even if it meant enduring one of your scowls.

You little menace, I swear one of these days I might just lose my patience.

But you didn’t care, did you? You’d stormed out, reckless and fiery, with no thought of him or anyone, not even yourself. And here he was, lying alone, haunted by the feeling of silk and the ghost of a life he’d never have. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur shifted onto his side, clutching it closer, the tension in his body growing. He couldn't help but think if he had been here earlier, he would have tied you to him, not out of malice, but out of desperate, aching need. The kind of need that he couldn’t push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didn’t even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily.

He wanted you to feel it, to bear the same punishment he carried every night. To know what it was like to lie awake, tormented by the thought of someone you couldn’t have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldn’t name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldn’t even look your way.

But then...what was he even saying?

Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didn’t deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasn’t yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldn’t ever look at him that way. He was older, too far removed from your world, your interests, your life. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldn’t ever imagine, not in a thousand years, that someone like him could ever be interested in you. Even he could admit it, this was all stupid, unexpected, and nothing more than a fantasy.

And still, knowing this, he couldn’t stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesn’t listen to reason or its owner, dragging you where it pleases, no matter the cost. Even he, a man who prided himself on control, had been reduced to a mere servant of its whims.

His fingers curled around the scarf as if it could somehow hold the pieces of him together. As if its softness could soothe the fire that burned inside him, one that you had lit and would never know.

Meanwhile, you lay in bed, staring at the worn canvas of the tent above. You weren’t leaving this tent. Not now. Not later. Not for anyone. They could all be damned for all you cared, it had all been damned ever since your mother died.

She was your anchor, the one thing tethering you to any sense of stability. And the moment she was gone, the world had cracked open, spilling truths you’d long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You weren’t really theirs. You weren’t their daughter.

Hosea refused to tell you why or how you ended up here, tucked into the folds of their chaos. But the truth was, you didn’t care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutch’s every whim, the endless cycle of running and stealing and pretending any of it had meaning.

All you wanted was a normal life, a roof over your head that didn’t leak when it rained, a place where fear didn’t cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldn’t let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.

Pathetic.

That’s what it was. That’s what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutch’s charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone

"Bastard..."

You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasn’t in the cards, maybe just to find some rich fool to marry so you could finally live in peace. Far from all this chaos. But no, these people couldn’t leave well enough alone, they had to loot every rich soul they came across.

Leave someone for me to marry at least, you scoffed bitterly, lips curling in a faint, humourless smile.

Sigh.

Dream on, (Y/N). Dream on.

Hosea’s familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadn’t bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldn’t be long, two days, maximum, before Hosea came to lecture you, or worse, dragged you out of this tent himself.

He was always so damn strict when it came to pulling your weight.

But right now?

Screw it. Screw him. Screw all of them.

Let them fend for themselves.

❀˖°

"Why do you do all this?"

Not did that. Do this.

Arthur’s voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldn’t bring himself to say outright. He just hoped you’d hear it, the real question, underneath the words. His gaze stayed fixed on the worn soles of your shoes, watching as you scrubbed at the dishes with an edge of restrained aggression that didn’t go unnoticed.

The sight would be funny to anyone in the camp right now. He was reduced to barely speaking above a whisper when it came to you, his usual steady tone faltering in a way it never did with anyone else. Whilst you were the only one who wasn't afraid of even him. While others tiptoed around him, wary of the weight his presence carried, you treated him with the same indifference, the same biting sharpness that you spared for everyone else.

Dammit, he fucking loved it.

It wasn’t fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasn’t just another face in the camp to you. It made him feel like that was all he was. Just another man under Dutch rule.

And it was maddening.

"I could ask the same question to everyone here," you replied, voice steady but sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to wound without cutting too deep.

"But you know the answer."

"And you do too," you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder, "but here you are. Playing the mediator of sorts."

Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to the ground as if the weight of your words had struck him in the chest. For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with this place, with these people, you had an uncanny way of stirring up trouble within it.

Perhaps you wanted that. You wanted to get kicked out.

He wanted to throw the thought out into the open, let it snap between you like a taut rope. But the bitterness in your tone, the heaviness in your stance, made him hesitate. Throwing oil on the fire wasn’t going to do either of you any good, not today.

"You’re wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."

"Then I’ll just keep talkin’ until you do."

"Do whatever, I don't care. This place is full of people barking orders and trying to be big. Pft. How adorable."

At least spare me a glance. Just one.

"If you don't care about yourself, then at least do it for Hosea..." His voice was strained, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.

That made you turn, finally, but the look you gave him was anything but kind. Your gaze was sharp, cutting, laced with a mix of disdain and challenge. "Oh, so now you're worried about me being a bad daughter or something?" you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you all think the same way when you're out there making other daughters cry, making women widows and destroying families without a second thought."

This was the longest conversation you both had. Ever. And damn it was a wrecked one.

Your lips curled into a humorless smile as you snorted, mocking. "Tsk, I bet that's an exception, right? Family only exists here." You pitched your voice to mimic Dutch's smooth drawl, the mockery biting. Then, as if dismissing him entirely, you turned back to the washing, your hands moving with renewed fervor, the sound of water splashing filling the silence.

Arthur stood there, jaw tight, the weight of your words sinking into him like stones in a river.

He stood rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in his throat, refusing to come out. Maybe it was the truth in your words that had him stunned.

Before Arthur could find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, Hosea stepped into the fray, his tone calm yet firm. “(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, you’ve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.”

Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, looking off to the side, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. His heart thumped unevenly as he anticipated your response.

You turned to Hosea sharply, your expression a volatile mix of shock and simmering fury. “You want me to apologize to him?! For what?. Just for talking to you about something I’ve wanted to for so damn long?!”

Arthur’s head snapped back in your direction. He could see the fire in your eyes now, blazing and relentless, and it struck something in him. That fire, he both loved and hated it, craved it and feared it. It was the very thing that made you impossible to ignore, yet it was also what pushed you farther from him. And still, he couldn’t help but think how maddeningly beautiful you looked right now, even if it tore him apart to watch you lock yourself away further from everyone, including him.

“It’s not about what was said, it’s about how it was said. Dutch... he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. We all are.”

“Trying? Trying to keep us all in line like dogs? Sure, that sounds like areallyl noble effort. If you want to grovel to Dutch, go ahead, Papa. But don’t drag me into it.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against his holster as if searching for something to ground himself. He knew that your words were not only directed at Hosea but him too.

“You’ve got too much pride,” Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"And you’ve got too much blind loyalty."

Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isn’t about the words you said, it’s about the way you said them. You can stand by your beliefs without tearing everyone else down in the process, sweetheart."

"So what? Dutch can tear everyone down, but when someone calls him out, it’s suddenly a problem?! That’s rich."

"It doesn't matter!" Hosea’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, don’t create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, we’re in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldn’t be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. He’s always been like an uncle to you... (Y/N)."

You let out a bitter scoff, your lips curling in defiance. "And he's the one who clearly doesn't want me here but--fine...fine Papa," your hands slammed the plate down in the basin. "I’ll do whatever you say. Because, apparently, my words are nothing but bullets of disloyalty now. The same words that were once adorable wishes to you."

Your words hit like a lash, leaving Hosea standing frozen as you stormed off toward your tent. Arthur watched the older man, his chest tightening when he saw the same hurt settle in Hosea’s eyes, the kind of pain that only festers in the heart of someone who loves deeply and feels powerless.

"I wish..." Hosea began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of emotions he rarely let show. "I wish I never told her the truth... that she’s not my child. Maybe it messed her up... It broke me more than it broke her."

Arthur stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. Hosea turned his head slightly, and Arthur's heart clenched when he saw the glint of tears streaking down the older man’s face. It was the second time Arthur had witnessed Hosea cry, the first being after Bessie's death.

"It... it terrified me," Hosea whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I kept thinkin' last night, what if one day I'm not here, and Dutch just turns on her like that? Sure, the women might object, but that’s it. They’re powerless against him. No one would stand up for her... and she'd be all alone..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes, trying to regain control. "And that’s what broke me, Arthur."

It broke me too...

"Jus' don't think about all that happened. Forget it and don't worry Dutch will forget about it. He won’t hold onto it, not like that. And she... she’ll forget too. You’ll see."

Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I don’t think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she won’t let it go." He paused, leaning heavily against the wooden counter, his shoulders sagging, "I want it too, Arthur. The house, the quiet life… I want to give her that. But it’s not easy. It’s not."

He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, it’d feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldn’t sit right. Do you get what I mean?"

Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you weren’t there to sharpen the tension in the air. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think we all... kind of want that." His words trailed off, his thoughts unraveling into something more personal. Something he couldn’t bring himself to say.

I do. I want it... with you. Maybe. No...

Only.

Hosea turned his head to study him, Arthur caught the look and quickly shrugged it off, letting out a small exhale as if to clear the thought entirely. "Jus’ don’t let Dutch know," he muttered with a faint smirk. Hosea returned the gesture. " 'Course not. Let's go have some coffee, boy." He reached to pat the man's shoulder but Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Hosea’s with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthur’s with a flicker of concern.

"Um--there’s... something that I want to..." Arthur’s voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hosea’s eyes. The same sheepish, uncertain look Hosea had seen a hundred times, but now it felt different.

Hosea arched a brow, waiting for him to continue. "Well, go on then. What did you do?"

Arthur’s mind was a mess, his thoughts tangled with nerves and fear. What the hell am I doing? His heart raced as his hand shook slightly. What the hell am I about to do?

His breath caught as he reached into the inside of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of the chest pocket where he’d hidden it. It was a decision that had plagued him for days, one that felt impossible to avoid now.

He pulled out the scarf--silken, covered in his scent, soft to the touch, but now burning in his hand like a symbol of everything he couldn’t say.

 For her.

It’s for her.

"I- I bought this..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud made them too real, too vulnerable.

Hosea’s face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear I’m a man, Arthur."

The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than he’d imagined. His throat went dry, his fingers tightening around the scarf as if it could somehow anchor him, give him the courage to keep going. But he was drowning in hesitation.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. The thought of Hosea’s reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?

Hosea’s eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"

Arthur’s mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "It’s for... (Y/N)."

For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hosea’s expression softened, eyes widening, almost in a kind of jubilant surprise.

Hosea took the scarf from Arthur, his hands gentle as he examined the gift. A sense of something unspoken passed between them, something Arthur couldn’t quite name, but it was there in the way Hosea’s gaze softened. "Really?"

Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hosea’s, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldn’t even process. Was this really happening? He was spilling it to him, of all people, your father.

He nodded again, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah..."

Hosea’s hand reached out to pat Arthur’s arm in an almost fatherly gesture, a gentle smile forming on his face. "Well then... I’ll be sure to give it to her. Thank you. Y’know... you’re the only one I trust after me."

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like he’d won a game, but one he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

Arthur’s throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d attached to the simple scarf until now. It was just a piece of fabric, yet the meaning behind it had become so much more than he’d ever expected.

"Just... tell her to, you know... don’t burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin. But the words weren’t a joke. They were the truth, and they hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

The image burned in his mind, you, angry, perhaps unaware, throwing it into the campfire or tearing it apart with a pair of scissors. The thought was almost unbearable, each possibility worse than the last. The way his hands clenched into fists at his sides showed just how deep the fear ran.

He couldn’t let that happen.

If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didn’t know what he’d do. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Would he lash out? Would he burn the whole camp down if it meant getting you back, getting that thing back, untainted by your disregard? The intensity of his protectiveness shocked him, made his pulse quicken.

He forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled, but the tightness in his chest remained.

"Tell her," he repeated softly, though his voice cracked with something that felt more desperate than he'd intended.

"I will, I will. Don't you worry."

❀˖°

You nearly sewed your own finger, but kept going, the needle trembling slightly in your hand as you tried to focus. Jack sure knew how to break his damn button every week. But you never minded of course. That adorable little kid is like your brother. You couldn't remember the last time you’d felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.

"I’m proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hosea’s voice broke through the silence, as he sipped his coffee. His words sank into the quiet of the tent.

"Of course you are."

His response was a low chuckle, tinged with affection. He knew you loved him and valued his advice,. His mind played the memories of the times when you always waited worriedly whenever he went on jobs and made sure he was looked after in the camp. Bandaged him. Never slacked off because you knew he hated that...well apart from the times when you were mad. Then even he couldn't convince you to move an inch of stone. Though, he couldn't be proud to have you as his daughter even if both of you clashed at moments like these.

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if you’d done it for Hosea, for your own reasons, you couldn't shake the irritation that still lingered beneath your skin. But he was happy, and that was enough for him. His approval always mattered to you, more than you’d ever admit.

The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hosea’s gaze shifted, the way it always did when something was on his mind. He glanced at the closed flap of the tent, his attention drawn to the world outside. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.

"Here," Hosea said, holding the item out to you, his expression tight, as if he wasn't entirely sure how you would take it. You eyed the scarf suspiciously before taking it, your fingers brushing against the fabric, your thoughts clouded.

"Wow! Thanks...it's so pretty."

Hosea shifted on his feet, averting his gaze, as if the next words were stuck in his throat.

"It's...from Arthur."

"Wha---huh? Why?"

Hosea looked away again, the embarrassment and discomfort evident in his posture, but the message was clear. You felt the shift in the air, a kind of pressure that built between you both.

Your blood ran cold, and you couldn't stop the words that spilled from your lips. "Wha- excuse me??! Did you... did you just sell me or something?!"

The words landed, and Hosea's head snapped back, his face darkening, his jaw tight with frustration.

"What even---Are you out of your mind? Listen to me. I am not going to be here for you forever, and I worry for you, even if you think I don't! And him, he’s the only one I would trust to-"

"What are you on about?!" you cut him off, your voice rising with anger. "Am I some child that needs to be babysat?! I won’t stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And you’re here finding ways to bind me here?! I understand everything! Don’t think I’m a fool!"

You couldn’t stop yourself. With a burst of pent-up fury, you threw the scarf on the floor, your hands shaking with the force of your frustration. "Handing me to some old lap dog, you’re out of your mind! I can't believe it, have some shame!."

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you both, as Hosea stood there, his hand still frozen in the air where he'd offered you the scarf, his eyes full of something raw, hurt, frustration, confusion. Hosea opened his mouth, but no words came. His gaze softened, his lips parted as if he were trying to find something to say. But the words you had just spoken hung heavy in the air, too loud and too real to take back now.

"You think I want this for you?" he finally whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with frustration. "I just want you safe, damn it. Safe."

"If you want that, then find someone else, someone normal. A proper suitor, maybe? A decent citizen? Like Mama would have wanted!"

"And you think a 'normal citizen,' or the rich kind you dream of marrying, won’t ask about our background? Won’t dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of what’s real? The most honest person you could have is right here, willing to do anything for you. I raised that boy, and I damn well know he will never disappoint me."

You rolled your eyes, fed up with another one of his lectures. "Yeah, because after spending half my life with outlaws, I've definitely lost the chance to be with anyone 'normal,' haven’t I? Then I'd rather die alone! Every man here is raised by you in some way but that doesn't mean that I have to trust them let alone be with THEM! You are being delusional! Whatever--just give it back, for God's sake," you snapped, your voice thick with frustration as you turned away, trying to put distance between yourself and the scarf as if it could somehow erase the conversation.

Hosea didn't move to leave. He just stood there. After a long pause, he shook his head gently, as if reconciling himself with something painful. "No, no I won't. Gifts are not meant to be... given back."

He picked the scarf up, his hands cradling it carefully as if it were something fragile, and for a moment, you could see him lost in thought, his eyes distant, remembering something else.

"I remember... the first time I held you in my arms," he murmured, his voice softer now, the anger and frustration fading into something more vulnerable. "You were my gift, too. You still are."

Your heart stuttered for a moment, the memory of being held like that, cradled in his arms when you were small, a time before all the complexities of your relationship had gotten so tangled. The warmth of his embrace felt distant now, like a fading echo.

Or it's just his way of manipulation.

"Papa, please, why are you even siding with him-"

"Enough, because I know better and I know you better," he interrupted, his voice firm this time, though it cracked slightly with emotion. "Just keep it." His words hung in the air, and he turned to leave the tent but paused just before he stepped outside.

He looked back, his gaze meeting yours for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something deep, filled with regret, but also resolve. "If I couldn't, or am unable to give you the life you want," he said softly, each word deliberate, "my heart says he will."

"Oh please, wait till you see when he kicks me out one day on your beloved Dutch's orders."

Hosea didn’t respond right away. He just looked at you, his expression a mixture of sorrow and a kind of quiet resignation, before he finally turned and walked out of the tent.

He would never be able to make you understand that Arthur would be the last person to do that.

❀˖°

The days that followed felt heavier, like a fog had settled around you. Arthur's presence, once easily ignored, now seemed to infiltrate every corner of your space. He started lingering around more often, always appearing at the most inconvenient times when you and Hosea were sharing a quiet meal or having (tea/coffee). At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe just a shared moment of camaraderie, but the more it happened, the more uncomfortable it made you.

Arthur wasn’t doing anything overtly wrong, of course. He sat quietly, politely joining the conversation when spoken to, sipping coffee, offering a nod here and there.

It bothered you. You loathed it.

Is this some sort of indirect courting? Were you imagining things, or was this his way of trying to ingratiate himself with you? Was he trying to get Hosea's approval? To intimidate you? Or, perhaps, was it something more direct? Was he trying to... what, win you over? Hosea, for all his kindness and wisdom, didn’t mind Arthur’s company, even encouraged it.

The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldn’t, or am unable to give you the life you want, my heart says he will."

You scoffed internally, trying to push it away, but the more you thought about it, the more it gnawed at you. Was that really true? Hosea seemed to believe it, but you weren’t so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutch’s gang? Or was Hosea just trying to soften the blow, making it sound like there was hope when in reality there was none?

Why can't he get it that I don't want to stay here or get associated with anyone! Especially someone so older and worse the most obedient to Dutch of them all.

You rolled your eyes, staring out into the distance. And why the hell would he go after you? Out of all the people in the camp, why you?

It didn’t make sense. None of it did.

Still, a small part of you wondered... Should you ask him?

But what if you were wrong? What if Hosea was just speaking out of some misplaced hope? You didn’t know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you weren’t one to be uncertain. You didn't like it.

He just wants someone young to play with now that he's lonely.

Arthur stared at the journal in his lap, the unfinished sketch of eyes glaring up at him, imperfect and frustrating. He let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, his pencil hovering over the page, but he couldn’t seem to get it right. The eyes, those eyes, kept staring back at him, their gaze too empty, too raw. The frown on his face deepened as he bit his lip, his mind spiraling in frustration.

But that frown, that damn cute frown, it wouldn't fade. It never did. The curve of your lips when you were irritated or deep in thought, the way your brows furrowed as you focused on something else... It was almost intoxicating how endearing it was. Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldn’t stop wanting to be the one to make that frown disappear.

If only you'd look at him once with a smile, he thought bitterly, the words tasting both sweet and impossible.

Because deep down, Arthur knew, he'd do anything. He’d break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile. 

He longed for that.

But no, that’s just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldn’t even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutch’s gang.

❀˖°

It was another evening, quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the campfire. You were chopping vegetables at the makeshift table, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the air. Hosea sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, sipping his coffee with a watchful but calm expression.

Arthur appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hat tilted low and his hands shoved into his pockets. You barely glanced at him, focused on your task.

“Evenin’,” Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.

Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. “Evening, Arthur.”

Arthur glanced at you, then back at Hosea. His jaw worked for a moment, as though wrestling with what

And then you heard the words. Full of hesitation.

“I was wonderin’... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.” His words hung in the air, but his eyes seemed distant, almost like he was hoping for a miracle.

Wow, just great. They are going to pretend that I am not even here now huh?

And you hadn’t been in the mood for any of this. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"

Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at your hunched frame, your defiance practically radiating off you. His voice softened, though there was a trace of frustration. “You’re not fine. Not always, and not here.”

“What do you know about what I need, huh? You think you can just waltz in here and decide things for me? I said I am not going so I am not!”

Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Ain’t about me decidin’ nothin’. You don’t even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.”

 "You’ve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesn’t mean I owe you a thing."

Arthur seemed to bristle at your sharp reaction, but Hosea leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the both of you with a quiet smile. He wasn’t offended, he understood.

Your glare didn’t falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. “He’s got a point, my dear.” His tone was calm, and measured. “A little ride won’t kill you.”

You crossed your arms. “I said no Papa and that means, NO. Stop forcing things on me."

And of course, Hosea didn't miss your taunt and somehow Arthur too.

The younger male stepped closer again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. “I ain't Dutch. I ain’t gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someone’s tryin’ to help, even if it don’t make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.”

Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutch’s boots approached. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” Dutch drawled, stepping into the space with a deliberate slowness that made everyone tense. He looked from Arthur to you, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Arthur, you’re not causin’ any trouble now, are you?”

“Just talkin’. Nothin’ more.”

Dutch’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. “Talkin’, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure you’re barkin’ up the right tree here?”

The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutch’s words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.

“Dutch,” Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. “C'mon...don't say that."

Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldn’t want to trip.” With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, his laughter echoing behind him. Hosea shot Arthur a brief look before following after Dutch, likely to smooth things over or ensure the situation didn’t escalate further.

Arthur lingered awkwardly near the table. His fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, his eyes darting between you and the ground as though he couldn’t quite decide where to settle. He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out to you, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. “Look, I-”

"What? Just go away."

Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. “Just...ignore what he said.”

"But what he said was right."

"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. “It ain’t like that,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Dutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Doesn’t it? You didn’t exactly deny it back there.”

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I don’t know. Thought you’d wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.”

“Help with what, exactly?” You gestured around you, exasperated.

“I just… I thought it’d be nice. Thought maybe you’d... enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it? Arthur, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here. Why you’re trying so hard.”

His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. “Maybe I am tryin’, don’t know why you think that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it, I didn’t ask for you or anyone to care.”

He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. “Yeah. I know. But it ain’t somethin’ I can help. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You’re making it more complicated, you know.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d rather be here makin’ things complicated than not be here at all.”

You didn’t know what to do with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.

“I’ve got work to do,” you said, pushing off the crate and brushing past him towards the wagon. As you walked past him, your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp as always.

"Why don’t you take all this energy and use it on something worthwhile? Perhaps finding the right tree." You chuckled tauntingly as you went inside the wagon.

He didn’t try to stop you, didn’t say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.

❀˖°

When he returned later that night, most of the camp was either finishing up their dinner, indulging in late-night games, or sitting quietly by the fire.

He didn’t sense your presence anywhere, and he figured you were probably in your tent, finally savoring some solitude after a long day of work and being surrounded by the others. But he also knew that Dutch’s words from earlier weren’t easy to shake off, especially for you. Your blood was likely still boiling. Worse, you must be hurt too.

Taking advantage of everyone being preoccupied, his steps naturally gravitated toward your tent, your sanctuary. A place he had only ever dared to dream of being close to. What was it like inside? He often wondered. Would the air inside smell faintly of you? Would he ever be someone who belonged in your space? He imagined a future where he could step into it freely, with no hesitation, no uncertainty. A time when he wouldn’t even need to knock when he could enter with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand, your relationship so natural and warm that it felt like home.

But maybe that was the point. You didn’t need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the world’s harsh gaze. It wasn’t fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. You’d stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to see you in his world, in his tent, on his bed, wrapped up in everything that was his.

Hidden away, yes, but hidden with him.

He cleared his throat, his eyes too shy to even glance fully inside, though the tent flap hung half-open.

"Who is it now?"

"Me... I--uh...can I?"

A soft, irritated sound followed, then your voice gave reluctant confirmation. “Leave the flap wide open.”

He obeyed, pushing the fabric aside, the cool night air spilling in. Then he stood there like a fool, frozen for several seconds as his eyes found you sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg bouncing with impatience. Enchanting nonetheless.

“Well? What now?”

The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldn’t believe you’d allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldn’t help feeling grateful anyway.

Taking a cautious step closer, his gaze drifted and landed on the scarf in the corner, dangling from the back of a chair.

At least you kept it.

You kept it.

That was enough for him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasn’t one of submission but of devotion, a silent acknowledgment that your hatred, cold and unyielding, loomed larger than the fire of his love. And yet, he stayed there, resolute.

If he had to kneel to earn even a fragment of your gaze, he would. If being this close meant bearing the weight of your disdain, so be it. Because in this moment, it wasn’t his pride that mattered, it was you.

Your first instinct was shock. His sudden closeness threw you off, but as the silence stretched and his hesitation became almost unbearable, you decided to speak, cutting through the tension.

“I think you’re only acting like this because Dutch reckons it’s the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Y’know, keep me stuck in this camp so Pa’s happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It ain’t like that. It ain’t even close to that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. “Do I look like someone who’d think that way? Or...who’d go along with somethin’ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?”

“You ain’t some animal we gotta control, alright? You’re...more than that. Always have been."

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I know...there’s a whole lotta differences between us. But...I can’t help myself, y’know? I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried.” His words faltered, and he cursed under his breath.

Damn, I forgot half of what I wanted to say.

You tilted your head, watching him struggle. Internally finding it quite entertaining in a way.

He took a deep breath and pressed on, his voice quieter but no less earnest. “I don’t deserve this, I know that. Hell, you don’t deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...I’ll make this better. I’ll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethin’ better. Until...”

He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “Until I can give you somethin’ far better than all this.”

He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. “And no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while I’m around.”

“....Not even Dutch?”

Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah....not even him.”

Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hands, his touch rough but grounding. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of trust, of understanding, of...hope.

"But why though? All of a sudden? And me?"

"I...wish I knew. But I am helpless right now. Helpless against these questions and these...feelings."

His eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading, but your words cut through him like a knife.

“If this is all true, then...why didn’t your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?”

Arthur flinched as if you’d struck him. His heart trembled at the weight of your words, your tone unclear, was it innocent? Genuine? Or just plain cruel?

"That...that was different."

“Okay but if she didn’t trust you enough to stay, then why should I? We’re not even-”

He moved before you could finish, his jaw tightening as he stood. With a single step, he reached for the scarf draped over the chair. Silent and deliberate, he placed it on the bed beside you, his every motion measured.

You watched him, confused and uncertain, as he pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket. He smoothed them flat and placed them in the middle of the scarf. His hands moved deftly, folding the fabric around the money with a care that felt almost reverent.

Finally, he turned to you, kneeling once more. His rough, calloused hands gently wrapped around yours, closing your fingers firmly over the bundle. His touch was warm, grounding, yet carried the weight of something far greater.

“Here, this...this is the only proof I can give you. I’ll keep fillin’ it, day by day, until we’ve got enough to leave. And you’ll keep it safe. You’ll keep it with you. It's yours. Only yours."

And I am too.

"I know...that the money is not gonna come from honest ways which you hate of course, but...there's no other way it can be done...but it will be done, alright?"

His breath hitched as he leaned closer, his shadow falling over you like a shroud. The proximity made your heart thrum unevenly, though you’d never admit it.

You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. A dozen questions churned in your mind, your heart caught between disbelief and something else you couldn’t name.

Why was he doing this? Why for you? Damn, you never pegged him for such a fool. Well...does this mean you will at least get to escape this hell if you just close your eyes and accept whatever this is?

Mhm...not bad of a deal.

It was as if he could sense the weight of your weariness. His voice softened, low and earnest.

“I just want you to greet me every time I come back…and every time I go. With that smile of yours.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. “That’s all I ask of you...that’s all this idiot asks of you.”

And to have you in my arms every night.

The thought came unbidden, a longing too deep and too dangerous to voice aloud.

No. It was too much to ask.

You blinked at him, caught off guard, your lips parting slightly as if to respond. “Um...I don't--” You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldn’t come.

When you finally looked up, he saw it, emotions swirling in your eyes, unguarded for once. Fear, confusion, a flicker of nervousness. But there was something else, something softer, something innocent buried beneath it all. His heart, racing only moments ago, steadied as if your gaze alone could calm him.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, one that lingered longer than it should have.

You flinched a little but didn't pull away, and that, to him, was enough. A sign of acceptance, no matter how small.

The scent of your hair, the warmth of your presence, it was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt hope unfurling in his chest. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didn’t say anything else, not wanting to break the fragile moment, and instead rose to his feet. His shadow stretched across the tent as he turned toward the flap, his steps deliberate and slow.

And just before he stepped out into the night, he glanced over his shoulder. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

Tonight, he might finally be able to sleep.

Arthur lay down on his cot, an idiotic smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the hat resting on the table. It wasn’t just a hat, it was your approval, your silent acknowledgment, your acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he felt...hopeful.

And now, he thought, he’d finally be able to wear it.

❀˖°

The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasn’t up. The other remained unfinished, a portrait of your infamous frown. Not that he hated it, hell, that frown had a charm of its own, sharp and stubborn. But something about leaving it incomplete felt right. He decided it would remain that way. He didn’t want to immortalise that side of you, not in his art or heart.

Arthur reached for the softer sketch, running a thumb over the lines as if touching the paper could bring you closer to him. He studied it, his heart aching with an almost unbearable tenderness.

No, you deserved better. You deserved to keep smiling. And if it took him a lifetime to make that happen, so be it.

Hosea watched from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Arthur hugged your stiff form, bidding you farewell. He observed the way Arthur's demeanour had softened, the usual rough edges of the man becoming more relaxed in your presence. The smile and the way he tipped his hat to you before mounting the horse were enough to confirm the change that had occurred in him.

Arthur's gaze briefly flicked over to where Hosea stood, his eyes meeting the older man’s. With a small, almost sheepish nod of acknowledgment, Arthur gave a quick tip of his head. It was subtle, but Hosea had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, the lightness in his eyes.

The mentor's smile deepened, though there was a softness to it that spoke of more than just amusement. It was the kind of smile a father would give when he saw something unexpected in a child, something tender, something hopeful.

It was good to see Arthur's content again. What truly surprised him, though, was that it was his daughter who had made it possible after all this time. The last person he imagined to ever do that and that made him chuckle quietly.

A match made in heaven indeed...

(AN: •⩊• u better interact for high honour++)

[poetsblvd]

SKINCARE BABE ꪆৎ CL16

“How do you not get confused at all?” Charles mumbles in awe of your skincare collection, staring at the jars and tubes of different sizes that sit prettily in organised containers on the large vanity of your bathroom.

You shrug, pulling him lightly by his knuckles towards a seat facing your bathroom mirror. “You get used to it, now sit!”

He smiles softly taking a seat on the cushioned stool next to yours, nodding as you pull out an array of different types of face masks to try with him.

“I have so many fun ones we can do! There’s this clay mask, this gel one, that’s a sheet mask, and then this one peels off.” A delicately manicured finger pulls out the containers and thin boxes from cabinets and lays them down in front of him.

He doesn’t quite know what you’re saying at all, the words mostly fly over his head and he doesn’t understand much of what you’re saying, except that maybe the world has far too many face masks to choose from, but he knows he can listen to you prattle on for hours on end about sheet masks, gel under eye patches, everything really, and never tire.

You hum in concentration, still looking through drawers for anything you may be missing to show him, completely unaware of your boyfriends’ attention being solely on you rather than your skincare.

“You’re so beautiful, you know?” He murmurs smiling up at you.

Your hands pause in their movements, a pretty flush creeping up your cheeks and down your neck, only endearing you more to him.

His hands come to rub at his chest unconsciously still staring at you in awe, a soft gooey feeling coating him turning his eyes into hearts and making his brain go almost numb.

‘’Tellement jolie.” He smiles, large hands carefully sliding around your waist and pulling you closer to stand in front of him, chin resting on the pretty pink silk robe that coats your body. ( so pretty )

“Mon belle amour, comment ai-je eu autant de chance?” He wonders, laughing softly when your hands bashfully come up to cover your face, french glossy nails shining in the light. ( my beautiful love, how did i get so lucky? )

“Charlie!” You whine, dragging out his name in exasperation mumbling a shy I love you, that’s incredibly well received if his ear splitting grin and giggle are anything to go by.

He tugs you onto his lap, making sure you’re comfortable, hands still woven tightly around your waist, his head in the crook of your neck, he smears a soft kiss on your shoulders and nudges you to the face masks again.

“Tell me what face mask you like the most mon beau.” You pull out a small glass pot labeled ‘volcanic clay mask’ and he fights all his inner questions down when you start rattling off its benefits of how it minimises pores and helps target fine lines?

“Okay amour, will you put it on for me?” He smiles cheesily, pushing his face forward and turning you around in his hold.

“We have to push your hair back first love.” You pull out a brand new headband from the drawer next to you and present it to him, grinning at his loud bark of laughter at the lightning mcqueen skincare headband in front of of him.

“Oh my God!”

“You like it?” You question, happiness bubbling inside you.

Nodding eagerly he lets you slip it onto his head and push back his hair “Love it! Love you, so much, Je t’aime mon coeur.”

“Je t’aime aussi Cha.”

“Wow, I am going to be the coolest in the paddock, Lightning mcqueen headband? Max is going to be so jealous.”

love note , hi i hope you guys liked this!! i’m not the most pleased with this but i had the teeniest crumb of inspo to write and it’s 4:20 am (again) so please bear with me!! but i found the idea cute and i was struggling to put it into words, but it is what it is! also i have a bunch of reqs in my inbox that i promos i’ll get to, but i’m recovering from the most disgusting flu and have the most awful writers block, so we’ll go slow and steady!! anyways happy reading mwah xx

[rav1377]

To Love and To Cherish

Nikolai x John Price x fem!reader

this got SO out of hand, even had to google what the dirty term for daddy was in russian😭

tw:bar, drinking, slight/possible drugging, intoxication, reader goes home w them drunk(DONT DO THIS EVER), underlying daddy issues, Big Beefy Men tm, use of grown up derogatory term? (big girl, not referring to body.)erm smut, smut, and more smut, intoxicated sex(don’t do this guys, consent is key), unprotected sex(DONT DO THIS.), sharing, age gap (reader is twenty smth, John/Nik are old men in their late thirties early forties, daddy talk (im sorry😭I HAD TO)marriage talk, housewife idolization, uh-lmk if I missed smth!

very special thank you to the amazing @elaineiswithyou-blog for allowing me to base this off their post! 💕

the overcrowded bar just got a little more crowded when you stepped into the room, squeezing through people to get to the bar. you don’t see any stools open and you scan the space, looking for a place to rest your achy feet and get a small drink. a throat clears behind you with a deep rumble, and you tense unconsciously, turning to look at the source of the noise. two beefy older men on two barstools, one open in between them.

the one on the left has slicked back hair, it’s black, possibly a very dark brown. it runs down the nape of his neck and curls up slightly at the ends. his eyes have a mischievous and knowing sheen in them, like he knows a joke that you aren’t in on. his thick face is pale, and a strong nose rests on it. a gold chain sits on his chest from where hair pokes out of the top of a white tee shirt. he’s got an odd jacket thrown on top of it, leather with patches sprinkled on it. his thighs seem to bulge out of his beaten up jeans, and work boots peek out of the bottom of them. handsome. maybe a bad kind of handsome, he’s not the kind of man a pretty little girl like you should be hanging with.

eyes drifting to the other man, you’re meet with startling ice-blue eyes nestled among a hairy man. his brown hair covers him everywhere. he’s got mutton chops even. it suits him though. in the dark light you can’t see the light freckles decorating the bridge of his nose, but you will. his white button up is rolled up to his elbows, showing off his strong forearms that lead up to his biceps that stretch the fabric. dear lord you think you’re having heart palpitations(i sure am). his arms are crossed at you as he looks at you. a strong chest is obviously visible, and even more hair creeps out of the collar. he’s got slacks on, the old kind with black buttons fastening them, rather a zipper. sailor pants, you think. that’s what they’re called. again, he’s on the older side, but plenty of life left in his eyes.

it’s only been a few seconds before you hear the sleazy man call out to you in an accent you think is russian. “there’s a open seat over here, milaya, come sit with us.” he practically purrs, twisting to face you in his seat. your eyes flit to his and then to his hand which gestures to the seat in between them. hesitant, you walk to the stool, they’re at least respectable enough to make some room for you to squeeze in. “thank you.” you mutter, trying to take up as little room as possible, shoulders and legs tense. “you new ‘ere?” the second one asks, setting down a strong-looking drink. “uh, yes. a friend told me about this bar.” the man’s eyebrows jump at that. “your friend in the military?” he says, lifting his glass to take a small sip of his drink. “no. her boyfriend is though. I think.” you frown, unable to remember for sure. still, he nods. “you need a drink, milaya. no one comes to a bar just to sit and talk with old men like us.” the other one says, flagging down a busy bartender. you don’t really drink all too much so when the beefy man on your left prattles off a drink order you’re not even sure what it is, you stay silent. when the bartender asks who’s tab it’s going on you raise your hand, fingers slipping into your little purse and pulling out your card. the one on your right is quick to stop you, leaning in and grabbing the wrist that holds the little piece of plastic.

“none of that, luv. we’ll pay.” he says, gently tugging your hand away from the man who’s sticky with sweat. nodding at him, the bartender catches the hint and walks off, saying “i’ll put it on your tab, then.” your face is heating up, slightly embarrassed and unsure of what to do. so you hide your face, pointing it downward, trying to hide behind your hair. beefy man bows his head down, trying to look at your eyes. “no thank you? and i thought you had manners.” he laughs when you’re face shoots right back up. “thank you.” you respond, shy from your mistake. “Nikolai.” he says, pushing a hand in your direction. you take it weakly, and his hand drawrfs yours, firm grip shaking it up and down, fingers lingering a little too long. you respond with your name, before facing the man on your right. “John.” he says gruffly. you nod, eyes directed at the bar again, unsure of what to do. they are good looking. might be a little old for you if anything, but not extremely suspicious. no you weren’t exactly looking for fun, but now you have two to choose from.

the bartender returns with your drink, placing it in front of you. “something sweet for a girl who looks even sweeter.” Nikolai grins, and picks it up for you, stirring it around with the straw they placed in it. the amber liquid swirls around, a cherry sits in the bottom of the glass. “what is it?” you ask. “you’ll like it sweetheart.” John says, reaching over you to take it from Nikolai, holding it in front of you. angling the straw, you take a sip, and you make a pleased noise. “wow. that is good.” taking the glass from him, you hold it back to your lips, taking another gulp. the liquid sits in your mouth and you savor it before swallowing again. the alcohol is there, but it doesn’t even overpower you. you taste cherry added and whatever Nikolai told them to put in this you’re so thankful for. you’ve always had a low alcohol tolerance and an even lower one for bitter stuff, but this makes you smile. sipping again, you relax, determining the men aren’t threats. Nikolai shoots you a worried glance over the glass of scotch. “you going to breathe at all?” he asks, lifting the drink away. “hey!” you cry. teeth shining in a cruel smirk he places it on the bar. “it’s good.” you shrug, opening up more. warmth blooms in your chest, and you face John, sad look on your pretty face. “look what you did, makin’ her pout, Nik.” you raise your eyebrows and turn your head back to the other man. “Nik?” you question. the russian accented man merely shrugs.

“so what are you doing here, milaya?”Nik says, sipping from his glass. it’s your turn to shrug now. “just bored i guess…wanted something to do..”you say, stirring your drink lazily. “mm. and you thought we’d entertain you?” John asks, leaning his elbow on the bar before placing his chin on his hand. god what was in that drink? your head feels warm and fuzzy. you raise your glass and take another fat sip. “well, you made me sit down with you.” you murmur. “ah, but you chose to sit. we didn’t force you into the seat.” he counters. Nik nods in agreement. “you must’ve liked what you saw, hm?” he says, leaning in just a bit too close. the alcohol seeps into your bloodstream as you finish off your drink. you stay silent though, pushing it to the bar. John finishes his own drink, flagging down the bartender again. “‘nother round.” he calls out, and the man nods. Nik leans in, fat hand curling around your shoulder. “i know what i am talking about, don’t i?” he grins, pressing his nose into your hair. you lean away but John pushes you into him more. “mm-hmm.” you murmur.

you know you shouldn’t allow this. stand up for yourself, set the boundaries. just because they’re handsome and tall doesn’t mean they can push you around. something behind your heart swells though. you want them too, deep down. let them tell you what to do. let them lead and guide you, help you make good decisions. so you let them, becoming pliant in each stroke of their hands, word of their mouth, and each drink that they slip you.

you just finished your third one and your eyes are lidded as you look at John. “well no! hic it wasn’t my fault. you see my stupid coworker didn’t submit her report, and i got in trouble!” you cry, crossing your arms over your chest. John laughs. “alright, that’s fair.” he says, rubbing circles into your back. you hiccup again, drowsy. “not a big drinker, milaya?” Nikolai asks, sipping on his fourth glass of scotch. you shake your head helplessly. “you ever try scotch?” John asks, offering you his glass. “no.” you respond, gripping the glass. he keeps his hand on it though, raising it to your lips. you knew scotch was strong, but not that strong. under the impression that it would be a bit like your other drink, you took a too-big sip. your face scrunches and you sputter, liquid burning your throat. Nik laughs. “you’re not a drinker at all.” John says, pulling it away from you. wiping your lips, you glare at him. “that was mean.” you growl, leaning back into Nikolai. the man behind you rumbles out a chuckle and promptly lifts you from the stool and into his lap. squeaking, you clasp your hands into his fingers that are around your waist as your back presses into his chest. John looks at y’all, dark look creeping into his eyes. He takes your spot at the bar, and he leans in. “sorry doll.” he chuckles, tracing a finger down your thighs. warmth pools in between your legs, and you push your thighs together.

Nikolai wraps his hands tighter. “want to get used to big-girl drinks?” he asks. you stay silent. “we have some other stuff back at our home.” he murmurs over you shoulder and into your ear. you’re still silent when John says something. “c’mon, luv, we don’t bite.” he’s still petting your thigh. your fuzzy mind tries to weigh the pros and cons of going. on one hand, you might have the best night of your life. other hand, you might get axe murdered. your eyes trail to John’s. “not goin’ to do anything ‘less you wan’ to.” he murmurs, fingers still petting your thigh. nodding slowly, you reach down and grab his hand. Nikolai nods behind you and you swear you feel something beneath you. anxiety creeps back into your system, but John notices and stands before you can chicken out. Nik rises and puts you back on your feet, and both men escort you out of the bar. you feel safe though, everyone averts their eyes at the sight of the two men. no perverted glances or “stray hands”. no one flirting with you. it’s nice, peaceful. leaning into Nik more, he carries your weight on his arm. John pushes open the door, Nik’s hand slipping into a pocket before tossing keys to John. the brunette moves to a car before clicking open the lock. Nikolai’s large hand opens the back seat for you, helping you in. you fumble to put the buckle in its clasp, Nik guides your fingers until a sharp click is heard. he goes to shut the door, but not before John calls out, “don’t leave the doll back there all alone.” Nik scoffs. “you need me here milaya?”he asks, broad form leaning down to look at your face. “think i do..”you trail off, grabbing at his jacket. rolling his eyes, he clambers over your body to the middle seat, muttering something about he’s too old for this. you shut the door behind him promptly. his fat bicep slips over your shoulder as John pulls off and onto the road. your brains still fuzzy, but it’s not like you’re completely dumb(yet.). “where are we going?” you ask, looking out the window. “Nik’s place.” John says gruffly. you glare at the back of his head, “where is Nik’s place?”. a hand traces the inside of your thigh lazily. “not far, milaya. 20 minutes north?” he says, spreading his knees apart to get comfortable. “twenty minutes?!” you exclaim, groaning again. “can’t be patient for twenty minutes, luv? we’ll show you something real interesting when you get there.” John says sultrily. your mouth shuts at that, mind racing with anticipation.

“mm. she’s quiet again.” Nikolai muses, hands creeping higher. John sees from the rear view mirror. “knock that off Nik.” he says, hands tightening on the wheel. “fine. save the best for later, right milaya?” he grunts, pressing a kiss to your cheek. you nod, and feeling brave, press one to his. his eyes are back on you in an instant, wide and determined. uh oh. tickled the bear, you did. he’s on you in a second, lips everywhere. you gasp as his teeth pinch the skin of your neck. he doesn’t stop though, encourages him even. your hands wander over his collarbone to his shoulder, coming to rest on either side of his neck. he begins to pull away, readjusting his pants. your fingers brush the chain he wears, warmed by his skin. and idea slips into that little head of yours and you curl your fingers around it, pulling the sleazy man back toward you. he groans and his left hand slips to your waist again before he’s all over you once more.

when the car slows and you feel the pavement change you pull away from the man. looking around, you’re surrounded by tall trees, in the middle of a forest. it makes sense though, the little town with the bars at is that, little. military town serving the soldiers that reside on a base nearby. but this isn’t a neighborhood or apartment. it’s a hanger. “what are we-“ your words are cut off by Nik’s cooing in your ear. “shh. don’t worry about it, we’re home.” you’re still confused as John shuts off the car and comes to your door, pulling it open before helping you out. he cradles an arm around your hip, walking to the humongous building. “what you’re not going to help me out?” Nik yells after him. you hear a door shut and boots on pavement. John just smirks. but you recognize that glint in his eye.

oh. oh.

oh you like this.

the large door is open enough for you and John to slip through, Nik quickly following behind. a large helicopter sits in the middle of the floor, taking up space. a small plane rests in the back next another copter. you’ve never been up close to a helicopter and you’re shocked just by its sheer size. Nik walks over, patting the nose of it. “like it?” Nik asks, hands on his hips. he looks proud. John scoffs, “what that big ugly thing next to the helicopter?” Nik’s smirk fades, glaring at the man next to you. a laugh escapes you. “oh you liked that?” Nikolai says, gaze shifting to you. John’s hand comes down over your ass, head tilting to your ear. “yeah, you like that?” he says lowly. you blush. “it’s nice, Nik.” smiling at him. he smiles and walks over to a door on the side of the hanger, and John drags you over as well. it looks like a meeting room, big open table, chairs scattered around. but Nik walks to a set of stairs that lead to what looks to be an apartment. well, whatever you call the living quarters in a aircraft hanger. there’s a kitchen to the left, opening up to a small living room. the brown hardwood floors are covered with old-looking rugs that could pass for tapestries. Nik hums a low tune and grabs you, throwing you over his shoulder and onto the couch, popping you in his lap.

giggling, you turn over your shoulder to gaze at John, who’s pulling out some bottles from a cabinet. he takes slow, wide, steps to where you’re seated. he sits down, unscrewing a bottle of bourbon. Nik sits up, holding you upright. John lifts your chin and tips the bottle to your lips, letting liquid spill into your mouth. you try to swallow as much as you can, gasping when it overflows and drips down your chin. sputtering, you spit some out, and hits the bottom of John’s slacks. choking down the bitter liquid, Nik hums in approval. “makin’ a mess, aren’t you, hun?” John says, setting down the bottle on the floor. Nik stands up behind you, still thoroughly presses against you. “be good and take his shirt off, milaya.” Nik groans behind you, grinding into you slowly, heavy hand on your neck. okay now you definitely felt something behind you now.

your hands drift up to the collar of his shirt, undoing another and another, and another until you slowly untuck his button up from his slacks. pushing off the shirt, he helps you slide it from his shoulders. ohmygodwhyishesohairy you think as your eyes look down his chest, trailing down to his belly button. his happy trail disappears into his pants, and a pretty freckle sits underneath the left side of his belly button. your fingers trace the waistband of his slacks and begin to undo a button on his sailor pants. Nik is still grinding into you from behind, encouraging you with a squeeze to the hip. taking a deep breath, you undo the other buttons down the row before loosening the flap, pushing them down his hips. he helps you then, stepping out of them, still in boxers. love handles poke out over them, and you practically swoon again. you don’t get much time to dwell on him though, he’s picking up the other bottle and turning you to face Nik. “this one’s vodka, darling.” John says behind you, lips against your nape. he presses against you, and he’s chubbing up in his knickers at the sight of Nikolai bottle feeding you one of his favorite drinks. your face scrunches after a tiny sip, but you continue to drink until Nik pulls away, liquid dripping down your chest now, staining your shirt. you’re quick to get the memo again, rucking your hands up Nikolai’s shirt to pull it off his head. the russian quickly pulls off his leather jacket to let you, and helps you lift it over his overstretched arms. you’re convinced your going to pass out. Nikolai’s just so thick. all meat on his bones, his stomach isn’t insanely toned like so many other men are obsessed with. he’s got a healthy amount of pudge on him. licking your lips, you lean it to where Nik’s taking a sip of the drink, and you kiss him, liquid spilling between the two of you. pulling away the bottle, he’s gasping against your lips. you make easier work of his simple jeans, yanking the zipper down quickly. the large man steps out of them as well, hands pawing at your chest through the fabric.

John leans over, pulling up the hem of your little blouse until it’s fully over your head and on the floor, doing something similar with your bra. Nik’s on his knees unbuttoning your jeans, yanking them down. you gasp, leaning a hand on his shoulder to help you out of them without falling. he comes back up, returning to your mouth. Johns hand has come around and kneads the skin of your breasts, sighing as he grinds you slowly. Nikolai’s got a gleam in his eye as he pulls away, trading the bottle of vodka for the bourbon. he forces your head over you shoulder so John can connect his mouth with yours before pouring the bourbon into your mouths, John gripping you tighter. you try to keep as much as you can in your mouth, really! but it’s just so strong you can’t, and Nik’s pouring too much! saliva a alcohol dance on your lips when you pull away, Nikolai quick to turn the bottle up. John’s front and the back of your neck is sticky with alcohol, and you lean back to Nik, spreading the mixture over his neck. John’s tipping more vodka into your mouth, and you’re taking it now, trying to keep your mind off the burn and taste. he’s not stupid though, only allows you a little at a time.

it’s so much. both beefy men sandwiching you and pouring alcohol down your throat, hips grinding without any sign of stopping. your so sensitive, both their movements causing slick to pool in between your legs. you whine, pressing your face into Nik’s chest, hands drifting down his large torso. he tuts before saying “done milaya?” you nod rapidly, fingers dipping into his boxers, desperate for more. “uh-huh.” John says firmly, yanking your hands away. Nik grumbles “she’s doing good!” he exclaims, petting your hair. “mhm. ‘m so good, pleasepleaseplease Nik, wan’ it.” the alcohol is really hitting you now. John shakes his head, pulling you to him, and crouches down before tucking his hands under your knees and lifting. you yelp, clinging to his shoulders as he carries you to another room. must be their bedroom. a bed sits inside, draped with a heavy quilt and brown throw. more blankets peek out under it, and your mind flits to the thought of both of them curled up next to each other during the cold nights. you’d bet they’d be so warm, thick and hairy bodies perfect for cuddling.

John places you down gently, lips kissing down your neck and over your chest, his hands pulling down your knickers. Nik’s right behind him, and shucks his own before climbing onto the bed, tucking your head on his lap. John’s stepping out of his before leaning back down to you, spreading your thighs and dipping his tongue into you. you mewl, hand darting down to grip his hair. your other flounders, finding purchase in the sheets as your back arches and you squirm. a noise emerges from behind you, something rubbing, like skin on skin. you look back, head tilting to see Nikolai touching himself, hand moving slowly, dragging in steady motions. you moan at the sight of it, and John glances up to only growl into your skin, grazing his teeth over your clit. you watch as his right hand drifts down to grip himself. you don’t believe what you’re doing right now. this is so crazy. you’re about to get absolutely ruined by men 15 year older than you. maybe more.

you’re a moaning mess, eyes turning glassy, zoning in and out. John’s relentless, tongue pushing and bullying your cunt while his fingers tease your clit further. Nik’s hand picked up his own pace, and groans fall from his own lips each time your eyes look up at his. “John…”he growls. “can’t take it.” Nik says, looking at the brunette, John lifts his eyes to the russian and god if he could come right then and there. you, face blissed out in pleasure, and Nik, cock ruddy and dripping, head thrown back as he pants. suddenly, you’re yanked down the bed by your ankles as John man handles you onto you belly, and then your knees, pulling your hips back to meet his face where he’s bent over the bed, hand propping him up, the other playing with himself. his mouth is right back on you and Nikolai gets the message, scooting forward so your mouth can be put to work. your jaw already hangs open, and you take him in slowly, swirling around his tip and underside. he practically growling and twitching the whole time it takes you to get to his base, face shoved in his hairy pubes. you get louder, moaning around Nik as John is relentless, forcing a coil to tighten in your lower stomach. Nikolai is groaning, fist in your hair as he twitches into you, releasing finally. he bucks his hips into you, and you gag, trying to keep yourself planted. as he pulls off, you’re gasping, leaning your face up as he grabs your chin, pulling you into a kiss. that’s when John’s fingers rub you just right and the coil snaps. eyes rolling back you moan into Nik’s mouth, trying to get away from John. he lets you go, and you scramble onto Nik’s lap. the russian holds you softly, shushing into your temple as you takes gulps of air. John’s got an amused look on his face as he straightens.

Nikolai positions you to where you face John, back to his chest. he’s careful to maneuver you slowly onto his length, rubbing circles on your waist as you twitch. like the rest of him, he’s unbelievably thick. reaching the right spots in you, dragging along the sides of you just right, making your mewl as he pushes deeper. when his hips are flush with yours, something clicks off in your brain. you’re just so pliant now, wanting to get wrecked. his tip feels like it’s flush with your womb. he’s gasping for breath too as you sit against the headboard, slightly bouncing you. you’re eyes are glossy as you look up at him, leaning your head back to kiss his neck. “please-hic!please, daddy, wan’ you.” you say, trying to move more. Nikolai merely chuckles and turns your head to face John, who’s running a hand up and down himself slowly, watching you two with lidded eyes. “no no, milaya. i’m your papochka. that man is your daddy.” he says as his fingers begin to rub your clit again. you keen and nod, before you’re begging John to let Nikolai ruin you. John laughs lowly as Nik continues to bounce you, hitting your cervix every time. you’re crying, tears running freely, but don’t worry! your papochka is there to lick them away. John seems intent on making you wait, holding off until he’s ready to release, shifting closer till his leaking tip is brushing your soft skin of your torso. “please please please” you echo, and John nods, groaning as he spurts out onto your abdomen. the coil in your snaps, and you trash in Nik’s arms as he holds you down against him. he’s loud as well, groaning as you clench around him.

you’re sobbing, clutching Nik’s hand as he pulls you off of him. John gets off the bed, standing to the side. him and Nikolai share a secret look, and the russian switches places with John. Nik picks you up so John can slip under you, guiding you on top of his member. he’s not as thick as Nikolai, but still fills you up to what seem is past your limit. Nik kneels down so his mouth is even with where you meet. John’s knees drift apart and he holds you legs open to give the man beneath you better access. Nik’s on you in and instant, licking at your clit as John rolls his hips lazily. you let out a low groan, unsure if you could take more. “Nik…” you mewl, head tipping onto John’s shoulder. “ah-ah” John tuts, fisting your hair to look down at where Nikolai is. “what did he tell you to call him, luv.” John says firmly. Nik smiles and runs a hand over his tip, about to spill. that has to wait until he hears the word. you blush and look down. “papochka…” you murmur. that’s when Nik’s coming. he groans and shoots back up, stroking himself as he spills onto your cunt, soaking where you and John meet even more. he’s growling, almost animalistic, leaning forward. you think he’s going to kiss you but he bypasses you for John, digging his teeth into the British man’s shoulder. John gasps, thrusting into you. you keen, hands darting out to Nikolai’s hips. he’s shaking in your arms, and falls back to his knees, working at you furiously again, intent on making you release. it’s so quick, you’re gripping his slick hair one moment, bucking onto his face, and the next you’re undone, shaking. you see white and screw your eyes shut, jaw slack open. Nik rises, already hard tip brushing where you and John meet.

a bad idea appears in his and John’s head almost simultaneously.

John nods, shifting his arms around you so you can’t move, Nik’s steadying himself on your hip, other hand guiding himself at your entrance that’s clenching on John’s cock. there’s room, he tells himself(no there isn’t.) before you know it, he’s pushing in, stretching you past your limits. tears run down your cheeks as you sob. you can’t take it!!! Nik’s shushing you, reassuring you that you can, that you are. oh. did you say that out loud? you wouldn’t know anymore, too blissed out to know. you’re spewing words like “no-can’t take it!” and they’re both there to shush you, comforting you as Nik rocks into you further. everyone lets a sigh of relief out when Nik bottoms out. the russian is just grateful you’re not passed out or in serious pain. they let you acclimate, thank goodness, and you relax around both of them as best as you can, but you’re stretched to the max.

you’re so full.

that’s when they start to move. Nik sets the pace this time, thrusting in when he wants. John groans at the feeling of Nikolai’s length rubbing on his, and lets out a high noise when his head is rubbed just the right way on a particularly rough thrust. Nik is panting, arm on John’s shoulder to steady himself. the brit is pressing kisses to your neck, licking at your sweat while Nik kisses your cheek, calling you good and so perfect for them. you just take them so well! you’re made for it!

Nik pushes you all closer to the edge, and you’re the first to snap. being stretched makes you oh so sensitive, combined with your previous times, you’re overstimulated. as Nikolai starts to rub your clit again you start to shake, crying out in short moans as you come around them both. John’s next, letting out a gasp as your aftershocks hit him. spilling into you, he’s growling nonsense into your shoulder about keeping you with them, making you their wife, you’re already perfect for them, luv. Niks last, still rocking into you after he spurts out ropes. he’s panting, forehead pressed to yours as he comes down from his high. both begin to soften in you and Nik pulls out first, you still twitch with overstimulation. he lifts you up so John can move from under you, he reclines on the bed, lifting up the covers. Nikolai maneuvers you next to John before climbing in after him. cleaning up can wait until tomorrow. they cradle you, shushing you to sleep. you nod along with everything they say, mind addled by liquor and sex. something pulls at you though, telling you yes, stay with them, be their little wife. you’d be so good. you’re young and can still have their babies, cook good meals for them after they come back from hard missions. you mumble yes after yes, eyes fluttering shut. Nik holds you in his lap, before slipping off a ring from his pinky, holding up your left hand. “want to be our wife then, milaya?” he asks into your ear.

it’s so nice in this bed. they’re so warm, just like you thought. they took such good care of you. you can take care of them, you think before murmuring out an “i do.” John smiles into your neck as Nikolai slips the ring onto your ring finger, kissing your ear. “to love and to cherish.” John rumbles, throwing an arm over you. “to love and to cherish.” Nikolai repeats, fat hand on your hip.

“to love and to cherish.” you whisper.

[vinnellamadz]

Enemies to lovers Adam x f!reader?

Enemies to Lovers

Adam X Reader

A/N: I shed blood, sweat and tears making this. SORRY IF ITS OOC this is my first real fic Adam is a PAIN to write.

You were never really able to get along with Adam. From the moment Adam arrived in heaven, the two of you were always at each other's throats.

Adam would always pick fights over the smallest things, and it was always enough to make you bite back. There wasn't a single day that he couldn't get under your skin and make fun of you. Calling you names, competing with you, and just being a general pain in your ass.

Today was the day of the first-second extermination of the year.

Adam was off giving his soldiers a 'pep talk', but before he flew off to this hazbin hotel, he came to you first.

As always, he made sure to get his daily insults in before he left, tearing into you with his words, ensuring you knew just how inferior and pathetic he deemed you. His snarky and playful tone only served to aggravate you further. Finally, unable to bear it any longer, you snapped back, 'Oh, shut up! I hope you never return, Adam!' His initial shock quickly gave way to a smug grin. 'Calm your pretty little head, babe,' he retorted, his arrogance undeterred as he continued to prattle on about himself."

You weren't even listening; His annoying voice was easy to block out.

“plus I know you’ll miss me, I fuckin’ rock, I’m THE Adam” he pointed to himself keeping that stupid shit eating smile he always had, god you wanted to punch him so bad but couldn't, as you feared you would get sent to hell so you slammed the door in his face instead.

Later that night, you were sitting on your heavenly comfy couch, enjoying the latest episodes of your favorite shows. You were just about to fall asleep when a frantic knock jolted you from the cushions. With a tinge of fear, you approached the door, thinking, 'This is heaven; this couldn’t be bad, right?' As you opened the door and peeked out, you were shocked to see Adam, but he was far from his usual self. Covered in golden blood and bearing multiple stab wounds, he looked as though he had been through hell. (Lol) Without hesitation, you flung the door open, calling out, 'Adam!' before he collapsed on your doorstep.

It had been a while since you found Adam. Earlier, you had managed to drag him to your couch. As you attempted to patch him up, you discovered several more wounds scattered across his body. Shocked by the extent of his injuries, you couldn't help but wonder who could have inflicted such damage.

hours have passed since the surprise at your doorstep. You had fallen asleep on the floor beside him. When you woke up, he had yet to awaken, Panic gripped your heart as you reached out to shake him gently, wondering if he had actually died in his sleep. (double dead) You placed your finger beneath his nose, relieved to feel the subtle rise and fall of his breath. 'Why do I even care so much...' you pondered, a mix of emotions swirling within you.

More hours had passed, and as you were making lunch for yourself, you heard him make a sound. Turning around, you saw that he had finally woken up. “What the fuck am I doing here?” was the first thing that came out of his mouth. “You came to me, Adam. You're hurt.” Upon hearing your words, he winced and attempted to sit up, but a wave of pain washed over him, causing him to groan. Reacting quickly, you rushed to his side, gently placing a hand on his shoulder to ease him back down. 'Lay down, Adam,' you said softly, concern evident in your voice. “You're going to make it worse if you push yourself too hard.” Adam groaned with displeasure as you stood up and started walking back to the kitchen. However, something he said made you stop in your tracks.

“Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?” You froze in surprise. 'What?' Slowly, you turned to him, a shocked expression on your face. “Excuse me? How hard did you hit your head?”

You stood there in silence as he just stared at you “… I’m just fucking with you… dumb b-bitch…” he looked away in embarrassment, you stared at him with a shocked look ‘doesn’t sound like was a joke..’

“I can do it myself!” He argued.

"If you move, you'll probably explode or die. Stop it!" You were trying your best to care for him these past few days, but he's just such a pain in the ass. Currently, you were trying to feed him, but he kept turning his head away, stubborn as ever. Fed up with his behavior and the frustration boiling inside you, you finally snapped. With determination, you grabbed hold of his head, locking eyes with him. "Just eat it, damn it!" you exclaimed, frustration evident in your voice as you forcefully shoved the spoon into his mouth. Finally, he relented and ate it, although begrudgingly.

“I’d rather you shove your-“

“Shut the fuck up”

“Moody Bitch…”

You scoffed at his remarks, striding over to him and motioning for him to sit up, to which he obliges. "Take your shirt off," you instruct. He smirks in response. "Don't give me that look; you know what I mean." His smirk fades into annoyance as he complies with your request. Gently removing his bandages required getting close, and you carefully unwrap them before swiftly replacing them with fresh ones, wrapping them around his body with precision and care.

"You look really pretty down there" he grins at you, his eyes sparkling with admiration. You blush in response, feeling a warm flush creeping up your cheeks, unsure of how to respond to the unexpected compliment.

Wanna know a secret?" He said, catching your attention. You looked at him with a confused expression, but slowly nodded, curiosity piqued.

"you know I live alone right now? No one's going to—" Your words were cut off as you felt his hand grasp your face, Before you could react, his lips met yours in a sudden, electrifying kiss, sending a rush of warmth through your body.

Adam pulled away, leaving you stunned and bewildered by the sudden rush of conflicting emotions.

"You make it so damn difficult to hate you," he confessed, his voice tinged with frustration and a hint of something deeper, something you couldn't quite decipher. As you stood there, grappling with the unexpected confession, you realized that perhaps there was more to your relationship than just rivalry. With a mixture of uncertainty and expanding hope, you met his gaze, silently acknowledging the unspoken possibility of a new beginning between two former enemies turned potential lovers.

This was so hard goodbye. It’s so OOC I’m soo sorry I tried to rush the end to put this out faster 😭

[tinydefector]

SEEKER TRINE VENTS

The Seeker trine x human (separate)

Word count: 2.6k

Warnings: swearing, injury

Skywarp masterlist

Starscream masterlist

Thundercracker masterlist

_____________

Based on this photo

Starscream 

Small noises of displeasure fell from their lips as they scrub grime off of Starscream, the mech had been rather vocal about how much he hated earth and the muck that would get itself stuck in his vents, ledges and creases of his armour.

 "How do you get so much stuff wedged in here?" They ask in annoyance. Starscream vented heavily as they scrubbed at his plating, not bothering to conceal his distaste for the task. As one such pesky piece of debris came loose, he huffed derisively.  

"You organic creatures are so primitive, dragging all manner of filth into our ship. Your flimsy exteriors offer no protection from this planet's foul substances." 

The human scowled up at him, unamused by his answer. He continued more dourly, "The intricate grooves and seams of Cybertronian plating are evidently well-suited for trapping debris, as I've discovered to my irritation. “Your "muck", as you call it, works its way deep within joints and transformation seams, which it then proves vexing to dislodge." His brow ridge drew down in a scowl.

He remained still while the human tended to him, but he dared not harm them and risk angering Megatron. For now, he bit back any further complaints.

"Oh yes, the primitive who somehow can keep themself cleaner than you. Stop being such a pissbaby " They shoot back as they scrub the soapy water across his wings.

 "You'd think highly advanced Cybernetic aliens would have a way to deal with this" they tease. The soapy sponge scrubbing against the insignia.

Starscream scoffed haughtily at the human's insolence.

 "And yet here you are, assigned the menial task of removing such filth from my plating." He vented in irritation as the sponge scrubbed over a particularly caked-on patch of grime, the insignia proudly displayed upon his wings now slowly becoming visible once more. 

"Make no mistake, human, had I been leader of the Decepticons we would not be on this wretched planet to begin with." His plating gave an involuntary shiver as a transformation seam was ruthlessly scoured.

If Starscream had been bipedal at that moment he would be looking down at them with a fixed and pointed glare. "Now cease your prattling and get on with the task, unless you wish to spend the remainder of the day at it!" he Snarled, he felt humiliated having someone else clean him, but some of The areas he just couldn't reach himself.   

"Mimimi" they make the whiny little nose at Starscream as they use his wing to drop down onto the floor as they begin checking the underside of his wing, scrubbing more groves. Starscream's wings twitched in irritation as the human scampered down to scrub at his undercarriage. 

 before they move towards the Jets vents. "Fucking hell you have that many leaves wedged in here!." They state. "Be careful! many of those plates are far more sensitive than exterior armour." He snarled sharply as they crawled up into the vent grabbing leaves and debris slowly dislodging them from hidden seams and vents.

 "Seeker frames such as mine offer countless nooks and crannies for debris to work itself deep within." A particularly stubborn clump came free, causing his vents to shudder involuntarily. They roll their eyes at him. "You can just say thank you, no need to be a prick Stars" their voice somewhat echoes and reverberates off his plating as they grab even more handfuls of leaves, throwing them out while they begin scrubbing the more sensitive plating.

Starscream shutters as his voice hitched as the human's hands scraped roughly against his more delicate vent internals. "Mind your hands, I'm not your toy!" he snapped, wings twitching in irritation. "Do not manhandle so crudely.” He cries out before going quietly, he feels defiled. 

Despite his complaints, he had to admit some relief as handfuls of debris were cleared away. "Can you not work quicker?" he groused. "Your primitive fingers pale in comparison to a proper Cybertronian sanitation cycle. And lingering here invites further filth and dirt with every moment." His plating flared, venting a burst of hot air to dislodge any remaining flecks. It puffs a collection of dust and dirt at the human who begins coughing and cursing him out. “ fuck you Starscream, trying to kill me!” After they finish having a choking fit they shoot him a glare. 

"Oh I'm so sorry that you can't clean your own vents" they remark in a snarky tone the soapy water seeps in and begins dislodging the other dirt and grim. Their eyes linger realising that his vents were much more spacious than they had expected. They scoot further in. They run their hand across a large 'scar' that is on the inside of the vent, fingers ever soft again the large grove. "Who did this to you?" They ask softly, their anger from before fading almost non existent. Starscream vented sharply as their hand lingers over an old wound. 

"A battlefield skirmish on Cybertron, an Autobot believed shoving a blade into my vent would end me " he replied tersely. "Such scars often remain, embedded in our armour's self-regenerating molecular structure. They serve as reminders of battles won and lost." 

His voice hitched as delicate sensor nodes were brushed. "Remove your hands, you have completed your task," Starscream stated curtly. While thorough cleansing was necessary to dislodge filth, he had limits to how much manhandling by fleshy human digits he would tolerate. 

 His plating rippled in a not so subtle threat, but he never let anyone touch his scars. The sooner this indignity was over, the better. They let out a soft huff and slowly slide themselves back out of the vents, moving towards the other buckets of water. Grabbing it and throwing the icy cold water across the soapy areas.

Starscream gasped sharply as the human doused him with the frigid rinse water, his armour plating clamping down tightly in response to the uncomfortable temperature differential. 

"Primus, have you no care for My paint?!" he snapped irritably. "That was Cold!” He cries out again. Nonetheless, it washed away the remaining suds caught in seams and joints. His plating gave a few experimental flutters to normalise to the temperature. 

That let out a laugh as they fill the bucket from the water punnet and proceeding with the next wing. "It's not my fault the water is so cold, don't you like a little cold water?" They call out teasing him again as they rinse the soap and grime off of starscream, even flushing out his vents to make sure they were clean.

Starscream flinched as frigid rinse water splashed over his plating once more, droplets seeping into seams and joints. "Primus, have mercy. Must you freeze my circuits,?!" he Shout irritably. "How anyone stands your planet's wretched temperatures is beyond me” 

He snapped his intake shut tightly, vents expelling a sharp burst of hot air to fully purge any remaining moisture. Though loath to rely on such crude organic methods, Starscream's newly cleaned plating shone as triumphant as ever. The human had proven. sufficient, if barely, for their demeaning chore. 

They squeal as Starscream transforms, grabbing them and lifting them up optic level. They laugh more, and for once Starscream finds it almost delightful how their voice echoes of the different frequencies. Even if they were a pest at the best of times. "Well look at you, all freshened up you don't look half bad." They state proudly.

"Your a pest," he conceded grudgingly. His optics flickered, scanning the organic clutched close. Gingerly, Starscream lowered them back to the ground. "It seems your crude manual methods have...sufficed, Now run along." His engine rumbled, a not-so-subtle dismissal. But for once, no sting of wrath laced the Seeker's words. "begone, before your nasty touch soils me further." His grumbled with an audible click. 

Skywarp 

Skywarp felt the human shudder against his frame. He vented softly, knowing he lacked the energy reserves to maintain his internal heating to run the heater in the cockpit for long in this condition. After being shot down, they had barely managed to make it to this cave and he could feel his systems needing to shut down to conserve power to heal.   

"Easy little one, try to stay awake. My self-repairs are attempting to reroute what power I can, but it may not be enough to keep you warm." His plating rattled shakily as tried to patch what gaps they could. A fall of temperatures that would do little to him but could snuff out their fragile form or make them sick. "Remain still and try to breathe slowly. I've tried contacting the others, but the rock is interfering with transmissions."

They pull their jackets closer. "How's the damage?" They ask through a shaky voice. Their breath is visible in the air but they still so more worry for him than their own situation. 

Skywarp ran another self-diagnostic scan. The damage was severe. his systems were barely functioning above stasis lock but he was fighting against it, for their sake. 

"My systems are heavily damaged from the crash and stasis is trying to set in," he said as evenly as possible his voice is static-laced and shaking. "But my self-repair functions are attempting to stabilise the worst systems so I can last until help comes. If the Autobots don't find us first" 

He focused what remaining power he had into his communications beacon, hoping his location ping would finally break through the rocky interference.

Skywarp knew they were likely frightened, putting on a brave face for him due to how injured he was. being trapped in a dark cave with a half-disabled mech wasn't what either of them had planned on their night flight . But he had to keep them alive and try not to panic himself. For now, all he could offer was what protection and warmth his tired frame could provide. 

" I may have a plan to keep you warm," he said gently. "My vents are internally heated and large enough that you could climb inside. Being so close to my engine and spark should keep you warm. It is not an ideal situation, but may better allow me to shield you with what power I have left and even in stasis it will keep you warm." 

"Ok" they state softly as they slowly move carefully climbing up into the vent. As they move back further into the vent they lay down against the warm metal letting out a sigh of relief. The sound of the heavy rain outside makes them peak their head back out just enough to watch it. 

"Thank you" they call out, eyes slowly fluttering closed as they bask in the heat that radiates off Skywarp. He emitted a soft rumble in acknowledgement. As they settle back further inside against his internal metal walls, he vents a sigh of relief. 

"You are most welcome, little one," Skywarp replied gently. "How do you feel?" he asked. “tried, I'm just glad you're alright, try and recover. I'm warm here, you won't be losing me tonight” they state bravely. 

 Skywarp did his best to calm his systems. "Try to rest if you are able." His systems begin shutting down into recharge. The sound of heavy rain echo's into the cave. 

when they wake up they are wrapped in multiple blankets held close to skywarps chassis, As the Seeker recharges. As memory of the cave ordeal was still fuzzy, confusion gave way to relief as warmth and safety registered. Beneath the layers of thermal blankets, nestled securely against Skywarp's recharging chest plates. His steady spark pulse and low internal hum soothed any remaining unease.  

Reaching out tentatively, they trailed gentle fingers across his armoured plating, Drawing nearer to his spark's glow, they let out a sigh of contentment and relief as they snuggled closer to him. 

Thundercracker 

 the small human wanders around his form checking for any damage from the Scraplet which had gotten into his vent. Small hands slowly weld the damage closed so that his systems could finish the job of mending.

 “Thank you for your assistance, Starscream has me on tight patrols lately, as you've noticed."  He waits patiently for them to finish, not wanting to jostle them as they work. "They don't know I'm here do they?" They asked softly, they knew Thundercracker had a soft spot for them, but they also hoped the con wasn't going against orders just for their company.

Thundercracker pauses  "No, they don't know. I try to visit when I can get away without them noticing." 

"Starscream has been keeping me flying patrol nearly nonstop lately, so it's been harder to slip away. But I couldn't leave without checking on you." He starts "Just a few more checks, don't want you trying to take off if you're still hurt or if there's another scraplet in your vents " they state while moving towards the large jet vents. Peeking inside. "It looks like you got more than you bargained for" they remark as they try to reach for the piece of shrapnel inside the vent. They grumble before climbing up into the vent, to try and remove the metal.

Thundercracker lets out a soft chuckle as the human climbs into his vents to remove the small chuckles of what was left of the dead creature. He remains as still as possible so as not to endanger them.  

"Indeed, that scraplet got the drop on me during my last patrol. Barely managed to get it out of my vent before it did any critical damage to my fans and engine. Thank you for your help removing it, my servos are far too large to fit in there. Just please be careful, I'd never forgive myself if you got hurt."

 

A laugh echoes from them inside the vent, "fuck they did a number on you" they call out as the dislodging more metal and throw the peices out of the vent. Thundercracker lets out a soft chuckle at the human's crass language, not bothered in the slightest.  "Indeed they did, the fragging scraplets really know how to leave a mess behind."

 They turn their torch on checking the rest of the vent. Crawling through it into a small gap before through into the other side. "What would you do without me?" They tease while making sure there isn't any other damage or scraplets hiding waiting to cause more damage. "As for what I'd do without you, I'd likely be running far less efficiently with pieces of shrapnel still lodged in my vents."  

He says in a gently teasing tone.  "Between you and my self-repair systems, I'll be as good as new before long. Almost feels like getting a tune up from my old mechanic back on Cybertron. Thank you for your help" 

"Anytime Thunder, I've got to keep my favourite jet in working order " they hum while climbing their way back out of the vent. They lean up and press a soft kiss to the side of metal.

 "Perhaps someday, I could return the favour and aid you in your repairs."

 Thundercracker hums softly in response, feeling a warmth in his spark at the gesture of affection from them. “oh Thundercracker you sweetheart but I'd leave medical stuff to the medics” the tease which makes him chuckle as he transforms. 

 They slowly begin wiping their hands off as they watch the Seeker. "You best get going before the others come looking and find that you have been keeping pets" they tease. Thundercracker smiles softly in amusement at the human's teasing words.  "Indeed, it would not do for Megatron or Starscream to discover I've been keeping a human 'pet'. Primus only knows what those two would do." He leans down and presses a soft kiss to their forehead. “Stay out of trouble my little mechanic” he mumbles to them. 

__________________

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[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 2: CLEAN, CRISP & UNLIKE HOME

synopsis: jayce and viktor show you your new digs. you sort through the stuff that came through with you.

word count: 3.3k

ships: Viktor/isekai!Reader, Jayce Talis & isekai!Reader

notes: here's a mockup of what reader's dorm looks like

ABoAB taglist: @th3stup1dcat , @patchs-curiosity-corner (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

A BLAZE OF ARCANE BLUE MASTERLIST

“And this is where you’ll be staying.”

The Piltover Academy dorm is nothing like your dorm back home. It’s more like a studio apartment, for one — from what you can see, there’s an open-concept kitchen and living room/bedroom. You didn’t even have a kitchen and living room in your last dorm. 

Everything fits into the clean, modern aesthetic. (You’re not too fond of it, but it’s free housing, so you can’t really complain.) Most everything is black and white while the walls are a pinkish beige, but at least the living room/bedroom incorporates muted blues, greens, and greys.

As you walk around, exploring the new space, Jayce prattles off the rules regarding the Academy; everything from how you’re not allowed to dress down on certain days to the hours you’re able to enter the greenhouse without a pass from a professor. You’re only paying half-attention. 

The bathroom is moderate, with a tile floor and a shower-bath combo — fancy! There’s a toilet and a sink with a cabinet, which is to be expected, and a laundry hamper, too. That’s a nice bonus.

You catch a glance of yourself in the mirror, and, god… you look like hell warmed over. Your hair is a mess, and the scars that aren’t covered by your sleep clothes almost look more pronounced. Your eyes are kind of puffy, like you cried in your sleep. Huh. 

You rub your eyes and pet your hair to try to get it to behave, but it’s no use. Jayce and Viktor let you walk the halls looking like this, so it might not be as bad as you’re making it out to be in your head. 

When you walk out of the bathroom, Viktor is sitting at one of the two bar stools at the kitchen peninsula. Jayce is puttering around the small living room, looking at the books that stock the bookshelf. The stuff that came with you through the… hex-portal…? is sitting on the peninsula. It’s not a lot.

You walk over and sigh under your breath, looking at your meager amount of things. Some clothes, a pair of boots, some art supplies, the pillow and blanket you went to bed with, your phone, and your old Nintendo 3DS that you haven’t charged in ages. More came through, but were destroyed, seemingly torn apart by weird time-space-phenomena; a torn shirt, a pair of jeans fraying at every seam, and three different types of pliers, bent so badly you couldn’t fix or use them if you tried.

You pick up the one thing you’re unsure about – your pills. Methylphenidate, 20mg tablets, substituted for ritalin 20mg tablets. Used to damper ADHD symptoms and help the patient focus… also administered at teenage parties because they can’t get their hands on real adderall. 

Can being transmitted through a universe rift alter its chemical makeup? Maybe… you sure as hell aren’t willing to risk it. Who knows what could be happening in those little yellow pills?

“What are they for?” Viktor asks. 

Your head snaps up and you look across the kitchen peninsula at him. You look back down at the pill bottle and give it a shake, causing it to rattle. “Focusin’. It’s… not necessary for my survival, but it makes livin’ a hell of a lot easier.”

You hold the little orange bottle out for Viktor to examine. He takes it and looks the label over, a look of confusion crossing his face. “What kind of language is this?”

“It’s… plain English,” you say. “What we’re speakin’ right now?”

“No.” He gives you a weird look. “We are speaking Piltovan.”

You narrow your eyes at him and cock your head to the side. “You jerkin’ my chain?”

“I am not…” Viktor’s face twists, and his eyes drop to your neck. “You are wearing a chain?”

“No! No, it…” You sigh sharply. “It’s a phrase. A… slang term. It’s like I’m askin’, ‘Are you kiddin’ me?’ or, ‘Are you tellin’ the truth?’”

He sets the pill bottle down on the counter. “I am telling the truth.”

“Right, I inferred that from the way you talked,” you say. You’re getting fed up with this. “Wait – here.”

You round the corner and join Jayce in looking at the bookshelf. You reach out, then stop yourself as you look over the books. None of the spines of the books are written in English. They’re all in some weird… cuneiform? It doesn’t look like any modern language you know of. It looks… rudimentary, almost. Like if someone tried to write Arabic while drunk and blindfolded and also not knowing a word of Arabic.

“Where…” You breathe out the word. “Where’s the English?”

“What?” Jayce says. 

“The English books,” you say. “Nothin’s in English.”

“Well, of course,” he says. “It’s all in standard Piltovan.”

You take a book off the shelf and crack it open to a random page. Jayce is right. It’s all in Piltovan. Not a letter of English. 

“Of course.” You close the book. Of course it’s in Piltovan. Of course nothing’s in English. And of fucking course it’s just another challenge in this stupid… whatever this is. It’s not like everything’s already too confusing, no! On top of everything else, you can’t fucking read. Walking stereotype right here! An illiterate Southerner!

You grit your teeth so hard you’re sure you’re about to crack a crown, but refrain from throwing the book out of one of the frustratingly beautiful windows and instead put it back on the bookshelf. This sucks asshole, but you need to stay at least somewhat composed.

You don’t have most of your clothes. You don’t have your laptop. You don’t have your assignments from classes. You don’t have most of your art supplies. Most of the projects you need for class are back in your home universe’s dorm. You don’t even know if you’ll be back in time to turn them in without a late penalty.

You persist. You persist. You need to persist. You need to prove your worth ten times over. You need to prove that you aren’t just some walking stereotype. You’ve done it before. You’re going to do it again. You’re going to do it for the rest of your life. You persist.

You (forcibly) relax your jaw and step away from the bookshelf. “Well, I ain’t never seen that before. I’ll have to learn some.”

“We could create a cipher!” Jayce chimes. 

You can hear Viktor get up from the bar stool. You glance over your shoulder at him as he walks over.

“Yes, creating a cipher should be possible,” he says. He stops and glances over your head at the books on the higher shelves. “If everything is spelled the same, it is – theoretically – doable.”

“Is it, now?” You ask, then shake your head. “We can do this later. I got shit to sort.”

You skirt past Viktor and go back into the kitchen to look over your pile of things. Again, it’s smaller than you’d like it to be. 

You start to pick out loose beads from the wrinkles in the spare clothes. They’re all metal – misshapen brass and sterling silver and copper beads to be put on a bracelet. The thought tickles the back of your mind; it was meant to be a piece about building a nice life with a less-than-perfect childhood as the foundation. Would you be able to go back and finish it? Do they even have brass and sterling silver and copper here?

You blink hard and do your best to dismiss the thought. You can’t spiral. Not like this – not with Jayce and Viktor in the same room. You need to be strong. You raised yourself with the self-imposed expectation that you would be the best, that you would be the one to make it out of your small hometown. You need to persist. You need to be strong. You need to be right.

Jayce’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “What’re those for?” 

“Hm? Oh, these little things?” You hold up a bead between the tip of your index finger and thumb. “They’re for a class project back home. A nice little bracelet.”

Jayce picks one up, a copper one shaped like a keshi pearl – not insanely malformed, but not completely spherical, either. It represents a normal half year, one with both ups and downs. He nods at your explanation and puts it back down in the little pile you’re making. 

Viktor retakes his seat in the bar stool across from you. He sets a book down on the counter, out of the way of what you’re doing. You glance at it, and the title is in Piltovan. You go back to picking beads out of the pile.

“Are y’all…” You try to fill the silence. “Are y’all curious about anything?”

“How do you mean?” Viktor asks. 

“Like…” You think for a moment. “Where I’m from? My education? My family? My things?”

Jayce holds up your phone. “What’s this?”

“Well.” You take your phone from him and swipe up on the lock screen. It scans your face quickly and unlocks. “It’s a phone. Can take pictures, tape videos, send messages, all that junk.”

“Videos?” Viktor parrots. 

Your eyebrows draw together and you nod. “Yeah. Videos.”

“Can you show us one of those…” Jayce’s eyebrows furrow a little. “Videos?”

You silently nod and pull up your photos app. (You’re tired of hearing the word ‘video,’ even from your own mouth.) You scroll up a bit and tap on a concert video and put your phone on the counter where they both can see the screen. 

There’s a young man on a small stage, the house lights dim and the spotlight on him. Uplights on the edge of the stage shine up on him, hypnotic shades of green and purple illuminating him and the black velvet curtain behind him. He’s singing and plucking a bass guitar with backing music: “Okay, now, drinks up if you got a well-paid shawty… Put the kief up in the blunt and we can kick it, no karate… Yeah, I told her I could show her how to drive a Maserati… She stopped and said, ‘Boy, you’d look better in an Audi…’”

You pause it when you realize that Viktor and Jayce don’t know what a shawty, kief, a blunt, or karate are, what it means to ‘kick it,’ and neither do they know what a Maserati or an Audi is. There’s a very real possibility that you could’ve just rendered them brain dead by showing them what a modern concert in your world looks like.

You glance at the both of them. They both have their eyes glued to your phone screen, but they’re still blinking and breathing, so they’re not brain dead. Thank god.

Viktor glances up at you through his eyelashes. His voice is soft and hushed when he speaks. “What is this technology?”

“It’s just a phone,” you say. You know that one phrase holds so much privilege, but you don’t know how else to explain it. You wish you could explain all the inner workings to these men who’re starting to look more and more like geniuses in your eyes, but you can’t. You’re just not that type of person.

“Just a phone…” Jayce echoes. He picks up your phone and turns it over, looking at the stickers you put on the back of the case.

“Yeah,” you hum absentmindedly. You go back to picking through the pile as he toys around with it. You almost feel like you just gave your phone to a kid – not that Jayce is childlike, but his curiosity regarding a simple staple in your life surely is.

“What was your childhood like?” Viktor asks suddenly. It catches you off guard, honestly. 

“Now, why d’you need to know all that?” You ask. It’s not a well-kept secret that most Southerners are raised with a heavy hand, but how could they know that?

And you remember… aw, hell. The weird looks they gave you in the lab when you mentioned your momma’s special type of discipline. 

Viktor’s lips pitch into a pout-frown, then straighten themselves out. “Just curious.”

“You and everyone else in my datin’ life,” you say under your breath with a quick exhale through your nose. It’s not that funny. You don’t even really know what you’re talking about. You just wanted to mumble something quick and witty.

The room falls silent again. You continue picking out beads. Your less-than-nimble fingers make it more difficult than it needs to be. Your hands are usually more stable than this. You don’t know why they’re shaking in that ever-so-slight manner.

“How soon d’you think I can go home?” You blurt out.

You look up, and both Jayce and Viktor’s eyes are on you. You don’t know what else you were expecting. For them to ignore you? For them to pretend that your voice doesn’t hold an undercurrent of desperation?

“I’m… not sure,” Jayce says. “That’s why we decided to set you up here. We didn’t want you staying on the couch in the lab while we figured everything out.”

“It was, most likely, a one-in-a-million event,” Viktor says. His eyebrows draw together, then he looks down at the countertop. “I do not know how you came into this world, as I was not testing anything. It was only exploratory.”

“Why’d you even mess with that thing in the first place?” You ask. “I understand doin’ something like voodoo or hoodoo, ‘cause the people before you were practicin’ it, and it worked for them, so why wouldn’t it work for you? But you said it was exploratory – that’s when you’re still learnin’ ‘bout something.”

“It’s magic,” Jayce says, his voice almost reverent. “Real magic.”

You look at him, then just blink. Slowly. “Right. Magic. Y-you know I was jokin’ when I said that thing about the hexstone bein’ a magic rock? I don’t really believe in your type’a magic.”

“It is magic based in the realm of science,” Viktor says. “We are learning how to… regulate it – control it. Use it responsibly.”

“And you just have that thing out in the open?” You say. “No bulletproof glass, no PPE or that kinda shit? Just rawdoggin’ it?”

“What’s ‘rawdogging’?” Jayce asks.

“Nothin’!” You insist. You can feel a warmth in your face, but try your best to ignore it. “It’s nothin’. Just… an expression for unprotected, that’s all.”

You breathe in, then out in a harsh exhale. “Whatever. Let’s get a move on.”

You shift the pile, looking for more beads, and feel the warmth in your face intensify. Staring you dead in the eyes are the words ‘THC GUMMIES – 300mg, 30 GUMMIES – INDICA.’ It’s weed. Of course it’s your fucking weed.

You can’t even fathom thinking about getting high in a situation like this. Your reaction is purely embarrassment – you think this is what you’d feel like if you got caught with weed by your parents. (You don’t know how you’d really feel… you never got caught.)

“What’s that?” Jayce asks. 

“It’s more meds,” you lie. (Well, it’s not a complete lie.) “THC. I don’t really know what it stands for, but it’s some chemical.”

“You were worried about your pills earlier,” Viktor says. “Do you have the same worry with this medicine?”

“Maybe,” you sigh. “I don’t know. I think I’ll refrain from usin’ it unless absolutely necessary.”

You have to mentally chastise yourself when your train of thought starts turning whiny. Getting high is not a necessary staple in your life. It’s nice, sure, but you can live without it – have to learn to live without it.

“What do you use it for?” Viktor asks. 

“Relaxin’,” you say. Again, it’s not a complete lie. “Long days made easier just by a little gummy.”

“I am curious,” Viktor says. (You’re starting to think he’s always curious, which isn’t an inherently bad thing, but still.) “What are the effects of this… medicine? How does it help you relax?”

You internally panic a little, still praying that the warmth you feel in your face isn’t visible. “Just… y’know. The usual. Muscles relax, no more worryin’ about whatever stupid shit happened during the workday. Makes everything kinda funny, too. A bird flyin’ past your window could send you into a fit. ‘S happened to me before.”

“Sounds similar to the effects of liquor,” Jayce says. “You… do have liquor in your home world, don’t you?”

You refrain from rolling your eyes and remind yourself that these men are ignorant. They don’t know about the backwoods stills that litter Appalachia or the moonshine that can annihilate healthy livers with a single shot.

“‘Course we got liquor,” you say. “Moonshine, tequila, cowboy-type’a whiskey… well, cowboys love moonshine, too. Know some folks down in Alabama that make apple brandy – smooth as illegal ‘shine can get, yessir. Don’t tell no one I told you that, by the way.”

A smile crosses Viktor’s face, like he’s thinking of something warm and familiar. “Yes, there are moonshiners where I come from, too. The Entresol level holds some of the best moonshine gold can buy.”

“What kinda flavors they got?” You bend down and prop your elbows on the peninsula. You feel better and not as embarrassed now that the conversation has left the topic of your drug habits. (Well, alcohol is technically a drug, but it’s less of a touchy topic than marijuana.)

“Most of them are fruit-based,” he says. “Honeyfruit, ibbick, nifir… the nos’we is my personal favorite, but it is one of the harder ones to get.”

“Ain’t that right?” You say. “What’s this, um… nos’we ‘shine taste like, then?”

“Sharp. But does every liquor not have a kick?” Viktor says. “It reminds me of tobacco smoke, but not quite. It is, um… woodsy, I suppose.”

“Complex, ain’t it?” You say. “I find the simpler ones more enjoyable. Like, that brandy I was talkin’ about earlier’s got apple, and it’s got cinnamon. It’s cinnamon apple. I find it rather fine ‘cause I don’t gotta worry ‘bout discernin’ all them different flavors.”

“Is that so?” He smiles faintly. “Maybe I should consider visiting this ‘Alabama’ you mentioned.”

“Oh, it’s real nice this time ‘a year!” You chirp. “There’s all these memorials from the Civil War, and last time I went around as a tourist, the guides were all real knowledgeable.”

“The Civil War?” Jayce interjects. 

You look over at him and stand up straight, taking your elbows off the counter. You’re a bit surprised – you kind of forgot he was even there. (Viktor can be a hypnotic conversation partner when he wants to be, you guess.)

“Uh, yeah. The Civil War,” you say. “Was all a long time ago, back in the 1860’s.”

“1860?” Jayce says. “That’s – what year do you think it is?”

“Um…” You prattle off the current year, your voice a little quiet and unsure.

“That is at least a thousand years in the future,” Viktor says, his voice a mirror of yours. “The year is 988 AN.”

“988?” You echo. “You sure you don’t mean, like, 1988? ‘Cause when we were back around that time, we were conductin’ crusades. We didn’t even discover steel yet, I don’t think.”

“This is all so fascinating,” Jayce says. “Maybe we should create a running list of all the differences between our worlds.”

You bite your tongue to prevent yourself from asking him, ‘What’s the point?’ because you’re not planning on staying for long, anyway. But they’re giving you a place to stay at no cost to you, and it’s a nice place at that. It would be rude of you to ask that.

For now, you just need to bide your time. Piltover has breathable air and at least two respectable citizens who respect you in turn. It’s just a matter of time before you can go back and forget about all this – go back to gems and metals, back to thunderclaps that shake whole buildings, back to seafood boils and brisket with so much melted fat that it drips down your chin.

It’s just a matter of time before you can go back home.

[patches-and-potions]

anyone want to hear about my cursed timeline Kate AU where the Daleks invade Earth and everything is fucked? Kind of jumping off from my previous post about a nuwho take on Inferno (3+Liz era story)

no? Too bad.

The world:

Earth, circa ‘73, the Daleks invaded and turned the entirety of the human population into a labor force, turning Earth into a construction planet for their galaxy-conquering weapons and ships, the Doctor was killed/imprisoned on Gallifrey in the War Games instead of being banished to Earth

Around ‘97, the Daleks find a better planet, abandoning Earth after killing nearly 6 billion people. Earth is left a dystopian hell world, new unstable governments popping up all the time and prominent gangs controlling what’s left of the continent (the Daleks recreated Pangea for more convenient world domination, the tectonic shift is was originally killed half the world’s population.)

UNIT is reformed in response to people finding out how to utilize leftover Dalek tech to build weapons and dangerous equipment, which has led to more gang warfare. Unfortunately, it lacks the strength and resources it once had, so has begun to rely on shady tactics to gain power. There is constantly fighting in the ranks, and it becomes known for being the most vicious and power hungry gang of them all

Kate:

Katherine Lethbridge-Stewart, better known to her subordinates as Erin Lethbridge-Stewart. She kept her father’s name from the beginning of her career to legitimize her claim to UNIT leadership. She goes by Erin because it’s not as friendly-sounding as Kate, nor as long as Katherine. (sorry Erins of the world for calling your name unfriendly. I have my reasons for disliking the name but I shan’t overshare on Tumblr. Not today, anyways)

Erin is known as a harsh, authoritarian commander, who rules with a repertoire of cruel discipline and zero second chances, even for her closest friends. Hair-trigger temper, do not piss this woman off if you value your life. She’s long since sacrificed her morals to keep her authority, in a twisted idea of protecting her loved ones. Essentially canon!Kate if she let the Shreek eat Conrad instead of just biting him

She despises aliens, and has a shoot on sight rule for any non-human beings that get too close to UNIT HQ. That being said, she despises the Doctor most of all. Alistair raised her with the hope that the Doctor would come and save them, but seeing as that never happened, her resentment became hatred and disgust

She’s also not dissimilar to the Rani, and UNIT does have many unethical experimentation programs led by Erin herself. Her new goal is to enhance humanity’s defenses and the human body itself, in case of another alien invasion

Really messy doodle of how I imagine her looking (done digitally how exciting)

Her hair is her natural chestnut-ish brown, and is visibly greying in streaks. Ponytail because I think it’s cute, for her it’s easier to keep out of her face. She’s a bit too vain to chop it shorter than her chin even though she could totally pull off a pixie cut

Obviously she has glasses I’m a woman of taste. She’s tried several times to perform laser eye surgery on herself but she always immediately strains them before she can recover, so she’s permanently fucked up her eyesight

Human technology kind of stagnated and progressed at the same time in a paradoxical sort of way, which is why UNIT still wears their old green uniforms (also it’s a damn shame we never see canon!Kate in a UNIT beret and fatigues)

Vampire pale due to stress, both mentally and due to her constantly putting her body through experiments to see how much of the human genome she can tweak before it starts shutting down

She has a massive burn scar over her stomach from a repurposed-by-human-gangs Dalek phaser. It shot a hole through her and she has serious PTSD. She is easily triggered by sudden bright lights because of it

Up to viewer interpretation if it’s a mole or a piercing on her upper lip. Personally I am a got-a-tongue-piercing-in-uni-that-she-regrets-but-still-kept Kate truther, do with that as you will

(also if anyone is interested, I’m taking the advice of a friend and might start writing x reader fics for Kate. My asks and dms are always open for requests. I haven’t made a rules/limits post yet so just ask if you’re unsure! <3 Might dust off my AO3 account as well)

[johnpriceslamb]

hi there! i really liked your arthur with a feminine gf fic and id love to see more like that! could i maybe request a fic with a cute girly reader who is a friend of mary-beths and when mary-beth brings her to camp she spots arthur and literally goes heart eyes for him🥺 maybe whenever shes visiting camp arthur always finds an excuse to go over and talk to them just so he can see her aww! and its so obvious to everyone in camp and they all tease them over how sweet on each other they are🥰

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐔𝐑 𝐌����𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌 ! 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

꒰ Arthur Morgan has his eyes on a certain hyper-feminine doll .꒱

BEFORE YOU PROCEED! Mary-Beth being a giant tease and a flirt to reader . hyper-feminine! reader . fem! reader . many pet names in use . awkward-written ending . quick luv stori . reader is mentioned 2 be physically shorter than characters mentioned below . reader has a dada and a mama . 2.3k words

the sounds of pearl tipped necklaces rattling together and ribbon-laced dresses ruffled in the precious spring breeze, paired with soft giggles and a nervous coo.

A stifled babble escapes her lips,

“Am I um.. even allowed to be here?” [name] meekly stammers. She holds onto her friends hand, her floral patterned dress was hitched slightly over her knees with her other hand, in reluctancy in which; to get her newly bought dress dirty from the ground they treaded upon.

She’s heard of people trespassing their gangs property, and much to her dismay— she may end up as dead as roadkill. A small shiver goes down [name]’s spine at the thought of that.

Mary-Beth had been wanting to show her a couple of her new books she’s bought in st. Denis— thus the excitement pouring from her aura as she drags her across the Van Der Linde’s property.

“Don’t worry yer pretty lil’ head off. I’ll just tell em’ yer with me. What could possibly go wrong?” She pats her shoulder with a reassuring smile. A slight grimace etched amongst [name]’s face as her bow-tipped shoe is coated with a bit of mud when she took another quiet step.

[name] doesn’t look convinced at all. The grip on her hand grows a bit tighter which signified her nerves playing in. Mary-Beth always teased her for being such a worry-wart.

“..Um, well, a lot actually.” [name] prattles on.

Mary-Beth rolls her eyes.

“Hush, now.”

She does what she’s told. To shut up in a non sugar-coated manner. The aroma of many boiled meat and vegetables in a pot comes hitting her nose as soon as she enters the area. She can’t help the little nose crunch as the smell hits too abruptly for her to even know. She’s about to question Mary-beth what that smell was—

“Ah! Mr. Pearson’s cooking again.”

[name] doesn’t know wether to ask her whom this Pearson guy was, or to stay quiet. She chooses the latter. A slight tilt to her head as her ribbon-tipped hair slightly falls down her shoulder out of habit when she’s confused.

This camp was interesting, she thought. [name] could only hope that there aren’t much people. She shyly hide behind Mary-Beth’s figure as they treaded closer to her spot in camp.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

Unfortunately for [name], there was a certain amount of people that made her feel uncomfortable. She resists the urge to complain, biting her tongue to keep the words in. However, there were a few she’s met that she can’t help but admire. Karen and Tilly, their names were. Sweet girls they were, she deemed.

She sat upon a small patch of grass, her hands fiddling with a few strands of the everlasting green out of boredom, listening to Mary’s voice as she spoke.

In Mary-Beth’s hand adorns a romance-genre book, she’s reading the lines out loud. [name]’s cheeks become a darker hue at a certain line she verbally says— resulting to the both of them quietly giddily giggling.

“I cannot believe he’d actually do that to her,” Mary-beth comments as she fawns over the characters. [name] eagerly crawls towards her, re-reading the line she’s just read out.

“I thought he liked Sarah though?” [name] squeaked.

“Same!” Mary was far too happy to be able to share her love for books with another. She ends herself with a soft sigh, “I reckon he’ll leave her in a span of a click.”

“Mary?”

“Mhm?”

“Who.. Who’s that?”

This gets the girls attention. She quirks a brow, looking at the direction of [name]’s lithe finger. It’s not easy to hold back a smirk curling onto her lips.

“You pointin’ to that cowpoke over there?” Mary grins.

[name]’s doe eyes were practically planted with hearts, and she’s stammering like a tiny lamb, “I—I um.. uh.. I was just..”

“He was just starin’ at me, so I um.. nevermind—”

She cuts her off, “—His names Arthur,” Mary teases the sweetheart, “Lookit chu’!”

[name] could only shrink, “I.. shut up would you?”

“Whenever you swear it’s like looking at a yapping puppy.”

[name] fully turns around, the back of her head facing the burly cowpoke whom curiously stares at the pair of girls from afar.

“‘shut up’ is not a swear word, Mary-Beth!”

“Is so!” Mary-Beth argues back. She doesn’t mention the fact that Arthur’s slowly creeping up from behind.

“Shut up doesn’t have any implications of vulgar words now does it?” She puffs out her cheeks. Mary-beth can’t suppress the small smirk planted on her freckled face. The man stalks towards them closer, in a lazy manner.

“It so does! It’s considered rude and disrespectful— which is quite literally the definition of a curse word.” Closer.

“Mhm, even so it all really depends on context—” Closer.

“—Now how ‘bout you just caaalm down, sweetheart?” She drags the ‘a’ in calm to further on annoy her. Mary-Beth teases the dolled-up sweetheart, playing with her ribbons by twirling it around her finger.

[name] broods, huffing as she quiets down and crosses her arms like an itty-bitty brat. Goodness was she cute! Mary giggles.

Suddenly, the freckled-face darling stands up from her spot, eliciting a tiny ‘where you going?’ from [name].

“Just gonna get another book! I’ll be back in a second.” She cheekily trots away.

[name] could only tilt her head at her unusual behaviour.

Only for her to freeze up immediately at a quiet rumble of a man’s voice from behind—

“Mary-Beth’s been botherin’ you, I assume?”

[name] shyly turns her head around— wispy lashes fluttering as she stands up awkwardly to match his height— barely even. A whole foot taller than she was.

She fiddles with her fingers, before quietly nodding. It’s obvious to Arthur that she was a shy little thing. So with that information, he’s gentle in his approach, his tone is more softer.

“Got a name, little missy?” He asks. Oh, his voice.

“[name],” she shyly babbles. He was certainly NOT bad looking. She’s so, so so shy. “And you are..?”

“Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

Despite already knowing his name, she can’t help but admire how his southern drawl drags.

“‘s nice to meet you, mister Morgan,” She meekly says.

“Just Arthur.”

“Oh- sorry.” She stammers.

Arthur can’t help the lazy grin on his face.

“No need to be sorry,” He hums. “Mary-Beth’s friend?”

“Best friend,” She corrects him with a tiny smile.

“Ah.” Despite the silence that continued on, it was somehow comforting around them. Guess his dim tone and sweet intentions made her feel like a comforted little bunny snuggled inside a warm burberry blanket.

Arthur’s eyes size her up and down. He doesn’t comment her shyness, rather her appearance. It was like looking at a live porcelain doll.

He can’t help but question, “You from Saint Denis, lil’ - missy?”

That pet name makes her shy.

“Mhm,” She fully looks at him. She has to tilt her head just to look at him. Her hands were behind her back, and she rocks on her platforms.

“Mm.. Figured.”

“Oh? How so?” She curiously quirks a brow.

He doesn’t hesitate to answer. “You look like a right tulip, missy.”

[name] almost lets out a soft giggle at his teasing. Her cheeks feel warmer, as do her nose and the tip of her dainty ears. A tulip?

“It’s the attire, is it not?” [name] leans back on the souls of her black bow platforms, tinkering those wispy lashes at him.

Gosh, what he’d do to just.. kiss those squishy cheeks of hers.

“Mhm. ‘S all frilly and.. so..” Arthur trails on. He mindlessly fiddles with the folded gossamer lines attached to her light pink dress. She allows him to, can’t help but also allow his scent to invade her nose— smoke and.. gunpowder. A large cry from her sweet vanilla scented perfume sprayed on her neck.

They’re both cut off by Mary-Beth strolling in with her other books. That cheeky, little smile she sent to Arthur makes a vein pop in [name]’s head, realising why she left so quickly.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

It was her second time visiting the camp-site.

From her previous experience, she figured that it wasn’t all that bad.. just ignore some folks.

[name] adorns a pink puff-sleeved ruffled dress with a simple pearl necklace— a bit similar to her previous outfit. From her giddy stance, it looked like she was waiting for Arthur, and not Mary-Beth.

Her smile even becomes brighter when she sees him nearby. And quite frankly, Mary-Beth has had enough of being answered with silence and shy eye-contact from afar. It was cute, yes, but it was becoming frustrating to bear.

“—And Johnathan allows her to wear his deceased wife’s ring! How absurd.” Mary-Beth squints her eyes at her response.

“Mhm,” [name] mindlessly hums, staring at Arthur.

“…He also ate a raw fish.” She tests.

“Mmm.”

“..He’s tap dancing.”

“That’s nice.”

She groans, poking the girl, “Are you even listening to what I’m saying right now?”

“Uhuh.” [name] unconsciously fiddles with the ends of her dress. She’s still staring at his direction. Doe eyes expand abnormally larger at the sight.

The girl in front of her droops. But pipes up again to get her attention.

“Arthur really likes flowers.”

That gets her attention. [name] immediately whips her pixie-sized head towards her with a tiny ‘ooh?’ Just the mere mention of his name makes her tummy flutter and giddy.

“You’re a real sucker for him ain’t ya?” Mary coos and giggles, nudging her small arm.

[name] shyly shrugs, “H—He’s nice m’kay? I can’t help it, I like nice guys..”

“To you,” She continues, “To you, he’s nice. To others he’s an absolute.. menace.”

“I’m thinking.. He has a real soft spot for ya,” She winks.

[name] could only scoff, “We’ve only met once, ‘Bethy.”

“He’s a real sucker for them frills and bows. He sees a pretty girl like you and he’s all lamb-like. Stumbly on the legs and stuttery on the mouth.” Mary teases, “And your one pretty girl, [name].”

“You think I’m pretty?” [name] sweetly swoons at her words.

“Darling, you’re quite literally the cutest girl i’ve ever met!”

“Marryyy…” [name] softly whines at her constant fawning, “You’re very pretty too, y’know.”

“Huuush,” Mary-Beth giggles and smooches her cheek. Sweet girls.

Suddenly, that cheeky little grin comes crawling onto her face. [name] tilts her head, weary and meek. She’s up to something.

“..Wh..what?”

“Your boyfriend’s behind you.”

“Boyfriend??? Now, what in the world are you—” [name] suddenly becomes quiet as she turns her head around and makes eye contact with Arthur. He gives a shy smile to both of the ladies, a sheepish expression on his face.

“I’ll leave you two be~” Mary-Beth stands up and cheekily skips away.

Silence surrounded the two.

“Hi, Arthur.” It was like looking at two teenagers in a puppy love.

“Hello, [name].”

Her heart speeds up. She shyly looks down at the ground, unsure of what to say. Despite this being their second time interacting, she can’t help the meekness flooding in her system.

“I’m startin’ to wonder if yer clothes are strictly pink-only.” He gestures to her short little dress.

She giggles softly, “I do have a few non-pink clothing y’know.” [name] is comfortable enough to peer at him through those damn wispy lashes. Puckered lips, cherubic-like cheeks, and those puppy eyes.

“I wouldn’t believe that,” He lets out a bent arm towards her for her to take gently and stand up. [name] does so, standing to her full height with her pixie-like hands holding onto his arm like an elderly couple.

“Mind a stroll?” He asks with a gentle, soft tone.

“I wouldn’t mind at all,” She pipes up.

And there they went off.

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

[name] was getting ready.

This time, she wasn’t there to visit Mary-Beth. She was here to visit Arthur.

More so because of his request of her to come back soon. If she were to be a puppy, her tail would be wagging as quickly as the speed of light. She was giddy at his request.

This was… the umpteenth time they’ve interacted with each other. Quite literally, everyone knew they’d get together sooner or later.

She adorns a white, cotton-like ruffled dress with a simple heart shaped necklace. On her head, she wore a pretty little bonnet.

As she approaches the location, she can’t help the sweet smile on her face as she sees Arthur coming towards her direction again. His hair was simple— a bit neater than before and his usual black vest outfit, with no grime or dirt anywhere.

“Hi,” She waves giddily.

“Hey, sweetheart.” He allows her tiny hands to come and place themselves near his bicep. He bends his elbow a bit near his figure to allow her come closer to his stature. He makes a mental note to be more careful around her. The bonnet on her head catches his attention.

He murmurs a soft ‘cute..’ underneath his breath, as he leads her away to take a little stroll around a pretty little meadow.

“How was your day, hm?” He asks.

“Good,” She shyly replies, “Daddy’s doing okay now. He’s not as sick as he was a week ago.” His heart softens.

“Ah. That’s good.”

“How about you? How was your day?” She asks with a glimmer in her eyes.

“Decent at best.” He replies with a slight grunt, gently pushing her away from a small puddle he can see that’s formed on the ground. Doesn’t want her shoes to get messed up from the dew-dropped floor. He’s genuinely thinking of just picking her up.

“How’s yer ma and yer pa doing?”

“Good and good,” She happily smiles, very happy that he’s asking about her family. Her doe eyes light up at a pretty pink wild flower, a smirk etched on Arthur’s face as he sees that cute little expression of hers.

A soft ‘huh.’ escapes his lips, he stops suddenly. Arthur’s blue eyes sizes her up and down, only realising just now—“You’re not wearing pink.”

[name] looks up at him, itty-bitty smile, “Told you I don’t have just pink coloured clothing.”

He snorts at her answer, “Damn brat, you are.”

“Your brat.”

“Yeah. My brat.”

[kitkat13001]

giyuu tomioka+ “We may never fit in but we fit in the scene, together” - by Madilyn Mei (let’s be friends) please and thank youuuu

I love your stuff, and I hope you know that you are very loved ☺️

ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀི 𝚕𝚎𝚝’𝚜 𝚋𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 | 𝚐𝚒𝚢𝚞𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚘𝚔𝚊

we may never fit in but we fit in the scene, together

giyuu was used to being the outcast. it no longer bothered him that the other pillars liked him least, thought he was haughty, or avoided him. 

he had grown used to this solitude. 

what he hadn’t grown used to was you, always by his side. 

he had no idea what exactly you saw in him, or why you desired his company. 

you took patrols with him, trained with him, sat and ate with him. 

you’re content to speak to his silence, to prattle on while he sits and nods and hums along. or to sit in silence with him, both of you simply enjoying each other’s company. 

at the pillar meetings, you always run up to him with a grin, waving like a madman. “tomioka-san!”

he’s no longer startled by the volume of your voice. 

he accompanies you on trips to the market, visits your estate while you’re training your tsuguko, takes your side on missions. 

obanai and sanemi sneer at the two of you. shinobu enjoys poking fun while she patches you both up in the butterfly mansion. 

giyuu had asked you once, if it bothers you. 

you look up at him with big curious eyes. 

“why would it?”

he shrugs, cheeks tinging pink. 

you laugh softly, gentle and not mocking. “does it bother you?”

he shakes his head, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. 

it’s true. it doesn’t bother him. the only thing that bothers him is the thought of you being upset. 

but he looks down at your smile, your bright eyes looking at him with such affection. his face heats up when you drop your head on his shoulder. 

“good,” you say. “screw them, whatever they think. i love ‘em all, but they’re…they’re stupid. and they don’t know you, not like i do.”

to be loved is to be known, giyuu heard once. no one knows him better than you do. 

“it’s you and me, tomioka,” you tell him, raising your interlocked hands with a smile. “you and me against the world.”

he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

i kinda love this one!! thanks for the req and for the love 🥹🩷🫶 ‘us against the world’ is one of my favorite tropes. hope you like it!!! <333

- 𝚔𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚢 !

event info here

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 15 - Somebody Call Chris Hansen

You almost commit violence.

On AO3.

Y’all hit the food and drink. Take a bite of hot stew filled with peppery fish and what you think might be turnips and your eyes roll into the back of your skull. Then you head outside onto a wraparound deck to find water barrels so you can wash mugs and plates and all. Decide to check out this other cleric in the morning, after y’all get some rest.

The rooms is upstairs, off an inner balcony. But it’s as y’all find the stairs that a nasty scent crawls up your nostrils to curdle in your sinuses.

Sulfur. And cherries, for some godforsaken reason.

“Oh no,” Gale says.

You feel Astarion stiffen next to you. But when you look over at him, it ain’t disdain or that cool, guarded look he wears when he’s nervous. It’s…attentive. Alert. But not in a “was that a firecracker or something else fired off out in the parking lot” kinda way, and more like you catching a whiff of good coffee at a distance.

Y’all turn the corner, and there’s a sonuvabitch sitting there.

Raphael the devil sits across what looks a lot like a 3D chessboard. Opposite him is one of the tiefling kids, with a ponytail and an eye patch. It’s the one who bailed y’all out with Jaheira.

“No matter where the knight goes, I’m gonna lose it!” the kid says.

“Then make the sacrifice useful,” Raphael says.

You never actually seen that old catching a predator TV show, but you know the memes, and this right here…

It’s also, weirdly enough, directed at you’uns.

Holy fuck, you hate this fucking guy.

“Look who it is,” the kid says upon noticing y’all. “For once, I save your butts out there, didn’t I? We’re square now, chief.”

 She looks over y’all. Gaze lingers on Wyll the longest. “Say, you don’t play lanceboard do you? It’s my first game.”

“I can’t say I’m well-versed in it,” Wyll says. “Much to the dismay of my father.”

As Gale leans in with a frown. “Oh, he’s laid a fine trap for you, Mol. But it looks to me like his Cyric could be dethroned.”

Ain’t make no sense to you. You’re more a checkers type. Or solitaire. But the man shuffles closer and the kid makes her move. To your surprise, that fuckface in a human suit seems more amused than offended at the intrusion.

And when the kid whoops him, he says, “I was right to make you the offer I did.”

Like a proud papa to his scheming daughter.

You see right through it. The way she beams. The easy grace that devil accepts his loss with. He’s fucking baiting her. Hyping her up to lure her in. Where the fuck is Chris Hansen?

You look to the girl, but she only chews on her lip and hums.

The devil turns to y’all as she leaves. Calls her a blushing apple, and you ain’t never fantasized about punching a man in the dick before this moment. It’s fucking vivid.

Vivid enough you’re apparently broadcasting it, because Lae’zel makes a thoughtful sound while Karlach outright snarls.

“I’m down for it,” she says. “Fuck this fucking creep.”

The devil only gives her an oily smile. Prattles on about choices and shit. Fucker really just loves the sound of his own voice, huh. You’re ready to up and leave, except…Astarion stares at him. Not with wariness but with…

“Now,” Raphael says. And looks Astarion square in the face. “I sense there’s something you want to ask me.”

You don’t mean to whip around. But you do. And the elf ducks away from your gaze to clear his throat.

“I do. I have a…proposal for you,” Astarion says.

“Fangs?” Karlach says.

Shadowheart gives you a questioning glance. But he done caught you with your drawers around your ankles. The fuck does he need from fuckface? He seemed leery before. Said people like that don’t play games unless they know they can win. And considering the last bet he made turned him into a vampire…

“A proposal?” the fuckface says, lighting up like he just got asked out to an all you can eat buffet. You ain’t never punched somebody in the face before, neither. Not with a bare hand. You’d probably break some fingers, but it’d be worth it to wipe that sleaze off his fucking face. “If you hope to taste my blood, little vampling, think again. It burns hotter than wyvern whiskey.”

“This is serious business, devil.” Astarion’s voice has an edge to it, but it’s more than annoyance. The pitch is tight, upset he’s trying to hide, and almost succeeding at if his body weren’t quite a traitor. It stabs you right between the ribs.

“Astarion,” you say. Y’all can leave. Y’all can fight that fuckface. But Astarion don’t even look at you. Just lifts his shoulders and straightens himself.

“My old—well. A long time ago, someone carved something into my back,” he says. “I’d rather like to know what it says.”

Wait. Wait, wait, wait.

The fuck? That’s…you ain’t…

You seen his bare chest, once. He wasn’t wearing a shirt in that clearing. But that ended quick and dirty, and for all you been fooling around lately, y’all have kept dressed. Even if he does deliberately unlace the front of his shirt lower than it needs to be when he’s around you.

You ain’t never touched his back. Barely touched the man’s shoulder or his neck, and only then when he set your hands on him himself.

This time, he does glance to you. Just a flash, expression unreadable.

But the devil is a cunt who catches that. Catches whatever’s on your face, too, before you can button that down.

Mock surprise twists up his own face, the malice twinkling in his eyes. That fucking sonuvabitch. He presses a hand to his cheek. “You haven’t told them? And you’ve kept your clothes on this whole time? How unlike you.”

Fucking clicks his tongue. You’re gonna commit a murder. Gonna crab up a water pitcher and crack him in his smug ass face with it—

The devil lifts his hand. Says, “Don’t be shy.”

Snaps his fingers.

Astarion armor and all his gear shimmers. Flickers. Melts away like morning fog. Leaving him with nothing but his pale skin as you whip around to look the other way.

Not before you see it, though. Long, thick lines of scar tissue. A huge, slashing circle covering most of his back. And worse, the way his eyes widen. Not like when you told him you liked his voice. No, this is fear. Old fear. One he shoves under a huff and what has to be a false, sassy head toss.

“Godsdamnit,” he says.

Does not shy away. His hands twitch, before falling back to his sides. But he just…stands there, bared to the room.

Resigned to it.

You met confident people, before. Hell, this one met you with no shirt when he invited you to a hookup. But you known people who would not flinch being naked in a room of strangers or friends. By on their choice (or high as a kite). And stripping themselves. Most people have bad dreams about this kinda thing. Most people’d at least flinch.

Not him. Not him. He just stands there.

Your pack hits the floor and you tear into it.

“What the fuck, you sick freak?” you snarl.

The devil regards you. Gives a condescending smile (you wanna rip his lips all jagged and nasty from his face). “Don’t pout, little human. This peach went bruised and rotten long before you came along.”

“Give the word and I’ll rip his head off,” Karlach says. Her chest is see-through, ribs a dark outline against the fire raging inside her.

“And deprive your vampling of the answers he seeks? A shame.”

“No,” Astarion says.

Where the fuck is it, why can you find everything but what you’re looking for.

“No, it’s fine,” Astarion says. “I am world-endingly beautiful. It’d be more of a crime not to show it off. So, devil, what say you?”

There! Hands brush soft cloth. You rip the blanket out in a spray of cutlery and tin plates and potion bottles. They thunk all over the floor but you’re already up and turning, keeping your gaze to the ceiling as you hold out your only blanket.

“I,” Astarion says. You bring your gaze down, careful not to look lower than his face. He kinda blinks at you.

Something in you twinges. Something nasty.

It’s his compliment surprise. Only worse. Very much worse.

So you drape the blanket over his shoulders. Only once it touches him does he move to take it and wrap it around himself. Cover himself back up.

You make sure you stand in front of him, between him and the devil. Who watches this all with a kind of glee.

“Such devotion,” the walking corpse who don’t quite know it says. “Hopefully not misplaced.”

“If you don’t get to some kinda motherfucking point—” you start.

“Yes, yes. Those marks are one of great importance to your master, little Astarion. I can give you all the gory details. But of course, you’ll have to do something for me, first.”

Fucking devil bargain. Fucking humiliating Astarion. Making him defend his own humiliation because he can, because he got what Astarion wants. You seen petty cruelty. You been on the end of it plenty.

That fucker is going to die. One way or another, he’s fucking dead.

The devil taps his lips. Says, “Let me think on it and I’ll get back to you.”

“What?” Astarion says. “Get back to me? When?”

“Don’t worry. I’m motivated to help you.”

The fuckface folds himself into a stupid bow and poofs away in a puff of stench cloud. You don’t even try to hide your gag.

“Did he take your armor?” you say to Astarion.

He clutches the blanket stiffly. “I. I’m not sure.”

You nod. Search his face while trying not to be obvious about it, but he’s back to avoiding looking at you. Avoiding looking at everybody. “I’m sure we all got spare gear of that fuckface turns out to be a thief.”

“Let me know if you need anything,” Gale says. “For now, I could use a very stiff drink.”

“Agreed,” Wyll says. “I’ll see what they have. Astarion, you prefer wine, yes?”

“Only if it’s a good vintage.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Karlach glares at the spot the fuckface still stinks up. Takes a deep breath, and blows it out slow as her shoulder vents blast furnace-hot air. “We’re definitely going to kill that fucker, yeah?”

You look at her. She gives a small nod.

“Would y’all mind bunking up with the boys tonight?” you say.

This is finally what draws Astarion’s attention fully to you. With a frown that he shoves down lightning quick. Replaces it with a sly smile. “Oh, a room all to ourselves, my sweet?”

It turns your guts into cold, writhing snakes.

“It would be inefficient to split the part so unequally,” Lae’zel says. “Astarion has an adequate physique. He should not—”

“If we must,” Shadowheart says with a hearty eye roll. All the while clamping a hand onto Lae’zel’s shoulder. “The last thing I want to see is the two of you making disgusting moon eyes at each other while drunk.”

All the religious shit aside, she looks at you. Doesn’t nod, but don’t need to.

“Come on,” you say to Astarion. “I heard they got some kinda bathing situation somewhere in here. I ain’t never seen how y’all do that that ain’t wading into a river.”

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Floriography

The Owl House » Huntlow

Title: Floriography

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: The Owl House (Masterlist)

Relationship: Hunter | The Golden Guard x Willow Park

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: A not-so-secret admirer keeps leaving flowers with special meanings on Willow's balcony.

"Flowers have meanings?" he asks, utterly fascinated, twirling the little yellow flower between his fingertips. It feels even softer than it looks. "Yeah!" she says brightly, jostling him a little bit in her enthusiasm. "It's called floriography, the language of flowers. There've been so many books written on the subject over the centuries, and before the portal was destroyed, Eda managed to get me a copy of a book on human realm flowers and their meanings. So I've been taking notes, comparing the differences between genus and pigmentation, and how that differs between—" "Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself," she huffs out a self-effacing chuckle. "You probably have way better things to do than listen to me prattle on about flowers all afternoon." "There's genuinely nothing I would rather do," he reassures her, heart leaping into his throat as her whole face lights up in a beatific smile. "I could listen to you talk all day, Captain."

Read On AO3 | Read On Tumblr:

Hunter has no idea how he got so lucky.

Somehow, even after his monumental fuckup of a first foray into friendship (apparently it's not normal for friends to lie, stab each other in the back, or kidnap each other in the name of coven recruitment — huh, weird) the Captain of the Emerald Entrails still decides he's worthy of a second chance.

After a string of profuse apologies that take him twenty minutes apiece to type out (seriously, whoever designed the keyboard for modern scrolls is a sadist — why couldn't all of the letters just be written out in alphabetical order?) Willow forgives him, and from that point forward, the two of them end up talking nearly every day.

It starts with little texts scattered throughout the day — updates on how team practice sessions are going, pictures of their palismen curled up on hand-knitted sweaters and freshly-patched cloaks, random fun facts about the history of airborne sports and all the different kinds of plants Willow keeps in her homegrown garden — until one night, Hunter works up the nerve to ask if he can call her, and ends up spending the rest of the evening with his chin tucked against his folded arms, cozy sock-clad feet kicking back and forth in the air as he gazes at her smiling face, talking her ear off about all the things he's learned studying wild magic in secret, spurred on by her insightful commentary and thoughtful questions, the way she sighs and says,"You have such a soothing voice. I could listen to you talk all day." 

It takes him less than a week into their regular correspondence to start studying plant magic — not to impress her or anything, but just because he— okay, it's definitely because he wants to impress her. But who wouldn't? She's so smart, and strong, and cool, and beauti— full of knowledge on so many fascinating subjects, and Hunter just wants to be able to keep up. 

Especially now that he's an official full-time member of the Emerald Entrails, sneaking off to practice sessions and team hangouts with the help of Darius, who begrudgingly offers to cover for him. Well, Hunter says begrudgingly, but as much as Darius likes to grumble and groan about what a pain in the ass it is to go above and beyond for his little teenage rebellion, Hunter never fails to miss the little hint of pride in Darius's voice every time he asks what Hunter will be getting up to that day, the way his lips quirk into an approving smile every time Hunter sweeps from his office, on his way to Hexside or the local diner in downtown Bonesborough to split ice scream sundaes with his new friends.

And now here he is a few weeks later, sprawled out on his back on the flyer derby field after a particularly spirited practice session, head in Willow's lap as she uses her magic to weave him a flower crown made from a colorful assortment of wildflowers.

Like he said — So. Fucking. Lucky.

"There you are," she says, a soft smile spreading across her face as she admires her handiwork, settling the last little flower into place. "A crown fit for a prince."

And there it is again — that strange fluttery feeling he's come to associate with simply being around her, heat radiating up the back of his neck and spreading to the tips of his ears as he gazes up at her like she's the one who hung all the stars in the sky. 

He has an inkling about what it means, but he's never felt this way about anyone before, so it's not like he has anything to compare it to. Though if he had to take a guess, based on all the saccharine crap he's had to endure listening to Luz wax poetic about her awesome girlfriend and the sappy romantic subplot of Ruler's Reach 2, he's pretty sure that this is what falling in love feels like.

"It's beautiful," he says, even though he has no idea what it looks like and (isn't exactly referring to the flower crown.)

"What else can you do?" he prompts, turning his blushing face to the side to stare at an empty patch of grass. There's no logical reason for him to keep laying his head in Willow's lap now that she's finished his flower crown, but for some reason, Hunter can't seem to summon the will to move. It's cozy here.

"Hmm," Willow muses, leaning over his head to contemplate the blank canvas of grass in front of her, inadvertently resting the weight of her chest against the side of Hunter's face. Not that he minds. At all. In the slightest. He's only minimally worried that the ensuing blush will set them both on fire.

A few seconds later, Willow starts moving, twirling her fingers in a bright green spell circle and raising a perfectly formed flower from the depths of the grass — a bright yellow bloom with multi-tiered layers of velvet-soft petals crowded around each other in a circular pattern.

"Wow," he breathes, staring down at it in awe. "I've never seen this type of flower before…though it looks very similar to a Biting Briar, often found in the valley of the—"

"Hips," Willow finishes, beaming down at him with a look of pleasantly surprised pride, and Hunter tallies another win on some secret scoreboard in the back of his mind.

"That's because it's from the human realm," she informs him, plucking the flower from mid-air and handing it to Hunter with a smile that makes his heart flutter. "It's called a rose. The yellow ones are a symbol of friendship and new beginnings."

"Flowers have meanings?" he asks, utterly fascinated, twirling the little yellow flower between his fingertips. It feels even softer than it looks.

"Yeah!" she says brightly, jostling him a little bit in her enthusiasm. "It's called floriography, the language of flowers. There've been so many books written on the subject over the centuries, and before the portal was destroyed, Eda managed to get me a copy of a book on human realm flowers and their meanings. So I've been taking notes, comparing the differences between genus and pigmentation, and how that differs between—"

"Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself," she huffs out a self-effacing chuckle. "You probably have way better things to do than listen to me prattle on about flowers all afternoon."

"There's genuinely nothing I would rather do," he reassures her, heart leaping into his throat as her whole face lights up in a beatific smile. "I could listen to you talk all day, Captain."

• • •

Later that night, Hunter falls down a research rabbit hole, fascinated by all the different names given to human realm flowers and what emotion each of them are meant to symbolize, how they were often exchanged as a means of communication, to relay signals and secret codes. And as he lays there, hanging over the edge of his bed at some indeterminable time in the morning, poring over the book that Willow had leant him as he'd walked her home, a magnificent idea occurs to him.

Hunter can talk for hours about his favorite subjects — he's got a way with words that most people his age could never hope to match — but when it comes to expressing his feelings (especially when it concerns his feelings about a certain plant witch) it's like the entirety of the English language just falls right out of his head, melting out of his ears like a keyboard smash of alphabet soup. 

So when he discovers that flowers can be used as a means of transmitting messages, he figures, hey, maybe the plants can do the talking for me. And because she was the one who taught him all about this, it'll only serve to make it that much more special. So, over the next few days, Hunter spends the time he's supposed to be sleeping sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, little slips of paper with poorly-drawn plant glyphs scattered across every surface, and learns how to conjure his own flowers.

• • •

One week later, the first bouquet appears on the ledge of Willow's balcony, waiting for her when she comes home from flyer derby practice later that evening. Oddly, it's the one time Hunter hadn't offered to walk her home, taking flight in a flustered rush the moment practice ended, the tips of his ears a curious shade of pink.

It's a simple arrangement — a dozen red tulips tied together in a clumsy bow with a piece of bright red string, no note to indicate who they're from. Willow isn't sure what to make of it, but after determining that it isn't some kind of trap or mean-spirited prank, she lets the small, hopeful smile she'd been holding back curl across her lips, closes her eyes, and buries her nose in the little cluster of bright red blooms. 

It's a lot harder to concentrate on homework that night, heart fluttering inside her chest every time she so much as glances in the direction of the little vase on her bedside table. She plucks one from the bunch and tucks it behind her ear to wear to school the following morning, giggling and rolling her eyes as she endures Luz, Gus, and Amity's relentless teasing about her secret admirer.

She expects that to be the end of it, just a one-time thing, some kind token of friendship he must not have realized held any sort of amorous implications, but to Willow's utter shock and delight, it keeps happening — once a week, like clockwork, a new bouquet appears on her balcony, holding a different arrangement of fresh, fragrant blossoms each time.

Willow has an inkling who they're from — who else would know about human realm flowers? — but she doesn't want to make any assumptions or get her hopes up, so she waits for him to say something. But every time they see each other in person, at practice or after-school team hangouts, he just talks to her like he normally does. (Though he does seem to smile a little brighter and blush a little harder whenever he sees one of his flowers tucked behind her ear.)

And even though it's a little out of ordinary, she probably wouldn't think anything of it — after all, they're friends; friends who spend half their time talking about plant magic and the other half cooing over their palismen whenever they catch the two of them snuggled up together; and besides, this is Hunter we're talking about, he's not exactly well-versed in social cues; more than likely, he sees this as an opportunity to show off his new knowledge and conjuring skills (but then, why wouldn't he talk to her about it?) — if it weren't for one curious detail.

All of the flowers her so-called secret admirer keeps sending her have one thing in common: each and every one of them has an unmistakable romantic meaning.

The first week, it's red tulips, symbolizing a declaration of love.

The second week, he sends her a whole branch's worth of purple lilacs, symbolic of first love.

The third week, she comes home to find a beautiful selection of orchids waiting for her on the ledge of her balcony, a classic symbol of love and beauty.

The fourth, a cluster of pink and white camellias, meaning you are adorable, perfected loveliness, and longing for you.

And fifth, less than twelve hours before he leaves on a mission of good faith, only to end up trapped in the depths of the Emperor's mind, forever changing the course of his life in equal measures of horror and relief, Hunter sneaks onto the ledge of Willow's balcony and gifts her a bouquet of dahlias in hues of the setting sun — said to mean forever thine, a Victorian symbol of commitment to an everlasting bond.

• • •

He's been staying at the Owl House for a full week when he attempts to sneak out. Doesn't make it more than twenty feet from the front door before Luz catches him with a fistful of flowers, bright red witch's wool cloak courtesy of Eda pulled up over his head, one leg slung over the side of his staff.

"Hunter!" she hisses in a whisper loud enough to wake the whole borough. "What are you doing? If any of the Emperor's scouts catch you out this late, they'll— oh no. You're not going back to Belos, are you?" she gasps, looking horrified.

"What? No, of course not!" Hunter scoffs. He may have been loyal to a fault, but he's not stupid.

"Okay, good," Luz breathes a sigh of relief. 

It's difficult to see much of anything in the dark, but the misty, silver glow of the moon casts just enough light for her to make out the little tuft of pink and orange flowers clutched in the palm of his hand. Luz arches an inquisitive eyebrow, expression changing from concern to amused curiosity.

"What exactly are you up to, then?" she asks, lips curling in a wry smile.

"Nothing!" Hunter blurts out, grateful for the cover of night shielding the extent of his blush. "It's just…I sort of have this tradition that I do every week, and I don't want her to think I'm not—" Hunter falters, eyes growing wide, worried he's revealed too much.

"Her?" Luz inquires with a teasing lilt, her smile positively gleeful. "Aww, you're sneaking out to send flowers to your secret lady love, aren't you? I didn't know you had a girlfriend!"

"I don't," Hunter winces, heaving a weary sigh as he scrubs his free hand through his hair. "I just…listen, I really like her, okay? But I'm not exactly good at the whole talking about my feelings thing just yet. So I thought…if I can't tell her how I feel with my words, then maybe I can tell her through flowers."

Luz stares at him for a moment, eyebrows arched in genuine surprise.

"That is literally the most romantic thing I've ever heard in my life," she says, lips pulling into one of her signature I've just seen a mewtube video of a fluffy animal and I'm either about to scream, cry, or squeal with delight smile-frowns.

"Okay. Go," she relents, waving him off with a swish of her hands. "Just stay safe and come back quick, alright? We're doing a movie marathon of 90's-themed rom-coms tonight, and Eda's making cocoa."

"With or without the mice-mallows?" Hunter grimaces, remembering the incident from his second night's stay.

"Oh god, without, I hope," Luz shivers in disgust. "Anyway, be careful out there, okay Hunter? We don't want anything bad happening to you."

And for the first time, Hunter actually believes that. It's…strange, having something akin to a mother, to siblings, looking out for him.

"Thank you," he says softly. "I will."

With a curt nod, Luz turns on her heel, ready to head back inside, when a curious thought occurs to her, and she spins back around.

"Super pretty flowers, by the way. Honeysuckles, right? What do those symbolize?" she asks with a casual lilt, testing out a theory that's been bouncing around in the back of her mind for the past six weeks.

Hunter pauses for a moment, glancing down at the sweetly-scented bouquet of pink and orange honeysuckles clutched in the palm of his hand, wondering whether telling her will give him away. Granted, if she hasn't noticed by now, she likely never will, so what's the harm in indulging a little?

"Pure happiness," he sighs, lips curving up at the corners as a vision of bright green eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses flashes across his mind's eyes. "And everlasting love."

He swings a leg over his staff and kicks off from the ground before Luz has a chance to attack him with a tackle-hug, cooing, "Oh my god, that's so cute!"

• • •

The next day, Willow walks into school with a pair of pink and orange honeysuckles tucked behind her ear, and Luz nearly faints from excitement.

• • •

The following week marks lucky number seven, which is partly why Hunter chooses to envelope the dozen long-stemmed red roses he'd chosen for this week's bouquet with little clusters of four-leaf clovers, which, according to the lore, send the message please be mine.

He's just pulled up to hover level with Willow's balcony, when he finds a bouquet of brightly-colored flowers already waiting on the ledge, and for a moment, Hunter's heart sinks, assuming that someone else is trying to court her.

But then he catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and looks up in time to see a flash of gold-framed glasses disappear behind a swish of curtains. Heart racing, he glances back down at the mystery bouquet, eyes landing on a little slip of paper tucked between the stems of the vibrant, summer-hued flowers. Upon closer inspection, it appears to be a page torn out of a floriography reference book, wrapped around the hilt of the bouquet, tied together with bright red string.

With trembling hands, Hunter lifts it into the light of the setting sun, and reads: The ambrosia flower, quite possibly the most romantic flower that can ever be given — with the exception of the classic red rose — is a symbol of mutual love and devotion, given with the intention of declaring, "your love is reciprocated."

[wordsbyvani]

My gift for @comfortless. Congrats on your milestone, beloved!💖

Today is the spring equinox in the northern hemisphere (my favorite season), so... a little blurb. König goes on a cute picnic date with his lovely. No content warnings, just pure fluff. :o)

“Thanks for doing this.” 

“Ja.”

This is ridiculous. He shouldn’t feel this nervous. 

Willing, praying, his palms stay dry as you both walk together, hand-in-hand, through the forest, toward the lush glade you’d talked so much about.  

Rays of sun peek through wispy clouds, a light breeze rustles branches budding with fresh blooms. A sparkling lake ripples, casting sparkles and glimmers through cracks in the tree line. Colors, green, life paint the area in messy splotches, having yet to find their place in nature.

Spring is here.

You had droned on endlessly about your love for the season, your excitement for the earth to come alive once more. Perhaps you thought he paid no mind to your silly ramblings. But he did. Every detail, every word, every expression; he drinks in every drop. 

Even though you haven’t known each other long, it feels like forever. Everything flows naturally; conversation comes so easily. For once, in a social setting outside of work, he doesn’t feel nervous. He wants to talk to you, wants to spend time with you. 

He simply wants… you.

So of course, when you mentioned how excited you were for warmth, for sun, he planned something right away. Shyly approached you with his request for an outing, which you readily accepted. Silently pleaded with the weather to cooperate as he planned, waiting for the day to arrive. 

Now here you both are: strolling through nature, his heart leaping whenever you pat his arm and point to whatever catches your eye— a picnic basket in one hand, you in the other. He can’t imagine a more perfect moment than this.

You fit right in with the surroundings. Your laughter, your being— the birth of something new within him, just as the earth births new life. He didn’t used to think much of spring, more of a winter guy himself— tucked away, cozy from the cold world. But now he supposes spring is pretty, pretty like you. 

You reach the spot, a large tree surrounded by patches of grass and the beginnings of blooms. A blanket is placed between the gnarled roots that welcome you, settling in and chattering as you unpack the basket.

He isn’t certain whether it’s the sun or you bringing him warmth. He wants you to be his sun, his moon, his entire universe. Or perhaps you already are. You glow brighter than any celestial body as you serve him portions of food from your favorite restaurant; how could he possibly know you loved this place? But he’s made it his goal to learn everything about you. 

Maybe he’s a creep. Should have admired your beauty from afar; afraid to interact with it, to touch it. He’s known to destroy lovely things, a touch from him pure corruption. But he couldn’t help himself. He’s selfish, obsessed, craves the vision that is irresistibly you. And by giving it a chance, giving in to his self-centered desires, a new type of beauty grows along with the changing of the seasons. 

Picking at his food while you prattle on about how nice it is, how you’re glad you guys are doing this, he waits for the perfect moment. One where he dares take the leap, dares take your relationship to the next level. Beyond the shy glances, chaste touches, innocent hand-holdings. To claim this piece of heaven as his own. 

He feels like a silly teenager; fiddling with frays in the blanket; eyes darting wildly to avoid meeting your own as you pull out dainty desserts to share. If he thought the years of hardness, years of confidence grown could calm the squirrely feelings and nerves, he thought wrong. His piece of frilly cake is left untouched as he watches; the way you savor your treat, savor this simple moment in time, savor life. He wants to savor it with you. 

Taking a deep breath, he gathers every ounce of courage he can muster as he zeros in on the frosting gracing the edges of your lips. Your focus from the delectable thing shifts to him instead, eyes wide as he leans closer, locking a stare with neverending pools of tenderness hidden behind a fog of weariness. 

“Ah, you have…”

“Wha-”

A collision of his lips with your own cuts off your mutters, time frozen, electricity pulsing between skin. 

His hand moves on its own, calloused fingers cupping your cheek, pulling you closer yet somehow not close enough. He runs his tongue to collect the speck of frosting, but the taste is incomparable to your sweetness. 

He’s dizzy in the head when you don’t pull away, but rather lean in to meet his advances. Lips parted to allow exploration, giving him permission to take, to indulge. Faint moans from the back of your throat drive him wild, the urge to take the sound between his teeth and rip them to the surface so he can hear them properly nearly overtaking him. 

He’s never been riddled with a passion such as this before. It’s not his first kiss, but it is his first kiss with you. A kiss with someone who truly matters, with someone dare he say he loves. One who awakens feelings and sensations he thought impossible for himself to experience. 

Sure, he’s basked in your warmth, taken in the comfort of your aura. But being engulfed in it now, he knows he can never go back. He’s selfish, he wants more, wants neverending. Never wants this instance to end.

But when you do break apart, heavy breaths and tousled hair make the two of you quite the sight, he doesn’t miss the twinkle in your eyes he’s been dying to see up close. A sparkle that invites him to lose himself in the pool of a neverending cosmos, a bid to which he would happily oblige. 

He tsks while pulling away, contemplating the flavor of the sweet and of you. “There was frosting.” 

You let out a snort, a smile forming at his attempt at a cover-up. “That was cheesy.”

He feels heat shoot from his cheeks to his ears, attempting to avoid the grin that illuminates your face lest he turn redder than he already suspects himself to be. 

“Tut mir leid…” he mumbles, unable to shake the feeling of fear creeping from somewhere deep within. A place that holds those dark thoughts, insecurities, things that can’t be covered with feigned confidence. But any idea that he may have muffed what he suspects to be his greatest gift from the universe is squandered when gentle fingers brush against his jaw, beckoning him to look in your direction.

“I like cheesy.”

Warm, willing lips pressing against his once more signify his success. He is yours, and you are his— everything and anything he could’ve ever wanted. Whatever was growing and budding between the two of you is now fully in bloom. 

Spring is most definitely his new favorite season.