#Gunpowder and Flower Petals

[mo0nfairy]

ᥫ᭡ . # ۫ , ⸺ UNCHAINED MELODY, PART FIVE !

summary :: surviving raccoon city together, you catch the affections of leon kennedy, ada wong, jill valentine, and carlos oliveira. six years later, you reunite with them and realize their obsession with you has increased tenfold.

chapters :: the masterlist.

word count :: 8.7k.

content warnings :: mdni! yandere!leon, yandere!ada, blood/gore, violence, death, weapons, drugging, kidnapping, stalking, noncon touching, invasion of privacy, mentions of sexual assault, parasites/infections, & needles.

ada wong's yandere traits are . . .

lucid, romantic, & confident

──── Ada Wong hates the sensation of grass on her skin. Yet still, the green matter stains all her clothes.

She'll spend her days laying in fields of grass. It tickles her skin and provokes her allergies, but she cannot fathom living without it. If she closes her eyes, she can almost stimulate the feeling of being with you once again. September 28th, 1998. On that road verge with dirt caked on her skin and a dandelion in her messy hair — Ada is convinced she is the only human who has ever been touched by such intense, perfidious happiness.

A beige trench coat littered with these same stains is preserved in her walk-in closet. It has not been worn in years, not since that night in Raccoon City. There are the occasional splatters of blood and gunpowder residue, but they are insignificant in comparison to the vivid green smudges. During rough patches, Ada will take the coat from its plastic covering and hold it close to her chest. If she closes her eyes again, she can almost convince herself it is you in her arms instead of this filthy, out-of-season garment.

As difficult as it is, however, she cannot let these feelings reach her heart. She cannot let herself feel for you.

She made this declaration long ago. Six years ago, to be exact.

Y/N L/N. The name she will never forget.

Ada remembers your evocative touch, your bunny-like shivering, your skin like flowers; she will never forget how you ended her life in Raccoon City.

The onslaught of inhuman, guttural growling had died down with the echo of gunshots. All flesh-eating creatures surrounding her now lay dead on the streets of Raccoon City. Now, a heavy silence sits. And the fear that follows slices into her flesh like a jagged knife. But, not for her life, no. For yours.

Ada briskly and anxiously scrutinizes her surroundings, searching for that jaw-dropping face she fell so hard and violently for. In the end, she finds nothing. All she is met with is the flickering lights of corner shops and the crackling of fire from car wrecks. When she looks down, however, Ada discovers the crumbled dandelion you gave her beneath the foot of her heel. Hastily, she grasps the precious weed and stuffs it into her coat pocket.

From here, attaining the G-Sample, selling it to the highest bidder, and earning more money than she could ever need was irrelevant. All that matters is finding you. Her darling petal, her bunny rabbit. Her salvation.

Ada's relentless efforts to find you result in Raccoon City being torn to shreds. Searching through Mizoil Gas Station to Umbrella's underground laboratory, all her attempts at bringing you back into her arms are brought to no avail. Ada is worn down and stained with grime, absolutely exhausted with dread.

It isn't until the golden sun rises does she learn of survivors being sent to a hospital outside of the city. She abandons everything in Raccoon City and high-tails it to Fox Park Hospital. Her feet ache from its uncomfortable stance in her stilettos and her lungs throb from the constant sprint. Still, nothing matters but you.

When she arrives at the hospital, she is overwhelmed with concerned families and tireless doctors. Several nurses inquire her about her physical state, but Ada disregards their concern entirely. She thought she could hide how perceptibly enamored she is with you through sly remarks and poised disposition. Maybe she'd conjure up some flattering remark to one of the doctors and bite her lip, all to gain access to your location. However, the only trait others can garner from her attitude is a desperate, downright feral act of despair.

Sharp nails digging into the shoulders of a poor nurse, she demands he inform her of your whereabouts. When the nurse squeaks out where you had been admitted to, Ada nearly punts him to the ground before breaking into a dash. She shoves past all other bystanders and bursts through the door to your room. And the way her heart surges in her chest upon entering could rival that of a genuine, torturous death.

There you lay, unconscious on the hospital bed. Bandages adorn the bruises and scars littered on your body. A white cast has been ensnared around your right arm.

The sight is nothing short of devastating. In a moment of weakness, she had so frivolously let you escape from her embrace. Now, you had to be the one who suffered the consequences.

Softly, Ada sits beside your sleeping form and restrains the urge to tackle you into a hug. It scares her, this sudden sense of warmth she possesses for you. She takes your weak hand into hers and shivers from the tender contact. I should not feel this way, she thinks to herself. Nothing about this is okay.

Despite the experience she has in the field of romance, Ada has never obtained genuine feelings for someone. All that lay beneath the surface of her seductive veneer was nothingness, sheer dust. She'll wear that coquettish nature like a crown and revel in the sense of power she feels of having someone beneath her. They care more about her than she does about them. And she loves it.

With you, though, things are different. Much different.

In all 24 years of her life, Ada never anticipated being slapped across the face with such raw emotion. The instance was ephemeral, but all-too devastating in the same breath. Dandelion between your fingers and the playful light in your eyes — the sight robbed her heart blind like candy from a baby. A lifetime spent in the depths of Winter, who knew a mere second of eye contact was all she needed to be lunged into the heavenly warmth of spring?

Ada is humiliated upon finding herself in the depths of such a ridiculous predicament. You have turned her into some lovesick monster, entirely incapable of maintaining stability. She thought she could control it; she thought she could shove you into a box with the rest of her past lovers. But, much like every other attempt she has made involving you, she failed miserably. No matter how hard she tries, she can't stop herself from being in love with you.

With this epiphany comes another. Every bruise, every scar, every wound on your body is living proof of what your life will become if she were to take you away. As badly as she wishes to take you and drown you in her adoration, she holds herself back. To live in complete bliss would mean robbing you of a good life; to ensure her happiness would mean robbing you of yours. By taking you away, her life would begin, yes, but yours would end. And if she were to take away the precious light you hold inside, she would never forgive herself.

The syringe she managed to snag from a passing doctor clatters to the floor. A physical manifestation of the realization seeping through her mind. For the very first time in her life, she cannot be selfish. For the first time, someone else's well-being is more important than hers.

She doesn't deserve you and you don't deserve her. You deserve happiness, you deserve normalcy, you deserve safety.

You deserve everything she cannot give you.

With a trembling breath, she affectionately drags the joint of her fingers down the side of your face. The mere thought of never being able to see this sight again shatters her. But for you, she would do absolutely anything, no matter how soul-crushing the pain is. Anything.

"Until next time, Y/N..."

The next six years were a tumultuous, frenzied blur. Ada Wong, notorious for her enticing personality, has crumbled.

Head-first, the agent had thrown herself into her work. Anything to keep her mind off of you. Or, at the very least, to look at the horrors she faces in her career to further remind herself you are better off without her. Every day, she oscillates with the idea of checking up on you, wherever you may be. It would be far too easy, as told by her skills. Though, if she were to do this, she knows she would not be able to leave you like she did six years ago. It had nearly killed Ada to leave you behind in that hospital. She isn't sure if she can survive that same pain all over again.

These gnawing desires keep her awake into the late hours of the night. Tossing and turning in bed, tossing and turning the idea of how good it would feel to have you in her arms. She wraps her arms around herself and caresses her own skin, pretending it is your hands on her body instead of her imagination. She feels weak, she feels deranged. But, she cannot help it. It kills her to not have you here with her.

She wonders how your life has changed since Raccoon City. What makes you smile, what makes you cry, if you're up at night thinking about her the way she does you. The misery nearly emulates the feeling of being butchered, as if you had personally cut open her flesh and sewed your name into her veins. But, Ada would do anything for you. Even if it means enduring the same torture every day, she is satisfied with life knowing she got to hold you. Even for just a second.

After a call with Albert Wesker, she is reminded yet again why you should not be a part of her life. To be exposed to this separate world would only be detrimental to you. She could never curse you with the burden that is her lifestyle. You deserve far more than that.

Ada teases the ring on her left hand. Mere hours after the crisis in Raccoon City, she preserved the dandelion you gave her and had it pressed into a ring. Six years later, this piece of jewelry has always ensnared her finger, as it remains her only source of security. The memory of you pulls at her heartstrings the way an angel plays a harp. In fact, it is the only memory she has that she can look back on fondly, as opposed to the bloodshed she has been so frivolously exposed to.

So absorbed in the warm rain of your memory, Ada nearly forgets the task Wesker had assigned for her. Abruptly and harshly, she is once again given another reminder of why you should stay far away from her. You make her weak, as Wesker told her, and neither of them cannot afford that weakness. She was fortunate enough to never disclose your identity with him, as he may have hunted you down in retaliation to her slacking efforts.

She doesn't know what she would do if she learned you were suffering out there. Wherever you are.

Opening the file Wesker sent to her, Ada scrutinizes the myriad of information sent her way. Through the grapevine, there was hearsay of Umbrella surviving the wreckage of Raccoon City. Satellite imagery displayed a vast forest where they had set up their 'sanctuary,' as they called it. Within the sanctuary were survivors of Raccoon City, where they would be kept captive to avoid exposing Umbrella and forcing them to face the consequences of their mistakes.

Her task was simple: find out if they have samples of Amber in their possession. If so, deliver the sample back to Wesker.

Of course, with this mission arose heavy concern. Images of you being subject to Umbrella's abuse sent a serrated rush of panic through her body. Ada had practically torn herself asunder with her efforts to protect you, she never acknowledged how other dangers may have slipped through the cracks.

A consideration, one much stronger than before, is what she is faced with. Giving into her selfish desires and having you by her side would benefit her happiness, yes, but it would also expose you to the horrors of her life. Leaving you without this burden in whatever life you had chosen for yourself would most likely benefit your happiness, yes, but would expose you to peril she cannot control. She would put her life down for your happiness, after all.

This consideration plagues Ada's mind as she is flown out to the sanctuary. Since the area was under investigation by another team, she had to play this smart, no matter how badly she wished to storm through the doors and hunt you down.

Yellow tape surrounds the entire premise, and numerous police officers and detectives are scattered amongst the area. Picking the lock to a window; Ada slides into the building with flexible ease. She lands with a bounce upon a bed. The springs whine beneath her weight; the headboard creaks with frail fragility. She finds herself in a sunken mess of fluffy throw blankets and tacky plushies. Climbing out of the array after practically drowning in it, Ada straightens her dress before scrutinizing the room.

The area is naturally stale. The same way a bleak, depressing hospital room feels. However, this detail is hidden beneath the mass of decorations and clutter. It is surrounded by love, despite its dull foundation.

A rickety bookshelf and stale bedside table are settled by the bed. On them are books checked out from the sanctuary's library, as well as wilting plants, a flickering salt lamp, dusty candles, and even more heaps of plushies. Ada's heels sink into a fuzzy rug as she studies the contents. A clothing rack can be found, too, with boring clothes hung upon it. Stickers and doodles adorn the supports, as well. 

Across from this was a sofa couch that sat opposite a chunky television. Cheesy horror movies are stacked on top of the thick surface. Another plant sits by the television in a custom-painted pot, leaves adorned in brown decay. Another plushie is rested against the TV, as well. God, how many stuffed animals does a person need?

Nothing within this small expanse relates to your whereabouts or the Amber, which eases Ada's mind. She lets out a sigh of relief. It would pain her in ways she could never fathom to know you were suffering in Umbrella's disturbed idea of a "sanctuary" while she was too busy trying to forget you.

Ada walks through the adjacent threshold and finds a small kitchen. Once again, the dull appearance had been diluted with heartfelt decor. Hand-crafted paintings are strung upon the walls. Some show the childlike fun of the artist, while others display the raw talent every brush and stroke exudes. A small table is huddled in the corner with a vase of Lego flowers serving as the centerpiece.

Cooking utensils, handmade clay figures, and tea sets are all scattered on the kitchen counters. A package of chamomile tea had been left out on the same counter and the shattered pieces of a mug had been left on the concrete. Strange, but it does not pull her attention.

It isn't until something catcher her eye while on her way out does her heart pound. By the art on the wall, beyond the scatterings of band posters and paintings, a myriad of polaroids had been taped into the shape of a heart.

And directly in the middle is a polaroid of you.

It is a candid shot of you in the sanctuary's garden surrounded by lush flowers. Fat, glittery smile on your face, there is more light in your eyes than Ada had ever seen. Beyond the jealousy for the photographer who got the privilege of drowning in that gaze, a sinking pit of dread sits like a brick in her stomach.

You were here. This whole time, you were here.

It only makes sense this is your room, she should have known. Who better to bring love into such a dank estate than you? You've made something bland more lively, as you do in all other areas of life. But, she was so concerned with roping you into the violent dangers of her life, that she strayed as far away from you as she could. Still, you found yourself here in the end. She was so concerned with keeping her vigorous feelings for you at bay that her negligence had caused you to be thrust into the darkest pits of this world. And nothing she can do now will erase the sheer weight of her frivolous mistake.

Her chest expands and deflates rapidly with hyperventilating breaths. Black dots swim in her doubled vision. Her skin is sheen with sweat. Nausea swims in her stomach. She collapses onto the bed, your bed. A quiet array of whispered "no"'s evades the cramped bedroom. She can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything!

"My petal, I'm so sorry. My sweet petal... How could I have let this happen...?" Ada is completely and utterly devastated.

The pervasion of an unfamiliar voice seeps in from outside the door. Ada covers her mouth to muffle the hyperventilating breaths protruding from her.

"T said they've fled to Spain. Fucking Spain, can you believe that shit?"

"Goddamn Umbrella... If only Oliveira were still here to see this. 'Give him somethin' else to do than daydream about his bitch, 'know what I mean?"

"I hear ya. Dude's a fucking nutcase."

Spain? Is that where you could be? Is that where Umbrella has taken you?

The doorknob jiggles and Ada immediately stands to her feet. Her swift nature had been robbed from her, as her legs now felt like two bags of sand. Her head throbs violently. It sounds like a tumultuous clammer before she succumbs to the turmoil and falls to the ground.

Sweat seeping down her forehead and her hands shaking, Ada attempts to pull herself up. She grips the corner of the bed frame and pulls her entire body weight. Her stiletto then accidentally kicks something beneath the bed. Looking for identification, Ada finds a plastic case with several cassette tapes inside. As she studies it, the doorknob jiggles once more. After greedily taking hold of it, Ada swiftly takes a few more souvenirs before leaving. The polaroid of you, a flower you molded out of clay, and an opossum plushie nestled on your bed. Then, she is off.

And within the penthouse that feels more like a model house than it does her actual home, Ada sits in her office. Inside the case full of cassettes, dates are written on each tape. Upon closer inspection, there's a sudden halt in activity after October. Almost as if Umbrella has lost interest in you. She prays this is the only reason, that they had released you and let you enjoy a life filled with the happiness you deserve. Thinking of the opposite has her whole body shivering.

Ada takes the cassette player in her desk and pops the earliest tape into place. She was so invested in finding where you had run off to, she had completely disregarded the gut-wrenching effect your voice would have on her. It's so... pretty. Like the first birdcall of Spring, like gentle waves crashing against the shore.

Ada is quick to grasp her control back, shifting her attention to the actual context of your words instead of how badly she wished to hear you whisper in her ear.

The contents of the tape display an audio journal, where you recall every horrid detail of the night that changed your life. You mention Leon Kennedy and Ada rolls her eyes from the annoyance his mere name brings. Six years have passed since she's seen him, or even thought of him, for that matter. But, the irritation that cop was marvelous at triggering still lives on. Of course, he's the first thing you talk about. She's sure he'd be ecstatic knowing this.

You speak about your time working at Mizoil Gas Station. When you trail off about your coworkers, your voice perceptibly drops when you speak of one in particular. With his wandering hands, sultry words, and a compulsion to ignore every 'no' you sent his way, you admit to yourself how good it felt to kill him.

As infuriated as this makes Ada, you then speak her name, and all coherent thoughts are stolen from her. She has to cover her mouth to restrain the sharp gasp that escapes. You do not speak thoroughly of your encounter with her, much to her dismay. Only detailing how she guided you out of the police department and protected you. Still, she revels in the harmonious melody of you speaking of her.

Ada can crawl out of cloud nine when you, unfortunately, move on to the next fraction of that night. To escape the zombies that attacked you and her, you sought protection in the local gun shop. There, you meet someone she was not aware of.

Jill Valentine.

Ada's eyes narrow when you speak of this woman. She can see the obvious signs of her being attracted to you, but you could be none-the-wiser to these affections. Your inability to heed flirtation is adorable if Ada were to be honest.

There's another transition to where you meet another man. Someone who, once again, Ada was unfamiliar with.

Carlos Oliveira.

He, too, showed obvious signs of being attracted to you. Which, once again, flew over your head. Both he and Jill had saved your life numerous times and you expressed this gratitude. To you, it was nothing but a common heroic act from two hardworking cops. Ada, however, read through the lines of their actions the same way she could read a children’s book.

They are in love with you. Hopelessly so. That much is clear.

It should be obvious. This is you we're talking about, after all. As much as she wishes they wouldn't, it is simply impossible to not become irrevocably besotted with you. Even if it were feasible, it would simply be brainless not to wish to spend the rest of forever with you.

The tape whirs as it reaches its ending point. Your story ends with waking up at Fox Park Hospital before being sent to this sanctuary. However, there is nothing that implies where your path has led six years later. There are miscellaneous updates on your physical health and your mental state, but there are zero indications of where you have vanished from.

With you gone and no reliable trace of your disappearance, there are only two potential outcomes of your whereabouts. Either you are still in Umbrella's clutches or those two cops have taken you for themselves. Six years of contemplation and Ada has finally reached a solution. Not a structured one, but a solution, nonetheless.

Find you, ensure your safety, and pray to God she has enough strength to leave you after.

And you, Y/N L/N, are exactly where Ada thought you'd be. However, the circumstances of your whereabouts are far different than what she presumed them to be.

After Dr. Gorkis, the man you had once called your friend, forced you into a state of unconsciousness, you were comatose for an undisclosed amount of time. When you wake, you are perplexed over your foreign environment. Inspecting your surroundings, there is absolutely nothing that can enlighten you of what happened within the dark gap of your memories.

The room you have awoken in is gloomy, accompanied by the cracked lantern protecting you from complete murk. The stone walls surrounding you are riddled with moss and chains. Several shelves stand awkwardly in the corners, where dilapidated books and broken pots all rest on the rickety surface. A rusted plate sits by your feet. A cluster of flies hover over the mashed potatoes hardened from age and the bread overwhelmed with mold.

You search about for any familiar faces, presumably those of Jill and Carlos. This isn't the first time you've been kidnapped, after all. If they were to lurk in the dark depths of this room, it would surely be no surprise. Instead, the area around you is entirely desolate. Nothing but the sound of your bated breath fills the empty space.

Your neck aches, your head throbs, your body trembles — everything has morphed into a permanent hue of misery you do not recognize. In a morbid way, you could almost be grateful for the circumstances you were kidnapped in before. A beautiful sanctuary, then a lavish home, and now this. A cold, decrepit room with no one to comfort you but yourself.

It's almost comical, how much this has happened to you. However, when you bring your hand to your neck to ease the pain and feel the necklace Carlos gifted you, laughter does not escape you. Alternatively, you curl your fingers around the pearls and yank with what little strength is left in your body. You watch with newfound satisfaction as the pieces clatter to the rotten floorboards.

A new beginning; the next chapter. That is what this feels like.

Stumbling over to the decaying door, it whines as you open it steadily. Haphazardly scanning the area for any potential assailants, you find none. Instead, you find a narrow hallway with lit candles hung upon the decaying walls. The light they exude guides you to a large window smeared with dirt and grime. Outside, the heavy downpour of rain neglects your need to identify your current location.

Your vision then abruptly goes black and an unfathomable pain ensnares your head. It leads you to collapse against the wall as you groan out from the abysmal misery. A voice calls out to you from the depths of your mind. A sort of ghastly incantation. A whisper you would only hear in the presence of a nightmare.

"Pursue them..." It taunts, "The lost lamb is escaping. Deliver onto them... Salvation..."

And just as it had begun, it was over. Your vision has cleared, and the ache in your skull has eased. It was all over.

One glance through the filthy window and fear hits you like a punch to your gut. A group of people dressed in ragged clothing make their presence known, all with pitchforks and axes in hand. Their torches guide them as they follow the muddied path. You can only stare in trepidation as they saunter about like hungry predators in search of prey.

When you hear the chains to the front entrance rattle, you turn and race towards your escape. Up the rotten steps of the ladder, the dingy expanse of the attic does not aid you in your efforts to flee. The light at the end of the tunnel is a shattered window, where the harsh weather brings violent rain and wind into the room. Out of the window, a shed riddled with overgrown ivy sits at a nearly-perfect distance beneath. You'd rather break your ankles than get sacrificed, after all.

Ripping the bandaid off, you leap from the ledge and land clumsily. It is a thunderous collision your assailants most certainly heard. With your feet fortunately intact, you leap from the roof of the shed and sprint away from the chaos behind you.

You hear unintelligible shouts, you hear accelerating footsteps, and you hear gunshots echo from afar. Rain feels like glass as it pours down on you. They meld with your tears and sweat. Your feet are cramped in your new, expensive boots. Still, you do not look back. Even with your lungs aching with every step you take, you continue to race forward as far as your legs can take you.

Several more throbbing paces and you find yourself in the center of a village. Dilapidated houses are scattered around the grounds, while large mountains frame the small area. Shifting your gaze forward, you find a rickety signpost. Signs that once read locations had now been overwhelmed with blood. The words 'Los Iluminados' and 'Lord Saddler' were painted in the red matter.

In a fit of enervation, you fall to the dirt. The substance stains your body and clothes, something Jill and Carlos put so much effort into preserving. You feel a sense of trepidation when your thoughts subconsciously drift to those two. Staring down at yourself, you see how every inch of you is still marked in their possession. The scent of Carlos' cologne still clings to his jacket that he draped around you. The shoelaces Jill quadruple-knotted have now been torn, the loose threading dirty and sticking out in awkward directions. Almost as if after all of this turmoil to escape them, their residue was still printed on you.

With air in your lungs after what felt like so long without it, you bring yourself to your feet. You clench your aching abdomen before limping forward. You then ponder over how you'll recount this absurd story to the police.

Then, you're flying.

Something wraps around your waist and yanks. Before you can comprehend it, the ground grows further, further, and further away from you.

With an exclaim of surprise, you land on the flat ledge of a mountain. You don't have a chance to acknowledge the impossible explanation of you defying gravity. Not when your breath gets lodged in your throat when you find the source of the sudden occurrence.

Ada Wong is that very source.

You stare up at her with the same disbelief she possessed. And this sight of you is surely something she will never forget.

The lick of sun in your eyes has never faltered, despite the years of chaos and disarray you’ve endured. The rain speckles across your body and cascades down your flesh, almost as if it was savoring every inch of you it got to touch. Bruises sit like kisses upon your skin; blood is painted on you like a vermillion art piece. Exactly the way it was six years ago.

Ada has found you. And the intensity of the euphoria that follows could be enough to kill a man, she is sure of it.

It is gut-wrenching, how beautifully nostalgic the sight is. This time, however, she will not allow any unwelcome guests to intrude.

Ada returns her grapple gun to the holster and crouches down beside you. A tender, gloved hand finds its way to your waist. It shivers and hovers, terrified of the emotions she'll be unable to control when she makes contact. Terrified of feeling nothing but cold sheets beneath her and waking up from this dream. When her hand does find you, as it always will, a hot chill surges through her body. Ada can hardly gather herself as the revelation settles. You are safe, you are alive, and you are with her again.

The other hand finds your cheek. The dandelion-pressed ring pokes against your skin, a firm reminder of how long this devotion has lived. She can feel the Earth sparkling in her palms with her hands on you; she can feel the warmth of the stars with your flesh against hers. Every bone, every sinew, every vein — everything good the universe have to offer is right beneath her. So, she does what she wished to do before, but was interrupted. What she has dreamt of doing for years, but was not able to do. She does what she has always wanted to do.

Her lips are on yours faster than you could think.

Everything inside her... Melts.

Rain falls like confetti. The frigid temperatures ease from the heat you share together. Every jut and curve of your lips mold perfectly against hers, as if you were made for each other. It robs her breath straight from her lungs, it robs her brain of any coherent function. The thumping of her heart batters in her ears as though it were trying to lunge from her chest with its sheer, rampant speeds. Her hands shiver with fervent need. The lump in her throat remains lodged no matter how much she tries to swallow it. What on Earth are you doing to her?

Your kiss is more soul-crushing than she would like to admit, as pride has always been her most prized possession. And it is all so stupidly cliché that Ada could almost laugh. A kiss in the rain. She never thought she would experience something as tooth-rotting and romantic as this. Still, it succeeds in practically shattering what remains of her moral compass. The suave and collected Ada Wong has been shattered. And the devil on her shoulder begs her to indulge in every last sliver of you she can.

She's a woman of self-control, but you had torn that control straight from her hands and claimed it as yours. She's a woman with tight fists and cruel words, but you have taken every rough edge and filed them down to soft curves.

When you inevitably part, Ada follows the direction your lips go, absolutely desperate for another taste. She is practically inconsolable without your warmth.

"Y/N..." She gasps out your name. It's a silent prayer for more of this, for more of you.

Dark webs of veins then spread among your face like woven spider's silk. It causes your vision to blur and your ears to ring. You wince from the sudden surge of pain and recoil from Ada's touch, something she didn't anticipate being so gutted by. The agony pumps through your veins like a drug; it has you writhing and groaning against the mud. It practically robs you of all your senses, the only comprehensible thing being the torture inflicted upon your feeble body.

Ada is then forcefully brought to reality where she is cruelly reminded of how this is not real. She cannot have you and you were never meant to be hers. No matter how badly she wishes you could be.

When you turn over, clutching your stomach in pain, she places her hand on your shoulder. Your eyebrows scrunched in confused pain, face wet from the pouring rain, lips sheen from her lip gloss. You are beautiful in the most devastating way. The sight bursts her heart open as if someone has nestled a bomb in her chest cavity. But, how she feels in this moment is not important. The one thing she has torn herself apart to prevent is now happening. You are hurting.

"What- What's happening to me!?" You cry out, a chunk of blood splattering from your mouth when you cough.

"Y/N... My petal...!" Ada's thumb rubs soothing circles on your arm while her cheek rests against the same surface. She clutches onto you like you're her lifeline, her last sliver of hope.

A voice interrupts. "Ada! I've been looking everywhere for-"

Ada rips her gun from its holster and points it at the intruder in fervent speed. She is terrified of being torn away from you like she was several years ago, she cannot let it happen again.

Luis Sera puts his hands up in defense, eyes blown wide in shock from her sudden shift in nature. In one hand of his is a dirtied white box with tape sloppily wrapped around the frame. He shakes it timidly, diverting her attention to what is most important about their agreement. Cure Ada of the infection and she'll let him take a seat on her helicopter.

Her stance does not halter, however. Instead, she throws yet another demand his way.

"Cure them." She orders. A perceptible tinge of despair is present in her tone.

When he remains frozen, Ada steps closer and presses the barrel of her gun directly to his forehead.

"Cure them or you know what happens." Her stare is violent. Her disposition is terrifying. There is nothing but the honest, undying truth with every syllable she speaks.

"I- But, our deal-?"

A gunshot echoes.

Deafening. Heart-stopping. The sound is accompanied by the harsh thump of Luis' dead body. Horrifying.

Ada takes the box from his limp grasp. She flips his deceased body over and steals the sample of Amber doused in blood, shoving it into her pocket. Using her sharp nails and an impromptu knife, she then slices the tape from the box. Once she hastily takes the syringe from its plastic enclosure, she rushes over to you.

Her behavior endures an abrupt shift when she crouches at your side. From a blood-thirsty monster to a fluffy-winged angel, Ada caresses your skin as if it were fine silk. You whimper as you float in and out of consciousness. You are so inert, in fact, you do not feel the intrusion of a needle and the anecdote seeping through your bloodstream. Ada comforts you through this entire process. Caresses to your flesh, kisses to your skin — she does it all terrified of it being the last time she ever touches you.

With the key to Luis' laboratory, she knows what her next course of action is. What she originally anticipated to be a quick check-up on your well-being had manifested into awakening her deep, irreparable fervor for you. But, she cannot let her measly emotions blind her to what is most important. You and only you.

She will stay, cure you, and pray to God once more that she has enough strength to leave you after.

And it kills her more than she ever thought it would.

When you wake, you find a blinding, fluorescent light hanging above your head. Cold metal and jagged leather nestles into your skin. The tapping of keyboards and technology humming fills the silence. You could almost roll your eyes if it weren't for the confusion overruling all. Have you been kidnapped again?

Attempting to gain mobility and move your body was entirely fruitless. Instead, a weak whine is all you can conjure. The frail sound is immediately met with the affections of someone else in the room.

Even in these circumstances — the grungy expanse of Luis' lab and Ada's dead parasite on the ground — she has never felt such euphoria. The severity of these feelings terrifies her, but she cannot help but fall into the emotions like a child would jump into a swimming pool. To be with you, there is nothing she could ever want more. But, as she has firmly stated numerous times, she cannot be selfish with you. No matter how badly she wishes to do such.

"Everything is going to be alright, petal. I won't let anything happen to you... Never again..." Another kiss is pressed upon your forehead. Ada's lip gloss stirs with the icy sweat beaming on your flesh.

One tap to the computer and the machinery whirs to life. Three lasers then protrude into you and begin to eradicate the Las Plagas inside of your body.

A horrible, gut-wrenching scream evades the room. Agony hits you like a tidal wave. You shout, you wail, you sob. You are in such horrendous pain, it is impossible to keep quiet. Your relentless squirming to escape the source of such misery was futile, as the restraints around your wrists keep you compliant and subject to this torment. Reassurances of "I'm here, petal" fail to conquer the sheer volume of your cries. Ada takes your hand, peppering kisses and nuzzles upon any surface of skin she can reach. Soul-crushing dread satiates her body upon seeing you in such pain. It is hurting her more than it is hurting you.

How could she have been so ignorant? How could she have let your suffering get to this point?

How could she have possibly lived every day oblivious to your well-being? How can she live with herself now knowing she had so carelessly neglected you?

How can she possibly live without you?

And as fast as it started, it was all over. The hum of the machinery silences. A vibrant "SUCCESS" flashes on the computer screen. Ease envelops your body like a warm blanket and for the umpteenth time that day, you doze off. It's a slumber like never before, where the sheer exhaustion derived from the most eventful 24 hours of your life has finally boiled over.

You now lay there. Lifeless.

"Y-... Y/N...?" Ada's voice barely surfaces above a whisper.

The death grip you had on her hand weakened and Ada never anticipated the sheer terror it would make her feel. The fear is a heavy weight on her chest, a tremor in her body. Something wet cascades down her cheeks. With skepticism, she brings her gloved hand to her face to identify the strange substance.

She's... crying?

Ada can't remember the last time she had cried. Her entire life she has powered through any turmoil with her chin held high and a stone-cold soul. Never was she allowed to feel, hence the secure control she has over herself. Now, however, the emotions escape through her facade the way a gunshot wound bleeds through a dirty bandaid.

Your flesh is cold, your body is painfully still. Ada can not bring herself to consider the conclusion that pokes and prods at her mind. Where the big heart she fell in love with stops beating. Where the eyes she'd give her life to gazes in forever loses their light. Where the only good thing this disgusting world has to offer is taken away.

Where she loses hold of the only happiness she has ever felt.

The clinical logic that had always benefited her has now become her worst enemy. Ada scans your body from head to toe, desperate for even the smallest sliver of life. More gasps of your name pervade the room, as well as the gentle, yet desperate nudges to your body in hopes of waking you from your slumber.

Ensuring you are safe, happy, and far away from the dangers within her own life has become her only purpose. Without you, Ada is now lost within the whorls of her empty, dreary world.

The woman is full-on weeping now. It had been so long, she had forgotten what it felt like to cry altogether. Her face twists with every ugly sob parting from her mouth. Her form convulses with each uncontrollable cry protruding out of her chest. Ada has become a mess of snot and tears, surely a sight the old version of her would be revolted by.

A cough fills the lonely silence. And the groggy sound could rival an angel's symphony with its raw beauty.

Alive.

You are alive.

"Hey, you did it...!" You manage to wheeze out upon seeing your status on the computer screen, voice dazed and crooked.

A smile, albeit a weak one, breaks out on your face and Ada swears she has not ever seen a sight so breathtaking. Her hands cling to your face, searching every inch to ensure she hasn't lost the only thing she could ever love. And then, she smiles. Ada smiles like she never has before; Ada smiles like she has never known pain. It is nearly deranged, how blinding and exhilarating the emotions on her face are.

She speaks before her brain can compute the consequences of her next actions.

"I love you."

The three words are spoken with such acute clarity, it is difficult to not be completely entranced by them. Ada's eyes are blown wide as her gaze sinks into yours. Her body trembles from the irrepressible fear mixed with relief coursing through her. For the first time in (quite literally) forever, she is telling the pure, unadulterated truth. However, your lack of reciprocation causes Ada's logic to fully take control of her mind. You do not love her. And as impossible as it is, she must force herself to not love you. But God, you do not make it easy.

"I-I mean- Did you have any doubt, petal? I should be offended you think so low of me. But, with those eyes, how could I be?" The tremble in her voice jeopardizes her attempt at swiftly building vanity.

You don't respond to her, you can't respond. All you can think about is how you nearly died and how Jill and Carlos will surely slit her throat for what she has done.

Ada glances down at the ring on her finger, the very thing that has held her over these past six years. It is almost humiliating to wear it. To know its existence is because of her inability to move on from this stupid crush that has somehow harbored full control of her life. Then again, Ada cannot bear to ever part from it. The thought makes her queasy, like a boat swaying against harsh waves of melancholic uncertainty. To toss the ring overboard would mean completely succumbing to the force of the sea, to drown in the heavy mass of her feelings. Cursed for eternity with stagnant sorrow.

And even though the truth strikes like a knife, Ada must commit to the plan she originally formed. Bring you to safety and pray to God once again that she has enough strength to leave you after.

"Three times..." You whisper to yourself in disbelief, your voice a ghost that Ada can hardly decipher.

With furrowed brows and a quiet hum of question, she beckons you to continue.

"Only six years and I have managed to get kidnapped not once, not twice, but three times. That's gotta earn me a place in Guinness, right?"

She reads through your attempt at masking your prevailing emotions with humor. That playful attitude, how deeply she loves it. And how devastatingly difficult it is for her to fall out of love with it. In these circumstances, when your lively demeanor is used to shield yourself from pain, it quickly festers into something she despises.

Even through everything that has happened, you are still playful. Cracking jokes, making comical jests. Just like you did all those years ago. Ada could almost be angry at you for this, for making her fall so clumsily in love with you. Almost.

"First, it was Umbrella. They had never hurt me, so I never felt they deserved the title of "kidnappers," but I guess my naivety is what got me into this shit in the first place."

This 'naivety' you speak so poorly of is mistaken for the honest warmth of your heart. You have this beautiful ability to find positivity, light, and kindness in the ugly world. Yet again, another reason why it is impossible for her to untangle you from her heartstrings. She does not speak of this, however. She is afriad of vomiting out every syllable of adoration her voice could muster.

"Then, it was..."

You hesitate, a subtlety Ada does not overlook.

"Jill and Carlos." Their names sit like rotten fruit on your tongue.

You cringe upon imagining how those two would surely react to you now, fawning over your current state as if you're some baby lamb. They nearly have a breakdown from something as mere as a paper cut, you cannot imagine the absolute warfare they'd induce upon seeing you now. Beaten, bloodied, and your organs practically on fire from the laser-induced torture they had just endured. Though, it feels strangely good to be able to breathe without them.

"A little over six months is how long they kept me. Again, they never hurt me, so it feels wrong of me to call them "kidnappers"... When I think too hard about it, I know it is what they are, I just never wanted to admit it. God, they took my freedom like it was pocket change!"

The sneer you hold has nothing against the absolute fury stretched among Ada's face.

"In the end, I escaped. I-I didn't know where I intended to go or what my plan was, but now I really, really don't know what to do..."

To make matters worse, you curl into yourself and begin to cry. It kills her to do such, but she must hold herself back, as giving you comfort would only add fuel to the fire that is her devotion to you. And to refrain from scooping you in her arms is practically killing her. To not be able to touch and comfort you, Ada knows that this is the universe testing her. No, torturing her. Every mistake, every flaw, every selfish deed — this is the karma that caught up to her after a lifetime of running from its inevitability.

"And I'm just so scared. I know they're gonna find me again and I won't be able to escape them. I'll never be free. I'll be running forever until I either submit to them o-or die!"

A beat passes when another unwelcome, unruly sob escapes your throat. The sheer calamity of this day had prevented you from processing these events. Now, the exhaustion and anguish are too much for you to bottle up.

"Oh, petal..." As you cry, Ada's long acrylics dig into the meat of her palm.

She refrains from caressing the warm skin of your shoulder. She holds herself back from pressing another tender kiss to your forehead. To prevent herself from doing such feels like suffocating. As if the heavy mass of her burning desires became physical matter and were now crushing her.

"Ada, I can't thank you enough for all you have done for me." Your gratitude is certainly not taken for granted, as every pretty word falls from your mouth and directly into the mosaic of her heart.

She cannot be in love with you anymore. She can't, she can't, she can't.

"I'm sorry for being so selfish, but please..." With helpless desperation in your eyes, you plead as though your words do not make her absolutely weak.

She must stay strong, she must complete her plan. Find you, ensure your safety, and pray to God she has enough strength to leave you after.

"Don't leave me..."

Welp, there goes that plan.

She would slaughter every soul before she'd admit it to herself, but turning her back on it has now done more harm than good.

You make her soft.

Needy.

Hungry.

You have rendered her to the same disposition of an animal, entirely feral for any chunk of you she can sink her teeth into.

"I'm right here, petal... I'm not going anywhere."

Ada Wong has let go. And you are oblivious to the consequences of this.

The resistance she once had has now faded. For six years, these tree roots have coiled around her limbs, keeping her restrained within the suffocating soil. Today, they have untangled themselves. Ada surfaces the thick dirt to find Spring in its most genuine, vulnerable time. Bunnies chase through the blossoming flowers. Trees dance with the gentle breeze. Fresh rivers flow through the bright forest. The war has ended; the torture is over.

You are at her side and there is nothing Ada could ever want more.

When she guides you out of the laboratory, she informs you of the helicopter that will soon arrive. If you weren't seconds away from succumbing to exhaustion, you'd notice the terrifying, devoted undertones beneath her structured facade. There is a man and a woman you have seen this behavior in too well, after all. However, Ada's ability to maintain herself differs from Jill and Carlos' messy aptitude.

She says your name, beckoning you to follow her. Y/N. It feels so good to say it, to have the sugary word on her tongue. It feels so good to speak it into the air and watch those eyes gaze at her with wonder, the same wonder she has fallen so hopelessly in love with. The bliss that follows after you should be considered a crime with the sheer effect it has on her. Then again, Ada was never one to follow the rules.

The two of you both race through the many twists and turns that scatter the island. Shipping containers, cargo lifts, and barrels splattered with yellow paint, you and Ada dodge the obstacles in your path. And still, she protects you with her life. Just as she had wholly promised.

Back in Raccoon City, she had lost control. She cannot afford to lose that control again, not when losing you is a possibility. Her mindless infatuation had already thrust you into danger, she would die if she let it happen once more.

With burning lungs and weak legs, you both finally arrive at the loading docks. Ada doesn't break a sweat as she tells you the helicopter will be arriving shortly. You collapse onto a pile of brown, paper sacks, now finally given a moment of rest after so many exhausting hours without it. You could nearly cry with relief.

The creak and whine of footsteps against the thin metal floors pervade the air.

A voice speaks.

"Y/N...!?"

You both look to identify the voice.

Your stomach sinks like an anchor at sea.

Leon Kennedy.

⁺ 🎧 , 🪷 you are currently listening to . . . ⁺ 🪺 , 🎵 ꪆ

THE BONUS TRACK !

❝ I CARE FOR YOU STILL

AND I WILL FOREVER . . . ❞

this is what i imaged ada's flower-pressed ring to look like. and this is what i imagined the teddy bear necklace carlos gave reader looks like.

gif creds :: ada.

[uhlillie]

flower. - leon kennedy x reader

wc. 766 | mostly just thoughts. tiniest allusion to death, alcoholism, but nothing too serious. reader can be read as gender-neutral.

A warm, welcoming silence washes over Leon, punctuated by the soft and steady thump of your heartbeat. Dirty golden hair feathers over the ridge of your collarbone, his cheek pressed to your heart. It's a soothing rhythm, a gentle reminder that you are here. That you're present. That you're alive.

That's all he asks for, really.

As long as you draw breath, as long as your eyes meet his, as long as he can see the curve of your lips as you smile… Leon is content. In a way, it's like his life is tethered to yours. Everything good and everything bad—if anything happens to you, it happens to him. Symbiotic. If he could carry all of your burdens for you, he would in a heartbeat. It's the least he could do for you, his solace in the whirlwind he calls life.

Leon closes his eyes. He owes a lot in his meager existence to you, though you'd probably argue the contrary. All he knew was violence, the sound of his blood roaring in his ears and the taste of gunpowder in the air. It'd stick to him like molasses, even long after his missions had ended, clogging his airways at night. Then he'd wake up, heart racing a mile a minute and skin moistened with perspiration. The only way he could ever seem to rid himself of the feeling was by drowning it all in alcohol. Then his phone would ring and it would start all over again.

He'd resigned himself to this sad routine a long time ago, following through the motions without even thinking about it, all while hoping that it would all come to a screeching stop. This is it, Leon would tell himself every time. But it never comes, life sweeping him ever forward. So he grins and bears it, masking the void in his heart with cheesy one-liners and flirtatious comments. And bear it he did, at least until you'd came and wedged yourself right into his heart, warming the winter of his soul.

You had done what he'd thought was impossible—springing out from the heavy snow that had settled over his life and blossoming like a tulip ushering in a new spring. You were the pop of color illuminating his dull surroundings, the center focus of his eye, and he imprinted you into the deep recesses of his brain like the photosensitive reel of a camera. Your smile, a pretty picture, became his new driving force in the day to day. And instead of staring down the deep abyss of nothingness that threatens him on every mission he goes on, Leon could finally pick his head up and seek his way back to the light, your light.

Sometimes, Leon wonders how you could be so vibrant. How your smile could remain so brilliant despite how hard it must be to be with him, despite the rough edges of his past that bleed into the present. Your love is perennial, persistent, evergreen. He hopes he can keep it that way, hopes he can be the solid foundation for your roots to anchor onto. He'd gladly give up his job to tend to your happiness, pruning away the rot that eats away at you, wiping away the dew that accumulates along your waterline.

The rustle of sheets brings him out of his reverie, and he loosens his arms around you, just realizing that he must have been holding you too tightly, enough for you to rouse from your deep slumber. Leon inhales, nose pressed against your petal-soft skin, letting your scent wash over him. Lovely, just like the flower beds planted outside of your apartment building. You'd pluck one of the prettier blossoms, fingers sweeping away the fair strands of his hair and tucking the stem behind his ear. You'd laugh and he'd smile. And while the flowers would always fall away, he'd still feel the ghost of your fingertips on his skin, warming his thoughts for the rest of the day.

Leon's eyes open when he feels your fingers threading through his hair, a quiet murmur of his name leaving your lips. Right. It's late. Moonlight streams through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating the room just enough for him to catch the sleepy glint in your eyes. He mumbles an apology against the curve of your jaw, breath feather-light as he tells you to go back to sleep. He watches as you ease back into the dream world, eyes fluttering shut. Like the closing of a flower's petals.

Flowers aren't only beautiful when they bloom, he thinks. ෆ⸒⸒

a/n: my first writing contribution to this fandom..! 👉👈 i'm rusty, if you can tell. i don't write often, not as much as i used to. i forget how hard it is to put words down, especially compared to drawing. i was inspired by something i wrote for a different fandom. i was rereading my old stuff and thought. huh. this reminds me of leon. what if i just steal the prompt and make it about him instead? so yeah 👍

p.s. it's midnight and i'm trying not to physically cringe at the idea of pressing the post button. i'm not good at this at all. help.

[the-kr8tor]

What is Normal for the Spider is Chaos to the Fly

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 8.7 k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, No specific physical description of the reader, CW violence and gore, CW blood, TW death, CW guns, CW food mention.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 3 >>> CHAPTER 4

Eyes closed, you breathe in the fresh spring breeze, the first of many this season. Pollen makes your nose itch, bees buzz around the field of flowers, yellow dots kissing the soft petals. A babbling brook sits near you, perfect spherical rocks worn down by the waters makes you want to skip them across the transparent clean water where fish lie and swim right under the currents.

The bright sun above shines down on you, its light fighting through your eyelids and through the canopy of the oak tree. Its strong trunk provides the perfect back rest, the wood is stable and protective of your relaxed form. Like the softest carpet, the green grass below is splayed under you. Blades of grass and wildflowers swaying amidst the wind just like how your lashes flutter with every soft blow of the cool air.

“Why'd you stop?” Hobie asks from below. You crack open your eyes to see his lopsided smile, jade eyes crinkling in the corners. His head is resting on your lap, fingers absentmindedly playing a tune on the beaten up guitar on his chest. There's flowers in his hair, courtesy of you. “C’mon, lovie, I was just starting to fall asleep.”

You chuckle, and he smiles wider. The sun bathes you in its glow, a halo of light around your head, a heavenly sight for a mere mortal. “You're spoiled you know.” You realize your fingers are in his hair, soft fingertips paused on his skin. Your vision goes blurry, with a blink, everything shifts back. “So spoiled.”

“Says the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.” He says it with no ounce of malice.

“How'd you know about spoony?” You joke, he laughs, a sound better than anything you've ever heard of. “How was work?”

“Lonesome, you didn't come by.” You tilt your head, lips pursing into a soft smile. “Do I still smell like gunpowder to you?”

“No, you smell like flowers.”

“Is it too late to say that I'm allergic to ‘em?”

You giggle, “No you're not. You haven't even sneezed.” Grabbing a daisy from his hair to wiggle it under his nose, his face scrunches up comedically, and then he fakes a sneeze. The loudness of it startles the birds nesting by the branches, wings fluttering rapidly further away.

“Good job, you scared the birds.” You look down at him, hand inching closer to the daisy ring you've made a while ago.

“What? I can't sneeze?” His eyes are glued to you, the sun paints a pretty picture of his viridescent eyes shining in the light.

With a deep inhale, you take his hand away from the guitar, slipping the flower ring you've been itching to place on his finger. Hobie seems to freeze up either in your touch or the sight of the makeshift ring. You show him your hand, an identical white flower whose stems are wrapped gingerly around your middle finger.

“Ta dah.” You say shyly. The tightness around your chest clenches at his silence. “I'll take it off, I'm sorry. I thought—”

Hobie quickly reaches up to shield the ring away from you, “No, don't—it’s brilliant. Thank you.” You beam at him as he intertwines his fingers around your own, the rings in full display. “Suits me, I think. But it looks better on you.” You inhale, the comfortable warmth is replaced by icy air. Everything shifts.

The breeze is colder now, the grass is frozen under your feet, frost clinging to each blade. The canopy is no more, only dark angled branches with tiny leaves hang off the precious oak tree. A puff of smoke billows out of your dry lips, Hobie hugs you closer, hand rubbing up and down your arm, body heat shielding you from frost bite.

“Cold?”

“Yes, very.” You shiver, and he holds you closer. “This sunset better be worth it, Hobie, I had to put down a really good botanical book for this.” You say, cheek pressed atop his chest, breath warming his neck. You'd choose him over any book.

“First sunset of the season, love. It's worth it, I promise.” Without a second thought, he takes his coat off to place it over your shivering shoulders. You huddle closer, wrapping yourself around him. Sharing your warmth.

Blue slowly ebbs away as he pulls you closer. The clouds part ways for red and orange, pink splashes across the sky, a watercolour painting that leaves you gasping for air. Or was it his lips upon yours for the first time that has you heaving for air?

Hobie kisses you with the gentleness only a lover could provide, yet with the tentativeness of someone who isn't sure you'd kiss back. The pads of his fingers brush along your jaw, ghosting over your flustered flesh. With a sigh and a pull on his jacket collar, you kiss back. Lips pecking the corner of his own, clouds of smoke mixing in, hands warm on your searing cheeks— he slowly leads you towards the same oak tree. Your back hits the wood with an almost silent thump, his hand protecting the back of your head. Eyes closed, you memorize his lips by kiss alone. Your hands knead at his nape, he shivers not from the cold.

“I'm in love with you.” He says it confidently, like he's been saying it to himself for years. He feels like he has.

“I've been waiting to hear you say that.” Your eyes meet his own in a dance. Eyes flicking down to his lips, jade eyes looking between your blown out eyes and your quivering lips. “I've been in love with you. For a really long time.” You feel his lips open, mouthing the three words back against your own. It's barely above a whisper but you know that he'll scream it if you asked.

A flash of his warm hands around your own, a glimpse of a knife carving yours and his initials on the wood that you both call home. A muffled promise lingers in your ears, soft, just like his lips on yours.

You open your eyes and you see him above you. Hobie pinches your nose with a laugh, calloused fingertips squeezing lovingly at you, emerald eyes swimming with affection. The warm air passes by, humidity stuck in your nose. The sweat of your brow is quickly wiped away by him.

“Stop sayin' that, yeah?” You don't remember what you said. “You're bloody gorgeous, she doesn't know real beauty even if it hits her powdered arse.”

“Hobie!” You laugh, hands planted on his hips, the fabric of his shirt is hitched up for easy access. “She's still my aunt, and my legal guardian.”

“Unfortunately.”

Your smile agrees with him, but if you say it out loud you're afraid that the ground will swallow you alive and Hobie will be ripped away from you.

“It's a nice day today, you plannin’ on gropin’ me the whole afternoon?”

“Yep!” You look down at where his hands are placed, palms cupping you right above your ribs. “You planning on doing the same to me?”

“Say otherwise and I'll take my hands away from you—”

“No!” You say quickly before he could finish.

Hobie guffaws loudly, face leaning closer to yours. You close your eyes, expecting the expected. Instead, his head falls on the crook of your neck, blowing warm air into your skin.

Your laughs echoes around the clearing, fading into the sound of leaves crunching under your footsteps.

Orange leaves fall down on you like rain, a puff of breeze settles in your muscles, rattling your bones. Despite the cold, you inch your way closer to him, his smile beckons you over, grassy spring coloured eyes lighting up at the mere sight of you. His back resting on the strong oak tree that carries both your names.

“You know, we could always meet up at your place now that you're the up and coming associate.” You hold your hand out towards him, his fingers slide on your palm so naturally that you think you're made for eachother. “We can stop sneaking around now thanks to you.”

Hobie feels like he can finally breathe once he has his hands on you. He twists your wrist gently, leaning down, he presses a quick kiss on your pulse, eyes meeting your own. Years of being together, and he still makes your heart race.

Warm lips on your skin, he pecks it again for good measure before leaning away and pulling you closer. His hands are around your hip, while you wrap yours over his shoulders. “We could. But even after all my hard work, your aunt still doesn't—won't approve of us together. I'm me and you're you, love. What would they say when they see their heiress skulkin’ around the harbour, hm?”

“They won't say anything because I'm good at skulking around.”

“Or they'd say you're hurtin' your prospects of a good husband.”

“Fuck them! You and my garden are all I need.”

He calls your name solemnly, “we have to face the fact that—”

“What? That I'll be stuck in a loveless marriage in the near future?” You shake your head. “I refuse.” A humourless laugh breaks through.

“Good thing you said that or this will be awkward.” Hobie takes out a pair of gold rings from his pocket, it shimmers in the sunset, cold metal upon his warm trembling hands. “It took me a hundred days to save up for them, they're scraps from the factory. All melted together to make a pair.”

“Y–you're stealing from us now?” You could barely finish your joking sentence with the sob fighting to escape your throat.

Hobie laughs, a breathy one that has you mentally making up another joke just to hear it again. “Been at it since they hired me.” He hands you one, not sliding it down your finger, no, he places it right in the middle of your palm. “Remember those daisy rings you made years ago?” You nod, eyes brimming with tears. “I've made ‘em real this time. But the next one would be pure gold, none of the mixed ones I've melted with it.” He bounces on the balls of his feet as you glance at the gold ring that is a hodgepodge of different shades of yellow gold. Some seem to be darker, some lighter. “You deserve real ones.”

“You could make me a ring out of grass and wood, and I'll still wear it everyday.” Taking the ring, you slide it into your middle finger, a promise, he says in your ears, a promise, you repeat against his lips as you slip his own ring around his finger. A promise you both carved out into the tree and into your hearts, a promise that you'd carve out into your skin if you could.

The smell of burning wood wakes you up with a start, You've woken up with tears trapped in your eyelashes.

Your eyes open to a boiling pot of brown liquid. It's familiar, awfully so that you've hated it, it reminds you of someone you'd rather not remember. Looking up at the sky that is darkened to a pale blue, turning the orange and green plains into its royal colour— The roaring open fire is the only bright thing in sight, a yellow glow amidst all the bitter blue.

The amber flames screams among the dead silence and the vast emptiness, ‘Someone’s here! Someone’s alive over here!’ yet, you don't feel like you are.

You cough from the cold, throat itching from dryness. Lifting your hands up to tug the blanket further up, you now notice the deep crescent moons left on your palms. Some even bled through the night, dried blood decorating the lines on your palms and under your fingernails.

“You're awake. Good.” Hobie's voice hits you like a carriage, sleep ridden mind still hazy. For a second you thought that you're still dreaming of him. But his solid form and smoke from his cigarette resting on a stone says he's real. Your mind can't dream of something so tethered to reality like this. “You want some?” He rattles the now empty tin cup, brown liquid dripping from the rim to the ground below.

“You're offering me a cup?”

He furrows his pierced brows. “‘course, there's plenty.”

“No, thank you. Do you have something to eat instead? Or water?” Sitting up, you wipe the sleep off your eyes. Your joints hurt, stomach gurgling, and ankle aching. You hate it here, he's the only one that's making everything bearable even though he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than be with you. It still hurts, thinking that he does.

“Yeah.” Standing up with a groan, it seems like sleep didn't agree with him either. There's bags under his eyes, worsened by the shadow from the brim of his hat. Taking something from his pack on Buckeye, who still slumbers quietly, he holds out a canteen and a piece of dried meat wrapped in cloth. “‘ere.” The familiar scar on the back of your hand has him reeling away. He remembers the day you got it, he remembers how his hand trembled as he stitches your hand back together.

“Thank you.” You say, stiffly smiling. He nods, returning back to his seat.

Breakfast went over fast, with dawn turning into morning, and the crisp air warming down, you take the blanket off your shoulders. Bucky trotts on the road, coyotes chirp on your left and a tumbleweed passes by on your right. It feels like you and Hobie are the only people on the road, or even in the whole world.

You clear your throat, attempting to break the quiet after riding for hours in absolute silence. “So…are you an outlaw? A mercenary for hire, or even a trapper?”

“‘m one of those things, yes.”

“So mysterious. You know you're still an open book to me.” Looking over your shoulder, he grabs your chin to make you look away and to keep your eyes on the dirt road. To which you laugh at. “Yep, still an open book.” It's true that you still know him for the man that he was, but there's missing pieces of him in your mind. You intend to dive to find the pieces so you could piece together who he is today. Before you go home, before you part forever again.

“How would you know?” Hobie tamps down a smile even though you won't be able to see it. “Maybe I've changed in those five years.”

“Oh you have.” You'd know. “But I can still see through you. I know you, Hobart Brown. Or did you also change your name too?”

“It's Larry now.”

“You serious?” Looking behind, you see him sporting a smirk. A smile spreads across your lips at his playfulness, a semblance of the Hobie you once knew.

“For example?” He asks, something he might regret. “What do you see through me?”

“Well, you put this big bad façade up because it's what everyone expects you to be. But in truth, it's so you could survive here. I bet it's working well since you're still here breathing.”

“I don't care what anybody thinks, Y/N.”

“I know that too. But you still do it because you don't want them talking to you, coming close to you. I remember how hard it was to even get you to speak to me.”

“I was a kid, we were children, and I was new in town.”

“I got you to talk though. Still proud of myself that I got to see the real you.” You puff out your chest. “This place is just like our old town, you know. Harsher, yes, but this time you don't bother to try, not like last time.” Your voice lowers into a murmur. He knows why he doesn't bother, because there's no one out here that could get him out of his walled up shell just like you did. There's no one like you. “I still know you, after all these years. Even if you think I don't, or at least the version of you that you left me with.” The sky gets darker, grey clouds floating next to white fluffy ones, and you still remember how he held you the first time you shared a bed. “You've changed and I confess that I barely know this side of you. I don't know what happened to you in those five years but could you let me try to get to know you again? Just like last time?”

The clouds above darken his green eyes, something passes by them, something that has his hands gripping tighter around the reins.

“It's goin’ to rain.” Is all he could say. “We should hurry and find shelter, there's a shortcut I know.”

You inhale the sharp familiar smell of petrichor, letting it settle in your lungs, letting it drown you, letting it seep through your skin so you can focus on it rather than the flatness of his voice that lacks what you're used to.

“Sure,” you swallow thickly, nails digging into your hemp bindings instead of your flesh.

Hobie clicks his tongue thrice, a sharp almost whistle, and out runs Bucky faster on the sandy lonesome road. Hooves thudding like the rumble of the heavens above, a lightning storm races behind you, sparks of light flashing and clashing on the mountainous rocks of the west.

“Hold on,” Hobie whispers close to the shell of your ear, goosebumps spreading through you like poison ivy on skin. He leans forward, leather clad body shielding you from the harsh howling winds that approaches quickly. “This storm's comin' in fast.”

Wind whips your cheeks, cool air making you narrow your eyes into slits to protect it from the dusty debris. A silhouette of a person appears at the end of the road, you feel Hobie stiffen up from the suspicious man. Arms cage you in, the mysterious man's shadow gets closer and closer as Bucky whines and halts to a stop. Hobie hides your hands with his own, a small act that brings your mind a minute of peace.

“State your business.” Hobie says in a practiced tone, commanding like the one he used with the man who snatched you.

The old man walks with a twisted cane, a makeshift one made from an old branch. His eyes are dull and almost silver, blue rings around his irises, eyebrows thick and white, beard bushy and hair almost gone. Right behind him lies a dip in the road, a chasm from where you sat, a deep gorge from what you surmise. Right next to the road sits a dingy solemn cabin, roof looking like it's about to collapse under its own weight, hinges creaking, window shutters opening and closing harshly from the wind. A border collie barks at you, mismatched eyes unwavering, warning you of something to come.

“Just ‘ere to warn you, son.” The old stranger trembles, either from the cold or from his bad leg. “Anyone who come ‘ver down that road doesn't come out unscathed.” He wipes his face with the sleeve of his yellowed shirt. “Just tryin' be a good samaritan.”

“Yeah? Penance for the war then?” You give Hobie a look. He glances over to you in return.

“I was on yer side, son. I won't be out ‘ere warnin’ you and the missus if I wasn't now eh?”

“Thank you for the warning.” You pipe up, the brief silence has made the whole situation more awkward. “We'll try another route then—”

“No,” Hobie stands his ground, “just like she said, thank you for the warnin’ but that's the closest route to Strawberry.”

The man takes his hat off even with the intense shaking of his hand. He then places it on his chest like he's already mourning you. “Safe travels. Don't say I didn't warn ya.” With a whistle, the dog runs over to him before helping him walk home.

“Wait!” The man stops in his tracks, even the dog turns around to face you. “A storm's coming, you'll be cold. Here.” Sliding your hands away from Hobie's, you take the blanket from your lap.

“My eyes are bad but do I see you givin' me your coat?” He smiles toothily.

“Y/N—” Hobie warns.

“Yes, but it's a blanket, not a coat.” The man chuckles deeply, cheeks red and warm.

He whistles again, and the dog walks over to you. “Give it ‘ere to ol' Nellie.” The dog wags her tail, tongue lolling.

“Hi, Nellie,” you giggle as you lean down to place the fabric in her mouth. “Take good care of it. Good girl.” Hobie's hand is holding your waist, single handedly preventing you from falling over.

He remembers your kindness, how you don't falter when you see someone you can help. You're unequivocally kindhearted, a stark contrast to himself, and what he has become in those five years he wasn't by your side. He remembers how much he loved and longed for you. He needs to know who sent the letter on his behalf, but it can wait, maybe he'll thank them when he does find them.

You don't notice him look at you with the same expression he had years ago.

With a happy wag of her tail, Nellie skips over to her owner, handing him your blanket. “Thank you, miss, you've got a kind soul.” There's warmth in your chest, nodding towards the man. “You take care now. And you.” He looks over your companion. “Better watch her back and protect her kind soul eh?”

“Get inside, don't want you gettin' my blanket drenched.”

A laugh billows out as he waves you away. Entering his humble abode with a loud bang of his door.

“I think we should listen to him.” You say above the winds.

“We'll be fine,” Hobie's voice is softer. “I've been ‘ere before. Just listen to me, yeah?” He kicks gently, and Bucky takes his cue to run in the same direction again.

“If I listened to you back there then the poor man would've shivered from the cold.”

“And now you'll be the one shivering from the cold.”

“He needed it more than I did.” You almost scoff as you hold on tighter around the horn of the saddle while Bucky trudges downward on the slope and into the gorge.

“Don't expect me to get you a new one.”

Now you scoff. “Then don't.” Yet, your chest clenches from his words.

Buckeye finally slows down halfway through the gorge. Hobie inhales deeply, jade eyes flicking above the rocks. The walls seem to close in on you, fifty foot tall walls of ancient stone looming over you. A stream runs along the path, murky brown water splashing with every movement.

“Why'd you slow down—?” Your eyes widen at the moving figures above. “There's people up there.” You whisper as you watch them observe you. The bows on their back gather your attention, eyes piercing through you than the sharpest of arrows. Hobie suddenly grabs your chin, still gentle but with a sense of urgency this time. He turns your head towards the road, rough leather sliding from your chin to your hands.

“Keep your eyes on the road. And keep your mouth shut.”

“Will they let us pass?”

“Yes.” He says immediately.

“Do you know them?”

“Yes, now keep quiet.” Tipping the brim of hat in respect, you do as you're told. “Or they'll be the one askin' me questions. And we don't have time for friendly banter.”

When he says those words, you hear a whisper of his name from above, then a bout of laughter echoing downwards. Subtly looking over your shoulder, you see him crack a small smile.

You turn back towards the road, a soft morose smile on your lips from how much you've missed from his life. You want to know what happened to him in those five years, to be told stories of his adventures under the campfire. To be part of those stories once more, not whatever you're in with him. An afterthought, a burden.

You're starting to feel all the love he once gave you was just from your mind. Made up by you, dreamt and imagined.

—

The cave you've found shelter in is perfect. It's big enough to house you and Hobie, even Bucky rests inside, dry and happy while his dark eyes follow you— as if trying to keep an eye out for you. The cave protects you from the hammering rain outside and from the lightning that pierces the clouds. You lean on the rocky mouth of the cave, hands reaching outside to cup the rain and feel the sharp water droplets drench your skin. Lifting your head up, you watch the sky. The storm has no end in sight, yet, there’s a bit of light passing through the grey, a ray of sunshine that brings hope, blue peeking in between the dark clouds.

Water splashes against your flesh, cleaning the tiny gashes and dried blood that you're not sure is all from your body. The rope that binds you is soaked, weighing heavy around your wrists like steel bracelets.

Wind howling, lightning cutting through the sky like a bullet through skin— You don't feel his heavy gaze on you.

The roaring fire behind you provides warmth just like the man tending to it. And like the fire he's tending, he realizes that his affection for you still burns him inside out no matter how he tries to snuff it out.

The fire crackles, you watch your shadow dance with the flame's movements. You still don't feel his heavy stare on your back.

With a forced smile, an idea pops in your head. You let the water on your palms fall, flicking away the droplets, making your own patch of rain.

“I've got a proposition.”

“Come eat, smelly” You both speak at the same time, amusement flashes behind his precious emerald eyes that's illuminated by the embers.

"I don't smell." You laugh in between, loving the fact that he seems to be in a better mood. Sniffing at yourself, you scrunch up your nose from the smell. "That much. You're not any better.”

Hobie shakes his head, hiding the curl of his lips with the brim of his hat. He places a can of peaches in your direction. “We'll be in Strawberry by late afternoon. There's an inn there where we can rest and bathe.”

Sitting down next to him but still giving him enough space, you tuck your legs under you, wiggling your hands in front of him.

“Can you untie me now? I'm not going to run, Hobie. Where will I go?”

“Tell me about your so-called proposition.” Hobie raises a brow, teeth biting down and clenched around the leather before fully yanking his glove off. You suddenly feel hot when he unties your hands without another word.

There's no identical ring around his finger. Your happiness is snatched away at the sight of his empty finger. What was once a promise is now gone from his flesh that you used to trace with your own hands.

Clearing your throat, you watch the shadows on the cave walls flicker behind him. “W–we take the scenic route. I want to see the sights the new world has to offer. Before returning.” You don't even want to call it home anymore.

“The new world? You sound like a grandma.”

“You saying ‘state your business’ wasn't any better, grandpa.”

Hobie's eyes meet your own, green eyes aglow. A remnant of the Hobie five years ago. You could get used to this, his warm gaze that soothes you from the inside out, something that you never took for granted before but never thought you'd miss dearly. You welcome it back with open arms. Even if it was brief.

A flash of bright lightning hits outside your cave, startling you, free hand placed on your quaking chest.

“It's just lightning, love.” A freudian slip, a term of endearment that travels you both back in time. Now that he said it once more, he finds that it still fits you like a warm hug on a cold winter's day, or a first kiss, one of many.

Slowly turning your head, your lips tremble, eyes watering from a silent cry. You try to reach for him, but he deflects your touch by twisting around on his seat, taking a swig from his canteen. The only one that he has.

Quietly eating, your insides are yelling for you to hold him close, to be near him, to hug him until the screaming stops. You can't satiate the feeling, it bites at your bones, chewing, eating at you, going hungry, starving. You stand up, leaving the can of peaches on the ground, returning to the mouth of the cave so the feeling will ravage you alone once again like it always has for the past five years. You've survived this long, but there's barely anything left of you now— a husk, barely a speck, so you cry and cry, sobs muffled by the rain.

You don't feel his gaze on you. He feels the same gnawing feeling in his belly, crawling up to his chest, eating what's left of his heart like a vulture that carries all his grief and guilt.

—

You're back on the road again, the ground is wet and muddy. Clay and grass sticking to Bucky's hooves as he trudges along the soil. You purposely don't remind him about the missing rope around your wrist. Loving the freedom the lack of it brings, you brush your fingers through Buckeye’s hair; dark wavy tresses that reminds you of fine silk.

“You take good care of him.”

“You said that already.”

“I know, I'm just saying it again for emphasis. I hope you're taking care of yourself too.”

You feel him shift in his seat, fatigue rattling his bones that's exacerbated by the rocking movement.

“Do you feel alright?” You ask, looking over your shoulder. His eyebrows are furrowed, sweat dribbling from his forehead.

“‘m fine.”

“You don't look fine. Riding bareback this long hurts, we can switch places—”

“It would be better if you had your own horse.” Hobie groans, stretching his shoulders. Buckeye seems to notice the conversation, huffing and staring back at his rider. “‘m not replacing you, Bucky. Not yet anyway.”

The dark horse neighs, a high pitched sound that makes you laugh. “He was not happy with that.”

“He's not happy with anythin'” Hobie shakes his head at the horse, you're amused by the whole situation. “Picky eater, always demanding sugar cubes instead of a carrot or an apple. Fuckin' spoiled.” Bucky neighs again, louder this time, clearly annoyed.

“Just like his rider.” You giggle, Hobie stifles a roll of his eyes, a ghost of a smile on his pierced lips. “Careful with your comments or he might buck you off and have me as his rider instead.”

Hobie's amusement fades, his eyes hardens, a sight that has your heart thrumming loudly, a sight that you're very familiar with back at home.

“I‘m sorry— I–I didn't mean to.” You frantically apologize, shaking your head, hand reaching for his own, palm hovering over his gloves.

“Look ahead.” He gestures forward. “Nothin' to apologize for, love.”

“Are you sure?” You can't seem to slow down your breathing.

Hobie notices, blinking, he tentatively takes your hand in his. Squeezing once, jade eyes searching your hurt face. Guilt passes through him.

He should've come back for you.

“Yes,” he swallows thickly, slowing down Bucky's steps. “Breathe for me, yeah?” You nod, inhaling and exhaling. “Good, keep doin' that.” Inhale, exhale, “atta girl. Now listen to me, I need you to hold on tight, and do what I say.”

“What's wrong?” Did you do something wrong again? You hold on tight just like he asked.

“Eyes up front, sweetheart.” The floodgates open, he can't stop himself from calling you those honeyed names. And you can't stop looking at him. With a gentle hold to your chin, he carefully moves it forward. You see five people waving you over further down the road. They're accompanied by a broken down carriage, three wheels missing, no oxen in sight, just a few horses hitched near them.

They call you over, grinning from ear to ear. “Oh thank God!” You hear them say, their forms getting closer and closer.

“They need help.” You say, Hobie's hand around the reins tightens.

“And we're not goin' to give it to ‘em.”

“What? Why?”

“That's bait, we're not fallin’ for it.” His eyes don't leave the strangers’ hands.

“Bait—? They genuinely look like they need help.”

“We're close to town, and they have horses. They could've gone over there instead of flagging down an armed stranger.”

“I'm not armed.”

“Yes, but I am.” With a swift kick, Hobie guides Buckeye to a mad dash. Your back hits his chest from the sudden momentum. A dull ache on your spine, a tingling sensation on his ribs.

Buckeye passes by the broken carriage, leaving dust in their eyes. “C’mon, Bucky! Get us out of ‘ere, boy!”

Wind in your eyes, you look behind, your heart falls in your stomach when you see them follow immediately on their horses, guns drawn, aiming at Hobie.

“Oh fuck!” A bullet whizzes past your head, missing you by just a few inches. You feel it's hot searing metal fly past, “they're shooting at us! Why the fuck—!”

Hobie twists, with one hand on the reins, and the other on his gun, he shoots down one man with precision. The bullet hits its mark, right in his heart. A fountain of crimson splashes from his wounded body, his feet still strapped in the stirrups, flinging the now lifeless body around like a window shutter in a storm.

Hobie shoots again, a horse falls, another bullet, and one gets iron in their gullet. And another and another, one on the leg and one on the shoulder, but they still ride on. Until Hobie's gun clicks, its chamber now empty, in slow motion, you see the remaining survivors use the opportunity to aim at Hobie's head. With quick thinking, you twist uncomfortably, body stretching behind to grab the hunting rifle strapped on Bucky's back. Within a second, you sit upright with the barrel pointing at them.

Hobie sees it all happen while he frantically reloads. His gun jams from carelessness, heart beating like a snare drum, fingers frantically trying to fix it. The sun is in his eyes as he sees you cock your head over his shoulder, the long barrel of the rifle is placed atop his leather jacket, finger itching to press the trigger.

“Duck.” Your voice is calm as Hobie follows through your command, the firing pin ignites, sparks fly, the smell of gunpowder permeates the air, bullet whizzing and hitting your mark— Right in between the eyes.

Gore explodes from what used to be a head, then a scream from the remaining target. Hobie steers Bucky, whilst you fight. Fight for him, and for yourself.

Pulling the bolt handle, without missing a beat you release the shell with a clink of metal. The remaining man looks at his dead companion in horror, still riding on next to him, now missing a head. Just like they did, you use the opportunity to reload, hand reaching for Hobie's gun belt, taking what you need, reloading with an expert hand. You pull the bolt to place the bullet, pushing it in, you aim once again. At the same time, the man screams, aiming at you. But you're faster.

Inhale. You shoot, hand steady, eyes focused.

A wet squelch can be heard, then a body thuds harshly on the ground as a horse neighs, crying and trotting wildly. You finally exhale. Hobie reins Bucky in, hooves digging in, he stops.

“Holy shit.” Hobie stares at you with a growing smile, cheeks aflame, not from the adrenaline nor the fight. “You can shoot.”

“You taught me.” Your eyes doesn't leave the violence you left behind.

“Yeah, but not like that!” He laughs in disbelief. His heart hammers in his chest, and he remembers all the times he held your hand in his while he teaches you the basics.

“What do you think I've been doing since you left?” You swallow thickly, nerves catching up, hands trembling around the rifle. “My books can only take me so far until I've read the entire library.”

Hobie holds your cheek, face concerned, thumb running along the tear you don't notice slide down your cheek. “Can you look at me, lovie?”

Slowly but surely, you turn your head. “We manufacture guns, Hobie, it's important for me to learn.”

“I know, but shootin’ it at people is different.” He would know, he worked at the same place. “Are you alright?”

“Now you ask me that?” You hand him the rifle, breath shuddering. “Can we go now, please?”

Hobie could only nod, hand itching to hold you again.

—

You finally reach Strawberry, it has a sweet sounding name but it's anything but sweet. The streets are thick with mud, the smell is much better than the other town but it still makes your nose itch. The place is situated on the foot of a mountain, the air is cooler with heavy winds persisting. Rows and rows of establishments lie along the road, a saloon with a balcony on your right, a doctor's office on your left. Convenient, you think.

A brothel sits next to the saloon, women gathered around on the porch, smiling and hollering at the people who pass by. Hobie garners their attention, (who wouldn't be?) despite riding with you on the same horse. He doesn't give them any attention, a disappointment on their part. His eyes are too busy looking over your profile and the inn that's situated on the hill.

You flick your eyes over to him, as if he has a sixth sense, he stares back. “What?”

“Nothing.” You whisper.

Hobie hides a small smile over your shoulder. He stops Buckeye at the front of the inn, hopping off, he hitches his horse first before giving you a hand, surprising you.

Without a second thought, you take his outstretched hand, bare against his leather clad one. You land carefully on the soft ground, cringing at the wet squelch of mud on your shoes.

“I need a bath,” you stomp over towards the porch and out of the mud. Hobie's hand finally leaves your side once you step foot on the steady planks. “And a nice bed.”

“That's why we're ‘ere.” He says while he takes his pack from Bucky's back. Giving the horse a pet and a much deserved sugarcube. He whispers something to the horse, to which Bucky neighs in reply. Stepping on the porch right next to you, the dark horse nods at his rider.

You laugh at them. “What'd you tell him?”

“I promised him a place at the stable so he could get a proper rest. ‘m gonna take him once you're inside.”

“Are you gonna leave me here?” Panic sets in your stomach.

Hobie furrows his brows, “no, ‘course not.” I'd never do that. He thinks, but he already did, years ago. “C’mon.”

Bucky neighs to you this time, tail swishing behind him. “G’night, Buck.” You give him a small wave. “You did a good job today.”

Entering the inn, the smell of pine and something fruity catches your nose. Its walls are all wooden, lined with old photos and animal furs. There's a fireplace in the common area where a couple of people sit and chat by the fire. The place is cozy, it's the first time you feel like you can finally have a nice comfortable place to sleep in since you landed in America.

Hobie knocks on the reception desk, leaning on the table, clearly tired and weary. Whilst you try not to think about what you did earlier, you roam your eyes everywhere in an attempt to push all the thoughts away, to kick the gore you saw, and the act that you've executed far far away from you. Your hand trembles at the sight of a deer head hanging on the wall. Then you remember the man whose head you blasted to pieces. Heart beating faster, breath stuck in your throat, Hobie suddenly takes your hand— squeezing, reminding you to breathe.

Before he could comfort you further, a middle aged man appears behind the desk. Shoulders broad, mustache well maintained and curled at the ends. Blue eyes wide and full of wisdom.

“Welcome to Strawberry inn.” He says in a comfortable yet deep tone. His eyes flick towards your intertwined hands, lips smiling faintly. “The name's Finn, room for one?”

Hobie clears his throat, taking his hand back on his side. “Yes, two beds.”

“Ah, a conservative couple eh?”

“Sure,” Hobie acts, nodding along.

“Name?”

“Larry Smith. And baths for the missus and I.”

Finn nods, showing him a sign on his desk. “three dollars for a regular one, five for a deluxe bath.”

“Deluxe?” You ask, curious.

Hobie beats Finn to the punch by explaining it himself. “It's when a woman helps you scrub down.”

You blink twice in quick succession. “Oh.” Cheeks warm, you awkwardly bounce on your feet. “A–are you going to take the deluxe one, Ho–Larry?”

“I might.” He says with a smirk, eyes shining.

“Okay.” You crane your neck towards Finn, “what's our room number?” Your tone inches towards something that has Hobie amused.

“Uh, three—” You're already snatching the keys from him and then quickly speed walking up the stairs. You turn to the right, Finn calls after you. “Left side, ma’am.” Frustrated, you walk the other way. He then turns towards Hobie with a shake of his head. “Happy wife, happy life, english. Don't tease her like that or you'll end up sleeping in the stables.”

Hobie bites his tongue so he couldn't laugh. “I know that now, thanks, mate.”

—

You feel nice, nicer than you should be after what you did. There's a pebble inside you that keeps growing and growing in the pit of your stomach right next to the boulder that has resided there for years. You have no idea what is, but you want it gone just like how you disappear under the tepid water of the tub.

Hobie has laid out clothes for you, it sits on the chair in the corner. A white work shirt that smells like him and a pair of clean socks. Your skirt hangs on the doorway, days worth of dirt and dust clinging to it. The walls are thin, you hear the hinges squeak in the next room, the arguing couple above; and a child's cry from below. The water laps at your chin, now cold and icy on your slowly freezing skin. Like muscle memory, you hold your hand up, the jagged long scar across the back of your hand has you tracing the remnants of the injury— what he used to do to remind you that he's there, that you're safe. But when he left, when he disappeared into the night, leaving you to the horrid predetermined life, you had to do it yourself. You had to carry yourself everyday with the heavy boulder in your heart, surviving each day without him, hurting, rotting in that damned empty mansion you never asked for.

You thought you could finally take the boulder out of you and place it down once and for all when you saw him. it's still there, weighing you down like a hundred ton steel of grief and longing. You don't resent him for what he did, running away, leaving you when the night before he promised you sweet words, words of freedom, words of an escape. No, you don't hate him. Yes, there's days where you would curse his name, but it never lasts. It never does, even now. You still love him even when he doesn't feel the same way anymore.

Your eyes prick from all the unshed tears, everything makes you cry nowadays, even the old lonesome man you met on the road brought a tear to your melancholy eyes. But you can't seem to find the courage to cry in front of him, to let him see your salty tears flow out of you like a raging river of sorrow. And moreso, you're afraid, afraid of home, afraid of what's waiting for you at the end of the road. Whether it be a coyote with its maw opening to lunge at your neck. Or a rattlesnake ready to strike silently at your open wound.

You're not afraid of him, you're afraid to lose him again to the coyotes and rattlesnakes.

Lifting both hands, you watch the blood that collects within the lines of your palms. Rubies ebbing into your life line, your love lines, and into your death— you'd carry the life you've taken until you're six feet underground, decaying, milky bones turning to dust, food for the worms. And yet, the blood in your hands would stay there, even when your hands are eaten by the soil, brought back to where you once came.

Hobie's right, this place changes you. Molds you into something that can survive its harsh environment, just like the plants you once read about. And just like the coiling vines, the flowers that wait and bite their prey; the leaves that kill when cut— you intend to survive the harshness of it all.

With a deep inhale, you leave the metal tub. Water splashes across the floor as you stand up, the even colder air leaves goosebumps in its wake. You dry yourself and dress like an automaton, movements rigid, eyes blank.

Opening the door with a creak, you're met with Hobie standing in the hallway, just across from you. His hand still lingers around the doorknob, viridescent eyes blinking slowly at you.

For a second that felt like hours, you watched each other. How his eyes flick over your form and over his work shirt that you wear. How water still clings to his chest, soaking parts of his white shirt. And how his finger twitches around the doorknob whilst steam escapes from the slits in the doorway. He observes you with vigilant eyes, how your lips are slightly parted, chest breathing heavily. And how much your legs are begging to run towards him, feet pointed in his direction, heels lifted up slightly, but you don't. You don't run to him, instead, you toss him the keys to the room before he could ask for it himself. He catches it with ease.

“You're closer to the room.” Walking closer, you rub your arms for warmth.

Hobie sniffs, hand wiping a stray droplet from his forehead, pack slung over his shoulder. He unlocks the door that's a few steps away, with a click, he opens it for you.

“You look like you're about to pass out.”

You push past him, trying to smile, but you fail. “I feel like I will in a second—” pausing by the doorway, you sharply inhale. “You asked for two beds right?”

“Yeah— fucker.” Hobie clicks his tongue at the sight of the single bed standing in the room. “I'll go get our rooms changed.”

“I'm fucking tired, Hobs.” You lumber your way towards the inviting bed, too tired to even check the room and its sparse décor. “Complain tomorrow. It's not like we haven't shared a bed before.”

“That was different—”

“How is it any different?” Shucking off your shoes, you blink at him through tired eyes. “It's just sleeping next to each other. We were doing anything but that back then.”

He curses breathlessly under his breath. “Fine, don't hog the blanket.”

“Don't kick in your sleep.” You smile for the first time since you pulled the trigger. Slithering inside the warm covers, you lay your head on the lumpy pillows. Heaven to you after sleeping but nothing on the ground or hay for the past few weeks.

“I don't kick in my sleep.” Hobie does the same, laying next to you, giving you enough space in between. “You're the one who kicks in your sleep. Like a fuckin' donkey.”

You lay on your side, inching closer to him. “Please, I'm more of a mustang, not a donkey.”

“Back then you were more like the rider than a horse.” He jokes with a smug smile across his lips.

Your cheeks are aflame, laugh creeping up your throat. The heaviness in your chest subsides, the blood in your hands thins. “You wanna bet?”

Hobie's joking expression is replaced by something else. Flustered, amused, and a mix of an emotion that he has only felt for you. “Fuckin' hell, love.” He turns away from you, lest he lets his thoughts get to him. “Good night, you fuckin' minx.” He hears you laugh, immediately he wants to turn back around and meet you face to face, just like before. But he doesn't.

You're met with his back. The feeling comes back, like a cockroach that wouldn't die even with how much you try to stomp on it. It was foolish to think that he'd love you forever. It was foolish to think that he'd greet you with open arms after years of being apart. How foolish, they'd always whisper to you, naive, and stupid, always standing on the edge of the crowd, eyes always looking for something, someone. Someone that lays before you now.

“Good night, Hobie.” He mouths your next words like clockwork. “Only dream of good things.” You refrain from doing the next thing, a kiss for sweet dreams, a whisper of the three words to remind him of you in the dreamworld.

Hobie silently wishes you did.

Soon enough, soft snores can be heard from behind him. Peeking over his shoulder, he makes sure you're asleep before quietly standing up. Sheets rustling, he tiptoes over the noisy planks, breathing silent. Hobie takes a chair from the corner, propping it under the doorknob, shaking the chair, he makes sure that it's locked up tightly. He can never be sure with the simple singular lock on the door.

Once he's sure that it will hold up, he takes his gun from the hanging gun belt, checking the chamber, he keeps it on the waistband of his trousers. After checking all the windows and the fireplace, he finally joins you back in bed. Gun placed on the bedside, ready to be used just in case. Laying on his side, he faces you, observing how the moon shines just across your face. You look peaceful, relaxed, and he remembers how much he has missed you. Like an impossible itch. A craving that cannot be satiated. Incurable, until you're within reach.

His tired eyes stare at the glaring scar across the back of your hand. Hobie remembers how you got the scar on your hand, it was warm that day, searing hot whilst you ran into the woods frantically to meet him. As a result of your unmindful actions, a sharp branch takes a chunk of your skin; leaving him to sew it close for you. He reminisces of how your face contorts to pain with every suture, and how you grip his shoulder to tamp down your screams. He wasn't careful, or even thinking about how it would scar, he just wanted to get it over with so you'd stop hurting. He held you for hours after, held you more after your great aunt saw the damage. She called you broken that day.

He blinks and he's back to the present. He can never go back. You can never go back. So he inches his hand closer to yours, pinky brushing along your skin. Finally, he curls his pinky finger around your ring finger. Linking his life line to yours. Just like he always does to the identical hidden ring around his neck. Your scar peers from the side, a reminder that everything that happened before was real. That all those saccharin touches and words were flesh and blood. He wishes he could go back, to take you away the moment she called you broken.

In his sleep he dreams of you.

[evvyyypeters-fics]

Life moves like a speeding bullet, hitting you in the chest with such a force you don’t even register the pain until the hole left behind begins to bleed,

The memories slipping by you now snaking down your chest, spilling from the wound opened in your heart like streaks of rain on a car window,

It’s thick, red, and unstoppable,

It’s dark and never slows down,

More comes, a shower of gunpowder clouding your vision,

The fragments moving so fast before you that not even a stifle of sound escapes until there is that brief pause when the gun is reloaded,

“You make your own reality” drones on in my head, an echo of hope

Only, one stroke of the brush becomes a painting, then two, and three,

Between then you begin to lose count of the ones you started, and the ones that have finished,

The lines become blurred, and yet they all remain the same image, disfigured in your mind,

Each painting anew looks just like the last, the distortion in each growing like stars that die, their light glowing brighter from that distance so far out of reach,

And yet they don’t exist any longer, there is nothing left for you,

You cannot reach out to them no matter how much they twinkle in your eye, no matter how familiar they gleam,

You forget the purpose, but your hand still picks up the brush again,

And the cycle continues, spiraling, down, down, down, deeper into the rabbit’s hole

Will it ever end? Will you ever find the yellow brick road that leads you back to the start? Before Alice drank the tea? Before Jack ever climbed the beanstalk, or planted the seed that it grew from?

Where is the youth you so desperately hung onto? Why does the sand slip from our fingers? Why can’t it linger a little longer, why must the apple always fall from the tree?

So many questions and I know that at the end, night will fall, the thoughts will continue to be there,

Hammering, hammering, hammering me,

Must I suffer to experience the [fleeting] kiss of joy?

Will I ever know?

And I pluck the petals from the flower, innocently, I was a child then,

How foolish I was not to realize that they would never grow back,

The beauty I admired with naive wonder ceasing in my hands

Now, no matter how hard I try not to pick their beauty, they still wither

And in anguish, I watch. Inevitably.

My goofy ass almost forgot my taglist. Oh well:

@fear-is-truth @xkaisxjazzxsingerx @lemoniiiiiii @jazz-berry @marchsfreakshow @colinzabelswife @dearlizzies @am3ricanh0rrorwh0re @xrag-dollx @lacucarachapisser @alittleobsessedbitch @n0tonlin3

[sweetlikehoneystingslikeabee]

What do you think each of the Gotham rogues smell like?

"Smells and Scents" Rogues Party

For the sake of my own fun, I'm going to put what they actually smell like vs. what a perfume based on them would smell like. Please note I am in 0 way an expert on what pairs well for scents, so some of these might actually be terrible LMAO.

TW: None

Riddler

Actually smells like: Motor oil/grease, whatever take out or food he managed to cook, and, if he's been working long hours, body odor.

Perfume: fresh apples, matcha and narcissus.

Penguin

Actually smells like: He wears a woodsy smelling aftershave. On good days, he smells like that and and freshly cleaned laundry. On particularly bad days, he will actually smell like fish he's eaten.

Perfume: Seawater, amber and cigars.

Mad Hatter

Actually smells like: various plants and herbs he uses to make his concoctions with a chemical undertone.

Perfume: Black tea and freshly made biscuits. Faint hint of hookah smoke.

Scarecrow

Actually smells like: Sterility- chemicals used for his practice and disinfectant. Another subtle vague scent difficult to pick up... it's fear toxin.

Perfume: Dried funeral flowers, moss, anise.

Music Meister

Actually smells like: Mothballs and antiques. Theater kid smell.

Perfume: Strawberry lemonade and cedar wood.

Victor Zsasz

Actually smells like: Sweat, dried blood and sometimes the rubbing alcohol that he threw on a fresh cut or wound.

Perfume: Leather and blood oranges.

Killer Croc

Actually smells like: Better than before. There was a time he'd straight up smell like sewer because it was easier to travel down there instead of risking people seeing him. These days he has a eucalyptus body wash he really likes.

Perfume: Mustard seed and tea tree oil.

Harley Quinn

Actually smells like: the smell of cosmetic face powder and whatever body spray she threw on that day. There's multiple and several are sweet/food smells like vanilla.

Perfume: Raspberries, lychee, and fresh custard cream.

Poison Ivy

Actually smells like: Her pheromones, a flower bouquet and fresh dirt.

Perfume: Ivy, lily of the valley and rosewood.

Two-Face

Actually smells like: gunpowder, steam pressed suits and a sage scented cologne.

Perfume: dark chocolate, tobacco and clementines.

Black Mask

Actually smells like: Some fancy, stupid expensive cologne that he'll dab on his neck when he's been working for 48 hours. Doesn't overdo it, so there's that at least.

Perfume: Dark roast coffee beans and bourbon.

Mr. Freeze

Actually smells like: Nothing. He doesn't even smell like sweat because all bacteria on his body is long dead. Sometimes you can smell the coolant if there is a small leak somewhere.

Perfume: pine, bergamot and fresh snow.

Ra's al-Ghul

Actually smells like: A plant that's long been extinct. He revitalizes the petals for personal use and they are washed in his clothing.

Perfume: Jasmine, parchment and dragon's blood resin.

Bane

Actually smells like: On a good day- it's dove soap bars and leather. On a bad day, he smells like gym mat.

Perfume: myrrh and sandlewood.

[marsmarbles]

And here we go (4662 words)

<Smajor1995 whispered to you> Joel, meet me at that field, the one between our house and the mountain

<Smallishbeans whispered to you> Why?

<Smajor1995 whispered to you> It’s a surprise ;)

<Smallishbeans> Omw 

Joel was, in fact, not on his way. He was internally freaking out in The Food Crew Bakery with Jimmy and Bdubs trying to help him out. There were so many flowers, and he just wanted to get the right ones for Scott. They had gone over cornflowers, blue orchids, and irises, but none seemed right. If he was going to ask Scott out, it had to be right the first time. He wouldn’t get a do over.

(Unless Scott rejected him and he had to try again in the future, but he didn’t like thinking about that. Who even knew if these feelings would last until the next game?)

When he got the message, his jaw dropped and he widened his eyes. Joel had to choose now, he couldn’t keep Scott waiting. That was just bad etiquette. Sure, he wasn’t known for his etiquette, but becoming a princess does things to you. Lizzie had graciously taught him how to be nice to people, actually nice instead of whatever teasing thing he had going on with most people.

Most people had once been Scott. Joel thought back to how the game had gone so far. At the start, when the chains had led them to each other, he had been disgusted with the game's choice of team. It was almost a joke to him. Joel knew that the hatred was one sided, but he couldn’t help it if Scott was annoying to him. It was just the way it was, end of story.

But then, Scott had made a promise to him. He had promised to ‘not let him down’. Something about him had seemed off that day, like someone else was pretending to be him. Joel had let go of that suspicion right away, because he had never been one to believe in magical beings and fantastical plots. Even the potions and mobs could be explained logically somehow. Scott had had moments like that after the first day as well, where it was like someone else was controlling him.

Like when he kissed you. The small voice in the back of his brain told him. He tried not to think about that too much. It was before he was yellow, when they were just preparing for another night of mob fighting inside their house. Gunpowder was imperative for this game especially, since being the boogeyman was no joke. They had both stood together to walk out the door, when Scott had surged forward and given him a kiss on the lips. At first, Joel was stunned, but he had- regrettably- leaned into it. 

After a moment, he pulled back. Joel's first response had been to half-yell at him ‘What are you doing?!’ to which the response had been ‘I didn’t mean too!’ and then the cyan haired man had run off to chase something Joel couldn’t see through the house. It was a strange night, to be sure, the way they had both avoided each other. Scott had tried to talk to him throughout the night and apologize, but Joel never let him. He was scared that Scott actually hadn’t meant it. It was ridiculous really, the amount of avoidance he had been doing-

“Earth to Joel!” Bdubs voice rang in his ear, snapping him out of his crush-ridden trance. He scowled at the shorter man -plant?- and snapped back.

“What?”

“Calm down, man,” Jimmy said from beside him, hand planted firmly on his shoulder. “He just wants to know if this flower works.” Bdubs held up a small blue flower, dark blue, in a clay pot. The top of it was circular, with quite a sunken down center that faded to yellow. It looked like the petal would be soft, and when he brushed his fingers against it, it was.

“What is it?” He asked, all anger gone from his demeanor. It was a nice flower, maybe even nice enough for Scott.

“Blue Morning Glory.” Bdubs shrugged. “Nice and blue, like him, and yellow, like you.” He smiled cheekily. Joel sent him a harrowing look, but considered it anyway. He hadn’t expected to be yellow this early in the season, but he couldn’t change it now. Maybe it would be nice to have a little bit of both of them in a flower, however cheesy that was. He glanced at the chains around his wrists when he reached out to hold the flower again.

“How fast can you get me a bouquet of these?” Bdubs just smiled and sped off. Jimmy chuckled next to him, leaning against a raised bed of potatoes. Joel sighed and started tapping his foot, not in an impatient way, but in an anxious way. The canary seemed to notice, because he furrowed his brows.

“You’ll be fine, yeah? Scott’s going to love it,” Jimmy reassured. Joel supposed that this meant something coming from the man’s ex-husband, but it didn’t do anything to clear up his worries. He started tapping his foot harder, trying to dispel some of the anxiety clouding his brain.

“I know that, it’s just…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth. One of Joel’s least favorite things was to talk about his emotions, but what better person was there? Grian? (He would actually be a viable option if he wasn’t so hung up over BigB today.) “I’m scared he’ll say no?”

It sounded like a question. It was not a question.

Jimmy shook his head. “He won’t. He cares about you, remember? He tells you he loves you all the time!”

“Platonically! Like friends! And I say I hate him first!” He didn’t mention that he only said he hated him because he knew Scott’s automatic response each time would be to say ‘I love you too, Joel’ in his annoyingly cute Scottish accent. He had stopped trying to avoid calling Scott cute in his mind by now, just letting his brain do its lovesick thing.

“Joel.”

“Jimmy.” 

“I-” But he was cut off from whatever he was going to say by Bdubs bustling back into the room with a frankly huge bouquet. It was almost as big as his face, which both men could see smiling victoriously behind the flowers. He shoved them into Joel’s hands.

“What do I owe you?” He asked hurriedly, for he had just remembered that Scott had texted and asked to meet up.

“Later.” Jimmy waved him off before the plant-man could speak. “Go get yourself a boyfriend, yeah?”

Joel grinned his usual sarcastic grin, but now it was overshadowed by a hint of graciousness. “Will do.” And he walked out of the store as fast as he could, determined to show up fashionably late.

-----

Scott had just finished setting out the blanket and basket when Cleo came up to him, finished with their job of actually making food. Sure, Scott could have baked for him and Joel, but he would prefer not to eat burnt food on his date.

(Hopefully it was a date, hopefully Joel would see it that way.)

“Scott, you’ve adjusted that blanket five times now. It’s fine.” Cleo set down the plate of cookies, careful not to step on the blanket. He would have had to fix it again. It needed to be perfect for Joel, maybe to make up for all the times he had failed to be adequate. Pearl told him it was fine, none of them thought any less of him for knocking Joel down to his yellow life this early in the game, but it wasn’t everyone’s opinion he was worried about. It was one specific person. 

“Thanks, Cleo, you’re amazing,” he sighed. She nodded to him and turned to leave, but caught sight of how distressed he looked. 

“What’s wrong?” She asked, sitting on the grass next to him and putting their hand on his knee. He smiled and leaned against them little, relishing in how cold she always was. Being almost-dead had its perks, like constantly being cold.

“I’m scared he won’t like it,” he admitted, beginning to pick at the grass. Scott pulled a few strands out and pinched them between his fingers, rewarded with the small snap! Of the stems. “I’m scared he’ll say no, Cleo.”

“If he says no, he’s an idiot.” Blunt as always, Scott thought. “But I know he won’t say no, because he seems to find every excuse to hang out he can get. I haven’t seen you two interacting all that much, but I can tell your smitten-“ 

“Cleo!” He felt his face heat up. She did not have to point out how obviously in love he was.

“Aaand,” she smirked when she got a reaction out of him. “I bet he is too. You worry too much.”

“I really can’t help it, but fine. Now go away, he’ll be here soon!” He shooed her off, to which she huffed sarcastically and disappeared into the forest to the right.

Scott had set up in a field, specifically the one between their house (although Joel called it a castle) and the mountain range that boxed them in. Even though it was February, The Watchers had set up this world so it always had late summer weather. It was perfect for a picnic now, with the slight breeze in the afternoon air. Scott took off his cape, it was much too warm for that, and tucked it inside the basket. He sat down, expecting Joel to be coming from over the mountain or through the forest, when he was interrupted.

A date? Is this for the princess, Star?

“I told you, I don’t want you metaling in my love life. Go away.” Scott knew that wouldn’t work on the Speaker, but he had hoped that maybe today of all days they would be remorseful. He just needed a day, just one day-

I don’t think I will! They laughed, and Scott closed his eyes and groaned. So much for a peaceful picnic. This will be so fun to watch, you know. Maybe even shift the narrative to help you. Scott opened his eyes wide, and saw the small black form sitting on the blanket across from him. It doesn’t crease the fabric, they are just an illusion, but that doesn’t stop him from getting mad.

“If you even try anything with us, I will personally march down to hell after this game and strangle you, you little shit.” He didn’t actually know where they resided, but hell was a good guess. Their invariably open mouth widened into some sort of beastly smile, and the Speaker showed off their sharp teeth. It was unnerving, but he made no move to show how it affected him. He was about to open his mouth to say something else when he heard a far away curse and a thump in the woods, so he settled for sending them a glare and mouthing ‘go away’ before getting up.

Joel was at the edge of the trees, wiping off his skirts and grumbling something about flowers. As far as Scott could tell, he had tripped over the rock cluster that he had definitely warned him about before. He couldn’t hold back a small giggle, which made Joel’s head shoot up to look at him. Scott could see the fear in his eyes as he started bumbling about, looking for something, which only made him laugh harder.

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” Joel grumbled, looking under his feet. Scott tried to keep from laughing again as he strutted closer. He continued to watch the yellow life look for something, mumbling things under his breath before he made a small ‘aha!’ noise and bent over to bring something out from behind the rock he had tripped over.

Scott had to hold in a gasp when a -frankly gorgeous- bouquet was retrieved and Joel looked back at him with the flowers in his hands. He thrust them forward, trying to avoid his eyes. Scott took them in his hands, observing the flowers with his eyes and his hands. The circular flowers were soft. He traced the gradient on them with his eyes, from a light yellow to a dark sky blue. He looked back at Joel and smiled. The other man was looking down and tapping his foot, a nervous habit Scott had noticed in the past. He also noticed that a fierce blush covered his face.

“I- um…” Joel trailed off, trying to find words. Scott waited patiently. “I don’t know if you know what today is, but -um- it’s Valentine's Day, and I brought you flowers because I wanted to… to ask you something, and it’s important…”

Scott realized that Joel was dancing around the topic, but he had a pretty good idea of what it was. He himself had acquired a light flush. Joel wasn’t getting to it anytime soon, so Scott decided to speed all of this up. “Do you want to go on a date with me?”

He regretted it when Joel groaned and put his hands on his face. “I was doing so good!”

“No offense, hon, but you weren’t.” Joel’s ears, the only part Scott could see of his face, flushed an even darker pink. He giggled. “These are really nice flowers by the way, where did you get them?”

“Food Crew Bakery.” Joel dragged himself out of his hands, forcing himself to look at Scott. He smiled back sweetly, hoping it would have some effect on the man, but he just crossed his arms. “Yes.”

This made Scott falter a little. “Yes… what?”

“Yes, I will go on a date with you.” He seemed to be trying not to be too excited about it, but Scott could see through his charade. He had spent enough time with Joel to know when he was trying to hide his emotions, positive or negative. He had this vision of himself, like he was this badass guy who didn’t ‘need’ to feel anything, but Scott could easily break it when he and Joel lay in bed and talked late into the night. They were both the type to get ‘sleep drunk’ and tended to forget half of what they told each other, but that didn’t mean that all of it wasn’t put to use.

Like last week, Joel had told Scott that he loved chocolate cookies but was disappointed that the only cocoa beans had been taken in the beginning days of the new world. Hence, Cleo’s cookies.

“Great!” Scott grabbed Joel’s hand, flowers clutched tightly in the other. “I have a spot for us!”

“R-right now?” Joel stumbled, his skirts ruffling together to create a plastic-y sound. Scott looked back at him and smiled.

“Of course! When else?”

Joel stopped for a minute, mouth slightly open, looking up at Scott. He could only assume what was going through his head, but he didn’t want to think too hard about it. Instead, he pulled him up and started walking again, side by side this time. 

-----

Joel could not believe his luck. Not only had Scott said yes (technically he had said yes himself, but let's not get into the technicals), but he had a pre-planned date set up for them! He had tried to hide his excitement, but some had leaked through. Scott didn’t seem to mind though, so he assumed it was fine.

Scott pulled him up from where he had stumbled to the ground, smiling down at him graciously. The sun backlit his head, acting like a halo around the mess of cyan hair. It was a sight to see, and Joel couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking gorgeous the elf had looked until they actually got to the date sight. 

It was in a nice grassy spot in the middle of the field, void of rocks or roots. A pink picnic blanket was set up, with a basket in one corner and a plate in the middle. Scott gestured to one side of the blanket, glaring at the other end before promptly sitting on it. Joel gave him a suspicious look but ultimately ignored it, instead sitting down where instructed. 

“When did you set this all up?” He wondered aloud, unconsciously fixing his skirts. It was something he had seen Lizzie do bunches and picked up. 

“Probably while you were picking up these flowers.” Scott set the flowers down on the ground, gracefully plucking a single one from the bunch and tucking it into his hair, right behind his pointed ear. Joel thought it looked right, woven into his hair like that. 

Scott drew their attention to the plate in the middle of them. Joel’s eyes widened when he saw the chocolate cookies, glancing back up to see a satisfied smile on the others face. “How did you know these are my favorites?”

“You mentioned it last week when we were up late.” Scott shrugged, as if remembering an insignificant detail about someone while half out of it was a normal thing to do. “I got them from Cleo.”

“Thank you.” Joel reached out and took one, biting down on it and letting the flavors play over his tongue. It was something he hadn’t had in a while, and he missed it dearly. He chewed, letting out a noise of happiness before clamping a hand over his mouth. Scott was looking at him like he was some kind of mob mutant, and he flushed out of embarrassment. “Sorry…”

“No!” Scott grabbed his free hand. “No, it was cute. Don’t apologize.” It most definitely was not cute, Joel thought, because he would do almost anything for Scott, so he shut his mouth and kept eating. He didn’t fail to notice how they were still holding hands. After a few minutes, he tried to strike up conversation again. “How did you know I was going to ask you out?”

Over the next few hours, they settled into comfortable conversation. More food was brought out through it, and they ate as they talked. They spoke about everything from their favorite things to what they felt about each other (a subject Joel wasn’t very good at, but working on). Scott told him about how his past seasons had gone, and Joel told him about what he was working on in his current home in Hermitcraft. They talked about irrelevant things, things that neither would remember about each other but they would sure try. 

It was shifting from afternoon to evening when they finally quieted down, and the cooler air of the night started settling in. Joel had ended with his head in Scott’s lap, with his finger sifting through his loose hair. Scott was leaning back on his other hand, relaxed and looking up towards the sky. They sat in silence for a minute, just enjoying each other's presence. 

It was all ruined when Joel shivered, bringing up his hands to rub at his arms. The thin cotton of his shirt did nothing against it. The fingers in his hair stopped and Scott grabbed something and pushed him to sit up. He did, reluctantly, and something soft was draped around his shoulders. He grabbed at it and felt the long flowing fabric. It was easy to figure out what it was.

“But you’ll be cold without your cloak!” He objected, trying to give it back. Scott just smiled at him and placed his hands on his shoulders, keeping it in place.

“I’ll be fine.”

They sat there again, and in that time Joel leaned against Scott’s shoulder. The elf started whispering a few seconds later. 

“I don’t think I can pinpoint the moment I fell for you.” Joel closed his eyes and listened to him talk. “It was an eventual thing. One day I would admire your hair, then I would notice how you would react when I said I loved you, and I you were just always there…”

“I think I can.” Joel spoke up softly. He had fallen into the habit of talking softer around Scott, less carefully and more of just speaking his mind. He trusted him. “Pinpoint a moment, I mean.” 

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think it was when I died and went yellow.” The shoulder he was leaning on flinched slightly. “I was so… mad at you and you still tried to make me feel better. Why do you think I wear my hair in a braid now?” He smiled at the memory.

“I remember.” Scott said softly. “I just wanted to see you happy.”

“I’m happy now.” He replied. Joel sat up and reached up to Scott’s hair, tucking a price behind his ear. “I’m guessing you see that plenty.” His hand settled on Scott’s cheek, and he felt him lean into it.

“I can tell. You're not very good at hiding your emotions around me, you know.”

“I can be soft when I need to be.”

“What if I want the strong, uncaring side of you?” Scott asked, but from the way he said it, it was a lie.

“I don’t think you do, babe.” Scott opened his eyes, and Joel bit his lip. He had not meant for the pet name to slip out, it had just felt so natural. He almost took it back before Scott’s look of shock fell into one of satisfaction. He subconsciously rubbed his thumb against Scott’s cheek.

“Your right, honey-“ Scott was making fun of him, but the name still struck a part of his mind and made him smile. “I like this side of you.”

-----

The stupid little shits that whispered in his ear were doing it again. Scott had been trying to avoid them for the night, tried to pretend not to see them out of the corners of his vision or when they whispered in his ear things he would never repeat, thank you very much.

But now, as he and Joel were having a sweet moment, being all cute together, was when they messed with him the most. Throughout their time sitting up together, half of everything he could hear was the words ‘kiss him’ and they weren’t coming from the back of his mind. Maybe some of them were, but not most of them. The words teetered on the edge of power, but not quite yet. 

It was getting hard to think straight by the time he called Joel ‘honey’. The words in his mind seemed to overflow, becoming just part of his thoughts. There were more voices, which seemed impossible, there was only one Speaker as far as he knew. So he decided to take action before they commanded  him too. 

A quite large part of him wanted it too, so it was likely a good idea anyway.

“Can I kiss you?” He blurted out, a little louder than he meant to. Still, it was worth it to see Joel’s face go red and have him nod. He leaned in, the voices quieting for a moment. His arms found their way around Joel’s neck and his hands were on Scott's face. When he leaned in, their noses were almost touching, he whispered. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, bloody-“ Joel cut himself off, pulling Scott’s face forward and connecting their lips.

Joel kissed like he argued, or at least he did today. It was hurried, like they would lose each other any second. It was warm, certainly not from the cold air around them. It was wild, unpredictable how their lips would move together next. Scott tried to calm it down, and eventually they found a rhythm together. Joel had calmed down as well, going slower with him, although he was still unpredictable.

Scott had lost his breath the moment Joel kissed him for the first time, but now he actually needed to pull away. He did, with his arms still around the others neck to keep from falling backwards. He took a few breaths and giggled. “Anyone ever told you you're a really good kisser?”

Joel shut his still slightly open mouth and blushed. “Shut up.”

“Oh, I think you know exactly how to make me do that.” His normally flirty demeanor had come back in full swing, after hours of sweet nothings it felt nice to return to his normal self.

Joel did shut him up, pulling them back into a heated kiss. This one lasted longer than the other one, maybe because Scott had more breath this time around, or maybe because he didn’t want to let go. His arms never moved from around the other’s neck, but Joel’s hands had shifted from his cheeks to one on the back of his neck and the other on the nape of his shoulder.

When Joel broke them apart this time, he was breathing heavily. Scott giggled best he could when he was out of breath. “We should do this again.”

“The date or- huff- or the kissing?” Joel asked.

“Both sound good to me.” Scott released his arms from around the others neck, but moved his hands so one was on his knee and the other was on his shoulder. Joel smiled for a moment, before worry crossed over his face.

“Oh no.”

“What is it?” Scott was sent into a momentary panic before Joel moved his hands to take the flower out from behind his ear, showing it in its damaged state.

“I ruined it.” He looked genuinely sad, and it almost made Scott laugh for a second before he took the torn flower (it had probably been ruined when they kissed) and placed it on the blanket below them. He twisted and took two flowers out of the bouquet, tucking one behind his ear and then one behind Joel’s ear.

“Now we match.” He could tell Joel was holding in his own laugh now. 

“That was so cheesy.”

“But you liked it!” Scott practically sing-songed.

“I did.” Joel smiled at him genuinely. “I really did.” 

Neither made it back inside before they fell asleep, mumbling nonsense as they lay next to each other. 

-----

Two women high-fived from their place in their tower when they saw both men take their place in the afternoon. Now they watched the stars together, and one pointed out that they were both still there.

“I like to think that we brought this together,” Pearl said, angling herself towards the moon. Lizzie chuckled softly. 

“I think they would have gotten there on their own,” she replied, bumping Pearl's shoulder with her own. She earned a sigh from the moth hybrid, and glanced over at her with a grin.

“Forever the optimist.” But Pearl grinned back, bumping their elbows together. “They were so dumb for each other, I don’t think they would have.”

“Reminds me of you and a certain other girl,” Lizzie poked, reminding Pearl of her failed proposal (she hadn’t been rejected, she had just procrastinated it so long that the day was over and she hadn’t done anything).

“We aren’t dumbly in love, I’d say I’m very smartly in love, thank you.” Pearl turned away again. “Isn't this supposed to be about them anyway?” She gestured to the figures on the blanket. It was hard to tell now, but they seemed to be leaning on each other.

“We should give them privacy,” Lizzie suggested. 

“That we should.” Pearl popped out of the window and back onto her bed. She sat there for a second as Lizzie sat daintily on the edge of hers. “We make a good team.”

“Maybe we should become the love princesses or something!” Lizzie exclaimed, drawing a laugh out of Pearl. She ignored the fact that she was a prince to nod and smile at the other girl's excitement. 

“We could work on Grian and BigB next.”

Both girls talked late into the night, excited about their matchmaking prowess. Afterall, if they had gotten one couple together, why not the rest?

-🌻

I LOVE THIS I LOVE THIS I LOVE THIS SO MUCH AAAAAAJ KFKDBXFJDJ!!!!! The romance is so good!!! I love all your damsel duo writing so much!!Despite all the glorious romance some parts had me laughing out loud, like Joel’s recollection of the ‘NOW KISS’ scene and the moment when Scott was shooing away the Speaker and said he’d ‘personally march down to hell and strangle them’ was very very funny.

I really like that you’ve kept things consistent with your other fanfics and all the small details I’ve mentioned in past posts, like Joel keeping his hair braided on his yellow stage.

I feel like I can’t truly express my appreciation for all the effort you have put in for all the writing you’ve done, especially for this one(like 4662 words is insane). So just thank you.

Expect some drawings of this at some point because I’m gonna be brainrotting over this for the next few days.

[sleepingdeath-light]

apologise ; 18+

requested by ; someone on wattpad (my first ever request for sweet seduction, but rewritten)

word count ; 4051

content ; sexually explicit content, clothed grinding, hand job (male receiving)

fandom ; black butler

pairing ; finnian x cis female reader

read also on ; ao3

minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

Though you'd only been employed at the prestigious Phantomhive estate for a short few months, it had been more than enough time to get a grasp on how your colleagues functioned as individuals and as a collective. A well oiled machine manned by the head butler, Mr Sebastian, and under the complete jurisdiction of the young lord — a lad you'd only met once and would much prefer to avoid.

There was just something so... haunting... about him. Something far too old and pained in his eye for someone so young.

So you opted to minimise any direct interaction with your employer, instead focusing your time and attention on the other servants of the manor when possible. Of course this meant spending many a morning conversing with Mr Sebastian, whose company you'd come to appreciate, but it was much more than just professional small talk spoken between daily rounds.

It was quiet mornings spent with Meyrin walking down the labyrinthine hallways of the manor, arms filled with laundry and heads tipped back with lilting laughter as you joked and teased and gossiped your way through your chores. It was busy afternoons spent chasing after Baldroy with a bucket and broom, your faces smeared with gunpowder and your sides aching with bitten back giggles as you try to repair whatever damage his latest cooking scheme had done to the servants' quarter of the estate. It was evenings spent on your knees, feeling blindly under tables and beds and chairs, bare fingertips brushing against soft carpets like clumsy spider's legs as you sought out one of Snake's more rebellious companions — their name on your lips and a dozen voices sprouting from his own.

It was late nights spent awake until your eyelids were too heavy to keep open and your brain too fuzzy to think. Thinking and fantasising until your skin was burning and covered in gooseflesh, until you were clamping your hands over your mouth and giggling like a child. Mind racing as you recalled each and every interaction, minor and major alike, with the estate's gardener; Finnian.

Finny, with eyes so lush and green that Mother Nature herself envies them. Finny, with hair as soft and fluffy as cotton, it's colour spun gold and so pure that the very sun he works under all day admires it. Finny, with a smile so cheery and bright despite all he's gone through, the picture of purity and beauty — an adorable Adonis who stole the breath from your lungs and whose voice struck the match that set your flustered flesh ablaze. Finny, who you adored but could never bring yourself to speak to without making a complete and utter fool of yourself.

That Finny. Oh how much you longed to trade places with the flowerbeds, whose petals he touched with a gentleness unmatched, humming and smiling as he diligently tended to each and every stem and bud. You were sure that they only bloomed so bright because of him — as you felt yourself growing more jovial and alive in his presence so surely they must feel the same way too.

But, still, you could never quite bring yourself to voice such feelings to him. Always falling just shy of confessing as the words died on your tongue like soldiers at war or flowers in a meadow, overrun with the weeds of doubt that stole the confidence from their very roots and left you floundering in awkward silence before you finally — inevitably — gave in and retreated. Another loss for the books.

One of many. You were never really cut out for war, it seemed.

Though today you weren't given the option to flee and hide, because you were the staff's last option and failure on your behalf could disrupt the entire system of the estate. A misspoken word snowballing into raised voices, tools with their mixed metal and wooden parts snapped like toothpicks, tearful glares and a deep canyon of trauma and anger whose broad gap you had to bridge.

Meyrin had been the one to start the whole thing in the first place, a comment about cages and experimentation in a new book she'd been reading having sent Finny into a tearful rage. She didn't want to risk making things worse, having disqualified herself and come to you all for aid.

Bard had tried, but he'd fallen just short of the finish line by making a poorly timed reference to a bird. That had only sent him into another round of hysterics.

Sebastian had tried, but he'd been far too stern and had only agitated Finny further, nearly causing him to lash out and attack. He'd retreated and gone back to his other duties to let him calm down.

Snake and Tanaka were out of the estate, and the young lord was far too ill to get out of bed. So they were out of the running.

That only left you, and you hoped beyond hope that your perpetually tied tongue would loosen itself from the anxious knot it so often found itself in just enough to help your dear friend. To let you find the words you needed rather than leave you spouting pure stammering gibberish as it had so often in the past.

Hoping that that hope was enough.

————

Waiting for Finny to answer you through the greenhouse doors felt like waiting to be hung; stood anxious at the gallows with your eyes trained on your cheap heels and your breath caught in your throat as you counted the seconds. One then two then three and so on, each microsecond spreading onwards for eternity in your own mind, in the silence, until a scratchy, raw voice called out — its tone startlingly, yet not entirely unexpectedly, harsh.

'Who is it?'

You wetted your lips for a moment before responding, calling out your name.

'I told them I wanted to be left alone,' stern and unwavering, so very unlike himself.

'Well, yes, but I — we — just wanted to check that you were okay,' when he didn't respond you continued, speeding up as your words became more disjointed and jumbled, 'Mey said you were really upset and you know she didn't mean to upset you. She just misspoke, you know how often she says silly things. And when you ran off she was terrified and we're all really worried about you and,'

'I said I want to be left alone,'

Cold and harsh and certain and low. Yet his voice still cracked with what were surely tears and you felt your heart break for him.

'Finny, please, let me h-'

An echoing slam, deep as thunder in a raging storm, rang out through the large building, cracking the upper panel of the door beside your hand. Causing you to flinch away and cower in on yourself as a final shout followed.

'Leave me alone!'

And then deathly, painful, infectious silence.

As loud as thunder and as quiet as the grave all at once; heavy with the implications of what remained unsaid whilst you remained frozen in place, staring through the cracked panel at the distorted, quivering silhouette on the other side. You were so close that you could hear the tremble in his voice and his sobs despite his best efforts to hide them — despite him burying his face in his hands and huddling in on himself. He was more scared than angry, so you swallowed down your own anxiety and grounded yourself.

Then, after taking a few deep breaths, you wrapped your hand around the handle and pushed it down. The click echoing off of the tall glass walls as you stepped into the sweltering room and carefully closed the door behind you.

No going back now.

————

You took a tentative step forward. And then another and another; carefully inching your way towards Finny's trembling figure whilst skilfully avoiding the spilled, cracked plant pot shards that now decorated the tiled floor. The soft clicking of your heels and the soft scratch of clay against porcelain filling the otherwise silent room and overpowering the soft sniffles and sobs coming from the man in front of you — until you came to a halt a few inches in front of him and crouched down to his level.

‘Hey…’

‘Go away,’

‘Finny,’ you sighed, placing a hand on his knee and gently squeezing once, then twice, ‘I promise that I don’t mean you any harm. I just want to help you — we all do. So will you please listen to what I have to say? Just a little bit?’

Your prodding earned you a small victory — him shifting around enough to be able to look at you over his knees — but small was still better than nothing so you celebrated whatever progress you could make.

‘Thank you,’ you smiled at him and he looked away, ‘now as I was saying; Mey feels terrible about what happened and wants to make amends with you, if you’ll allow it. She’s the one that came and got us to talk to you — it’s why Bard and Mr Sebastian and I have all stopped by. We — I — care about you and I want to help you out, but I can’t do that if you don’t let me help you,’

You could see more tears start to well up in his eyes and panicked slightly, brain running a mile a minute to try and come up with something — anything — that could help make this situation better only to keep coming back with nothing. Leaving you gaping like a fish out of water, completely at a loss as you sought out any sort of solution.

So completely and utterly caught up in your inner turmoil that you didn’t notice Finny shifting again until he’d already launched himself forwards and tackled you to the ground in a tearful, almost bone-crushing, hug.

————

The moment you hit the floor you froze, unable to even react when the apologies started falling from his lips and the salt of his tears dripped down and gathered in the dips of your collarbone. Mind racing so fast that your body was unable to catch up, just barely processing the sting of your back as it started to fade and registering the weight of his body atop your own as he obliviously settled between your legs — pressing his crotch against your own as he tearily begged for your forgiveness.

But once you finally regained your bearings, you were quick to comfort him — raising yourself up on your elbows and moving to brush some fly-away hairs out of his face. Shushing him and whispering reassurances whilst caressing the sides of his face and brushing away his tears with a feather light touch. A few dozen 'it's okay's and 'I believe you's and 'I've got you's coming from your bitten lips as easily as breath — your tone sweet and genuine but no less firm for it, grounding him bit by bit with your repetitions until he was no longer sobbing and clinging to you like you’d scatter like pollen in the wind once he let go.

But the moment he pulled away enough to look you in the eyes, soft lips quivering and forest green eyes fretful and wet, whatever confidence you’d managed to scrape together was washed away — leaving your mind scattered and lost like a well-worn ship at sea. Grasping for some semblance of coherency as you faltered and floundered and flustered under that wide-eyed, gemstone gaze — stammering and stuttering and tripping over your knotted tongue until you finally managed to blurt out something.

‘You’re beautiful,’

Finny faltered under your unexpected praise, doe eyes widening a fraction as a wave of blushing, startled pink slowly spread up from his collarbone to his cheeks. He swallowed and your eyes flicked down to watch his Adam’s Apple bob up and down — had your throat always been this dry? — before he offered a response that was closer to a squeak than a question.

‘What?’

For a split second you considered backing out and backing down. Contemplated spewing a hundred excuses that felt a thousand times more hollow than the cracked cocoons he’d brought in from the garden earlier that week and that burned the tongue more than the fire that was blazing just beneath the skin of your face and throat. Lying to his face and fleeing, going back to the manor and asking Meyrin to just bite the bullet and apologise…

But you didn’t.

‘I… I said that you’re beautiful, Finny,’ god it felt good to finally say that out loud, relief flooding your veins even as your hands trembled as they touched his burning cheek and as your heart beat so loudly that you could barely hear yourself think.

‘You-You really think that?’

Green eyes — greener than the flourishing plants to which he tended, greener than the perfectly polished gemstones that decorated the themed jewellery worn by the young madam for the summer gala, greener than anything you’d ever seen — glinted with a sort of hope that you couldn’t quite place, clouded with a hesitance you knew all too well and yet still shining brightly through it all.

‘Of course I do!’ You responded firmly, shocked by your own sureness as you coughed into your fist and continued in something just above a whisper, averting your eyes to a suddenly very interesting fraction of plant pot as you spoke. ‘I always have,’

He was silent for a few moments and you felt your heart sink, blood pumping deafeningly in your ears as you started to panic. Thoughts of losing any chance to be with him, of losing your job, of losing your place all buzzing around your mind like a malicious storm — tears welling up in your eyes as it all became too much. Too much. Too much.

But then you felt a work calloused hand on the side of your face — rough thumb wiping away your shed tears with an unmatched gentleness and it all stopped. Silence, once again, until you finally turned your head and received a wordless acceptance of your confession.

A kiss so harsh and passionate that it sent you crashing back down onto the tiled floor — your own hands flying up to bury themselves in his hair as he deepened the kiss. Your lips parted in a startled gasp, which was eagerly swallowed by Finny’s soft lips and before long you found yourself lost in the moment: tilting your head in time with his own, experimentally gliding your tongue along his and delighting in the way you felt him shiver and groan, carding your hands through his messy blond hair and relishing in the way you felt him melt into you even further. Loved and loving and messy and passionate but pure.

Pure until he lent forwards in just the right way and pressed his crotch directly down against your already wet sex — the scratchy material of his uniform catching on the smooth cotton of your drawers to create a sinful combination of sensations that immediately coaxed a moan from your throat. A sound that sent a shockwave of heat straight to his own centre as you felt him starting to harden against your sex.

A sound that he swallowed just as eagerly as before until his mind caught up with his body and he realised just what had happened. Mortified, then, he started to pull away — the motion causing his length to brush against your slit once again and coaxing a fresh moan from you that had him reddening further — apologies already forming on the tip of his tongue and fretful tears brimming in his eyes as he went to speak. Though before he was able to get a word out, he was swiftly interrupted by your breathy plea and your soft hands gently tugging him back down, offering him an opportunity that had him letting out a whimper of his own.

‘Please, Finny, don’t stop,’

And, thankfully, he didn’t.

————

You were clumsy at first — both of you were — jittery with nerves and jerky with inexperience but still somehow able to make it work as you settled into something resembling an actual rhythm. Wrapping your stocking-clad legs around his waist and pulling him down against you whilst he ground his hips against yours — clothed erection hard and throbbing as it rubbed against your needy pussy, creating a delicious sort of friction that had you soaking through your undergarments far quicker than you'd like to admit. So wet that you were sure that you were starting to dampen the outside of his trousers, but if he felt anything he never made a point to mention it.

It was fast and rough and messy, your mutual desperation for release and for each other bleeding into your every action like water trickling from a stream to the sea. Clear as crystal through the way you arched your back up into his chest and one of those wonderfully gentle hands immediately wrapped around and beneath you to pull you closer to him. Apparent in the way neither of you made any effort to break the kiss, only separating by the merest of millimetres every few moments to catch your breath before diving forwards once again; lips and chins and cheeks smeared with saliva as you moaned and groaned and whimpered against each other, utterly oblivious (or, perhaps, apathetic) of the mess you'd made of yourselves. Obvious in the way that you moved against and with each other: circular grinding, bucking in tandem, downwards thrusts and so on — chasing those individual highs together as you held each other tighter and tighter and tighter.

Tighter until you could barely breath and it still wasn't enough. Though, by now, in the state you were in, even becoming one wouldn't be close enough — you just needed him. Needed his hands on your body, his lips on your own and you needed to make him feel good.

To make him moan and whine and gasp and say your name in that light and airy voice of his again and again and again. The need to pleasure him overwhelming what remained of your coherent mind until you were unable to stand it anymore and finally let yourself give in to that impulse.

Ever so slowly you started to inch your hand lower and lower between your bodies, cautiously palming his hard cock through the scratchy fabric of his uniform — coaxing a deep moan from the base of his throat that sent another wave of pleasure straight to your core. Then, after a short while of slow, gentle groping, you finally built up the confidence to reach into his trousers and wrap your soft hand around his throbbing dick — moaning at the feeling of its weight in your palm as you started to clumsily jerk him off.

Slowly — slowly — you traced your loose fist along his length, fisting from twitching base to swollen tip once, then twice, and again and again and again. Settling into a comfortable rhythm that had his hips bucking into your hand and him moaning and groaning against your lips — sounds and actions so erotic that you couldn't help but start to grind up against him in return, seeking stimulation for your throbbing, needy cunt. Aching for his dick, so painfully thick that you could already anticipate the stretch that would happen once he was finally inside of you; the mouthwatering sting that you were already craving through the lustful, heavy fog of your mind.

Though what few coherent thoughts you managed to scrape together soon dissipated once Finny broke the kiss and leaned downwards to press his lips to the underside of your jaw. Stealing your awareness and your breath with every peck of his addictively soft lips against your skin as he trailed kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, over your pulse point and down further to your collarbone before making his way back upwards. A rhythm all of his own that had you panting and whimpering and moaning — one hand in his hair and the other still wrapped around his throbbing length.

As moments turned to seconds turned to minutes you lost yourself to the feeling of his lips and hands on your body — all trails of thought leading back to him: his clothed cock grinding against your sodden panties, creating a delicious friction that drove you closer to the edge with every buck and grind; his soft lips, gentle still in spite of everything he was made to be, which he lovingly trailed along the arc of your neck and which curved handsomely upwards when your pulse jumped beneath his feather-light touch; his warm, work-rough hands, which held onto you with a strength and tenderness that had your pussy aching and that nervously massaged your breasts with an uncertainness that you were near-certain was reflected in your own clumsy ministrations.

The humid air of the conservatory mixed with the flustered flame burning beneath your own skin to create a cocktail of sweat and slick and precum that soiled your work clothes and cling to your skin in a way that you'd have hated had you been in the mind to recognise it. Though both of you were too far gone to even acknowledge the world beyond yourselves — beyond the hot skin, the soft mouths, the grinding of sex on sex only kept modest by the thinnest layers of cloth, the moans and groans and whimpers and sighs — everything else having faded away the moment that his clothed cock brushed against your needy, covered cunt all those minutes ago.

Then all at once something snaps. Finny's pace stutters and jerks as he lets out a sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper against the crook of your neck — hot, throbbing dick spurting his release in waves that cover your hand and soak into his trousers. Whining and sobbing as he presses his shaking hips harshly downwards, button catching against your neglected clit in a single, rough brushing of drenched cotton against plaid that had you falling over the edge of climax mere moments later.

It was all you wanted it to be and so much more: your vision was invaded with flashing blurs of white, stark as fireworks on a clear and moonless night as they clung stubbornly to the insides of your eyelids; your thighs and pussy and underwear were soaked through with your slick, wetness gushing out unbidden until you were coated so thoroughly that you couldn’t even move without noticing it’s cool and lewd presence on your gooseflesh-ridden skin; your heart was pounding madly, so loud and quick that your hearing was overwhelmed with the sound of the blood rushing in your ears that you could barely even hear yourself moaning and whining and groaning and panting; your limbs were trembling so badly that if it weren’t for Finny’s unrelenting grip that you were sure you’d have collapsed into a pleasure-ridden mass of writhing limbs.

Grounded only by the feeling of his lips on your skin as you both came down from your highs — by the way his messy hair felt beneath your fingertips as you soothed and massages his scalp. Sated by his warm weight on your body as he finally collapsed on top of you, wrapping you up in a loose hug as he just panted and gasped and regained his composure — all the while burying his reddened face in your chest. Kept sane by the feeling of the cold tile beneath your head as you finally gave in and laid back down on the floor, the pleasant chill helping you find your peace as you let yourself relax and catch your breath properly.

You could have stayed there forever if given the chance, laying in his arms saturated with a pleasure unlike any you’d experienced before, and gladly would have had it not been for a less than ideal interruption. The sort that had both of you rushing to readjust your uniforms and hide the evidence of what had taken place as best you could — all burning cheeks and terrified looks and shaking hands — not wanting to be seen in such a delicate state.

The clicking of heels. The humming of a lilting feminine voice. The silhouette of a telltale maid’s dress dancing across the front of the greenhouse.

Oh dear.

[razorblade180]

Flowers in a desert

Under dim shattered moonlight, Remnants greatest hero traversed arid sands among a forgotten trail. Reported Grimm and bandit activity had increased in the area as of late; her constant proactive behavior would’ve caused her to handle this behavior a request came up, but being required a certain amount of time off field. Well, for good parents anyway, which she tried to be. On top of other crimes, this particular problem got to fester a bit.

The cool desert wind hollowed across dunes and carried the scent of gunpowder. Echoes of gunfire alongside clashing metal drew Ruby over a large dune overlooking an Oasis. Normally, the noise of a battle would hasten her pace, but tonight she chose to sit down and watch over her eldest daughter as she took the request hours earlier. It was rather strange and a unique opportunity seeing the girl work. Almost like an out of body experience.

Petals fell down like rain while Carmine soared over heads and take down foes. To Ruby, Carmine was the definition of “poetry in motion.” Her feet glided along the sand around one person to dodge, then spun towards another to be firmly on the offensive. Even from where Ruby sat, the look of pure boredom was clear in her daughter’s eyes. Maybe boredom was the wrong word. More like…unbothered.

One moment four bandits attacked at once, then the next they were falling to ground in pain. A blade toss here, then a leap over there….before a perfect roundhouse into an uppercut and sword retrieval. Carmine stood above many her age and some older for quite awhile. Combine that with her own personal attitude towards how Huntsman should conduct themselves, and you get a very caring yet dangerous child. Ruby remembered feeling unchallenged and learning the strength she possessed, but at least being huntsman was her dream. Her first love even. Not so much for Carmine.

Enemies didn’t feel the righteous sting of a scythe or blade when facing Carmine. No, they felt cold hard logic and the pain of someone who’d rather be doing something else. Every battle was dance on stage missed. Her talents were owned from a pride of her heritage and her choice of work was self imposed sense of necessity to protect the good in the world; the good she loved so much. It was the brutal distinction between the two of them. Ruby always tried her best to fight the evil in people and save their good. Carmine however…was fine hunting down evil that prayed on the good that was left in others.

“Are we done here?” The girl said, surrounded by the battered bodies she left in her wake. “If this goes on much longer, people will actually start dying.”

Ruby watched a man and woman step up to the challenge, bringing many followers to them. They were most likely the leaders and seemed hell bent on fighting. As she stood up to go intervene before things got fatal for anyone, Carmine switched to scythe mode and stomped her foot.

An eruption of rose petals swirled in the area as she held her weapon out to the side and approached painfully slow. Her eyes never faltered from her enemies, even as she began spinning the scythe. No words. No blinking. No expression. Only a cold gaze of hidden intentions that made the bandits shiver before dropping their weapons and getting on their knees.

“We…surrender.”

Carmine put her weapon down and the petals pour. A gust of wind brought her mother beside her.

Ruby:That was an interesting move.

Carmine:Didn’t get to do it, again. Not that I’m disappointed. Lots a people are idiotic enough not to listen to my first warning, but smart enough to avoid real harm. Still…I probably won’t get much practice with that particular attack.

Ruby:Did you know I was watching?

Carmine:Nope. Not that it would change anything. These guys are weak. If I couldn’t end this without bloodshed, then I clearly would still have a lot to learn.

Ruby:…Let’s take tomorrow off and go to Atlas. Ships are still running tonight.

Carmine:Huh?

Ruby:Yeah they built a new mall and have a ballet performance happening. It could be fun.

Carmine:We… still have turn all these people in.

Ruby gently rubbed the top of her child’s head before stepping forward towards the bandits with a sunny grin. She crouches down to their level and keeps her grin, however, the warm sunlit granted to them became cold and distant to the point of feeling like a dream that never happened.

“Grab your people and turn yourselves in. My daughter has spent enough time on you as is, okay?”

“Y-Yes…” they trembled.

Carmine watched her mom get back up and turn around to give her typical loving smile. Ruby walked past her, gently leading the girl by the hand to go home and pack their things.

Carmine:..What did you say to them?

Ruby:That I loved you more than my job. They understand. Mom first, hero second, but that’s enough about them. I heard the performance can take requests. Have anything in mind?

Carmine:….I’ve always liked Firebird. Maybe a few routines from Swan Lake and The Nutcracker.

Ruby:Ah makes sense. No wonder your spins are so graceful. Now I’m curious what that big move of yours looks like. I bet it’s a real showstopper!

Carmine:*red*…..I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe I can show it off sometime? Ya know, just for show.

Ruby:Hell yeah.

Flustered at the idea, Carmine’s face grew red at the thought. Still, she smiled; really smiled. That’s all that really mattered to Ruby. The two may have their differences but that was okay when they could have moments like these. Although, if you asked a loved one or foe, they’d be quick to tell how often one looks like the other.

[fictional-love-is-my-life]

I imagine many textures on Earth are foreign to transformers. What do you think the favorite (and least favorite) textures of Optimus, Bee, Drift, Crossbars, and Hound would be?

Optimus:

His favorite is the natural feeling of wood. It's so new to him and unlike anything on Cybertron, that he enjoys it.

His least favorite is plastic, it's just a weird texture to him.

Bumblebee:

His favorite texture is cloth and clothing, soft and gentle. He also likes hair.

His least is rocks and stones, he dislikes how rough it feels on his digits.

Drift:

One of his favorites is the soft texture of flower petals and bird feathers.

He dislikes the texture of sandpaper or rough scratchy textures.

Crosshairs:

He likes the feeling of water, soft, cool, and clean.

He dislikes sand and how grainy it feels and how it gets everywhere and makes him feel itchy when it's in between his gears.

Hound:

He likes the texture of gunpowder and soot, the soft powdery feeling.

He hates slimy textures, anything slick, slimy, or sticky he dislikes it.

[cherrypikkins]

5 Character Associations - Juni

decided to do this meme with juni cottontale, my bun with a gun (and sometimes a sword)

emotions

loathing

nostalgia

guilt

terror

serenity

colors

mint green

coal black

crimson, like the far eastern sunset

gunmetal

labcoat white

scents

gunpowder

tea

flowers

chemicals

soap

objects

guns. lots of guns.

sensei's katana

glasses

flowers

potion vials

traveling tea set

some hair ornaments

body language

pushing his glasses up his nose

the thousand-yard stare at nothing

glancing over his shoulder

the longest, languid sigh

eyes flickering at you surreptitiously while sipping his tea

aesthetics

smoking guns

scattering cherry blossom petals

chemical explosions

tea and cake

kimono print

i tag anyone who wants to do this - yes, even you!!!!

[bcbdrums]

Tea Collection

Because @concon657 wanted to see a picture of my tea collection :)

The majority are from Adagio, but as you can see there's some random store brand things, a nearly-empty Twinings sampler box, and a few specialty things like the Teavana teas and the one I got while in England and those specialty blends up front.

Now... As it happens... This is still not all of the tea.

Not pictured:

Gunpowder (1 lb), a local brand of green tea (1 lb), 365 brand black tea bags (70), 365 brand green tea bags (70), Choice brand English breakfast regular (16 bags) and decaf (16 bags), Yogi brand Pumpkin Spice (it's awful; 16 bags), Prince of Peace brand green tea (20 bags) and oolong (80 bags), Good Earth brand "sweet and spicy" original (18 bags), Teavana Pineapple Kona Pop (13 oz), a local brand of rooibos (3 oz), and a local brand of chai (3 oz).

Also, I didn't include repeats in the photo... So, I have six boxes of the Celestial fruit tea sampler, six boxes of the Sleepytime Extra, two boxes of the Twinings Nightly Calm, and two boxes of the Yogi Elderberry.

I also have a pound of rose petals, a pound of lemon balm, and 3 oz of butterfly pea flowers.

I THINK... That is all the tea. I think.

I would like to add that a large number of the blends in the tea tins (Kim Possible teas, Henry VIII wife teas) were made by @meowmeowcutiepaws and @gothicthundra. And the historic disaster teas were made by...me :)

[startrekfangirl2233-writes]

There's Nothing I Wouldn't Do

Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia x Nadia Garcia (OC)

A/N: I wrote this to go along with a series being written by mayhemmanaged and cassmitchell called Gunpowder & Lead! Update as of 01/31/2024: This story is no longer connected to anything being written by the two accounts mentioned above. They are reworking this story. This is MY HARD WORK AND EFFORT and I will not be deleting it just because this character is no longer included in their story.

The character of Attie Blake is @dakotakazansky's. Fern belongs to @desert-fern. Obviously all of the Daggers are the property of Paramount. The only characters who are mine are Nadia 'Nova' Garcia and Alex.

Disclaimers:Female!Reader, and all the warnings below!

Warnings: Abuse, Recovery from Abuse, Assault

As a reminder, everyone’s experiences are different. Everyone’s experiences are valid. This is a fictional story.

My Masterlist

It’s just past noon on a sleepy Wednesday in Austin, Texas. The afternoon sun beats hot against my face. I grab onto the hood shrouding my features and tug it up a bit higher to make sure nobody can see me. You see, I’m not supposed to be here. The only reason why I am is the baby boy in the carrier strapped to my front. Alex. My son and the only good thing I have in my life. 

So why am I standing in front of a tiny flower shop named Hera's Orchard in one of Austin’s winding streets of small businesses with my baby in my arms and everything important to me in a bag at my side? There's a rumor, a rumor floating around on the dark web talking about this place. Rumor says that if you walk in and ask if they have any asphodel in the back, they'll help you, no questions asked.

I inhale deeply, trying to breathe despite my bruised, aching ribs and broken nose. I have to do this. For Alex, there's nothing I wouldn't do. I can take any and everything Arthur, my husband, lays on me. But the minute he turned his hand on our son, I'd had enough. The bruised ribs and broken nose, they're what I'd gotten for standing in his way. They're also the final straw. The tiny bell above the door jingles and as I walk in, the humid air stinks of soil and the heady perfume of the thousands of blooming flowers lining the walls. I feel a little bit like I've walked into a jungle. But automatically, instantly, it feels a bit easier to breathe.

Alex seems to like being in Hera's Orchard too, his chubby little hands grasping for the bright colors he can see even as his big eyes go wide at the onslaught of new sensations. I cuddle him closer, kissing his downy head before boldly forging my way to the counter I can see in the back.

There's a sign on the petal strewn countertop, proclaiming, "Ring the Bell for Service! Someone will be out shortly!" Right beside the sign is a bronze bell, like the kind they have on hotel concierge counters. I press it just once, and then have to drag a few petals from Alex's little fingers. If I hadn't caught them, they would've gone right into his mouth.

"Buddy. Alex! No, honey. Those do not go in your mouth." My son is ever vocal, babbling very seriously back at me. I'm having an oh, so serious conversation with my baby when an amused mock cough catches my attention. While I was conversing with Alex, someone walked out from the back and came to stand behind the counter. 

She's beautiful, her shoulder length brown hair is tied up into a knot at the back of her head and green eyes bore right through me. She's small and slight, but when she folds her arms across her chest, the muscles bulge with hidden strength.

"Hi, welcome to Hera's Orchard. I'm Fern, how can I help you today?" I can't hide my nerves as I slide the hood off, finally revealing my face to Fern. Her piercing eyes soften, seeing the bruises rising up vividly across my face.

"Hi, Fern. I'm Nadia," I make Alex wave with his little hand, "and this little guy is Alex. I read online that you just got a shipment of some rare asphodels into the store? I was hoping to purchase one as a gift." My throat is dry as I catalog the expression on her face. Fern's serious and stern. The sweet, slightly goofy grin she'd leveled at Alex just moments before is gone.

"Come with me." I grab my bag and follow her into the back. "Hey Charlie! Can you take over in the front? I've got a consult on a custom flower arrangement here!"

Charlie, a teenage boy, thin and gangly with the wildest curls I’ve ever seen, levels Fern with a lovestruck expression before walking out to man the counter. I know what he's so struck by. Have you ever been in a room with someone and been captivated by them? That's Fern's energy, from head to toe. I follow her into a small, plant covered office. Just as we sit down, Alex begins whimpering and gumming at my fingers.

"Sorry, he's hungry. D'you mind if I nurse him while we chat?" I can't believe I'm asking a stranger this question. Arthur would cut me down on the spot if he knew. Per his rules, babies are to be bottle fed only when other people are present.

"Of course. Feed the little guy. Take your time. I take my custom arrangement consultations very seriously." Her smile is soft as I situate Alex at my breast, heaving in as deep a breath as I am able as he begins to nurse hungrily. 

"Now that he's eating, do you want to tell me a little bit about the person you'd like to gift this special arrangement to?" Fern's got a little sketchpad in front of her and she begins to sketch bloom after bright bloom as I explain what I'm looking for.

"So, you're looking for an arrangement that is subtle and beautiful to gift your husband?" There's something dangerous in Fern's eyes as she uses a knife to cut the sketch free and hand it to me.

"Yes.” I trace over the thin wispy lines of the sketch, before murmuring, “This is beautiful. How soon can you have it ready?" 

I can't believe I'm doing this. Can I poison my husband? That’s the catch about Hera’s Orchard. It is a flower shop, one that has rave reviews and an ever growing list of clientele, but it’s true clientele is a bit shadier than housewives who want a fresh bouquet for their dinner table. ‘Asphodel’ is the key word in those situations. 

"Come with me." Rather than answer my question, she leads me to a small doorway in the back of the shop. She unlocks it with a key and grabs my bag. With Alex in my arms, I walk through the door, pausing only so Fern can latch the door behind us. Fern stops at the end of the passageway, knocking on the door. A small window opens, looking us over before the door opens and we're let through. 

"This, Nadia, is the Underworld. This is Persephone and Songbird. They run this place and are my closest friends." The women I see arrayed before me are beautiful and strong. Are they the salvation I've been looking for? Can they save Alex, and by extension me, from more suffering?

"Hey, Bruiser!" It's Persephone, her tone musical even as she wiggles her fingers at Alex. "What's up, Buttercup?"

"Seriously, Seph?" Fern's disgust at the nickname is palpable but I can tell it's a play at disgust more than the real deal. "This is Nadia Wilson. She walked into the Orchard looking for an asphodel."

Those seem to be the magic words. Before I can blink, I'm pulled to a table with Fern on my right and both of the other women in the room seated before me.

"I'm Persephone," Her voice is soft as she looks at me with Alex snoozing in his baby bjorn after his lunch. "Bruiser mentioned that you needed some help?"

At my confused look, she's quick to assure me, "Hey, you can talk openly here. We've got the entire Underworld locked down. Nothing leaves this room. I can assure you of that fact. We got the best hacker we know to build our anti surveillance gear."

As much as that intrigues me, if only because I just built an anti-surveillance setup myself,  I desperately need their help more. So I let the whole tale spill. How I emigrated to Texas as a young girl and taught myself how to code. How I'd fallen in love with the green beauty of the city and the hills surrounding it. But sadly that wasn’t all I’d fallen in love with. Arthur Wilson had swept me off of my feet. He seemed like a gorgeous man who had money and seemed to adore everything about me. So I hadn't hesitated when he asked me to marry him.

"Alex," you explain to the women, "is the only reason why I’ve stayed in my marriage for as long as I have." 

My breathing is ragged as I stare at the wall behind their heads. "Arthur, my husband, has hated Alex since before he was born. My husband hated how my body changed with the baby. He hates how I'm not back to my pre-baby weight or body type yet. So he takes it out on me." 

"At first it was just with his words. A probing comment here, a harsh word there. Then he started hitting me. I worked so damn hard to lose weight, to go back to what I looked like before, and it still wasn't enough. He's been hitting me more and more frequently."

"Then to top it all off, there is something else too. He's been cheating on me, I know he has. I've found red hairs on his clothes and he stinks of a perfume that's not what he buys me and insists I wear. But I could stand all of that. Last night, he tried to hit Alex. He's only three months old!" Your voice breaks and a tear slips down your cheek as you sob the words out. "He's just a baby, after all. Babies cry!"

"I can't let him hurt my baby. I can't live like this. Not anymore. Please help me. Please." My broken tones echo in the room around me as I make pleading eye contact with Persephone and Songbird in turn.

"Of course we'll help you, sweetheart! We're the Furies. It's what we do." I can't help my sobs as I let myself fall apart at their words.

3 weeks later

I wasn’t sure what to expect as the outcome from that first meeting at the Underworld, not at all. But whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t this. It’s 3 AM and red and blue lights blanket the front lawn of the suburban home I shared with my husband up until a few hours ago. That’s when I’d come downstairs with Alex in my arms and found Arthur and his newest side-piece, the red-head whose hairs I’d noticed on his suits, dead on the lounge chair in his study in various stages of undress. Like any dutiful wife, I’d screamed until our housekeeper found me and stayed by her side until the police arrived.

My pain and fear are all too real. Since I met with Persephone, Songbird, and Bruiser, it seems like Arthur turned all of his attention on me. I’ve been under a microscope ever since. He’s added a potentially broken wrist, two black eyes and a twisted ankle to the broken nose and bruised ribs I had the day I’d left Hera’s Orchard with a gorgeous flower arrangement under my arm. So the tears I cry as I clutch Alex to my chest in front of the sweetest Police Sergeant I’ve ever met are real. His face has been continually distressed since he first found me and I can’t believe how good he makes me feel.

“Sergeant Mickey Garcia,” he’d said, smiling at me as I tried to settle Alex from when the baby had been startled awake at the sirens of what seemed like the entirety of the Austin Police Department spilled onto our front lawn. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

I’d stammered back my own greetings and let him lead me into the kitchen.

“C-can you tell me what happened?” He’d blushed crimson when I tried nursing Alex to get him to settle down. His face had only grown more and more serious the more I spoke. I found myself spilling the entire tale to him, captivated by the curls spilling over his forehead. 

“Sergeant Garcia,” his superior, a man with arresting green eyes and dark blonde hair calls Mickey over to him. All night I’ve been getting appraising looks from the men of APD. Either I look like shit with a squalling baby in my arms or they’re trying to figure out if I have the courage to turn black widow on one of the Police Department’s biggest donors. I do, but they won’t ever know. I look like a beaten down, broken woman, but I’m far from it. I’m a professional woman. I build custom computers and security protocols for corporations around the world. It’s my true passion and calling, one which Arthur had never cared to know about.

As Mickey briefs his superiors, the looks I get go from being evaluating to pitying. I know I look a sight, bruises turning blue and green on my tan skin and with bags so dark under my eyes they’re purple. Add to that my pajamas, bedhead, and a squalling baby and I’ve successfully slipped under APD’s radar. They’re sure to have pulled the security footage, the footage my paranoid husband always had recording, by now, the footage which shows me asleep in my bed or sleep-walking to Alex’s room when my collicky baby wakes me up in the middle of the night. Alex is a sleeping weight against my chest before Sergeant Garcia walks back to me.

“We’re going to get you into an ambulance Mrs.Wilson and get you and Alex to the hospital and check out. If you’d like, we can call someone to come stay with you while you’re there and who can take care of Alex while we wait?” His voice sounds like sex and smoke. Were I not so recently a widow and not so injured to boot, I would have jumped him on the spot.

“Yes, I have someone I can call. I’d like to change and grab a bag for Alex if I can first though?” At his nod, I limp my way upstairs, putting together a bag for Alex before handing the Sergeant both the bag and Alex at his insistence. Arthur never once held Alex like that. When I step out of the bedroom in a pair of jeans and t-shirt, Alex is happily drooling against Sergeant Garcia’s chest and he looks too comfortable for this to be the first time he’s holding a baby.

“Wow.” My voice is quiet. “This is not the first time you’ve held a baby, is it Sergeant?”

His chuckle is bashful and shy. “No, actually. My sister in Miami has three kids. I’ve held them all.”

“D’you have any babies of your own, Sergeant?” I don’t know why I’m asking that question, not now of all times.

“No, I don’t. But I’ve always wanted to.” He clears his throat before helping you into the ambulance and handing Alex to you. “Now let’s get you in touch with who you wanted to call. Who’d you like to call?”

My voice is all fire as I say, “Attie Blake. She’s a friend and my lawyer.”

4 months later

Arthur’s sister and mother had put up a perfunctory fuss when they found out he was dead, accusing me of murdering him and any other depraved things that came to his mind. They even tried to sue me. But even their high paid team of lawyers couldn’t stand up to Atlas Blake. With Attie’s help, I managed to win the case and secure all of Arthur Wilson’s fortune into a trust fund for his son. Mickey’s been by my side ever since as well. It was almost too easy to fall in love with him. Especially when I saw how easy it was for him to accept Alex as a part of the package deal. Mickey helped me scope out the location so I could buy the small shop near Hera’s Orchard which I made into a net-cafe and officially introduced me to Birdie Floyd and Emory Seresin, who I only knew so far as Songbird and Persephone.

Since then, my life has never been better. The Furies are the closest friends I have, and the shop, named Daedalus’ Automata, is the perfect place for me to do my thing. What’s my thing, you ask? Before my marriage, before Arthur demanded a trophy wife, I was in cyber security. Give me any network and a computer and I could tell you how secure the network is and at least four ways that I could make it better. I also make custom computers and anti-surveillance hardware. It’s how I continued making money under Arthur’s nose. Now, it’s how I’ve been paying back the Furies for helping me. I keep any mentions of the Furies out of the internet and away from the Task Force’s attention. The best part is how Mickey doesn’t care when I come home smelling like grease with Alex in my arms. How I wish I’d met Miguel Garcia first. 

It’s late when I stagger through the front door late on a Friday night. It’s date night and I’m so late that I’m sure any excuses I have will be flimsy at best. Mickey had grabbed Alex from Daedalus when he got off of his shift, so I don’t have the baby with me when I walk through the door. The entire house is filled with the most delicious scent, and as I look at my watch, I know I’m at least an hour late for dinner.

“Mickey?” My voice is soft as I toe my shoes off and walk through the house. “I’m sorry I’m late, vida. I had this absolute wreck of a computer get dropped off for repairs.” In part that’s true, I did have a wreck of a computer dropped off for repairs. But that’s not why I’m late. The Furies were running an op tonight, one for which I was on comms, making sure my girls were safe as they were running around doing what they do best. I walk through the kitchen, my heart dropping at the sight of the candles on the dining table, the wax nearly melted away.

“Mickey?” My voice drops to a whisper when I walk into the study and see all of my computer screens fired up, filling the entire room with their cool blue light. On the screen flash three dossiers, my own, Fern’s and Ranger’s in addition to the blueprints for the facility we hit tonight. It was a strict information gathering op, but so important. How could I have been so stupid that I hadn’t locked that information down before I left this morning?

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do, amor.” I’ve never heard Mickey sound so serious. “I love you, and I promise I’m not angry, just worried. Tell me what’s going on.”

I can’t resist melting into his embrace, inhaling the musky warm scent of his cologne as he squeezes me tight.

“I love you, Miguel. I just need to have you sign something first. Then I promise I’ll tell you everything.” Then I reach for my phone and speed dial Attie. 

“Hey Attie, I’m going to need an NDA here.” I can’t help looking at Mickey over the next half an hour we wait in the kitchen. I’m puttering around nervously, barely able to stomach the stew Mickey made while I finished up at the shop. Mickey’s not much better. He eats too, but he keeps stealing these searching glances of me, and the tension enveloping our small kitchen is nearly too much to bear. He tries to speak a few times but each time, stops short. I can’t help wondering what this means for us, for Alex who already has heard us both refer to Mickey as dad or daddy.

It’s the doorbell ringing which startles me out of the pensive way I’ve been glancing into Mickey’s eyes. It’s Attie at the door with Bradley right behind her.

“Hey Nova.” She’s smiling, which should provide me with a sense of relief. But I can’t help the dread pooling in my gut or the bad portents which my mind is constantly bombarding me with.

“Hey, Attie. C’mon in.” I hug her for a few minutes before leading her and her six-foot shadow into our kitchen.

“Hey, Roos.” Mickey sounds exhausted and I can’t believe it’s because of me. “So you’ve been read into what the girls are doing too?”

It breaks your heart when he folds into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and runs his fingers through his curls. 

“How bad is it, Bradshaw?” At Bradley’s lack of response, I can see Mickey’s jaw tighten and worry cloud his features even more.

“It’s alright, Mickey.” It’s Attie who takes control of the situation. “Read over this, sign it, and then Nova and I will tell you what’s going on.”

Mickey gives the document a cursory look over, scrawling his signature where required before pushing it to Attie and leveling me with one of his intense panty dropping looks. It’s with my heart in my throat that I let the whole tale of my introduction and involvement in the Furies spill. Anger glints in his eyes as I finish. 

“I need a drink. Whiskey, Roos?” He can’t even look at me. I understand needing a bit to process, but Mickey’s never processed like this before. Please let him understand. Please let this not be the end. I share a scared look with Attie before standing to grab a tumblr for her, too. I don’t drink, not a drop, and while I’ve never minded Mickey or our friends drinking, tonight the sight of the alcohol slipping down his throat just fills me with dread. Maybe it’s residual PTSD from Arthur, who’d beat me if he got too drunk, but it’s just as likely to be the tense situation I’ve found myself in. 

“So where do we go from here?” Mickey’s looking right at me as he says the words. “I know you know this, amor, but I’m on the task force hell bent on finding Persephone and the Furies. To stop them. How can I protect my family? The woman I love, the woman I wanted to ask to marry me tonight, when she’s on the other side of the work I’ve devoted my life to?”

My smile is tremulous as I launch myself into his arms. Relief floods my veins, maybe this isn’t the end!

“You wanted me to marry you, Miguel?” I can’t hide my sobs as I bury myself into his skin. His arms are strong and secure as they automatically wrap around me.

“Course, amor. I’ve wanted to ask you to marry me since the day I met you.” I can’t help the clumsy, salty, kiss I press to his lips. “I’ve wanted you and Alex from first sight. This doesn’t change anything, not between you and me. It’s going to change everything at work, though.”

I get lost kissing Mickey for several more long moments, until the baby monitor on the counter chirps, spilling Alex’s cries into the room.

“I’ll get him,” I murmur in Mickey’s ear. “Attie will join me. Talk to Bradley, vida. He knows, so does Bob.”

Attie’s a silent shadow behind me as we walk into the nursery and I change the baby’s diaper.

“It’s going to be okay, Nov. The entirety of Mickey’s loyalty is with you and this little guy. They’ll figure out a way to keep us safe. And we’ll do our part to keep them safe too.”

Mickey looks relieved when I walk downstairs once Alex is back to sleep. It’s looking at his face and the home that we’ve made together that I make a vow I’ll keep if it’s the last thing I do. I’ll protect my fiancé, protect his friends and protect our son. If someone finds out about the Furies, it won’t be because of me. Nobody I love will ever get hurt again, not if I can stop them. 

It’s that righteous vision that fills my veins when Mickey and I get married in a small courthouse ceremony a few weeks later surrounded by our friends. It’s a hurried engagement, but necessary, especially since spousal immunity can only help when in our situation. He adopts Alex too. Attie checked, Mickey adopting Alex does not void the Wilson trust fund. Things seem to smooth between Mickey and I. Our two week honeymoon in Miami is the most fun I’ve ever had in my life. Not to mention, the most time I’ve spent naked in one stretch. Mickey didn’t let me out of bed for the first 48 hours we were there. 

When we get back, life sinks into its own balanced pace. My new normal, punctuated by the gorgeous solitaire diamond on my left ring finger, is full of promise. But as things pick up and I start hearing more and more about a new king-pin taking over Austin, the more I worry about what’s to come. But I’m able to put my worries aside for the most part, staying vigilant. I do what I can to help the cause, sending the young boys and girls who need help to Cora’s Bakery down the street for pomegranate scones. After all, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and that’s all of us. It’s why we do what we do.

I DO NOT CONSENT TO HAVE MY WORK POSTED, TRANSLATED, OR PUBLISHED ON ANY SITES OTHER THAN HERE OR ON AO3 BY ME. IF YOU SEE MY WORKS ANYWHERE OTHER THAN HERE OR AO3, THEN THEY HAVE BEEN POSTED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION AND I WILL BE WORKING TO TAKE THEM DOWN.

Taglist:

@dakotakazansky @cherrycola27 @thedroneranger @desert-fern @sarahsmi13s @hisredheadedgoddess28 @roosters-girl @roostette @bobby-r2d2-floyd @footprintsinthesxnd @genius2050 @angelbabyange @djs8891

[inkybinkyboink]

@salenrooz​ BET YO

im a SUCKER for scent headcanons i dont even care if its weird

jimmy/saul: k so separated the two for obvious reasons. saul absolutely smells like the worst male cologne in existence. like it’s so strong to the point where it just smells like chemicals. jimmy on the other hand? idk he looks like a clean linen bastard. like it would make sense if it was like the opposite right? like i feel like he doesnt smell like anything, like he smells like fresh laundry and the nail salon he has his office in yknow?

kim: ok ok ok so. kim grew up in what im assuming to be wasn’t the super cleanest house? like pet smells, cigarette smoke, dirty dishes and takeout boxes left on the counter. and i feel like when kim grew up she wanted to become her own person and that includes the way you smell. so i feel like she smells like rose petals, the muted smell of like,,an office filled with paperwork, you know what im talking about, please you have to, and cigarette smoke, because no matter how hard she tries, a part of her will always be stuck in the past.

mike: bruh ok uh like clean laundry, but more muted??? like an old man who lives alone, and he sits in his chair all day watching movies, but he also smells like motor oil and gunpowder and soil. kaylee always thinks it’s just because he goes on hunting trips, and no one ever thinks that it could possibly be because he’s out working for a drug kingpin every day.

howard: like lavender and burts bees hand salve. please i know thats weirdly specific but i dont know what else nails the whole “living natural” more than burts bees and lavender. also slightly like chlorine. though, near the end, maybe more like restless sleep, coffee, and salt.

gus: heres the thing. it depends. i think gus has become very very good at catering himself differently depending on who he’s around. so, if he’s just “gus the los pollos restaurant owner” probably just like old spice shampoo and deodorant. simple. humble. but if he’s “gustavo fring drug kingpin visiting madrigal hq/ cartel connections” then he’s probably wearing just the right amount of cologne, like bergamot or teakwood, something citrus-y.

nacho: like motor oil and leather from working in his dad’s shop, but i feel when he’s at home or if it’s like just him it’s a lot of floral scents, mostly from the girls, but also partly his own doing. not that he uses perfume necessarily, but he’ll light a candle to get the weed smell out of the air and it’s almost always some type of flower. usually rose, or gardenia or something not too overpowering, but still nice. mostly he just smells good, but like,,,not in a comforting way, in a hot way. yknow?

lalo: it’s been like. 2 months and im not over how this bitch would smell. ive said it once and ill say it again, i have and will never meet lalo salamanca because he isn’t real, but the way he smells gives me dysphoria bc you know it’s really good and vv masculine. his grandfather used to burn palo santo because he claimed it helped with headaches. lalo never saw any merit to the claim, but he liked the smell, so when his grandfather passed away he nicked the rest of the burning wood and now his own house just kind of constantly smells like palo santo. has a tendency to use really woodsy scents when it comes to like shampoo and stuff, and he usually smells like spices or cooking oil or something. good god i love him i wanna give him a hug.

chuck: i felt bad leaving him out. chuck smells like plastic and gasoline and like,,,a library in a really weird way. im not saying its good or bad, im just saying it is. kind of probably constantly smells like somethings burning but its not. its just the wires he recklessly tore out of the wall. 

bonus!

skyler white: there needed to b more women in this post ok brba and bcs are really bad for the bechdel test and it makes me mad!!! anyways, i think skyler would smell good yo! like god dude idk like she smells comforting in the same sense that your mom was comforting as a kid, and she smelled like home yknow? 

lydia rodarte-quayle: the same paper scent kim has but stronger. also like herbal teas and cinnamon. and coffee. shes not one to like douse herself in perfume or whatever, but i dont think shes beyond indulging in an expensive fragrance yknow what i mean? lydia smells good but also you can tell she’s rich when she walks by you.

[calmthefuckdownalright]

I Think I'm Alive For You

@heartofwritiingiing reblogged my fiction I Think I Died for You and added this amazing tag...and well...this happened yeah.

NOTICE: This is going to take place in an alternate universe where Karl and Sapnap never left Quackity (for plot reasons just read)

(Also those who have requested things I am working on them I promise)

><><><><><><><><><>

"This is L'manberg. Or what's left of it." The man's voice was airy and faint. Rain drizzled down around you and he helped you to your feet.

His hand was warm and it made your blood spark in excitement. You'd been cold for so long...

"You said your name was Y/N?" The stranger kept your hand in his but you hardly minded. You met red eyes with curiosity like a flame dancing in the pools.

"What's yours?" You asked skeptically. There was a white streak in his hair...odd.

"Wilbur. Wilbur Soot." Wilbur said and you let a small smile twitch on your lips.

"Well it's nice to meet you." You said stiffly and smoothed out the thin clothes you wore. Nothing more than a plain green shirt and a blue jacket with some trousers to hide your body from the elements. It reminded you of something of a zombie, though you hardly remembered the things.

"Would you like to see the place?" Wilbur smiled at you and something flickered in his crimson eyes. Something welcoming and vague.

"Yes, yes i suppose i would." You nodded and Wilbur offered his arm. The warmth sparked your blood again and tingled throughout your body like a lightning bolt.

~~~~

Wilbur was interesting...he was a steady hand on your back as you explored the many improved technologies that had emerged in your time 'away' as he had begun to call it.

Things felt better around him, like figuring out how long you'd been gone and how you got where you were didn't matter. At least, that's what Wilbur had told you he planned to make you feel like. So far he succeeded.

"I'll never miss another sunset again." Wilbur sighed and rubbed a half gloved finger over your hand softly. You smiled and rested against his shoulder with you back. In your free hand you twirled a flower, it was dying and the dark blue of its petals reminded you of something. Someone. A memory that seemed so happy you wanted to remember it.

"Hey Wil." You said softly.

"What is it darling?" He asked airily and you could tell he had his eyes closed. A breeze passed by.

"How did you die?"

Wilbur was quiet and his hand ceased to rub against yours. The air felt dangerous and explosive. The faint smell of gunpowder wafted from Wilbur on the quiet breeze and blew off a single petal from your dying blue flower.

"I..." Wilbur stammered and your curiosity grew. Did he remember? Did he not know like you? Was it all fuzzy and blank?

"My father stabbed me. I asked him to." Wilbur didn't look at you and a distant hand came and rubbed his chest.

"Oh..." You were grim in your words and thought it better to just stay quiet.

"Do you know how you died darling?" Wilbur asked and you shook your head. He pulled you close to him, resting your head on his shoulder and his arm around you.

"I don't even remember being alive." You scoffed and curled close to Wilbur.

"Maybe it doesn't matter then." Wilbur shrugged and your brain glitched.

"Your life doesn't matter to me anymore Y/N of-"

Someone had said that to you then it went blank. Then you died.

"I think I was important to someone, and they killed me." Your brow furrowed.

"You shouldn't worry about it, you've got me now." Wilbur kissed your head and lingered there with his nose buried in your hair.

"Yeah..."

~~~~

You tried not to question anything that happened from then on. Wilbur hadn't seemed too happy about you figuring it out and something wrong twisted in your gut about that.

"I don't know what's gotten into him." You sighed and caressed the face of the blue sheep. Tommy had said it was important to someone you knew and they would've liked you to have him.

Of course this had been rather odd but the animal was quite cute, so you supposed you could take care of it for now. It had a collar and on a tag in scrawled writing was 'Friend.'

"He's gone back to Las Nevadas and told me to stay home. Wonder why." You played with the bright blue wool and earned a satisfied baa from the livestock.

"I think he likes you."

There was a face, blank and compassionate. It was familiar and something cold but longing flickered in your chest.

Friend let out an indignant baa and you resumed petting him absent minded.

"Let's go find Wilbur." You decided and hooked the leash onto the sheep's collar, leading him to the desert city of Las Nevadas.

The clouds blocked the sun over the desert and you remembered Wilbur saying something about Quackity being a liar and basically moving every scrap of sand he could to create his capitalist paradise.

"I bet you'd be real hot in that wool if it wasn’t cloudy." You smiled at Friend and tugged the sheep along. Despite what Wilbur had told you about the palace of lies Q had built in his artificial desert, you were awestruck at the infrastructure nonetheless.

"Excuse me, who are you?"

You looked over your shoulder slowly as you stared at a tower of quartz and what looked like a needle at the top. No fear ran in your blood, Wilbur had said that was partially because of how long you'd been away.

"Erm, Y/N." you narrowed your eyes at the creature. A being of green goo with glasses covered in slime and a meshed version of suspenders and a shirt. A rather haggard appearance all together really.

"Where are you from?" The blobby man asked with a dorky smile.

"I-" your brow furrowed. Where were you from?

"This is L'manburg, or what's left of it."

"L'manburg. What's left of it anyways." You said.

"Well Y/N of What's left of L'manburg, Please state your business." The slime stood straight for such an unstable appearance and you cringed. Something fearful sparked in your chest at the familiar way they talked.

"You life doesn't matter to me anymore Y/N of-"

"I'm here for Wil-" You shook away the cold, dying memeory and just about as you got half his name out.

"Y/N? What're you doing here? What's with the sheep?" Wilbur's voice came from behind the slime man and the gooey greeter was quick to vanish away in a gloop of green into the sandy ground.

"I came looking for you. Tommy gave him to me, his name's Friend apparently." You shrugged. Something passed over Wilbur's face as he looked at the sheep before he snapped back to you.

"You really need to go." He let a sly smile split his lips but the smoothness of his words did little to quell the suspicion rising in your gut.

"and why's that?" You crossed your arms, the lead attached to your wrist swinging as Friend sniffed and baaed at the ground.

"Because darling-" Wilbur's words fell short as a new voice cut through the air.

"Y/N?" This voice belonged to a man in a colorful hoodie with a swirl in the middle and shaggy brown hair with a set of oddly colored goggles sitting on top his head.

"What-?" Fog swirled in your head and Wilbur stepped back to your side, his arm wrapping around your waist comfortingly.

"Karl?" You recognized the face now. The loose freckles and curious eyes. Wilbur's hand vanished from your side and you ran into Karl's arms.

"Oh my gosh, where did you go?" His familiar embrace warmed your soul and ignited a smile on your face.

"I-I died!" You pulled away from him and took in his features. The eye bags were new and the love worn wrinkles from ages of laughing and smiling looked good on him.

"You what?" his smile dropped. "What do you mean you died?" His eyes flicked up to your hair where a white streak ran through the locks, matching with Wilbur's.

"I don't remember anything from before or during. Oh gosh Karl, it was just cold and empty. Wilbur's helped a ton." You turned from the single person you could remember and turned to the man who had saved you. He was scowling slightly and had his arms crossed, a cigarette burning on the side of his mouth.

"My little sister got help from the he-devil himself?" Karl quirked a brow and looked at you disbelieving.

"It was meant to be a surprise. If you'd stayed in town like I asked things would've gone right." Wilbur growled a little.

"What're you talking about Wil. Nothing of yours has ever gone right." A man with black hair and white attire came from behind Karl along with a smaller man whose voice had risen. The smaller man was clad in a very...capitalist set of suspenders and a long scar ran down the side of his face and over his eye.

"Hush up Big Q. It was your idea for me to do it in Las Nevadas." Wilbur dabbed his cigarette ash into the sand, crushing an ember with the heel of his boot.

"Hold on," You stepped away from Karl and back to Wilbur's side. "If you're Quackity, and this is Karl." You turned to the last man with dark hair. "Who the fuck are you?" You asked and Friend baaed in agreement.

"Sapnap at your service. For being married to the guy, Karl never mentioned a sister." Sapnap leaned on Karl heavily and your brother's face turned a bright blooming red.

"Married?" Your mouth twitched and Quackity came towards you with an outstretched hand.

"The three of us are in a polyamorous marriage. That makes us family." Quackity smiled charmingly and you grimaced a little. This man did not fit Wilbur's colorful description. It didn't fit.

"Back up Q before you get a matching scar." Wilbur pulled you back by the shoulder.

"Watch your words Wilbur." Sapnap narrowed his eyes daringly and a small flicker of fire glowed on his knuckles with smoke rising from his skin.

"Okay, before a fight breaks out!" You turned to Wilbur. "Mind explaining the 'surprise' I somehow ruined?"

Wilbur sighed and flicked his cigarette away, crushing it under his heel with a flicker of a smirk as the ash and ember died away.

"I was gonna bring you here tonight and introduce you to Karl. I've been trying to find traces of you from your first life experience and I talked to Phil and he said Karl would be the one to know anything. Turns out your family and so I was gonna ask him if I could...." Wilbur's words trailed off into a muttering whisper and he turned away with an arm rubbing his neck.

"Didn't catch that last bit." You cleared your throat and Wilbur's face turned a bright red to match the shades that hung on his shirt collar.

"I was going to-" Wilbur was slow and sheepish. Friend baaed indignantly.

"He was gonna propose to ya if Karl would bless it since you ain't got a parental figure that we know of." Quackity shouted over him and Wilbur brought a stick of dynamite from his pocket.

"WOAH THERE LOVER BOY!" Sapnap stood in front of Karl and Quackity with sparks and flames coming from his fists.

"You were gonna propose?" You looked to Wilbur with a speechless face and his snarling face to Quackity vanished almost immedietly as he turned to you.

"Y-yeah." Wilbur shrugged and put the dynamite away.

"Wilbur!" You darted into his arms and buried yourself in his chest. "Yes." You said excitedly.

"I haven't even asked you yet!" Wilbur chuckled.

"Well hurry the hell up!" You said fiercely and Wilbur let out a booming laugh like an explosion.

Fuck the past, this man was going to be your future.

~~BONUS~~

Charlie stared from the back. You walked to Wilbur of Pogtopia and married him like it was so easy. It confused him, how forgetful humans were. The memory of your cold corpse in his hands was fresh in his mind.

The dull memory of your smile next to his and the guiding lessons of how to love and protect and simply had faded away with the life in your eyes. You hadn't taught him that just because you had taught him everything you knew didn't mean you weren't useful.

Things without use are pointless.

Things without use are not worth having anymore. So he killed you, your purpose fullfilled to him and your ghost never crossed paths with him. Now you could teach Wilbur to love maybe. Or maybe Wilbur will teach you.

"Congratulations Y/N of Dream SMP. Welcome back." He smiled and slimed away, back to the dark.

[inaris-mage-of-storms]

Thank you to @mewhoismyself for the idea of Scott confiding his story and feelings to Sausage! It took a little bit of a different direction than I first planned, but I hope you'll still like it.

(Content warning for swearing and suggestive conversation/brief discussion of a previous intimate encounter.)

--

Scott gave the gathered cornflower petals one last rough chop before dumping them in the bowl and picking up a pestle. Sausage sat next to him with a bowl full of dandelion petals, and they sat together in the sunshine streaming in through the open windows of the flower barn as they ground down the flowers.

"Jimmy was asking about you the other day," said Sausage, and Scott glanced up at the sly tone in his voice.

"Was he? Why?" asked Scott, keeping his voice steady and disinterested even as his heart fluttered.

"He said you haven't been by lately for any gunpowder or terracotta." Sausage added a splash of linseed oil to the bowl and continued grinding. "Asked if I knew if you'd be in Tumble Town again anytime soon."

"I haven't needed any," said Scott, certainly not disappointed that the sheriff was only concerned about business. Chromia's storehouses were overflowing with Tumble Town exports, and he'd finally had to give in to his advisors' demands that he stop making unnecessary trips to the mesa for supplies they didn't need.

Sausage rolled his eyes. "I know that, silly. And I guarantee he knows that. It was his way of saying he misses you!"

"Nonsense," said Scott. "Hand me the oil."

Sausage passed it over. "Honestly! How long are you going to keep pretending you aren't interested?" Scott only hummed noncommittally, and Sausage huffed at him. "You like him, he likes you. Someone needs to make a move already."

"I think you're misreading the situation," said Scott, tilting the bowl to check the thickness of the forming dye.

"I think you're scared," said Sausage. "Don't give me that look! Does this need more oil?"

Scott glanced over. "A little bit. I'm not scared. You're just wrong."

"I'm never wrong about love!" said Sausage confidently. "You know, my offer to give you some seduction tips still stands," he grinned. "Jimmy and I have gotten awfully close during a meeting or two."

"That's nice. I don't care."

Sausage scraped the sides of the bowl and continued mixing. "You wouldn't think it with how easily he gets embarrassed, but he's a vocal little thing once you get him going."

"I don't want to hear it, Sausage."

"There's this spot on the inside of his thighs that's really sensitive, and if you get your mouth on it he absolutely sings - "

"Sausage. Enough." At the waver in Scott's voice Sausage stopped talking and looked at him in surprise. "I know, okay? I know how vocal he can be. How he likes to nibble on your neck. He always goes for right here first." He touched a spot under his jawline before continuing.

"I know the way he keeps his attention on you, even when he's so lost in pleasure he can't think clearly. How he likes his hair pulled, and likes to be praised. The way he wraps his legs around your waist and tells you exactly what he wants." The air around them felt thick, even as a breeze stirred the flowers around them, and he felt like someone had slid a frozen knife between his ribs at the memories of things he would never experience again. "I know, Sausage. And I don't really want to hear all about how you know."

Scott took a deep breath, regretting his outburst immediately. His hands were shaking, and he set the bowl of dye down beside him. In, out, he reminded himself, reaching desperately for the composure that shielded him at all times. He closed his hands into fists, and when he opened them they were steady again.

"Oh, Scott." Sausage's voice was mournful. "I'm sorry. I was only trying to tease you, maybe make you a little jealous so you'd do something. I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would upset you that badly. Or that you and he had ever been..."

Scott rubbed a hand under his eye to hide the tears that he would never admit were forming, not caring about the blue smear it left on his cheek. "It's fine. It's not like I've ever said anything about it." He attempted a smile. "I have to keep some secrets. Being mysterious is part of what makes me so sexy."

Sausage launched himself at Scott and wrapped him in a tight hug. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I won't mention our uh, private meetings, again."

Scott patted him on the back awkwardly. "I appreciate it. Let go of me."

Sausage sat back and they resumed working on the dyes. "There's something I don't understand, though," he said. "I've known you both for a long time now. When on earth did the two of you get that close in the first place, and then go through what I can only assume was a nasty breakup judging by the way you both avoid each other while exchanging longing glances across rooms?"

"We do not exchange - " He sighed at the disbelieving look Sausage gave him. "It was a long time ago." Satisfied with the consistency of the dye, he set it aside and picked up more petals. "You remember me telling you about how Fwhip and I first met?"

"Yeah," said Sausage. "That was a long time ago, right?"

"It was," said Scott. "It was years before I lost my eye. Years before I was an acrobat. Can you work on a batch of magenta if you're done with that one?" He handed over some lilac petals. "After I left Gobland, I kept going south. By summer I was crossing the savanna that borders the mesa, and one day I spotted a little farmhouse by the river."

As the day went on, Sausage and Scott continued making dyes while Scott told his story. When he reached the end and fell silent, Sausage wiped at his eyes. "Oh, Scott."

"Please don't hug me again," said Scott warily, and Sausage laughed. Scott turned to look at the door, thinking he heard a noise, then relaxed as he saw a stray cat curl up on the window ledge outside. "But now do you believe me, when I tell you Jimmy is absolutely not interested in a relationship with me?"

"Nope!" Scott stared at him in disbelief, and Sausage shook his head. "Scott, he loved you. That much is obvious. Now I won't lie, you really fucked up - " He ignored Scott's noise of complaint. " - but that doesn't mean it's hopeless."

"No, it..." Scott sighed. "There's more."

"Oh, no."

"Not long after I established Chromia, I wrote to him under official capacity. I didn't mention my name, just requested a meeting to purchase some gunpowder and discuss an alliance." He found a rag and wiped at the dye stains on his hands, knowing it was a futile effort. "He didn't recognize me. He doesn't know who I am. And no, I'm not going to tell him," he said, cutting off the next sentence he knew was about to come from his friend.

"You are the worst at communicating your feelings," said Sausage. "It's not healthy! You need to talk to him. It'll probably suck, but once you apologize and talk it out - "

"I can't," said Scott softly. "What do I even say? 'Hi Jimmy. Remember that time my fear of imprisonment was stronger than my love for you and I walked away after breaking your heart? So sorry about that. Let's get dinner sometime.'" He shook his head, and began putting away the dye-making supplies they'd been using.

"I mean, I'd say it with a little more sincerity than that, but - "

"No." Scott's voice was firmer this time. "He'll hate me. And he has every right, but I can't bear to face that. Ever since we met again, I've only loved him more every day." His voice wavered again. "I'd rather live in this purgatory of getting to see him and never be close, than the hell that would be never seeing him at all."

"This isn't sustainable," said Sausage quietly, putting away the last pestle and stepping back to let Scott lock the cabinet.

"Maybe not," admitted Scott. "But I'm no stranger to walking a tightrope for as long as I can, even if I fall in the end. I want him to be happy, Sausage, and he won't find that with me."

He walked over to the window and leaned out to pull it shut, startling the cat into jumping down. He looked down the path after it, then down at the ground to see a figure sitting under the window with his back against the wall. The eavesdropper looked up at him with a wide-eyed guilty look, startled at being caught.

"...Jimmy?"

series masterpost

[puffles]

The text for the boss of Canto IV Pt 2.

Lobotomy E.G.O:: Sunshower - Dongbaek

[The paragraph below is a detailed description found in a document left in the L Corp. branch facility located in Nest K.]

Technology liberation alliance… It is said to be a group of former researchers from various firms.

… An umbrella that may have been used to stop the rain once. Now, it’s too old and worn to perform that role well. This umbrella must have been the compassion for an abandoned somebody. But it might have come across as hollow.

Hypocrisy, vanity, irresponsibility. Those are the emotions the umbrella has harbored now.

There may yet be members in the city who we haven’t met.

Dongbaek seems to be the leader of a subgroup.

As they forsook the world… the world will have forsaken them in return.

She has always been good at attracting like-minded individuals and encouraging them, so it must have been a breeze for her to gather the abandoned.

How did they accept her offer, then? I might see the answer to that question.

Her hand would have been comparable to an umbrella in a heavy rain with no shelter to be found, a warm gesture of compassion.

An invitation to comfort and warmth.

… Alas, the umbrella must be a holed one, like the one we are seeing now.

Dongbaek may have held an umbrella over them… It was only a means to further her own interests.

She knows it well herself.

Look. See how she is helplessly caught in the falling rain. She must have no intentions of avoiding it.

She is simply showering herself and all others in the rain…

Like a rusted umbrella, it would seem she has chosen to be stained in rust along with everything else.

Dongbaek E.G.O:: Spicebush

Dongbaek was rather fond of fireworks.

It’s an activity of entertainment where gunpowder is launched into the sky and blown up.

Some of us called it an aggressive hobby and teased it.

Some others joke that she might showcase a bomb in a future conference.

Of course, it was all an innocent jest.

However… Dongbaek must’ve yearned to see something beyond that.

As we all did,

She wished to see stars form a stream in the skies, and flowers blooming across the land.

That was all there was to it.

Now, the old League of Nine Littérateurs has fallen apart.

As I peeked into the course of her life, I saw the world fall apart in a tragedy caused by technology.

She must have been furious.

She must have been consumed with a longing, agony, sorrow, and despair.

As I was.

All of Dongbaek’s emotions have now pushed through the flesh, blooming into a mass of petals.

Ahh. Are you stopping at last, Dongbaek?

Do you finally effloresce the gorgeous scenery of our hometown with your own body.

I see, now I see.

The reason you bloomed, sowing seeds of nostalgia, was to set your heart upon our new beginning.

Dongbaek… The fireworks you used to love are now being recreated on the soil, as you manage to get the buds to bloom.

… Indeed, it is no wonder you would be fond of them.