#again not saying hes a saint BUT THIS IS ABSURD

[fairylando]

lord please take all the hate given to lando, double it and give it to the piquet family and associates. and christian horner.

[johnpriceslamb]

hey! i really love ur writing! are your requests open?? if they are would you maybe write another arthur x reader fic? maybe something with arthur introducing his new girlfriend to the gang for the first time? thank uuu!!😊

𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 ,

❥ ˚₊‧ swishswishswish prattles the pink-tinted brush within your nimble hold. Each delicate tap against the swell of your soft cheeks swell even more with colour, adorning a scent you were far too familiar with— cherry-kissed by love herself. ˚₊‧

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 ! ꒰ ❥ hyper-feminine ! reader ❥ female ! reader ❥ reader is mentioned to be physically shorter than characters mentioned below ❥ lovesick Arthur Morgan ❥ super-shy reader ❥ rugged cowboy bf x mini baker gf ❥ fluff ❥ Age gap implied ❥ 7k words ꒱

❥ arthur morgan x female! reader

꒰🍰꒱ “SWEET GATEAU” Written in all bold, the colour pink, carved in cursive. The board swings heavily amidst the top of the pole that sticks out to show off the demure place.

That was the name of your workplace. Located in the most populated city in the state of Lemoyne, Saint Denis. It was an obvious spot for cakes and pastries, considering that the literal meaning of ‘Gateau’ was cake in French. It stands out from most buildings surrounding it as do the connected shops beside it- large windows to display the sweet delicacies of riches on little shelves for those to glance at when passing by.

More-so.. advertising then teasing, you'd say.

The comforting, delicious fragrance of vanilla extract fills the air. You have yet to work on other requests commissioned by customers, though you focus solely on this particular order. Mainly because it was the easiest and much quicker to prepare.

A simple sponge plain cake with vanilla icing. Couldn’t be too hard.

You’re quite tempted to take a little swipe of the wet cream and taste it yourself- fortunately your temptations resist yet again because of repetition and practice. tiktiktik does the whisk in your hand go as it constantly scrapes against the bowl, the mixture hardens and becomes more of a fluffy-like texture rather than a wet clump of nice smelling liquid.

The comforting sound of the fire crackles with faint embers floating amongst the brick-encased oven. Inside the oven lay two lovely little flat cakes. Just exactly twenty minutes ago you’ve bestowed them upon a wooden flat board to dish out near the heat to harden up.

“Ten more minutes..” You mumble to yourself. Enough time to finish whisking the vanilla icing and pour into a pipe-bag.

You admire the prettiness of the sweet-tasting icing which was coated inside the surface of the bowl, before glancing at the paper-filled request again to make sure that you’ve been following the guide correctly. Thankfully enough, the woman who requested the small two layered cake wrote it on a piece of paper rather than verbally out loud. Her hand-writing was lovely, and so was she. At the end of the piece of paper, her signature was written out—

‘Mary-Beth. :-). Please do not forget the cherry on top !!!!’

You can’t help but giggle softly at the absurd amount of exclamation marks she wrote down. She was quite bubbly, and that lady was- very excited. From the looks of her- you were just at least a year or so younger than her. You remember she adorned a long skirt, dark pink in colour.. with her hair in a half down half updo. Freckles prettily placed on her skin. You recall stating to come pick up her order at around 8 in the morning tomorrow. The clock strikes 6 A.M. Two more hours until she can pick up her cake!

Long, dewy lashes tinker at the sound of the bells at the door jingling as a person enters. You were quick on your feet, miniature ribbon-tipped slippers softly tapping on the ceramic floor of this building, curiously peeking your dainty head from the corner. Another rich man seemed to peer around curiously at all the pastries and such inside, pondering if he should buy a few sweets. You weren’t one to really socialise, neither was he- from the looks of it. You could only offer the sweetest smile you could etch onto your face and shyly nod as he turned to you to acknowledge you, before returning back to the kitchen hidden from customers to work on the cake.

He could just ring the bell on the front counter to get your attention.

It was common for people to enter the little bakery, though at around 10-2 is when chatter becomes louder and you become more frantic.

And with that- ten minutes has passed. You clumsily get the cakes out of the oven and place it on the kitchenette's bench. Hot and rough-looking around the edges.. You could probably cover it up with the icing.

Before you do, you cover the first layer with the fluffy icing, before plopping the second layers on. This job was very therapeutic, you considered.

Droop does the vanilla sweetening go as you drown the plain cake with the sweet icing. Delicate swipes of a butter knife allowing it to smoothen amongst the hardened surface of the spongy delicacy. Plop! One little swirl of icing on top. And another.. and another.. Until it surrounds the whole edge of the cake. Oh, don’t forget! One big swirl in the middle of the cake, where the cherry shall be placed upon.

You can’t help but decorate the sides with little frosted hearts, the piping bag in your hand ever so sturdy as it squeezes most of the remaining out and onto the lovely decorated cake.

Was the decoration necessary? No, not really. But did it make you feel bubbly? Yes.

Ding!

You hear the sound of the silver bell reverberating against the metal itself just a few times from outside the kitchenette. You blink a few times, before toddling out and back at the counter. Seemed like the man from earlier had already decided on what to buy.

The sound of your meek, tiny voice can be heard echoing about and bouncing back to you. It was rather empty, considering that it was 6 in the morning-

“Welcome to Sweet Gateau! Where all your tastebuds experience sweet wonder and satisfaction. How may I help you?” Recitation of the same line allows you to memorise the whole thing completely. Sometimes you do change it up a bit just to have a bit of fun.

The man blinks at you.

He looks around before narrowing his eyes at you, sizing you up- albeit.. confused.

You want to ask what's wrong, did he perhaps get the shops wrong?

Perhaps it was his old eyes, or the way he perceived people by appearance. Maybe the tuft of pink on your uniform, or maybe the way you style your hair with ribbons and such. But looking at you, you looked as if you were just a..

“...Does this business support child labour?”

You stammer.

꒰🍰꒱ You are not one to argue with customers. Or argue at all.

But you’ve had to greatly convince the man that this place does not in fact, recruit people under the age of fourteen to work. He stumbles over his words as he realises that you were not actually in early adolescence, and to affirm his apology, he tips you a dollar. The wooden door which was pulled back allows the sweet little bells hung on top to jingle gently yet again as you see his retreating form with the paper bag of biscuits and sugary delicacies.

You smile happily. Another customer satisfied! though.. confused.

The clock strikes 7. One more hour until the lady can pick up her cake.

With a hum that sounded more like a serenade, you pack the cake into a small frilly-looking box, a sort of see-through material shaped in an oval which was built inside the frail box to allow the person to see the decorated cakes. Your beady eyes shimmer at the leftover frosting inside the piping bag.. maybe you could just have a little..

Your temptations are yet again disrupted by a flood of customers coming in. It was a Saturday, of course people were shopping at early dawn. The small crowd amidst the bakery mainly consisted of young ladies in friend groups admiring the pretty delicacies around, rich elderly retrospectively adorning the sweets from their childhood.

A squeak and a babble of incoherence once many line up, you're quick on your tippy toes to heat a tea-pot up with water near the brick-encased oven and organise many distributions of loose tea leaves.

Sometimes, you wonder if people did genuinely acknowledge their health since eating cakes and biscuits and other sweet stuff in the early morning wasn't really considered the healthiest breakfasts. Though, at least you earned a fair paycheck at the end.

A pretty smile feigned on your face until your apple-blossomed cheeks strained, as you recited the line over and over again to many customers who pointed at the delicacies they wanted to buy and eat. The fragrance of chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, it swirls into one and becomes a potent scent which drives more and more to eat up. You can’t help the giddy smile and the apple-blossom swelling with colour on your cheeks as you shyly peer at everyone who eats the pastry with delight. You’ve baked a few of the treats that linger in the bakery, and the soft moan at the end of the bite which signifies great pleasure in eating your own baked sweets allows your tummy to flutter with butterflies.

The tip jar starts to slowly fill every ten minutes. Quarters shine and tinker within the glass container, bidding every donation with a pleased 'thank you!' and a little wink. 

It’s been an hour or so. Mary-Beth has yet to pick up her cake. 

As if on cue, the bells attached on-top of the door chimes, producing the same little melodic drag. You look up to see the lady you were thinking about! Mary-Beth, if you recall correctly. You wave at her with a happy smile, and she reciprocates with a big grin obviously excited to see the order. From behind her slightly taller figure in comparison to you was followed by three more ladies, admiring the shop with a soft coo and a gasp.

“I told y'all this bakery was cute!” Said-woman falls with a bemused smile on her face.

“Twenty-five cents for a whole brownie! What a catch,” One nudges another.

“It has caramel in it!! C’mon Abigail, we oughta!” The lady with blonde hair almost whines, “It’ll be a good surprise for lil’ Jack!”

“Mh, I don’t know Karen..”

Mary-Beth eagerly comes to the counter, her dark rosetta coloured skirt swishing around as she does. “Hello, miss [name]!”

You smile in return, wiping your powered-up hands on your frilly light-pink apron, “Hi, Miss Gaskill. Your vanilla glazed cake is done. Are you here to eat in or to take out?” As nimble as you were, you can’t help but be comforted by the lady’s presence. A sunshine amongst a field of closed sun-flowers.

She almost seemed surprised at your words. Perhaps the usual shops that she went in did not offer such things. She ponders, before calling out to the three women who still stare at all the sweets on display, arguing with each other whether or not they should buy a few sweets, “Would you all mind quieting down!?” 

You can’t help but softly giggle under your breath.

You patiently wait for Mary’s answer, that small grin still plastered on your face.

“Hm..” She hums, “Do you perhaps have spare plates and serviettes..?” She meekly asks.

“Of course!” You nod sweetly, “Give me a moment to prepare a table would you?” “Oh! Okay,” She beams. 

As you pass by, all of the girl’s bid you a “hi!”, “lovely place!”  “hello!” You respond to them with a wave and a smile.

“She’s very pretty,” The black-haired girl whispers to Mary-Beth. She nods immediately at her response.

“She really is,” She agrees, “So lovely too! I think she's got to be the nicest girl I've ever met in Saint Denis.”

As the chatter in the bakery by other folks becomes a tad bit louder, you're too busy preparing four serviette-adorned plates. You nod to the lady waiting, she bickers with the others and allows them to toddle on over and take a seat. The legs of the chair scrape at the floorings below, some are mindful about the fact and instead of dragging it, they slightly elevate it to eliminate the scratchings.

“Oh! Right, would you like me to cut the cake?” You graciously ask.

She smiles and politely nods, “Yes please!” 

Their prattling drowns out in silence as you waddle away back in the kitchenette to cut the cake.

Mary-Beth smiles at the other girls.

“So? How do y’all like it here?”

“It’s real fancy in here,” Abigail responds calmly, “Real pretty, though.”

“Mhm. Anywho.. How much did you pay for the cake?” Her blonde haired friend asks. She fiddles with the napkin on the plate, before placing it beside the food holder. She inhales the scent of the bakery, sighing sweetly.

She sheepishly grins, “Err.. five dollar.”

“I— Mary-Beth! My goodness..”

“Tilly, I promise you. It’s gon’ be real good!” She nudges the girl in the yellow dress.

"I better see miracles happening once I take a bite out of the cake," Karen- the blonde haired woman scoffs, allowing herself to get comfortable in the chairs. The two women beside her softly giggle at her bluntness.

The bold, sweet odour of the sugary vanilla glacé hits their nose, arriving with a slight wiggle inside the box as you carefully place it in the middle. Mary-Beth was the first to gently take the lid off, she gasped at the small decorations at the side. Little piped hearts.. "My, oh my.."

"Now, ain’t that just the cutest little thing i’ve ever seen?" Tilly coos.

You do a little curtsey, tipped with a sugary smile and doll your wispy lashes. "Enjoy, ladies!"

"Ah ah, wait a moment now- hold on!" Mary-Beth frantically stammers and tries to get your attention with a squeak once your small back is turned to them. It does, fortunately.

You turn back around, curious. Your head is slightly tilted to embody your confusion, beady eyes staring at the ladies whom seem to also want to keep you back here.

"I've seen you runnin' all about and uhm.. Do you ever take breaks, miss?" She curiously asks.

You blink. Was she offering..?

"I do," You respond truthfully, albeit shyly.

She sheepishly smiles, "Would you perhaps.. Like to enjoy this with us?"

You stammer, "I-I uhm, I'm not sure about that-"

The woman in blonde cuts you off, "Awh, c'mooon! C'mere and sit, girl. You need a damn break."

You hesitate again. "No, really-"

"Ahh, give us a break- c'mere now!" She cuts you off easily. The one whom insisted on you sitting down with them grabs a chair from an empty table, before easily plopping you down.

"What's yer name, lil' lady?" She asks with a smile.

You grin with a docile muse, saying hi to the other girls, "It's [name]."

"Ooh! Purdy name for an even purdier girl." She cheekily pats your pixie-like shoulder. Your cheeks pop with colour at her low-toned flirting

"I'm Karen, that's Tilly, Abigail, and of course, Mary-Beth. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, little miss [name].”

Another girl pipes up, “Do you work here all alone, [name]?” Tilly— the one with the pretty yellow sundress asks with interest. She admires the interior of the building, how the edges of the roof had little floral pastry designs, on-going around the whole building and to the hidden kitchenette behind.

“Mhm!” You nod. Abigail raises her brows up, leaning slightly on the table. She has the mother-like aura which makes you feel ever-so giddy. She’s hushed in her tone, worried that she might make a scene if she spoke too loud, “Excuse me for intrudin’ but.. Ain't you a little… too young to be running this store all by yourself?”

“Ah!” Your cheeks become darker in hue. “I’m of legal age to work, miss. It’s just the frills ‘n the bows.”

Tilly was the first to serve herself a slice. She takes a small bite from the sweet delicacy, icing oozing out inside as she lets out a delightful hum. She finishes chewing it, before her eyes twinkle and she turns to you, “My goodness! And you baked this all by yourself?”

“Uhuh, I’m so glad you like it.” You clasp your hands together happily. Mary-Beth is eager to get a slice, then Abigail, then Karen.

“Okay, maybe the dollar was kind of worth it for this cake..” Karen mumbles quietly, poking her fork at the sweet cake.

Mary-Beth cheekily nudges Tilly’s shoulder, “Seeee? I knew you’d like it.”

You look around, noting yourself that you should give them something to drink to drown that sucrose-filled treat. You excused yourself from the table, the little frills etched on the back of your small skirt bobbling about like a tiny princess toddling about. You’re quick to bringing a teapot over, with a few porcelain-like cups stacked on top as you gently place it on the table.

“Wait- er.. Does the tea cost extra?” Mary-Beth asks, raising a finger before lowering it down as it catches your attention.

You raise a brow, “It’s free.”

“I could quite literally kiss you right now,” She beams, allowing you to pour the hot tea in the cups which were given out to the women around.

The overall vibe amongst the interior was pleasant. The small, gossamer-bunched bonnet on your head tilts a bit as you lean down to tip the fragile teapot.

As you carefully pour the hot liquid, you hear them conversing with each other as usual. Though you tend to take a blind eye- or ear in this case, you can’t help but be a tad bit curious to their little gossip.

“D’you reckon we should’ve invited Molly over?” Abigail asks.

“Oh- Maybe. I feel like she'll like it here, but I also have this feeling she’ll just fan herself away and give us nasty looks the whole time.” Tilly mumbles, delicately cooing out a 'thank you' as you poured a cup of tea for her. The tea swishes and sloshes against the cup as she drinks from it with her pinkie out.

Karen snorts, "You're so right. Just one touch from Dutch, and she's ready to take over the world. Miss primp and polish she is till' mister Dutchie doesn't give her a lick of affection."

Mary-Beth gasps softly, "Karen!" She calls her name as if to scold her, only for a small chuckle to follow after.

Your curiosity is visible, but you don't say anything. You're one to entertain gossip, but you aren't one to prod- considering that you've only met these lovely ladies.

They finished the small cake in another hour. Currently, you were situated behind the mini counter serving a few customers amongst the treats they wanted to buy.

"Ah, that was real good." Abigail wipes her mouth with the napkin provided, in a more rushed sense- an underlying feeling that she wasn’t so used to these kinds of etiquette.

"Maybe we should buy sumthing! We ain't gonna visit 'Denis for a while unless if we like- beg Arthur or sumn' to come wit', so I reckon we should give ourselves a little treat after all the things we've been through."

"We should buy them caramel brownies.."

"C'mon, c'mon! Lets get it then," Karen ushers Tilly and Abigail out of their seats once they've finished up, Mary-Beth following after with a giggle.

"[name]! These brownies cost twenty-five cents a bar don't they?" Mary-Beth calls out, pointing at the display at the front. Oozing with caramel delight, encased with a delicious chocolate coating which makes her swoon at the beautiful sight.

"It does, yes." You nod with a shy smile.

"Goodness, [name]. These prices are kinda high.. Reckon' you can give us a lil'.. discount? Y'know! Since we're friends!" Karen winks.

You shyly ponder, "Mhh.. Alright, why not?" As said before, you weren't really one to argue. Besides, they were sweet girls.

"Woo-hoo!" They cheer with a giggle, before eagerly grabbing the little tong at the side to grab a slice.

"A bar of brownie.. 20 cents." You bargain.

Karen shrugs, "Good enough." And she hands you the coins.

You hear them all bidding you a good-bye, and a cheeky "Expect to see me here again!!"

The door closes, and you're left with the constant conversations on-going. You stare at the shining coins placed in your hands, and can’t help the pleasurable feeling of gentle-tipped joy flood your tummy.

꒰🍰꒱ Morning dawn comes.

Another day at the bakery.

You rise slowly from your beauty sleep. The silky gossamer curtains flow slightly from the wind, as the sun shines pink and yellow lights from the half open windows of your room. The wood creeks beneath your light footsteps as you grumble on to get ready for the morning.

Lazy pats of coloured light pink powder is gently flushed against your cheeks, the small ribbon-tipped brush rattles because of the amount of use it's been through. Your hair is done prettily, silky bows attached to the side which matches the coloured powder you put on your dewy face. It takes you a tad longer to arrange your morning routine into a real situation, until you're out of the door and walking on the path to the bakery.

Pushing past the entrance, you hear those bells chime a little ballad that was always memorable and will never be forgotten.

Though it may be a nuisance to look at the same things constantly, you are always reminded that this place was a safe-zone for anyone or anything. Mainly because at the entrance hangs a low sign on the door handle that entrees prohibit the use of weapons and must take it off before entering the store.

Suddenly, your thoughts are interrupted as the entrance opens to the same women from yesterday. Though, two older men are accompanying them from behind, albeit.. begrudgingly.

"-I don't think this store is the right thing f' me.." He grumbles, you can see from behind the counter that Abigail was holding his hand, perhaps her lover. She glares and hisses at him, pinching his arm. "Quiet, you."

"Y'sure this place sells them biscuits I like?" The one in dirty blonde seemed low-key embarrassed to be in here, scratching at his head as he looks around. His hat is tilted to obscure his eye-sight. Your curious eyes widen a bit as his own stares at yours. You quickly avert your eyes with a soft blush etched on your cheeks.

"They sell all kinds of sweets 'n' delicates," Tilly pipes up, slightly hitching her long skirt up with her thumb and index finger. Shoes clack gently against the floral-designed tiles, eyes wandering around the familiar place. "I'm sure you'll find those dumb biscuits you keep talkin' about!"

"[name]!!" Mary-Beth was the first to run to the counter with a giddy smile, "Told ya I'd be coming back."

You have a small smile on your face, "Welcome back, miss Gaskill!" You do a tiny curtsey with your frill-bunched apron and skirt.

She giggles, "Goodness, [name]. You are too cute for your own good."

She perks up, "Ah! We brought a few friends over. This here's John," She points to the man who grumbled a 'hi', crossing his arms. He clearly does not want to be here. The woman who clings onto his arms scolds him quietly for being so ‘impolite’. You hide your lips behind your hand to stifle your soft giggle.

“That’s Arthur.” Mary-Beth points to the man who looks at the biscuits section. Topped with a black shirt and a vest which had a unique design, he seemed.. very determined to find those biscuits he mentioned earlier when entering the bakery. He looks around curiously, the little flower-y paint-job is something he expected for a small little bakery like this one here.

He’s holding onto his belt whilst striding to the counter lazily, before curiously looking at you. Cold, dark eyes peer at you like a lone wolf about to catch it’s prey for lunch. You meekly shrink just a bit as you feel him size you up with his daring gaze.

“Howdy, miss.” He greets casually.

You slowly nod, very shy with your greeting. Your quiet voice echoes loudly in his ears. He unconsciously has to lean just a bit to even hear you. “Hello, welcome to sweet Gateau..” A smile forms on your face as you see his brows relaxing slightly at your harmless form. Suddenly, he’s as bashful as a kid being told off for causing a ruckus. He looks around with a narrowed gaze, before looking back at you. A soft grunt escapes his lips.

“..Do ya’ll make uh.. Osborne biscuits?” He asks in a low tone.

You brighten up.

“Oh! Yes we do. Would you like a bag?” You ask with that same pixie-like smile which makes him soften up even more. Something.. catches his eye. He’s not sure what though.

“Ah, um.. Yes please, miss.” He tilts his head to obscure his eyes from your view.

You mumble a little ‘excuse me,’ to push yourself off your shoes to retrieve his request. He watches the way your fluffy-frilled skirt bobbles up and down.

Very.. cute.

A tap to his shoulder, and a soft snicker catches his attention. He turns around.

“Whuh.. What?” Arthur blinks at the three ladies who stare at him with a big grin. He was stunned at the abnormal behaviour they were currently showing off.

“Yer cheeks are real red.” Mary-Beth comments. Tilly has to hide her soft chuckle with her hand the corner of her eyes becoming alike of a crows feet to acknowledge her amusement.

“They are?” He quirks a brow, crossing his arms. Though imposing, he’s as docile as a lamb when it comes to the ladies, “Yer jokin’ with me.”

“Are not!” Karen laughs, “Don’t tell me you like her already. Ya’ll only just met!”

Arthur looks defensive, he narrows his eyes at the women in-front of him. “The hell you talkin’ bout?” He rests on the soles of his feet, nervously looking around. Anywhere but in their eyes.

“It’s as plain as daylight, cowpoke. No shame in hidin’ it, she’s real cute.”

Unaware of their conversations lingering in the background, you come back with the bag of Osborne biscuits. located within a transparent plastic bag and secured with a ribbon. A sticker in the middle with the bakery's emblem on it It rests delicately in your palm as you blithely toddle up front. The chatting suddenly ceases when you return.

“Apologies for taking a while,” You apologise sweetly, placing the biscuits on the counter. He brightens up entirely at the cute packaging of the biscuits he was craving for for so long.

“Don’t sweat it,” He opens the satchel hanging over his shoulder, “How much?”

“Fifty cents for a bag.” You watch him throw a few coins onto the counter. You smile sweetly, counting the coins before placing them inside the cash register. The swelling of your cheeks become just a tad bit more prominent as his fingers linger on yours to grab the bag out of your hand once you push it lightly in his direction.

You do a tiny curtsy. So much alike of a princess who expresses their gratitude to a king. “Thank you for ordering!”

He could only nod, scratching at his stubble as he awkwardly looked away. “Yeah. Uh.. No problem.”

“Do we really needa be feedin’ Jack all this? He’s gon’ be diabetic once he grows up if we keep feeding him this stuff..” John and Abigail bicker in the background which catches both of your attention. You can’t help the amused smile on your face at his comment. Though he was trying to be quiet, these walls echoed right back at you.

“Are.. They always like this?” You can’t help but question the sweet- or.. something couple from the back. It was cute in your eyes. Arthur can’t help the grin forming on his face.

“Their way of showing love I guess,” He leans on the counter with the biscuits in his hand. Then, he slowly turns his head to you, “Er.. What’s yer name?”

“[name],” You squeak in response to the handsome man.

He blinks. Without hesitation, he says with a soft hum— “Purdy name.”

Your cheeks become the same pigment of powder you apply on your temples. You look down at the ground, your hands behind your back as you can’t help the giddy smile on your face, “Thank you..”

Arthur is curious to learn more. He's fascinated by the personality you portray. With a pixie-like physique and a timid mindset akin to a doe, a stark contrast to his.

“How uh.. How long have you been workin’ here? In sweet..” He pauses awkwardly, trying to think of a way to say the final word in a mumble without looking or sounding ignorant.

“Gateau,” You finish his sentence for him with a light smile. He’s thankful that he didn’t hear a soft giggle at the end. Perhaps you were trying to save him from looking pitiful. Or maybe you were really just a decent-hearted girlie.

You do not notice the way the other ladies looked back at you and Arthur with a cheeky smile.

“Ah, yeah. Sweet Gateau,” He clears his throat with an oafish, low beam.

You can’t really remember the exact date you started working in this petite patisserie, but you give him a rough estimation of when you started. He nods with an interested hum, seemingly curious about your story. He didn’t seem like a man who would indulge in small-chat. But for you, he did.

“We’re leavin’, Arthur! We all got what we wanted!” One of the women calls out to him, causing him to be startled at the abrupt calling.

He clears his throat shyly again. “Ah.. Um.. I should get goin’. Only came here to see if ya’ll had ‘em in stock. Glad you guys did.” His words were nothing but gentle- waving even. As if Arthur didn’t want to leave just yet. You nod kindly, letting a tiny blossom of adoration to slowly develop inside your tummy. 

“Come back next time,” You faintly add, shyly waving at him with a sweet beam. 

He has a low smile, “Oh, I will.”

Your heart stammers a bit.

The door closes. The sound of multiple footsteps creaking amongst wooden floorboards is heard.

John’s looks at the cowpoke who strides next to him. He’s careful not linger near the dirt-path, noting to himself to not get his boots so dirty. A nudge to his arm is what gets Arthur away from his thoughts.

“What the hell was that?”

Arthur glowers. “What’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb, cowpoke. Saw how you looked at ‘er.”

“I don’t know what yer’ talkin’ about.”

The conversation ends there. Either John was becoming frustrated with his ignorance his words were stuck in his throat, or he gave up entirely to persuade the man’s attraction to the girl behind those doors.

꒰🍰꒱ To your utmost surprise, Arthur Morgan slowly yet surely becomes a common face within Sweet Gateau.

It’s not to say he was unwelcome in the premises, rather more.. how should you say this, amusing to say the least.

A man who stands firm and tall at a whopping 6’4 in height, who carries a gun at his side with a rifle almost as big as you- with a sharp gaze that could pierce your heart as quick as a glance in your direction, stands in a small bakery with light pink fairy-like cakes and floral themed walls. Perched up on a table with his little snack whilst scribbling down things on that journal he always took. You wonder what he writes about.

With his constant visits, it’s clear that you’ve down packed his order to your brain.

Osborne biscuits with a small cup of coffee.

You wonder if that man likes to torture himself with such blandness. No sugar, no milk, just coffee. It’s as bitter as it can be- if you can smell that bittersweet scent from just a few centimetres away.

Sometimes he would come up to you for a small chat to probably make you feel less lonely as you sweep away at a dusty corner for a few minutes straight. Other times he would just mind his own business, munching away on those plain biscuits he always orders.

It’s been a few weeks since seeing the other girls. Sometimes you ask Arthur to say hi to them for you, and he always comes back with a lazy grin saying that they miss you and hope you’re doing well despite only knowing each other for a few days.

The bell rings up front.

You know it’s him from the way he slowly strides to the counter, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as a faint jingle of spurs become evident the more he walks closely.

You truly cannot help the blossoming smile which etches on your face.

“Good afternoon, Mister Morgan. Welcome to sweet Gateau,” You welcome him with a slight lean on the counter. You can’t help that cheeky expression, “The usual?”

“Y’know me.” He nods at your words, “The usual, please.” Baritone and deep, his voice was. It almost sends a shiver down your spine.

You watch him turn his back to go sit at one of the more secluded spots in the bakery, deep into a corner. A diary in hand, with a pencil busily being worn down on the papers. The sounds of led scratching at the fibres of the white expansion of pages is heard easily from afar. It’s calming to say the least.

You’re quick with the order, almost giddy as you place the plate of those plain biscuits on his table with his bitter coffee. He gives you a small ‘thank ya’ kindly.’ before returning back to his sketching on something.

In just under twenty minutes will the bakery close. It’s quiet, with only a few people including Arthur relaxing in the wooden chairs placed within the interior.

You’re busy within the kitchenette, allowing the brick-encased oven to be put out completely. Washing up all the equipment you’ve used to make and create such food, soapy bubbles floating everywhere. The sounds of the door opening and closing is heard, many of the customers served leaving with a small tip inside that jar of yours up front.

Slowly yet surely, you wipe down the benches of the kitchenette before putting the rag back down. You walk up to the counter with a soft yawn from the tiring day.

A soft clearing of a throat catches your attention. You blink a few times and see Arthur.

“Oh! I thought you would’ve left a while ago,” You smile. Though you’re not very keen on customers staying five minutes before closing time, you’ll be very glad to make an exception for Arthur.

“Sorry, uh..” He awkwardly scratches at the back of his head, “Reckoned It’d be better to give this to you in private.”

You tilt your head sweetly, almost puppy-like. His heart squeezes at the simple yet innocent gesture. What was he giving you?

With that, he hands you a piece of paper, folded in half just once with a small heart at the corner. Your eyes light up immediately, as you shyly take the piece of paper- one which was from his diary he probably torn off, considering that one edge of the paper was bumpy and rough.

You mumble out a shy ‘thank you’, very curious and opening it with one simple hand gesture.

You feel like the luckiest girl alive.

A pretty led-based sketch of you. You were drawn with your usual frilly outfit on, the bakery drawn in the background. He drew every single detail on your face so accurately, it sort of amazes you. The small beauty mark was in the correct spot, with your eyes big and sparkly.

You softly gasp, putting a small hand over your mouth to not look like a dummy in front of him, “Arthur..”

“It ain’t the best but..” He averts his gaze, “I couldn’t help but draw ya. You just looked..” Pretty. Beautiful. Adorable. Cute. “—..Lovely.”

“Ain’t the best?” You scoff. “This is so beautiful, Arthur. Y—You got the bow, too! And the outfit, and the background..” You beam sweetly.

“Thank you so much,” You keep the drawing close to your chest. You note to yourself mentally to buy a picture frame, “This is so beautiful, Arthur. I love it!”

He holds his gaze low, cheeks slowly burning from the praise you squeaked out. He awkwardly shifts, before bidding you a goodbye.

You open the piece of paper one last time, flipping it over to see a message written in cursive which read:

‘Kinda weird to write this but I heard you were free tomorrow. Would you like to walk around the park nearby with me? I’ll probably be around there at 8 in the morning, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. —A.M ◡̈’

For a man like him, you’d never thought his handwriting was alike of a fairy tale novel.

꒰🍰꒱ swishswishswish prattles the pink-tinted brush within your nimble hold. Each delicate tap against the swell of your soft cheeks swell even more with colour, adorning a scent you were far too familiar with— cherry-kissed by love herself.

You are very adamant in looking like a right pixie for today.

Last night you could not get much sleep because of the excitement your heart held. You were dying to meet Arthur again without being in the same frilly uniform you always wore, a face coated with powder not from your beauty products but from pastries you make and serve.

You adorn a floral patterned dress, with a pretty pearl necklace. The hat you wore was similar to a southern belle darling sun-hat, but less brim and less flowers, a simple laced bow tied around the rim instead. And of course, your signature laced bows clipped in your hair.

As pretty as a porcelain doll you were.

Your ballerina-like flats click gently on the cemented pavement down towards the park. The scent of steam and machine slowly transition to more of a petrichor-like smell as you near the park.

There he was, standing around the entrance, admiring the flowers from beyond. You can’t help the soft giggle escaping your lips as he looked behind him and went immediately silent at the sight of your beauty. It was almost coincidental on how the flowers around gently wavered by and shined more brighter once you passed by with a shy smile.

“Hi,” You greet him softly- almost too gentle for his liking. Your hands are positioned behind your back, with the soles of your feet resting on the ground as you tilt your head to maintain eye contact with him. You notice his hair was slicked back a bit, and his attire was more cleaner than usual.

“Hey,” He replies back. He lends out an arm for you to hold, and you do so happily. He looks everywhere but your direction.

He clears his throat with a bit of hesitancy. “Thought you weren’t comin’. Hell, I thought you didn’t even see the message I wrote on the back.”

“Why wouldn’t I go?” You smile eagerly, “It’s nice to be somewhere else for a change. Being cooped up in that bakery can sometimes make me feel dizzy.” That was the longest sentence he’s ever heard you mutter.

“I reckon smelling the same sweets over ‘n’ over again would make ya go crazy” He replies cheekily. His eyes size you up again. Slowly yet surely. A little fairy you were, with beauty no other. He opens his mouth to say something, anything- but he slowly shuts it.

And suddenly, he builds up enough courage to say something.

“You look.. Real pretty.” He quietly mutters. Lovely doe-like eyes stare up at him again- and how quick did his knees almost buckle was a good comparison to his latest duel.

“..You think I look pretty?”

He slowly nods, scratching at the stubble on his chiselled jaw with his other hand, “The prettiest.”

He’s not sure if the glittering pink powder on your cheeks becomes more prominent as seconds pass by. He watches you slowly become sheepish and giddy under his sharp gaze. You fight the curled corner of your lips to turn downwards, but alas you give up immediately as you quite literally melt under his touch.

You shyly stutter out a small “Thank you.” The grip on his arm becomes just a tad bit tighter.

The silence was nothing but comfortable despite it being a bit awkward at the start. After his compliment, you can’t help that fluttering feeling of love bursting inside, up in the skies lays an imaginary cherubim whom shoots those heart-shaped arrows quickly into your heart as you glance at him another time.

And it seemed that the cherubim shot his arrow in his heart, too.

“I loved that drawing you made f’ me yesterday,” You mutter. High-pitched yet so soothing in tone- was your voice. Almost mellifluous, like a serenade similar to those soft jingles heard in the entrance of the bakery, “I never knew you could draw.”

He chuckles lightly, “Yeah, figured. I don’t really look like the type to draw, do I?”

“No, not really.” You softly giggle, “But it’s.. it’s cute.” The way your tone changes pitch at the end makes him conclude of how your intentions were supposed to be.

He quirks a brow. A slow smirk curling on his face.

You catch on immediately. Your cheeks become the same pigment of blush you used, “I-I didn’t mean it like that—”

His soft laugh interrupts you. “No, no. I get ya, I get ya.”

You can’t help but look away from embarrassment. Just a few minutes in and he’s unconsciously teasing you.

“Hey.. Look at me.” He narrows his eyes at your little show.

You don’t.

“C’mooon, it ain’t such a big deal..” He’s about to grab your chin to make you look his way. Though his hand backs away when he sees those beady eyes of yours slowly coming back to maintain eye contact.

He smiles unconsciously at your sweetness. “Yeah. Good girl.”

He unconsciously brushes your cheek with his thumb. You puff your cheeks out immediately, heart hammering in your chest at the title. You cross your arms in-front of your chest, hand resting on your fore-arm. He quietly notes to himself how pretty your hand would be if a ring was seen on your ring finger.

Suddenly, you feel your heart drop. You want to say something, anything.

“Arthur?” Your hand suddenly goes to his sleeve, tugging it softly to get his attention.

“Mhm?” He responds, tilting his head down to meet your gaze.

Suddenly, you feel like your tongues all tied up inside your mouth. Your mind is in shambles and you’ve suddenly forgotten every word in the English dictionary as his pretty eyes stare at you as if you were an ethereal being.

“I.. er,” You fiddle with the small frills of the end of your dress, “N—nevermind.”

“Hey, now.” He comes a bit closer with that boyish charm smile. The faint scent of hair pomade and wood makes you swoon just a bit more, “You can’t just back off like that, c’mon.. tell me.”

“I..” You hesitantly start off. “What.. What are we, Arthur?”

He seemed to be a bit caught off guard with the abrupt question. You catch onto his quietness, and immediately you shrink out of embarrassment. You feel ashamed, flustered for even asking that!

You dare try to look at him in the eyes once more, “I- I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t apologise.”

You slowly blink when he cuts you off.

He’s a bit difficult to read at this moment as he processes his words. He looks at you a few times, gosh did his heart beat fast.

Then, he slowly opens his mouth. “I.. I ain’t so sure myself. But I just..” He takes a deep breath, “I like you, a lot. Yer a real lovely girl, a good girl. But you shouldn’t be with a man like me, miss.”

You feel yourself falter, “Wh— What? Why?”

He shakes his head. He’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to answer, but for your sake he does.

“I.. ain’t a good man, [name].” He tries to explain to you. “Never was in the start. ‘N I don’t want you gettin’ into trouble just cuz people seen you with me.”

You narrow your eyes, allowing him to continue on and elaborate. You feel like the happiest woman alive, but the saddest.

“I’m..” He looks around to see if anyone was listening, and he leans in just a bit, “I’m an outlaw, sweetheart.”

“…And?”

He’s taken aback once again. The garden amongst you quietens as soon as you uttered out that single word. You feel awfully thankful because of the fact that no one was around you.

You feel like this’ll be the most stupidest decision in your life. Your heart and brain yearns for the man that stands in front of you, who holds you like a porcelain doll and who treats you like the prettiest princess alive.

“I— I don’t care if.. if yer an outlaw.” You stutter out, “You’ve made me feel things I’ve never felt before and I..”

Both his hands come to yours, fingers coming to intertwine with yours. The bold contrast between your skin and size told you everything. Calloused filled, scar-stricken hairy hands paired with hands that were always smoothened, delicately cared with little to no blemishes. He squeezes your hands firmly.

“Darlin’..” He sighs, “I don’t want you to get hurt ‘cuz of me, ‘s all I’m saying.”

“Please, Arthur.” You plead silently. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for at this moment. You want him, and he wants you. He looks so conflicted, his demeanour falls as soon as you use those puppy eyes you were blessed with. Long lashes slowly fall down, which rises and shows those glistening pearls of coloured irises.

“..Damn.” He kisses his teeth out of pure irritation over the situation. Not because of you, never. But because of the decisions which ultimately resulted in the worst. He looks at you one more time.

“You’re real needy thing y’know that?” He grunts lowly before leaning in slowly to press his lips on your forehead. Immediately do you melt in his arms, you cling onto him like the princess you were.

He holds you closely. Your face meets his chest, and his arms are wrapped around your waist, “You really wanna get with me huh?”

“Yes,” You reply, out of breath at the touch. “More than anything.” You continue on with a sweet whimper which makes his desires go crazy in his mind.

“You’re gon’ be in for a real long ride, sweetheart.” He mutters softly in your ear.

You don’t hesitate to answer back. “I don’t mind.”

“You really sure?” He asks one more time, “Y’can’t back out once yer with me. You’re mine from then on, y’hear?”

“All yours.” You nod once again.

꒰🍰꒱ “I’ve been thinking.”

The brush in your hand is slow in movement, before placed down gently on the table below. A brow is quirked at the sound of your beau’s voice which rattled in your head.

It’s been over few months or so since you’ve gotten together. When he couldn’t visit, he’d send letters with the sweetest words. You’ve kept them all in a small box which cheekily peaked out in the corner of your room, right on top of your mahogany wardrobe.

“You oughta meet m’ family.” He bluntly states.

“Your family?” You tilt your head.

He nods, scratching at the stubble on his angular jaw. Your eyes catch the slight tremble his hand had when it was coming to his jaw, and you can’t help but be even more curious.

“Lemme rephrase that.. Reckon you should come meet my gang. They’re my family, in a way.”

You hesitate at the word ‘gang’. Obviously, by that word alone it insinuated meanings which you were taught to be aware.

“Don’t you worry, they’re all nice people,” He brings up a hand to place on-top of yours, “You don’t have meet ‘em if you don’t feel ready yet, ‘m just saying.”

You shyly smile up at him.

“I’ll meet them.”

His crinkled eyes widen in surprise, “You will?”

“Mhm,” You nod, “Oh- Just give me some time to prepare, will you?”

“Right, right. You go do your little princess activities which’ll span for over a whole five hours.” He teases. He earns a glare from your puppy face, something he’s all too familiar with.

“Quiet, you.”

“The hell are you even doing in there? Does it really have to take you a whole two hours to pick an outfi��� Ouch.” A sock clumsily hits his face.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take you a whole five hours to get ready. Before you could grab the necklace on your desk, Arthur reaches from behind to grab those dainty pearls of yours before clasping it behind your neck himself. He slowly leans in to delicately place a soft kiss on your sensitive neck before standing up to dust himself.

“Y’ready, sweetheart?” He asks with a low drawl.

“Mhm!” You smile happily, clinging to his arm.

Outside from the building you lived in has a small horse post outside to hitch said animals. He leads you to a horse far more taller than him, quite literally towering over you. With the least of efforts, he picks you up from the waist to plop you on the saddle, before he himself hitches on the magnificent mare.

It took over an hour to travel to some sort of densely packed trail. You can’t help but tilt your head at the location, tilting your head up to question the man who lazily rode the horse behind you. His chest was quite a good alternative for a pillow.

“..You live here?”

He snorts, “Er.. Kinda. You’ll see.”

Not long do you see a large campsite, you feel yourself shrink at the sound of.. new people.

Sure you worked at a job where you had to talk to people. But you weren’t the best at keeping up a conversation with.. criminals, you could say.

“Arthur’s back, Arthur’s back!” A little boy’s voice rings through your ears, you can’t help but curiously peak from his shoulder to see whom it was. A young boy with brown hair- blue coat and a tooth missing. He eagerly points to the man as he enters in the vicinity.

“Ooh, ‘n he’s brought a girl..” The young boy ushers a woman far too familiar to come over.

“He what now?” The sound of a few footsteps were heard- oh gosh did you feel as nervous as a doe trying to not stumble on its legs.

“A girl?”

“Don’t tell me we’ve got another mouth to feed.”

“She’s real purdy.”

“She seems fancy..”

“[name]?”

You jump at the sound of your name being called- you look behind to see.. Mary-Beth!

“Oh!” Arthur hops down, picking you up from the horse to settle you onto the ground. You eagerly smile at the woman you knew well.

“What are you doing here?!” The book-worm asks with a squeal, rushing to you for a hug.

“I— I could ask you the same thing!” You stammer as you feel yourself getting lifted up a bit from the ground, hugging her tightly back.

Arthur coughs to interrupt the soft chattering, “I’d like you all to meet m’ girl. No touching, ‘cept for the girls ‘n Jack.”

“Ha! Knew you had a thing for her—” You hear a raspy voice from afar, near the little boy you presumed was named Jack. You’ve seen him before, and if you could recall.. His name was John. A flick to the forehead is what you see between your beloved and him.

“Tilly ‘n the others are here somewhere finishing chores up,” Mary-Beth beckons a few of the girls to come over. Karen was the first to bid you a ‘hello!!!’

“Y’got any cake for us?” She jokingly asks. Her eyes widen when she realises she’s spoken too soon when she sees the few boxes of treats which were stacked and tied with a pink bow neatly on top of Arthur’s horse.

“[name], I think ‘m gonna kiss you.” Karen walks away to grab one box for herself. You let out a giggle as you go and greet the other girls.

Fortunately for you, everyone was welcoming and homey well um, except for one. But you’ve heard from most that he’s always like that.

“It’s quite a surprise for Arthur to bring a woman back to camp,” An old man to which you’ve became comfortable talking with for a while sits next to you. Hosea was his name, for some reason does he remind you of your grandfather.

“Oh? How so?” You shyly question. His warm eyes stare at your figure endearingly.

“Well for starters, he usually scares them off.”

“Hosea.” Your love comes to your side, embarrassed at his words.

“It’s quite true! Here, let me tell her about the story of when you…”

For the rest of the day, you were treated carefully and lovingly. You weren’t sure what you’d expect from a gang filled with criminals and thieves, but you could surely say that they were a sweet group of people.

You’ll be expecting a large sum of visitors on the following days, and perhaps a small ring soon enough.

[mothiir]

story time with isaiah

I can’t stop writing for these boys I love them.

Cw for caning, descriptions of blood.

—

—

It has been just under a month, and the Emperor — in His most glorious and unending mercy — has seen fit to continue to conceal your existence from the rest of Isaiah’s battle brothers. He and Reuben benefit from your redemptive labour, as you atone for your extensive sins by darning their socks, polishing their armour, and keeping their dormitory spotless.

With a little satisfied sound, you set aside your mending. You have been piecing Brother Reuben’s hair shirt back together, and your fingers are raw from handling the tough wool. Isaiah smells the iron tang of your blood.

You stretch your arms up over, closing your eyes as your joints click. Isaiah looks up from his current dedication — transcribing the life and times of Saint Celestine onto fresh parchment in his neatest handwriting — and sees that you are relaxing back into your bunk. His brow furrows a little. It is not time for you to sleep, and you show no signs of engaging in contemplation of the Emperor’s many noble deeds — though perhaps you are doing this internally? 

“Free time is an affront to the Emperor, little mortal,” he says, dipping his quill into ochre-red ink to outline the title of the newest segment, wherein Saint Celestine engaged in combat with a daemonette of Slaanesh and defeated it. This segment is an especially lengthy one, and well-illustrated, and he wants to do it justice. “Ensure at all times you keep Him in your thoughts.”

��Yes, my lord,” you say, eyes snapping open — a sure sign of guilt. One of your hands protectively rests over the hair shirt, probably recalling the last time that Isaiah had seen fit to bless you with more work. “No need to tear this, lord, I am more than happy to keep the Emperor in my thoughts while uh —“

Isaiah sighs, setting the quill down. Since the dormitory now only holds two Templars, he and Reuben have been able to redecorate, hammering the unused bunks into a workstation, pushed up against the wall. Their trunks serve as an adequate chair, tough durasteel enough to support the bulk of an Astartes — providing the Astartes in question is not armoured. 

“I am not going to tear the shirt, girl. I tore those socks because you showed an uncouth amount of joy in finishing your work for the day. And — besides, that is not the subject of discussion,” he says, thankful that Brother Reuben is not here, otherwise he would once again find himself rehashing an old absurd argument. Brother Reuben had objected to ‘his underwear being used as part of a pointless lesson and now she is upset and my feet are cold’. 

You had, admittedly, been a little upset — uttering little hitching squeaks, like you were swallowing back sobs — but Isaiah maintains it was an important chance to practice the virtue of patience, and you had restitched all of the socks in record time, so what was the harm done?

Still. Perhaps this is a chance to impart a gentler kind of lesson. Good relations with lesser mortals is an essential part of serving the Emperor. 

“Have you ever heard the tale of Saint Celestine?” he says instead. To his surprise, you brighten up. 

“Yes, my lord! I saw the latest holo about her before uh — before my world was cleansed in Holy Fire. Though of course it may have been a corrupted version of the story and uh—“

You are babbling. You often do this, and Brother Reuben has assured him that it is not a fault in your genetics, but a natural consequence of your human frailty. Isaiah cuts you off.

”I will teach you one of her many victories,” he says, “and of how her undying faith in the Emperor brought glory to both her and those who fought beside her.”

He turns away from his manuscript, folds his hands in his lap, and begins the tale. Saint Celestine was once a member of the Adepta Sororitas’ Order of Our Martyred Lady…

—

Just over an hour later, he finishes up the tale of how she appeared in glorious golden raiment to the beleaguered defenders of the city of Karlstadt, who were standing proud against the hideous assembled forces of heresy and ruin. How she had drawn her blessed blade and sliced apart the daemons arrayed before her. How she had blessed the inhabitants of the city, before fading into the rising sun like a dream of better times.

“That was beautiful,” you say. Isaiah had been staring off into the middle distance, allowing his eidetic memory to take hold of his tongue — but at your voice he focuses on you, gratified by the adoration in your eyes. The Living Saint is a balm to the faithful, and a scourge to the heretic.

“It is, is it not? Now, you recite it.”

Silence. You blink at him in puzzlement.

”You recite it,” he prompts. “So that you may tell the story to others.”

”Oh — uh — well, once there was…”

”No, no, no,” he says. “That is not correct. You must recite it exactly as I did, with the same words — this is how it was taught to me, and it is how it must be taught to you.”

”The — the exact same words?” you say, starting to grow flustered, your hands twisting into the hair shirt. The movement agitates the wounds on your hands, filling the air once more with the fragrance of your blood, and it gives Isaiah a splendid idea. 

“Yes. Do not worry, I will help with your memory — I understand that it is far inferior to mine.”

He looks around for a suitable implement. His warhammer is too heavy; his bolter far too precious. He reaches up to one of the unused wooden shelves and, with very little effort, rips it out of the metal brackets, before splintering it with a single crushing fist. 

“…my lord?” you say, sounding nervous. Isaiah smiles in what he hopes is a soothing way. 

“Do not be worried. I understand that your lapses in memory are not a sign of heresy, only of your own feeble genetics. This is a method that I was blessed to experience as a neophyte, before my implants worked fully, and it worked very well.”

He extracts the longest piece of wood, and uses his thumbnail to polish it, turning ragged pulp into a more suitable smoothness. He swishes it experimentally. Perfect.

“Now,” he says sunnily. “I will say a segment of the tale; you will repeat it. Every time you get it wrong, I shall give you a little tap with this. The pain focuses your mind, and ensures that next time you will not forget!”

”Uh — I do not think that is necessary my lord —“

You are hunched like a Jerboa about to bolt, smelling of fear. Isaiah sighs. 

“Girl, please do not be ungrateful. I am trying to bestow the Emperor’s kindness upon you. Now give me your hand.”

Your arm trembles, but you still extend your palm, fingers curled protectively over it. Just as he is about to begin the exercise, he recalls Brother Reuben’s fury at his torn socks. Ah. Yes. Anything that will hinder your ability to work is probably going to cause issues with his battle brother — and baseline humans take so long to heal. 

The soles of your feet? No, he cannot have you unable to stand. Your back? No — you need to hunch over your mending. Your face? Some of the serfs ritually scar themselves as part of their penance.

No. Not your face. That is a little dramatic for something as trivial as learning a story. 

And then it occurs to him in a lightning flash — of course! 

“Kindly lift your skirt up and bend over the bed,” he says, thanking the Emperor for His guidance. If you struggle to sit down then that is no problem — you can sew standing up! And you can sleep on your front, so it will not even affect your lengthy and inefficient spells of rest. 

You make a strange strangled sound. 

“My — my lord?” you manage, and that warm feeling kindles once more in his belly. Bringing a waif to the Emperor’s light; imparting unto you stories normally reserved for Astartes. It makes him feel all happy and tingly in a way he usually associates with a battle hard won, or an especially entertaining heretic burning. 

“Hurry up now,” he says, indicating the bunk. You look behind you, as if expecting Brother Reuben to materialise with his usual rebukes, but he is busy in the chapel (though Isaiah cannot imagine what possible issue his brother could have with this plan). 

Trembling like a new fawn, you bend over the bunk, propping your elbows on it. 

“Your skirt too,” Isaiah says, helpfully. “If fabric gets into the wounds it can cause infection, and that is a serious matter for a baseline.”

You inch your skirt up in little shuddering movements that Isaiah finds absolutely hypnotic for reasons he cannot quite understand. You bare plump, tender flesh — thighs sweeping up to the curve of your buttocks, which quiver under his gaze. 

“Do you not have any undergarments?” he says. 

“I did,” you say, after a moment. “They uh. They vanished.”

How baffling. Humans are absentminded to the extreme — perhaps you mislaid them? He will have to ask Brother Reuben of their whereabouts. 

“Now,” he says. His mouth feels odd — a little too dry. He swallows a few times, rolling his tongue against the soft insides of his cheeks, wondering briefly — absurdly — if your skin would feel as soft against the press of his fingers. ”Let us begin.”

—

You start off so well, parroting back the first few sentences he recites for you almost down to his intonation. Alas, you are still only a human, and the mistakes soon begin —

“…for Saint Celestine appeared in —“

Wssshhh goes the instrument, and you squeal. Your buttocks jiggle in a way that would definitely distract a lesser man; but Isaiah is completely devoted to the Emperor’s word, and thus does not take more than forty five seconds to watch them move as you squirm in pain. He thought the strike was gentle, but your flesh is softer than butter, slicing open with the least touch. 

“You missed something out,” he says, after his momentary pause. “Try again.”

”I am sorry — ow that hurts — uh — “

This time, you get the phrasing right (‘miraculously appeared’ not just ‘appeared’), and proceed until —

“—her hair of gold — “

Another strike. The flesh of your rear splits like ripened fruit, and you yowl. 

“Hair of black, eyes of gold,” Isaiah corrects patiently. It is just as well he has taken you under his wing. The way you squirm and squeak is most immodest, and he is certain that none of the other serfs take discipline with the same lack of dignity. 

“Hair of — hair of black, eyes of — eyes of gold —“

He forgives you the stammer, but he cannot forgive the lapse that follows, as you describe Saint Celestine’s armour as ‘radiant’ rather than ‘luminous’. This time, Isaiah is most careful with his blow, and your skin only flares bright pink, rather than splitting asunder. You still whimper and wriggle as though he has made you bleed, which is most unbecoming. 

“Do try and endure the pain,” he tells you. “There is no need to be so…squirmy.”

Once again, he thanks the Emperor for guiding you to him, and not to a man with less moral fortitude, because the way the blood slicks over the curve of your rump and glistens would almost certainly lead a lesser man to sinful contemplation. 

The next lashes — earned through forgetting four of Saint Celestine’s thirty eight titles — have you blubbering, your face pressed into the blankets. Your buttocks, and the upper parts of your thighs, are streaked purple and pink with bruising, and blood drips down towards the backs of your knees. It smells bright and fresh — somehow more pleasing than the foul blood of xenos or heretics. Perhaps because it was shed by a penitent in service to the Emperor, not one of His enemies? Though Osric and Jean’s blood never smelled quite so…delicious. 

Hm. When did he last eat? Maybe he has been fasting overly much. That must be the reason his stomach tightens so.

You burble a slurry of sound into the mattress — even to his trained ear it barely resembles Gothic. 

“You’re not even halfway through memorising this,” he chides, and you manage another hiccuping attempt at repeating the conversation between Saint Celestine and her former Battle Sister Augusta. It is a most touching soliloquy on the importance of placing your faith in the Emperor, but —

“—and I will — I will do I must and take Him inside me, and let His will fill me like a flood — nay, like an ocean. His Holy Fire will spill deep inside my body —“

— for some reason it sounds a little different when you say it. His cheeks warm. 

Still, the technique is working. He finds he has to hit you less and less as you continue; the pain sharpening your mind, clearing the fog of doubt, permitting the Emperor’s words to penetrate. 

Finally, your approach the denouement, where Saint Celestine addresses the Emperor directly in prayer —

“My Lord, I beg of you to fill my humble body up —“

He strikes you without thinking.

“Wha — what did I get wrong?” you squeal, and it takes a moment for Isaiah to focus. He is staring at the jiggle of your thighs as you heave in desperate, pained breaths — by the Emperor’s light, clearly he has not done his job in teaching you how to best conduct yourself, because you are responding to proper discipline like a whore. Your spine arches as you try fruitlessly to escape; your eyes are wet and red-rimmed; your lips slick with spittle. Do you realise what you are doing? Ignorance is no defence against judgement; Isaiah could build a new monastery with the bones of those he has slain whose only crime was ignorance. 

Isaiah presses one hand on the small of your back, pressing down just enough to calm your twitching. He feels your heartbeat echo up through his palm; the scent of your blood fills his nose, and saliva puddles on his tongue. He is a Black Templar. His purpose is to slay the enemies of the Emperor; to crush them beneath his boots, to lay waste to their cities and hear the lamentations of their children, before they too are cast onto the pyre to ensure the rot does at the root. He is stronger than you. He is better than you, and your mewling is not effecting him, it cannot be effecting him —

”Keep going,” he says, his voice a low, hungry growl. “Finish the tale.”

” —yes. Of course. Saint Celestine thus spoke to the Emperor: “Fill my humble body up with Your Grace and Your Judgement, and let me then be a vessel for Your Will, bringing Your light to the dark and Your hope to the hopeless. Amen.” 

“Amen,” he echoes. 

—

He helps you clean up, for he would be a poor teacher indeed if he left you in a puddle of your own blood to contemplate your lesson. He waves away your protests that you can take care of yourself — it is a small matter for him, just requiring a little water and a clean rag. Your flesh is already swelling, puffy and tender, and when he runs his palm from your calf to your back he can feel the difference in temperature: from cool thighs to fever-warm buttocks. 

The apothecary insists that Astartes be thorough in their care of themselves. Thus, Isaiah takes care to repeat the gesture a few times, his large hands — each of which easily encircle your thighs — skimming with utmost consideration over your bruised flesh. 

“There,” he says, when he has attended to your wounds to his satisfaction. He tugs your skirt down to cover your modesty, pleased that he has fufilled his duty of care to you. “Is it not wonderful to learn the Emperor’s word?”

You prop yourself up on your forearms, turning back to look at him. “Yes,” you echo. “Simply wonderful.”

Isaiah beams at you, absent-mindedly lifting his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. He has probably been fasting too much; a Templar must remain well fed to best serve the Emperor. 

“You can have the afternoon to recover,” he says, magnanimously. “We can commence your next lesson in a ten day — or whenever your schedule allows.”

”Yes, my lord. Thank you my lord,” you say. “All hail the Emperor and His most bounteous mercy.”

”All hail,” Isaiah says, already planning how to best explain this to Brother Reuben — while also making it excruciatingly clear that Brother Reuben needn’t trouble himself with the serf’s continued holy education. No, Brother Reuben can focus his considerable energy in locating the poor thing’s missing undergarments — a role far more befitting his station. “And next time,” he adds, licking the last of the blood from the back of his hand. “Refrain from squirming and mewling like a slattern. Have some self control.”

[notablenotions]

Masks of Noblity-Chapter 25

Henry had seen a great many romantic misadventures in his time as both servant to and sometime lover of Sir Hans Capon.

He had, in fact, lived some of them.

There was, for instance, the time Hans wooed a maiden deep into the forest to show her his “noble member,” only for Henry to have to rush in wielding a jar of balm because said noble member had been stung by a bee.

Then there was the unfortunate incident involving fire, two of the bailiff’s daughters, and a stolen tapestry used for modesty (but which caught a breeze and very nearly caused a diplomatic incident with Sasau).

Suffice it to say, Henry had thought he was unshockable.

Until today.

From the stables, where he was hosting the weekly Pebbles Book Club, currently reading A Maiden’s Reckoning: The Passion of the Tannery Widow, Henry glanced up just in time to watch Hans Capon himself drop out of a window, land in a hay bale with all the grace of a disgraced swan, and immediately spring up to bolt behind a stack of barrels like a guilty lover in a farce.

Henry blinked.

He turned to Pebbles. “That was new.”

Bartosch, seated nearby and in a losing argument with Pebbles about the emotional arc of the tannery widow, looked up and squinted toward the keep. “What the fuck was that about?”

Before Henry could reply, a voice behind him said, calm as a saint and twice as alarming, “The goose is agitated again.”

Henry jumped.

Jitka Capon stood behind them holding the book in one hand and a satchel in the other. She handed Henry the satchel like a midwife presenting a holy relic.

“I’ve prepared balms and oils,” she said. “For when you go calm him down.”

Henry opened the satchel.

He immediately closed it.

Bartosch snorted and covered his face with his hand. “Kitty, I know you’re trying to be helpful, but—”

Jitka sat down primly on the straw. “It’s book club, isn’t it? Pebbles invited me. I have notes.”

Henry eyed the satchel like it might explode.

“Jitka,” he said carefully. “Do you know what’s wrong with Hans?”

She tilted her head. “Well. I came outside just now holding the book, ready to join you, and Hans saw me, screamed ‘you don’t have feelings!’ and then jumped out the window.”

She said it with the deadpan weariness of a woman used to living in absurdity.

Henry couldn’t even argue. That was… yeah. That was Hans.

He sighed, closing the book to Pebbles’ visible disappointment. “Jitka… he’s avoiding you.”

She bristled slightly, curling her arms protectively over her bandaged hands. “Is it because of… this?” she asked, nodding to the excessive linen hives still engulfing her wrists. “Does it disgust him?”

Henry immediately shook his head. “No—no, not at all. Hans isn’t like that. If anything, it’s the opposite. It made him realize you’re a—”

“A human woman?” Jitka cut in, raising an eyebrow. “With breasts and a mouth and other goose-disturbing features?”

Henry coughed violently. “Basically… yes.”

She considered that for a moment, then sighed. “So he noticed I have tits and panicked. That explains the ‘sinner fleeing church’ energy.”

Henry rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes.”

Jitka tilted her head thoughtfully. “And the staring? At breakfast? I thought I had jam on my lip.”

“You didn’t,” Henry croaked.

“Ah,” Jitka said, nodding. “That’s unfortunate. I’d have preferred jam.”

There was a pause. Pebbles snorted.

Henry, feeling increasingly like a man being marched into battle without a helmet, said slowly, “Jitka… you have had the talk, haven’t you?”

She made a face. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Bartosch groaned in the background and muttered, “Not this again.”

Jitka straightened, tone perfectly neutral. “My guardian explained it using military maps. There were battalions involved. Siege formations. Something about flanking maneuvers.”

Henry stared.

“I believe the diagram had flags,” she added. “And a small illustration of a trebuchet.”

Bartosch groaned louder and got up. “Right. Wine. We need wine for this. I’m not surviving another battle plan sex talk.”

He wandered off toward the kitchens.

Jitka, entirely unbothered, picked up the book. “So. Do we think the widow’s decision to reject the tanner was truly about honor, or emotional repression brought on by patriarchal expectations?”

Henry gave her a look. “You just said ‘tits’ and handed me sex balm for Hans. You can’t pivot back to literary critique.”

Jitka blinked at him. “I can multitask.”

Henry sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Look, he’s not disgusted. He’s just… panicked. You were safe to him before. Now he’s noticed you’re—well, you. And his brain shorted out.”

“Should I be offended or flattered?” she asked dryly.

Henry shrugged. “Both.”

She eyed him. “And you’re not upset? About him… seeing me as a woman?”

Henry smiled. “I love Hans. Deeply. But I don’t own him. And loving me hasn’t made me stop being attracted to women either. It’s not a switch. It’s not mutual exclusivity. It’s... us. And frankly?”

He smirked.

“Your arse is a masterpiece sent to ruin good men.”

Jitka blinked. Then smirked back. “You should see it when I wear the red riding dress.”

“I have.”

They laughed. Pebbles snorted like he was judging them both.

Henry sat back, taking a long breath. “Truth is… I thought you’d come between us. That you’d ruin everything. But you haven’t. You’ve joined it. In your own terrifying way.”

Jitka looked at him, for once without a quip. Then she snorted lightly and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, please. He’s a silly goose with great boots and an overfondness for collars. I’m not interested in Hans. That part of things…” she waved a vague hand, “never really made much sense to me. You know that.”

Henry smiled. “I do.”

“So,” she said, pushing the satchel toward him like she was bestowing a sacred relic, “take the oils. Go… soothe your goose.”

Henry gave her a flat look. “You’re aware the balms are for—”

“Yes,” she interrupted. “He’s stressed. You’re in love. I’m very good with logistics.”

Henry coughed into his fist. “Right.”

Jitka dusted straw from her skirts. “I’ll prepare more balm.”

Henry, still blushing faintly, cleared his throat and muttered, “The lavender one, please.”

---

Saw some theories of KCD3 and fact historically Hans dies in the potential period which is sad so here's a funny chapter

[ionlymadethissoicouldleaveanask]

This one goes out to Butler's #1 fan, @weeinterpreter, and the person whose art got me back into this pairing in the first place, @valhelos.

My apologies in advance.

---

Butler liked cooking.

That wasn't something he used to be able to say. For most of his life, "cooking" amounted to the fine art of heating an MRE packet evenly in a microwave - and even then, he'd been bad at it. Food was not a hobby, it was not a luxury... it was fuel. Pure and simple.

Things started to change after the disappearance of Artemis Fowl Sr. The Fowl Estate, without anyone to properly run it, began to fall into disrepair. Angeline, saint that she was, snapped under the pressure of losing her husband and quickly the family funds began to deplete.

So Butler started to cook. He had seen the writing on the wall - steadily decreasing funds with steadily increasing expenses only tended to yield one result, after all. By the time the kitchen staff was let go, Butler had mastered the basics of most any meal and with a little help from a few informative television programs, he began to figure out just how to go about making legitimate meals - which was good, because Master Artemis turned out to be very particular about his meals.

By the time Artemis Sr. was recovered, Angeline returned to herself, and Artemis began putting his time into slightly less life-threatening endeavors... Butler had even begun to enjoy the art of cooking. So he kept doing it. There was a full wait staff in Fowl Manor again - mostly as a way to keep locals employed, actually - but the manservant still, whenever the occasion allowed, took the time to prepare his own meals.

Artemis had asked, once, if there was anything driving Butler's desire to keep up his culinary skills. The young man had even implied that a certain Italian professor might have something to do with it... Butler resolutely ignored him.

And that was how the hulking mountain of muscle and skill found himself in the kitchen late one Friday. It was one of the few places in the manor one might actually succeed in finding some quiet these days - between the added staff, Myles and Beckett lost in either philosophical debates or imaginary battles to the death, and even Artemis's oddly more upbeat attitude of late... the Fowl Estate certainly was not what once it had been.

Even Juliet was back this weekend - the latest in the line of her increasingly frequent - and increasingly suspicious - visitsthat were for, according to her, no more reason than that she missed him.

Butler didn't buy it - he himself had taught his little sister how to shoot. She didn't miss.

Speaking of the green-lipped devil, she burst through the kitchen doors just at that very moment. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks were flushed, her gait distracted... it took her nearly two seconds to even realize that her brother was already in the kitchen, which was patently absurd for anyone who had done as well in Madame Ko's academ as Juliet Butler did. When her bright, young eyes did finally focus on Butler himself she offered him a bashful, almost shy, smile.

"You look like you're running from a fight," he remakred dryly, noting the way her eyes widened from adrenaline and her usually perfect emerald lipstick almost seemed smudged.

Juliet barked out a breathless, nervous, guilty laugh. "You should see the other guy," she commented with her usually bravado and bluster. Then she was gone, vanishing the way she had come.

Butler went back to cooking and trying not to think about his sister's suspicious goings-on. With some effort he managed to engross himself in the seasonings once more... just in time for the door to burst open to reveal his charge, looking disheveled, distracted, and in most ways quite unlike himself. "Artemis?" he asked sternly, the word low and rumbled like a crashing waterfall. "Is everything..." He trailed off as he stared the young man down. Shirt rumpled. Tie loosened. Raven hair ruffled. A telltale hint of green coloring the corner of his lips.

"Ah," he said stiffly, back suddenly ramrod-straight and hands clenching at his sides. "I take it you are 'the other guy.'"

Artemis made a sound in the back of his throat somewhere between a squeak and a cough. His pale cheeks finally found some pigment - a shade of pink staining their normal vampiric pallor. "I, erm..."

Butler had never heard Artemis Fowl the Second say 'erm' in his life.

"Just... go," the manservant rumbled, leaning over the kitchen island and staring at the food beneath him to save both him and Artemis the embarrassment of eye contact as the younger man fled the premises with all of his considerable lack of athletic talent.

Once the door clicked shut behind him, Butler ran a hand over his shaved head and sighed heavily. He stared into his food as if it had wronged him, his glare so harsh that some of the spinach on the plate actually wilted under his gaze. Finally, he pushed the food away from himself with a tired groan.

He wasn't hungry anymore.

[otomehonyaku]

DIABOLIK LOVERS More, More Blood Vol. 12 Ruki ☽ Animate Tokuten CD ☽ Living A Normal School Life For Once!

Original title: たまにはまともに学園生活！ Voiced by Sakurai Takahiro English translation by @otomehonyaku Click here for the audio (kindly provided by @karleksmumskladdkaka!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

One very unhinged tokuten... I appreciate Ruki's persistence when it comes to defending us/Yui, but he's definitely taking it too far dkfjdkfd ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡ Have fun listening and reading along!

Please do not reuse or post my translations elsewhere or translate my work into other languages without my permission.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[The scene starts at the academy. Ruki finds you after class.]

00:00 Hey. What are you doing?

[He startles you and you accidentally drop the papers you were holding.]

You turned around so frantically that you dropped your things.

[Ruki bends down to gather the papers you dropped.]

‘Off-campus learning guidebook’?  I see. These are the prints that’ll be bound into the actual guidebooks. I suppose I don’t even have to ask you why you’re carrying them.  You’re letting the teachers order you around again. Have you forgotten how to say ‘no’? Those kinds of people will never make you see the end of it if you don’t. Anyway, let’s bring these to the teacher’s office. Then your job will be over, right? Oh? What’s the matter?

[You tell him that you still have to bind the books.]

Why did you let it come that far? You’re going to do the bookbinding? If you have to make them for all the students, it’ll take an absurd amount of time. Those fucking tyrannical teachers, setting students to work like slaves for their own benefit… You’re my possession more than anything. I don’t like anyone else doing as they please with you. It seems that I’ll have to teach them a lesson.

[You get a little nervous and try to talk him out of it.]

Heh. It shouldn’t be anything beyond your comprehension. You’re so used to doing their dirty work that you’re still trying to cover for them, and I don’t like it. Hey. We’re going to finish this within the hour.

[You tilt your head to the side.]

I’m telling you that I’ll help you. This isn’t something you should be wasting your time on. If any other requests come in after this, I’ll be right behind you to crush their hopes before they even get to talk to you. This is what we’re going to do, so let’s get to work quickly. At this hour, there should be plenty of empty classrooms available. We’ll bind these guidebooks in the blink of an eye.

[The scene shifts to an empty classroom.]

02:30 Alright. Let’s take care of this as quickly as we can. Each book has 16 pages… Let’s fold the papers and staple them. That should be easy enough. When doing it for all students, though, it’s pretty hard work. Efficiency is key when binding books.  Let’s try it out on a small scale first. We don’t have time to redo everything if we mess it up. Start with the front cover and line up the prints in order.

[You get to work.]

Off-campus learning is a waste of time, though. It’s foolish to think there are things to learn outside of the classroom. Unless you’re actively trying to gain something, there’s no way you can learn anything. For example, let’s say we’re taking a field trip to a museum. Museums have many precious artefacts on display. However, whether it be ancient Greek sculptures, coffins of saints—to a fool, they’re all weight stones (1). Yeah. They have no value just standing there. You’re going through all that trouble to bring all the students there only to look at a room full of weight stones. Don’t you think that’s funny?

04:01 Or, wait—weight stones do have value.  You can press vegetables with them to make pickles, so they’re actually quite helpful. Going to an exhibition on weight stones might be a meaningful way to spend time after all.

[You doubt that.]

What’s with that expression?  The flavour of the end product varies depending on the weight of the stone. That’s not something to make light of. If we actually were to go on an exhibition on weight stones for our off-campus learning, I’d appreciate it.

[You wonder if an exhibition like that even exists.]

You have a good point. We might as well go to a hardware store. That’s just a shopping trip. If we’re going shopping, I’d rather it be just you and me. I refuse to go around in such large groups.

[You’ve both made some progress with the bookbinding at this point.]

Where are we going, anyway? There should be information about the destination somewhere on one of these pages… Is this it? So we’re going to a nearby mountain. To think the school wll go to such lengths to get the students off campus… Hiking, learning about the beauty of nature… You’ve got to be kidding me. Besides, the true beauty of nature can’t be found at the foot of a mountain like this. Lend me your pen. I’ll change the route.

[You stare at Ruki for a moment.]

Didn’t you hear me? Give me your pen. I’ll shatter the hopes of whoever thinks they can challenge a mountain when they’re only in the mood for a stroll.

[Ruki starts drawing on the map.]

Let’s make them climb the steep slope on the other side of the mountain. The landscape varies a lot around this area. People will start falling behind because they lose motivation. This should do the trick. Surely, the harshness of mountain climbing will sink deeply into their minds. Don’t you think it’s a good route?

[You tell him that sounds dangerous.]

06:01 Of course it’s dangerous. It’s mountain climbing. There’s no way you can reach a summit without putting your life on the line.

[You’re at a loss for words.]

Does that surprise you? Did you think it would suffice to go on a trip to a mountain without admiring the scenery from the summit? If this off-campus learning is intended to teach students about the beauty of nature, there’s no better way to do it than to climb a mountain to its very top. Which means you also need the appropriate gear.

[Ruki leafs through the booklet until he finds the list of supplies that’s already there.]

A lunch box, a water bottle, a towel… You can’t be serious. Don’t ever think you can survive on a mountain with these things.

[Ruki grabs his pen and gets to work again.]

I crossed out all the things you don’t need. I’ll make a list of the things you do need for mountain climbing. Even in case of a disaster, this should heighten your chances of survival.

[You still don’t really know what to say.]

What are you acting so surprised for? There’s always a chance of a disaster happening. Listen. If you value your life, don’t take mountain climbing lightly. Bear in mind that we’re talking about off-campus learning. Ah, right. I’ll also write down some important points to take into account in case of an emergency.

[Ruki looks at the points that were already listed in the booklet.]

Hm? ‘Watch out for the snakes’? What’s with this warning paragraph? ‘Snakes are aggressive creatures, so they attack easily’? This is nonsense. Listen up. You should get this through your head as well. First of all, there are many different kinds of snakes, of course. I’m not saying it’s true one hundred percent of the time, but snakes tend to be timid, docile creatures. They will not attack humans unprovoked. If you see one between the grass, it’s best to quietly avoid it. Of course, venomous and aggressive snakes do exist. It goes without saying that you should never let your guard down. Got it?

[You tell him you understand.]

08:11 That’s the answer I was looking for. Good, even for you. Still, this off-campus learning is intended to deepen the students’ knowledge, but this booklet doesn’t give me much hope… Planting misinformation is evil in itself, don’t you think? Well, alright. I won’t be holding back anymore. I’ll thoroughly rewrite this page as well. A bit on the ecology of snakes and the varieties that may live on the mountain… Ah, I’ll also include some fun facts about snakes. You’ve heard much about the snake in the Garden of Eden, right? Wait, but if I were to write about that, I’d have to touch upon the story of Adam and Eve and the forbidden apple as well… And while we’re on the subject of apples, anyway, I might as well add some simple and delicious recipes. It’s witty and it makes for worthwhile reading, right? I’ll stick to recipes for two servings.

[You think Ruki is taking it too far. You try to stop him.]

Hey, don’t grab my arm! You’ll mess up my writing.

[You tell him you’ll never finish it in time.]

Heh. That’s all? That’s no problem. I planned on finishing binding the booklets well within the hour, with time to spare. But look at how awful the content is! That certainly changes things. I will revise this entire off-campus learning guidebook and confront the teacher with it. Like, “This is what true learning is!”

[You yell at him to stop.]

Don’t yell! Setting up plans like these is my forte. Come to think of it, the destination wasn’t appropriate to begin with. There’s nothing interesting about a mountain a few train stops away. Maybe at least one train transfer and a few hours away by car… Somewhere off the beaten path. Although I’d rather pick a woodland area for fostering one’s survival instincts… That means it should definitely take place somewhere around here… Yes. I’ll also add a recipe using the local specialties of this area. 

[Ruki puts down his pen.]

10:36 Alright! Perfect. I think I did pretty well. I chose a place of which the chances of survival are at least ten percent. If you approach it like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do, you can probably make it out alive if you’re lucky. There are no drawbacks to such experiences. Or rather, someone must teach today’s carefree youth what it’s like to walk the line between life and death. To spend your days in the mud. Well, then! Let’s go to the teachers’ office. We’re going to present this. This is revenge for the work they’ve made you do on these prints.

[Ruki starts gathering the booklets.]

Let’s teach those foolish humans the true meaning of off-campus learning!

[You’ve had enough of his antics. You grab onto him and try to keep him from leaving.]

Hey! Don’t hold me back. Come on, don’t pull at me like that! If you don’t watch out, I’ll drop all the—Ah!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

漬物（つけもの）の石（いし）: A weight stone used to press the moisture out of pickles (tsukemono) in Japan. I was going to go with a paperweight analogy instead, as this made a bit more sense for non-Japanese audiences while still making sense for Ruki’s character, but it was a bit difficult to line that up with his explanation...

[maxdibert]

You're making up word salads at this point. atleast she had enough grace and dignity to state again and again throughout the thread that she does not think James is a saint, that his actions were immoral and counted as bullying, that he is to be condemned for what he did, while also defending him. She isn't entirely wrong. SA needs sexually and physically fuelled intentions to act as a catalyst. James did not have the former intentions. It was humiliation, yes, but not exactly SA.

when you were facing arguments that challenged Snape as a character, and very valid arguments must I add as a Snape fan myself, that he indeed was an extremist, he was just as much of a bully, he remained part of an association Lily disliked, you never took any of those into account, nor did you have it in you to accept his flaws the way she accepted James's. The very reason why we are supposed to like Snape is because of his redemption. If you take away the reasons, the deeds for which the redemption got space to happen, what is left there ?

Look, I am just a woman in my thirties, I treat this space as a silly hobby. You won't get anything by berating me. I've known, seen, observed enough people in both work and personal life to know who is the more mature and secure one in a conflict. I'm not accusing you of anything, I'm asking you to open up your mind a little bit and see for yourself.

You're making up word salads at this point. atleast she had enough grace and dignity to state again and again throughout the thread that she does not think James is a saint, that his actions were immoral and counted as bullying, that he is to be condemned for what he did, while also defending him. She isn't entirely wrong. SA needs sexually and physically fuelled intentions to act as a catalyst. James did not have the former intentions. It was humiliation, yes, but not exactly SA

False and please learn about those kind of things because a lot of you are VERY wrong:

The very reason why we are supposed to like Snape is because of his redemption. If you take away the reasons, the deeds for which the redemption got space to happen, what is left there ?

Why does he really do it? The guy realizes he got himself into a shady terrorist cult, decides to work for the good guys, and dedicates his whole life to it. Fine, who is denying that? What I explain is why I think Snape cannot be compared to other characters when analyzing the severity of the decisions he made, because there is an entire material structure that led him to become fodder for a group like the Death Eaters.

Does that excuse his actions? No. But it’s absurd to compare him to James in this regard, given the social and economic contexts of both characters. Denying the material reality of a person and how capital as a social agent is a primary influence on their path and decision-making is not only a biased perspective but also a socially blind view of class issues.

Did Snape make good decisions in his life? No. Can we equate him to other Death Eaters who came from socially privileged backgrounds and had both social and economic capital? No. Can you outright say that James changed and Snape didn’t, as if that proves something? Also no. Because what we should be asking is not whether James changed or not, but why he, having everything—being a rich kid with an aristocratic background, raised by a supposedly progressive family that loved him and instilled values—chose, in the first place, to be an asshole.

It’s easy to change when you have everything lined up for you to go down the right path, but it’s much harder to find the right path when you are constantly being thrown obstacles. My issue with James isn’t that I think he didn’t take the right path in the end—it’s that I don’t understand what his excuse was for being a jerk. At least Draco or Dudley had the reason that their parents taught them to be awful people. At least Sirius had the excuse of being raised among sociopaths who encouraged and justified sadism. What’s James’ excuse? What in his social environment led him to be a piece of shit?

Oh, and well, I am not an especially mature person—that’s something I’ve admitted and said many times. But being more or less mature doesn’t mean you have more or less truth. Truth is upheld by arguments based on facts, and I don’t see any of my facts being refuted. All I see is blind flailing and mental gymnastics to keep doing victim-blaming and favoring the hegemonic rhetoric of the establishment.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for asking someone to meet my twin brother when we’ve only dated for 2 months?

Okay, I know my situation is crazy but bear with me. I (23F) love and absolutely adore my older twin brother (by like a couple minutes but who cares), A (23M). I’m not kidding when I say that A is a saint. Like seriously, he is the best person ever, and that’s not just me being biased. He pretty much raised and protected me growing up after our parents died, gotten both me and him to a safe position in life pretty much all by himself, has so many friends and was there for every major event in both theirs and my lives (he’s made time for every birthday, graduation, etc), and is generally such a great and accomplished man. He has like 90% of any good trait you can think of. Overall, I’m so grateful for his existence and for being his sister.

Anyways, a running joke amongst me and my friends is that my brother is every male bisexual’s dream man. Why, you ask? Well, because 4 of my now exes broke up with me because they fell in love with A.

I tend to date around, and go on dating apps (so none of my 4 exes knew about A before we dated). These 4 times were the only times I actually dated for more than a month (kinda hard dating market nowadays). Here’s the timeline of what happened those 4 times:

I and a guy meet up on a dating app, chat, make date plans.

2. Go on a couple of dates, get closer over 2-3 months

3. Go formally meet my brother (cause he’s literally the most important person in my life, so we HAVE to get his approval if we’re going to take this further)

4. Ex falls in love with my brother’s charm and end the relationship weeks later because “I keep thinking about your brother”

For the record, A has no idea that 4 of my exes fell in love with him, he just knew that “we broke up for some reason”. And I’m never letting him know the truth, because I really do not want to hurt him nor make him feel guilty for something that’s not at all his fault. He’s an amazing man, again, so I’m not as upset about this as I probably should be. Ultimately, the breakups hurt at first, but honestly after the 3rd time, it was kinda funny because of how absurd it was ngl. DO NOT accuse my brother of stealing my boyfriends by the way! He’s openly on the aro spectrum so like he has no motive to do such a thing.

Anyways I got to the 2nd month mark with my now boyfriend, T (22M), who’s more questioning in terms of sexuality btw. I got around to asking him to meet my brother in person, because if you’ve seen the same thing happen 4 times, might as well cut to the chase. He said it was a little early to talk about meeting the family. I explained to T my situation, and my reasoning for doing it early. T was really weirded out by this and said that there was no way he would fall for A. I told him that I wasn’t trying to accuse him of anything, but he was pretty pissed off and left to cool off. Now it’s really awkward between us.

So I wonder, AITA for asking my boyfriend to meet my brother early, with all the above information?

What are these acronyms?

[the-most-humble-blog]

💩 “How Come No One Ever Told Me That Even the Most Unassuming Young Lady Can Drop Bombs and Clog Up My Toilet”🌹

You ever stare into the bowl like it just told you your girl has a secret life?

Like… no warning. No signs. She walked in wearing a soft hoodie and smelling like peaches. Now my plumbing is crying out like it saw something unseeable.

That wasn’t a poop. That was a message.

I’ve seen the source, by the way.

I’ve kissed it. I’ve nuzzled it. I’ve gone down with military discipline and poetic intent.

That lil’ thing?

That pristine little doorway?

You're telling me that pushed out THAT??

How?? How in the name of gravity, physics, and the Geneva Convention did something that barely flinches for my thumbprint decide to evacuate like a subway derailment?

This isn’t about poop. This is about truth.

About how women be hiding entire mythologies in their digestive systems.

You think it’s just vibes and cuteness?

Nah.

You’re dating an artillery system wrapped in Sephora.

And it's always the quiet ones. The ones who say “oops” when they sneeze. The ones who eat with napkins in their lap and pinky out. The ones who blush when you mention farting.

But then?

You let her use your bathroom and now you’re calling the landlord, praying to Saint Drano, and questioning if her ass has a secret identity.

I stood there. Staring into that bowl. Mouth slightly open. Toilet bowl steaming like the Ark of the Covenant just got opened in Raiders.

And I just whispered:

“That... came out of you?”

It’s not shame. It’s awe.

It’s a whole-body, soul-deep wtf that rewrites your expectations of female biology permanently.

She came out looking unbothered. Fresh. Radiant. Like she just meditated or read poetry by candlelight.

Meanwhile the toilet is still processing trauma.

That pipe ain’t gonna be the same. I ain’t gonna be the same.

And it’s not just volume.

It’s structure. It’s integrity. It’s like she spat out a broken philosophy degree and expected it to flush politely.

You got folds, ma’am. Not compartments. Not pockets. Not an interdimensional dump locker.

But you know what?

I respect it.

Because that’s power. That’s unspoken anatomical dominance.

The kind of power that blushes in public but has a whole warhead waiting in her gut in case your toilet ever gets too comfortable.

💭 Final Thought:

She let me in her body. She held my face down there like it was church. She whispers when she moans and folds her laundry like an angel.

But that toilet bowl knows something I don't. Something primal. Something terrifying. Something I now think about every time she says “brb.”

And I can never look at her the same again.

🔻 TOILET CTA🔻

⚖️ Free Speech Disclaimer: This is literary satire protected by anatomical commentary and legally recognized absurdism.

🔁 Reblog if this made you laugh, pause, and then feel... exposed. 💬 Comment if you’ve clogged a man’s toilet and walked out like a princess. 📩 DM if you’re blushing, clenching, or wondering if he knew. 🚽 Forward to a friend who still claims they “barely go.” 🔁 Share it before another bathroom is spiritually demolished in silence.

[higherhell]

Status update here we gooo Officially back from my holiday in Ireland now...slowly trying to bounce back from exhaustion (that 9 hour flight + 2 hour flight took it out of me. plus overnight severe storms in the days following?? evil) and readjust to not being in the same space as my bro all the time (google how do I hug someone 3000+ miles away reddit) and it's always a bit of a mood drop coming back but could be worse. Looking forward to getting back to the grindstone on my game project, hopefully being a bit more active on here and such. I have some crafts I want to do lined up as well (guess who finally found a couple prayer/saint bracelets for cheap enough that I could justify the gamble to see if I could pop the images off the beads...my bandman prayer bracelet ambitions get ever closer to fruition...) More detailed rambling about the past two months under the cut, will delete later you know the drill

So my dear brother and a mutual friend came here in February and we went around doing tourist things as one does, seeing sights, hitting up cool thrift stores, mallgothing to fulfill childhood dreams.

(Meet me on the Big Chessboard if you want an asskicking)

I found this Hide Qposket in a secondhand shop and it felt miraculous, not the kind of thing I expect to find out here at all. On a second visit to the same shop later I found a tiny lowpoly Sephiroth which ended up accompanying me the rest of the trip. (We let him get run over at a Circle K gas station by accident later but it's okay you can barely see a difference. He took it like a champ.)

We also found out just in time that there was a David Lynch tribute Goth Prom going on and got to go which was fantastic!!

They were playing Twin Peaks episodes on TVs around the venue walls and I saw the Georgia coffee ads go by at one point. 10/10 experience.

[Now serious bit here, move ahead to the next brackets if you want to skip. drugs and alcohol CW]

Some of you may remember months ago there was some serious stuff going on with another person in my household struggling with addiction and the pressure leading to me being in increasingly bad shape for a while, and regrettably that situation reared its head again while my guests were here. On Valentines Day no less. (the last time things got that bad was Thanksgiving, what is it about holidays?? We don't even particularly celebrate those ones in my house.) Long story short, this time multiple windows ended up busted, there was fighting, he was trying to bust into the house and we were trying to stop him, he was threatening to burn it down, police got called again. Scary as hell. Deeply embarrassed and dismayed to have had something like that happen while I was meant to be hosting guests here but I don't know what I would've done without them either. Miraculously we did still manage to enjoy the remainder of their visit after that incident. (suppose it was good to have a distraction from what had happened) If anything like it happens again the consequences will be steep and I think he's actually committed to not letting it happen again this time. Hope so.

[Serious bit ends here]

So after February wrapped up I accompanied my bro on his way back to Ireland and spent March there with him. Got to check out the ruins of a castle and abbey, a beach, a cemetery, a cave, a wildlife park, see several plays (and participate in one by helping with props and cleanup) and eat a lot of great food.

Little Sephiroth at the Tesco was a big hit on twitter. I might have to make a dedicated post later of just cemetery pics because I took so many, it was gorgeous and huge.

Also learned to use chopsticks and play Hanafuda KoiKoi. Surely natural things to do on holiday to Ireland. Did all my daily drawing in a sketchbook since I didn't have PC access so now I feel like a fish out of water opening CSP back up. lol Due to the frankly absurd generosity of a friend I might actually end up going back again in the summer? I can't say I wouldn't like to. I miss it already. I feel like my health improves across the board while I'm over every time... idk what we're putting in the food back here in the US but my gut health improves tenfold in Ireland and then drops back the minute I return to American soil... OTL Plus I can actually easily walk places over there. Imagine that. I'm going to miss walking around the corner to a market and grabbing lunch with pocket change. Anyway...that's about it for now I suppose. I'll undoubtedly remember something I forgot later. Hope you all have been well in my absence and hope to have more art to share soon. <3

[yuseirra]

I've always.. been bugged about the "god who loves people" and the "god who loves absurdity and unreasonableness" ever since that idea was introduced in the story.

At this point and the series nearing its end... I guess no further characters would be introduced and if having that idea even meant something..; I.. think the "god who loves people" would have really been Ai. In that case, Hikaru may be the latter(it's sad;; I really did not want to come to that conclusion because okay, I admit, I must really like him. I care for him a lot.). If he is indeed Sarutahiko, he's supposed to be the exact opposite of that description. He's the god of justice/right direction/reasonableness, as they say. He protects people from going astray. He was supposed to be like that.

But he really may have been so flawed to become essentially the opposite of what he should have been. The lyrics of Fatal actually indicate such things, he wasn't supposed to be that way but he's fallen. stripped of his feathers and all that. That was because Ai passed away and he started struggling to try and meet her again with everything he's got, and that's a story that..started out-connects to the story of the song Mephisto from the first season. Those two songs are connected. He's gradually become insane over time from the longing and desperation. He probably searched for ways to bring Ai back to life but he realized it was all in vain...; then he started looking for ways to become closer to her and reach her. That's probably what he'd been doing all his life upon having lost her. Seeing how he is, I figure he really was almost there. This close. Aqua stopped that from happening probably, right before he had some sort of fruition (was killing Ruby really the last..key to it..? I just.. but-but he was watching her show~~~~ could he really kill her like that watching through his phone screen through his godly powers or what??? seeing what he's capable of, it's funny how that actually can happen although I don't think he'd have gone after his own children he had with Ai!!!! Maybe everyone else in the world but; oh I can't say unless they tell us directly in canon about this one.)

I do think Kamiki had some sort of power that could tamper and interfere with people's futures. That must be how Aqua was so sure he could ruin Ruby's. He.. originally should have been the one to give out blessings along with his wife(Ai). If he's turned out THIS flawed, is it on him to blame?? I don't think so. People tainted him, abused him, tore him apart, neglected him, reaped away the only light of his life, and murdered her. Again, for having HIS children. There is no way he'd have been able to love the world anymore even if he started out as a saint. He just suffered too much. If Ai's death is not on him... then...I say he does have the right to be angry and just stop caring altogether. I'm not saying he's right or justified to hurt others if he's done so. But he doesn't have to be that benevolent and righteous, noble god anymore, it's not more about "having to be", actually, it's more like he "couldn't be". He wanted Ai back. But what could he do? He probably did EVERYTHING he could within his powers but even with all he's had, he couldn't make that a reality. So what does he do? Probably... all the stuff he's done may have been a way to achieve some type of result. He seems pretty smart.

Yeah. You never mess with a god who's devoted to his wife. I personally feel he'd have tried to endure things if it were to be about him, he just couldn't take people having hurt Ai because of him, that must have broken him down.

I hope this is the case~~if he's the one who hurt Ai I just. Don't understand what this whole manga would be. That'd be MY last straw about this manga.

[bookrevsbyisa]

Patron Saints of Nothing; A Book Review

I never thought I'd find myself obsessing over a mandatory reading for school, but I wish I was kidding when I said I haven't been able to stop thinking about this book ever since I opened it.

This book touches on topics about the drug war and other issues in the Philippines as well as life growing up as a Filipino abroad (specifically in the Americas), amongst other things. The main character himself is a Filipino-American struggling to connect with his native culture and understand their mindset throughout the conflicts he's put through throughout the book, and while I would say I'm much more connected with mine as he is with his, I found myself very heavily connected to both Jun and Jay and the way they struggle with how their core values misalign with the traditional Filipino one. While this might be considered a mystery book due to the plot, I think my favourite aspect about it has got to be the realistic depictions of how someone with a Westernized mindset would approach these issues in the Philippines and how it severely contrasts with the mindset of those who may actually be living there.

While listening to the other students' discussions about this book in class, I came to the same realization as Jay did somewhere in the beginning of the book. None of them will ever understand what it's like to grow up around adults with this seemingly absurd mindset about nationalism and pride within the family's honour.

If I'm going to be honest, I'm kind of upset at the ending. I suppose that's just because I really did want everything to be wrong for Jun's reputation's sake, but I know that's not how real life works. What Jun had to go through is the very unfortunate truth for most people both in and out of the Philippines.

I am genuinely confused at how this book isn't more popular. The plot is great. The writing is very easy to consume and read. The themes are significant and the experiences depicted authentic (in my opinion). I mean, this is definitely my favourite school reading over the years, and I'm kind of upset none of the other kids really care for it- but then again, they don't care much for books to begin with..

I think all Filipinos who grew up abroad and found themselves feeling somewhat disconnected to their culture should read this book because I've genuinely never felt myself more indulged and interested in learning more about my background since reading this.

5/5 ⭐

[crimsonwolf715]

The Angel of Misfortune

(Part 3 of the Patron Saint of Hunters series)

The Impala stalls and doesn’t start. 

“What’s wrong, Baby?” Dean asks as he tries to start the Impala again. 

He gets out and goes to the hood. 

“What’s the problem?” Sam shouts after a minute. 

“Nothing that I can see.” 

“Maybe she’s just being finicky. Bad luck for us if she is.” 

“There’s no such thing as bad luck,” Cas says. 

“Well then you come figure out what’s wrong with Baby,” Dean snaps. 

Cas walks over, “Dean.” 

“Yes?” 

“I barely know what kind of car this is. I don’t have any idea how cars run,” Cas says. 

Dean shows Cas each thing and how it runs. 

“I’ll show you again when everything’s running properly so you know that everything’s right, but this is the basics.” Dean shuts the hood. “Try starting the car, Sammy!” 

Sam leans over and turns the key. The car starts, filling the silence with the sound of the engine. 

“See? She just needed a minute,” Dean says. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road. We’re gonna be late to see Bobby.” 

Ben walks into Cas’ room to find him looking over his tools. “Hey.” 

Cas looks up, “Hello, Ben. What can I do for you?” 

“I wanted to check on you.” 

“I don’t need anything. I thought I said that last night.” 

“Yeah, but just in case you changed your mind.” 

“I haven’t.” Cas looks back at his tools. 

“You got a case?” Ben asks. 

“No, I plan on looking for one once I get out of town,” Cas answers. 

“Well, I have a possible case you could check out.” 

“What is it?” 

“It’s this string of deaths that happen in absurd manners. It’s like karma hit them like a truck. One died by tripping on marbles that they spilled and hit their head on the one side of the table that just happened not to have a rubber cap on it.” 

“Do we know of any monsters that can do that?” Cas asks. 

Ben shakes his head, “No, but we do know of a few magical objects that could cause something like that to happen.” 

“I’ll look into it.” 

“Thank you, Cas,” Ben replies. “Thanks for coming by too. Serenity and Adalynn were thrilled to see you.” 

“I always enjoy seeing them.” 

Cas packs everything up and heads downstairs with Ben. The girls, who were eating breakfast, run over and hug Cas, who gently pats their heads. 

“Come see us again soon,” Serenity says. 

“Yeah, and bring treats with you,” Adalynn adds. 

Cas gives them a small smile, “I will do what I can. Have Ben text me what treats you like.” 

“We will,” they say in unison. 

They run back over to Ben and Cas heads to the Impala. He puts his bag in the back and then climbs into the driver’s seat. Ben, Serenity, and Adalynn wave to him as he drives off. He drives to the town in Kansas and stops at a motel first. After setting up and changing clothes, he heads to the police station. Cas walks into the police station and shows them his badge. 

“Oh, you must be that girl’s partner,” the person at the front desk says. “She didn’t say that she was waiting on her partner.” 

Cas nods, not knowing what to say. It’s possible that it’s another hunter, but it may be the actual FBI. He follows the officer to the evidence room where he sees the back of a woman looking through an evidence box. The officer leaves, leaving Cas alone with her. He recognizes her, even though he shouldn’t. 

“Emmy.” 

Emily turns and smiles. “Castiel, it’s a pleasure. How long has it been?” 

“Somewhere near forty years. How do you still look so young?” Cas asks. 

“Funny story actually,” Emily answers. “I got attacked by this thing and I think it meant to kill me, but instead I can’t die. Didn’t notice originally but then something stabbed me so I had to go to a hospital and my heart rate stayed perfect regardless if something was happening that definitely would have raised my heart rate. Through more trial and error, I figured out that fatal injuries just hurt like a bitch. I also don’t age, not really sure on that one, but I tried reaching out to you.” 

“I got a new number after the Winchesters died. You could have tried calling out to me.” 

“Yeah, I don’t really get that. Do I just talk to you or is there something more?” 

“You just talk to me like a prayer. Or if that makes you uncomfortable, like a letter.” 

“Like, ‘Dear Castiel, please come talk to me because I’m somehow unable to die’?” Emily asks. 

“Something like that,” Cas answers. 

“I’m really sorry about the boys and Bobby, Cas.” 

“I don’t want to talk about that. How have you been? It’s been forty years since I’ve seen you, you must have stories to tell.” 

“I’ve been as fine as I can be. One of my friends from college died recently so I am being faced with everyone else’s mortality. The other stuff is too long and we’ve got a case to work. Do you have any ideas on what this could be?” 

“From what I currently know? No, I don’t. We’ll have to talk to the families to see if we can get an idea of what this could be.” 

“Alright. I’ve got all of the addresses from the files, so let’s go. Can I drive?” 

“No.” 

The two head out to the Impala. 

The first four families are all the same story. Perfectly normal stuff going on before the bouts of bad luck. They weren’t religious and didn’t believe in black magic. There was nothing in any of the houses that could have been used to create a magic item. As they drive up to the fifth and final victim’s house, Emily sighs dramatically. 

“Do we have to go in? Can’t we just assume that they don’t have anything either and find some kind of monster that does this shit?” Emily asks. 

“We have to follow every lead that we can,” Cas answers. “Come on.” 

Cas gets out of the Impala, then walks over to Emily’s side and opens the door. 

“Thank you, sir,” Emily says sarcastically, then gets out of the car. 

Cas shuts the door and locks it while Emily walks up to the porch. He meets her up there since she’s waiting to knock. 

“If they don’t know anything, you’re buying me drinks to help with research,” Emily says quietly. 

“Deal,” Cas replies. 

The door is opened by a dark haired woman in her thirties. “Ms. Jordan?” Cas asks. 

She nods. Emily and Cas show her their badges. 

“He’s Agent Hamill and I’m Agent Fisher with the FBI. We’re investigating the deaths,” Emily says. “Can we come in and ask you a few questions?” 

She nods again, then opens the door wider and motions for them to come in. Once everyone’s taken a seat, Cas asks if anything strange was happening. Before Ms. Jordan has a chance to answer, his phone starts ringing. He looks at it and it’s Ben. 

“I have to take this, it’s important.” He gets up and walks to the corner of the room and answers. 

“Uncle Cas?” Serenity’s voice comes through the line, sounding scared. 

“Serenity? What happened? Are you all alright?” Cas asks, stepping out of the room and onto the porch. 

“Neal’s here, and he’s fighting with Daddy,” she says, then starts crying. “He said he’s gonna kill Daddy.” 

“What? I’ll be there in a minute.” 

Cas can hear the phone switch hands. 

“Cas?” Ben asks. 

“What is Neal doing?” Cas asks. “If he threatened the girls at all…” 

“He didn’t. He showed up to see them and he was drunk, so I said he couldn’t see them. He threatened me and said he’d take them, but I clocked him in the jaw and he left for now. I’ve got everything handled. I’m sorry Serenity called.” 

“You’re sure that you’ve got everything handled? You know what I said I’d do if he threatened your girls again.” 

“Hey, it’s fine. He didn’t threaten them at all. I’m pretty sure you set him straight last time. While they’re his girls, I have custody of them. If I have to get the courts involved, I will. I’m not shying away from a legal battle with him. I’m gonna let you go now, so you can finish your case. I’ve got this handled though.” 

“Alright. If something else happens, call me.” 

“I will. Bye, Cas.” 

“Bye.” 

Ben hangs up, so Cas goes back inside. 

“Everything alright, Agent Hamill?” Ms. Jordan asks. 

“Yes. Family problems, but they worked themselves out,” Cas answers. 

Cas sits back down next to Emily, who looks a little confused but turns her attention back to Ms. Jordan. 

“You were saying that your husband and his friends were together the entire day before his death?” 

“Yes. He originally said that he was going to see his sister, but I checked the location on his phone when he didn’t answer and saw that he was with them.” 

“Does he do that often?” Cas asks. 

“Yes,” Ms. Jordan answers, “It’s one of the reasons we still weren’t married. He kept promising to change and now he’s dead.” 

Emily offers her a tissue and she takes it. “Do you have that address? We should check it out to make sure that nothing was going on that could have someone going after him.” 

Ms. Jordan nods, then grabs a notepad to write it down. Once they have the address, they say their goodbyes, then head out. They walk down the driveway towards the Impala. 

“What actually happened?” Emily asks once they’re down the driveway. 

“Family issues,” Cas answers. “Ben’s son came looking for his girls while drunk and Ben had to deck him.” 

“Ben?” 

“Ben Braeden. Dean raised him for a while with his mother. He found me a while ago and has been in contact with me since. I’ve known those girls since they were infants, and I won’t let their father hurt them.” 

“So you have a family?” 

“No, I don’t keep people around. They’re the exceptions to the rule. I’m not close with them, but I keep in contact with them and see them when I can.” 

“So arm’s length?” 

Cas nods as they get in the car. 

“So we’ve interviewed all of the witnesses and it’s leading us towards some kind of spell or talisman,” Emily says. 

“That sounds right. Let’s head back to my room and do some research,” Cas replies, starting the car. 

They head back to the motel that Cas set up shop in and start looking through all of the records that he has. After several hours, several packs of beer, and food for Emily, Emily laughs. 

“I think I found it,” Emily says. “This right here says that you can make a charm that gives the person holding it immense good luck, at the expense of the people around them. Basically, it’s supposed to be absorbing some kind of energy that constitutes luck from the people around the user. Since it was a group of friends that were killed, that leaves the last remaining one. There’s one problem though.” 

“What?” Cas asks. 

“The stuff to make this is expensive and hard to find. How could some guy on a normal paycheck find and buy this stuff?” 

“I wouldn’t know. We can find out when we get there. Ms. Jordan said that they had a spot that they hung out at, right?” Cas replies as he gets up. 

“Yep,” Emily answers. “I’ve still got the address.” 

“Give me the address.” 

Emily rattles off the address as they head back out to the Impala. The car ride to what turned out to be a warehouse is completely silent beside the sound of the engine and the tires on the road. The duo get out and head towards the warehouse. 

“Do you hear that?” Emily asks, stopping walking to look around. 

Cas stops and listens closely. He can hear something, but he isn’t sure what it is. He sees the flash of something falling on the edge of his vision and Emily quietly yelps. He turns and there’s a pipe in her arm. 

“Oh, my immortality,” Emily sighs, pulling the pipe out of her arm. “At least I don’t have to worry about dying from an infection.” 

Once they’re inside, they can hear someone counting. Cas slips on a spot on the floor and Emily grabs his arm so he doesn’t fall. 

“Thank you,” Cas whispers. 

She nods, then the two head towards the voice. They find Beck, the last remaining member of the friend group, counting hundred dollar bills while sitting at a fold-out table. 

“Beck Hudson,” Cas says. 

Beck gets up and turns. “Who are you? What are you doing here? This is private property.” 

Cas pulls his badge out of his pocket, but the tip snags on the edge and he drops it. Emily snorts, trying not to laugh as Cas grabs his badge off the ground. 

“Are you bleeding?” Beck asks. 

Emily glances at her arm, “Yeah. We’re FBI. We know what you’ve been up to. You need to stop.” 

Beck looks at the charm in his hand then back at them, shaking his head. “I can’t let my wife down. I have to get as much stuff as I can before I get rid of this. She’ll never forgive me if we can’t have the life she wants.” 

“You’ve killed all of your friends for that ?” Emily asks. 

“What?” Beck asks. “They’re dead? Is that why they aren’t answering my calls anymore?” 

“Yes,” Cas answers, trying more tact than Emily to avoid a fight, “because of that charm, you’re giving such bad luck to the people around you that they’re dying.” 

“I’m killing my friends?” 

“If you give us the charm, we can destroy it. It’ll never hurt anyone again,” Emily says, picking up on the tact and walking towards Beck slowly. 

Beck takes a step back, “I can’t, not yet. Once I have everything, then I’ll hand it over.” 

“You want to murder more innocent people?” Cas asks. 

“I’m not murdering anybody!” 

Cas strides over to Beck and right before he gets to him, he slips on nothing and falls onto his back. Cas curses in Enochian as he sits up. Beck starts running and Emily runs after him. 

“Hold on!” Cas shouts. “We need something to counteract the charm!” 

He gets up and makes sure he’s steady before running after them. 

What could counteract something like that? I could try using my grace to temporarily neutralize it. Can I do that? We’ll have to see.  

He gets out there and Emily’s handcuffed, looking in a great deal of pain. 

“What happened?” Cas asks. 

“I fell and somehow handcuffed myself,” Emily answers. 

Cas sighs, then looks for Beck. He’s standing with his back against the warehouse. 

“Shut your eyes,” Cas whispers. 

He glances and sees that Emily’s eyes are closed, then stretches his arm out and creates a blinding light. Cas strides over to Beck and grabs his arm as the light disappears. Cas makes his angel blade appear and cuts Beck’s hand off, catching the hand and charm in the other hand. Beck starts screaming bloody murder while Emily just stares in shock. Cas takes the charm out of Beck’s severed hand, then reattaches Beck’s hand. 

Cas drops the charm on the ground and pours holy oil on it. He pulls out Dean’s lighter and flicks it open. Beck seems to realize what Cas is about to do because he tries to crawl over to it. Cas drops the lighter and the charm roars into a burning blaze. Beck cries out as if he had been lit on fire, then watches the fire start to die down. Cas picks the lighter up and after dusting it off, puts it back in his pocket. 

Beck continues to cry as Emily walks over to Cas. “That was badass.” 

Cas taps the handcuffs and they drop to the ground. “Thank you, I think.” 

Cas goes over and grabs Beck by the collar. He starts trying to get away from Cas. 

“How did you make that charm?” Cas asks. “I didn’t make it. It was mailed to me. I don’t know who sent it, but that it worked so well that I didn’t care,” Beck answers, still crying. “Please don’t kill me.” 

Cas sighs, then turns to Emily, “We should probably get him home.” 

“Oh yeah, I don’t want to deal with that anymore,” Emily replies. 

Cas flies him to his front porch. He’s not crying anymore. Instead, he looks shocked. Cas leaves without a word to Beck and lands right next to Emily, who’s investigating the pile of ash on the ground. 

“Hello.” 

He watches Emily flinch, but chooses not to comment since he did land so close to her. 

“Where should I drop you off?” Cas asks. 

“Why don’t we have a drink and chat for a bit?” Emily replies. “I’ll buy.” 

“Works for me. We can find where the bar is here, but you should get patched up and change first.” 

“Sounds like a plan to me, Cas.” 

After ordering and receiving their drinks, Emily and Cas sit down. 

“I want to talk about your problems, Cas.” 

“That feels like a pointless conversation, but we can attempt it,” Cas replies. 

“Arm’s length isn’t gonna work forever,” Emily says. “You’re hurting and that’s fair, but you’ll only hurt worse when you have no one. When everyone that tried is gone and you’re left alone, Cas.” 

Cas sighs, “I think I’ll manage.” 

“I don’t think you will. That hurt that you feel is only gonna get worse when Ben’s gone. Yes, he’s not constantly with you and that leaves you open to a bit of the pain you’re gonna feel when he’s gone, but it’s gonna be so much worse. Look, I know you, Cas. I know that you want to avoid pain as much as you can. Big feelings are hard.” 

“I don’t know that I can get closer. If I spend too long there, all I can think about is how much Ben is like Dean and Sam. He’s not a lot like Bobby outside of how he helps me on hunts, but I see so much of those two in him and it scares me.” 

“Understable. Do you want another drink?” 

Cas shakes his head. Emily gets up and walks over to get another one for herself. Cas looks out the window towards the Impala. All of the memories with the boys, they felt like too much sometimes. 

“Maybe getting rid of the car would help,” Emily says as she sits back down. 

The reply is quick and sharp, “I’d rather kill someone.” 

“Interesting comparison, but duly noted.” 

“Sorry, I just can’t.” 

“It’s fine. I keep things from my friends too. It just looks to be a little too much for you. Take what you need, give what you don’t. Don’t burden yourself.” 

Cas nods. 

“But I have to go. I have to get to my friend’s birthday party. She said she would murder me if I was available and didn’t show up. It’s an empty threat, but I’m gonna go anyway.” 

“How do you explain this to your friends?” Cas asks. 

“Wonderful skincare routine,” Emily answers, getting up. “I’ll see you when I see you, Cas.” 

“Goodbye, Emmy.” 

She leaves and Cas finishes his drink before getting up. He goes out to the Impala, then drives out onto the open road.

[nievmork]

⥀~Liar~⥁

Episode 1_My Name is Connor_

"YOU ARE A LIAR" "It's too late. While emotions surround your body, you're a liar too"

✧ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ

HELLLOOO HAÇAAANLAR,

This series will be androidxandroid. My aim is to adapt the full story. I say NL900 on behalf of the reader.I plan to work on the story slowly. If it gets boring, let me know and I'll speed it up. I'm open to your criticisms and requests. My native language is not English. I hope I don't make too many mistakes

Thank you for understanding. I hope you like it.

✧ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ

A familiar voice spoke from behind me. Gavin's stupid voice. "Hey plastic, come here" I went to him even though I didn't want to. "You were assigned to a case, I'm glad to be rid of you." NL900 is one of a kind. The only and first police android produced for experiment and observation purposes. This subject, who was handed over to Detective Gavin REED for the red ice case, successfully completed them mission. Later, Cyber ​​Life appointed this android as a police officer. They also helped with simple tasks at the police station. By this time they was appointed to many different positions. They returned again on April 1, 2038. NL900, handed over to Detective Gavin REED, was one day subjected to Mr. REED's lethargic mind and unpleasant behavior. They stood up for theyself and was now an deviant. To prevent this from being discovered, they tried to act like an android, made up a bunch of lies, and worst of all, had to follow Mr. REED's orders. However, on that day, November 4, 2028, they was assigned to the contrary case. The funny thing was that he was an deviant assigned to the deviant case. The case involves Lieutenant Anderson and his android partner, model RK800. At first it seemed absurd that the NL900 would be tasked with controlling the RK800. But until then...

[Connor's POV]

I came to the office. The only thing left was to find Lieutenant Anderson. I turned to the android woman at the entrance. "I came for Lieutenant Anderson." "Did you have authority?" I put my hand on the woman's arm.

~Connecting....~

"Come in." When I entered, my eyes searched for Lieutenant Anderson, but I could not find him.

~New mission defined Find Lieutenant Anderson's desk~

I asked an android on duty about the table. I went to the table and sat on the chair. When would the lieutenant arrive? I stood up and called out to the man behind me. "When will Lieutenant Anderson arrive?" "That depends on where he was the night before, if we're lucky he'll be there before noon," the man said sarcastically. Examining the table was a good idea. There was a headset on the table. He took the headset in my hand and brought it close to my ear. I played the last song he listened to. This was Heavy Dark Metal.

🔓Lieutenant Heavy loves Dark Metal.

When I examined the table, there was a slogan poster stuck to the glass panel.

🔓Lieutenant hates androids (?).

I lifted my eyes from the table and focused on a few hairs from the Saint Bernard dog on the chair.

🔓The lieutenant has a dog.

When I looked around, I saw the lieutenant coming. "Hello, Lieutenant Anderson." He ignored me and followed Captain Fowler's voice. "Hank, come to my room." Instead of going in and listening, I chose to explore the office. There was a canteen-style place, I directed my steps in that direction. ~Scanning....~

~NL900

#141 633 55 61

~Detective Gavin REED

Criminal record: None

~Officer Micel ODAME

Criminal record: None

“Congratulations, the toaster confession was a great success, congratulations.” Gavin said in a sarcastic tone. "Greetings, Mr. Gavin." Gavin walked towards me. I didn't step back. Gavin looked back at the table and began speaking. "What's your model?" "RK800, I was designed as a prototype to assist Lieutenant Anderson with this case.""I don't care, go get me coffee." "I'm sorry, but my program is designed solely to receive orders from Lieutenant Anderson." As soon as I said this, I fell to the ground with a punch in the stomach."The NL900 mentioned is right in front of you, be grateful for it. If you do this again, I may get worse." NL900 knelt down next to me and grabbed my arm and lifted me up. "He hit it very hard, it didn't disrupt the rhythm of the pump too much, did it?" "As if it were spotless." "I'm NL900, my name is S/A, you probably know something about me. I'm happy to finish the rest of the case with you." "You can think of me as an experimental android. I'm trying to figure out if it works, but I'm already starting to give errors." "That's why I was assigned to this case, and besides, Gavin is so hard to stand. It's normal to encounter mistakes." This android speaks so freely, but how can they say, "Ahhh, damn it. I'm sick of it. I'm going to have to deal with a bunch of metal like you when I can't stand a piece of junk," Hank said. with his growling voice.

🔓Did Lieutenant and the NL900 acquainted?

With these words, NL900 sat down at his own table, opposite Mr. Gavin's. "Is there an empty table I can sit at?" "No, use the other one." I sat at the table and thought I'd try to strike up a nice conversation to ease the tension. "Do you listen to Heavy Dark Metal? I love it. It's so... full of energy." The lieutenant turned his astonished gaze towards me. "An android who listens to Heavy Dark Metal?" "I don't listen to a lot of music, but I really wanted to."

-Hank-🟦

"Most people hate androids, but why do you hate them?" "I have my reasons."

-Hank-🟥

"I guess you have a dog? That's cute." "Yes, but how do you know?" "There's dog hair on your chair. So what's your dog's name?" Hank looked at me with confused eyes. Then he shook his head disapprovingly. "Sumo. His name is Sumo." "His name is so sweet." "Thanks."

-Hank-🟦

“NL900, how do you know him?” "I've known that bitch since about January. Damn Gavin must have broken her software. CyberLife has profited so much from her that she's been reassigned multiple times."

🔓Is NL900 giving software error?

-Hank_Neutral_-

"Can I look at the files?" Hank pointed to the computer screen on the table. I looked at the files. Lost... Destroyed...

"Hey tin, go and check out the android from yesterday, did he kill himself?" Hank said. I "immediately" ran to the detention room. I scanned my hand in the doorway and walked in. I looked at Android. I made sure it was safe and headed towards the door to exit. Just as I was about to turn around and leave, he said, "You lied to me. They are going to kill me. You are a liar. 'YOU ARE A DESPITE LIAR'. YOU ARE A LIAR." I had a hard time fitting these words into zeros and ones. "I AM JUST DOING MY DUTY. ALSO, YOU ARE A MACHINE, BUT LIVING PEOPLE DIE." Before leaving the room, I saw the deviant trying to destroy himself by hitting his head on the glass. I notified the authorities and went to the Lieutenant."He is no longer alive" NL900 stood up and came to me. It was as if he could see what was happening. "Connor, something is wrong. What you did is not right. I will report this to CyberLife."

-Software Error

This desire started in me from day one. This shouldn't happen. “This is because of my comprehensive software, don't worry, I am ready to report at any hour.” "Ok." The NL900 is back in its place. The NL900 was weird. It gave me a strange feeling.

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

It's very cold here.

~Quest:Find Amanda~

I couldn't move because of the cold. It started to snow. That's when I saw Amanda. "Connor," Amanda said sternly. “Amanda, why is it so cold in here?” "Let's ask you, Connor, you made the first mistake with the NL900. For what?" "They came to my attention because he was acting suspicious and I tried to understand they, that's all." "I thought it was like you said, Connor. How are you getting along with Hank?" "It's going to be hard to break the ice like a tough person." "Connor, never forget your purpose. You are a machine and you live that way."

≪•◦ ❈ ◦•≫

I tried talking to the lieutenant about the files, but Hank always dismissed me with stupid grunts. "Lieutenant Anderson, I'm wondering what you think about emotional shocks." The lieutenant probably ignored me. He started rummaging through things on his desk. I got up from the chair and went to him."We are partners and we need to make progress on this case. You may have had problems with androids in the past, but the past doesn't change anything. If you're not going to take the case, turn it over to the department. That's what the FBI does." Hank grabbed me by the collar and pinned me to the glass panel next to him. He looked like he was holding his breath to speak. Mr Gavin ordered the NL900 to stop. I'm sure the NL900 is an android, but who will save me now? NL900 took a step forward, then Mr. Fowler shouted, and Hank left me behind and went to Fowler's room. I went to NL900 to ask about his suspicious behavior. Suddenly he grabbed my arm...

[maratherat]

Wildflowers, a RDR story - 0.1 - Freedom

Series Masterlist

-Sisika Penitentiary, Female wing, September 1898-

It's a scorching day, though it feels no different from any other. The Lemoyne heat is just as insufferable as I remember, my skin burning red as it all reminds me of the painful past I endured under this relentless sun. The air hangs heavy with humidity, accentuating the oppressive atmosphere that seems to cling to every corner of this damned place. I can hear the guards shouting at the other inmates, their voices echoing off the prison walls like a sinister chorus, but I have no desire to listen to their words. For six months now, I've been sweeping floors and shoveling shit, the stench making my insides burn each day. It's a pathetic assault on my senses, a rough reminder of my circumstances. I barely get a break, pushing myself to the brink of exhaustion just to avoid the guards' wrath for taking a much-needed pause.

When I finally return to my cell at night, sleep escapes me; instead, I sit and reflect on my miserable life. As I toss the pebbles that litter my cell floor, I feel their rough edges digging into my frazzled mind, a gentle torment that echoes my despair. I feel myself going insane.

This place truly is hell on earth, stripped of any semblance of humanity. It's fair to keep bloodthirsty criminals or petty little thugs just like my parents locked up here. After all, the grueling labor under the unforgiving sun, combined with the guards' cruel words, is what they deserve. Yet I must remind you—I'm locked up here for a crime I didn't commit. Sure, I may not be the most innocent inmate; I did kill folks after all, but don't we all?

No? Oh well... I suppose getting locked up is the price I pay for wanting to be free. Ironic, isn't it?

The oppressive silence of my thoughts is broken by the approaching footsteps of two officers, but I don't bother to look their way. God forbid I make eye contact, so I continue sweeping the floor, the same monotonous task they assigned me this morning. How delightful! The repetitive motion of the broom feels almost meditative, numbing the sharp edges of my reality, even if just for a moment.

The footsteps halt near our group, and I dare to glance up at the officers. "You, you, you with the hammer, and you, you'll do," one of them barks, pointing at me and a few others whose names I don't know—or care to know. "We need to perform a work detail out near Tumbleweed. Come on, get in." The officer strides towards a prison stagecoach as the other leads us to the back, where we'll be locked up again. The stagecoach lurches roughly, tossing the other inmates and me around like potatoes in a sack as we're driven away from the penitentiary, each jolt echoing the chaos in my mind.

As we near Saint-Denis, my thoughts drift to my family, my broken family, and the pain they caused me. "I tell you what... Old Jameson is a wretched sour old bastard, no mistake..." I catch one of the officers saying, though I pay little attention to it. The other officer briefly casts a glance in our direction before barking, "You lot stay calm in there." It's almost absurd how he treats us like animals, herded into a cage, yet I can't muster the energy to protest.

"We weren't saying nothing!" I reply, my voice dripping with bitterness, an act of defiance amidst the suffocating atmosphere.

"Well, you are now, so shut up," the guard snaps, turning his back. That sack of shit.

Later that day, we make our way down to the Heartlands, near Valentine, if I recall correctly. The officer keeps rambling while the other listens out of politeness, the mix of their banter a cruel soundtrack to my exhaustion. "Personally, I'm against education. For women, I mean... and men too, I guess. Unnecessary." 'Oh lord...' I think to myself, the absurdity of it all swirling in my mind as I try to block out their words and focus on the horizon beyond the dusty trail.

Finally, what feels like days later, we arrive at Gaptooth Ridge. I sense the stagecoach slowing down, and anticipation thickens in the air. I glance around, thinking we've reached our destination, only to find another stagecoach blocking the path directly in front of us. "Good day, gentlemen," I hear a voice say, dripping with authority. What is happening? The tension escalates. "Don't do anything stupid; nobody gets shot. Act like a fool, and you'll both be dead in a minute. Now, what are your names?" the man asks, slowly advancing toward us, his eyes fixed with a threatening glare. My heart sinks; is this it? Have I reached the end of my short life?

"Jenkins, and Milliken," the officers reply, their voices steady despite the unfolding chaos. At least they're cooperating...

"Well, Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Milliken, throw your guns to the ground and get down here." The officers comply, their movements swift but cautious. I glance at the other inmates locked in the wagon with me—are we about to be robbed? The thought strikes me as absurd and makes me chuckle under my breath. "It's not worth being rash. You boys get paid a salary, and you get that salary whether these people escape or not... So let them out. Now!" The man aims his gun at the guard. The guard's hands shoot up in fear, his expression betraying panic. He hurriedly rushes back to the stagecoach to unlock our cell. Am I finally free?

"Everyone else can run. Except for you." He points directly at me, singling me out. What trouble am I in now? I remain seated in the wagon as the man continues speaking, his tone now slightly calmer but still tense. "Now, Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Milliken, be so kind and run away... before someone gets shot." The guards sprint away, as fast as scared deer, leaving me in an uncertain trance. Taking a deep breath, I decide to exit the wagon, jumping down onto the parched ground, the dust kicking up around my boots.

The man pivots back to me, maintaining an intimidating presence. "Now ma'am, how 'bout you pick up these guns, and we move out." He gestures toward the guard's weapon that was tossed aside, its metal gleaming in the sunlight.

"Where? Who are you?" I ask, gathering the guns as instructed, my mind racing with questions. "Keep the questions for later... Now come on, you best get on this horse." He points to a rather rough-looking animal, its ribs visible beneath its skin and its mane knotted and unkempt. The poor thing looks like it has seen better days.

"Okay," I sigh, feeling the weight of the moment settle on my shoulders. I ensure the girth is tight enough so the saddle won't slip, then mount that scrawny horse, its movements hesitant beneath me.

As we begin making our way to god knows where, he speaks up, breaking the uneasy silence. "Now, about your questions, my name is Mr. Horley. I hope you'll forgive the secrecy; my employer values discretion." I chuckle a bit at that, responding, "That's alright, my name's—" but I don't get to finish before he cuts me off.

"Elizabeth, I know. We've been trying to get you out for some time now. Six months locked up in that penitentiary, awaiting a hanging for a murder you did not commit. It must've felt a whole lot longer, my friend." Hearing my name brings a rush of emotions, and the pressure finally lifts from my shoulders, allowing a smile to break through. "That it did," I nod, the weight of my fate momentarily forgotten as a glimmer of hope sparks within me.

We engage in small talk, and I can't help but express my relief that the law was wrong for having locked me up. Horley listens patiently as I voice my frustrations, nodding in agreement. He informs me that I am now free to decide my fate, though a sinking feeling tells me it won't be much different from what it was before all this trouble began. As we approach a camp that exceeds my expectations in size, he adds, "Now, you will listen to my mistress; she spent a good sum trying to get you out." A wave of nervousness washes over me at that revelation.

I dismount the weary nag, feeling the fatigue coursing through the horse's body, and tie it to a hitching post. The wood feels rough against my fingers. "Come this way; she's anxious to meet you," Horley instructs, leading me toward the largest tent in the camp, its fabric taut and providing ample shelter from the midday sun. As we step closer, I catch sight of a woman inside, dressed in fine clothing that hints at wealth and status. For a brief moment, I'm reminded of my mother—her elegance, her poise.

Horley clears his throat, breaking my moment of nostalgia. "Madam, we're back," he announces, his voice serious. The lady turns her attention to us, her warm smile instantly softening her features. "Hello, Elizabeth, I'm Jessica LeClerk. How do you do?" she says before returning to her writing, her quill scratching against the paper. That's when the shocking reality crashes down on me; she's the wife of the man I was accused of killing.

"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, my voice barely above a whisper, struggling to mask the tumult of emotions surging through me.

"What did you tell her?" Mrs. LeClerk asks Horley, her tone inquisitive and steady.

"Nothing, as we discussed," he replies, maintaining a composed exterior.

"Thank you. I do hope we didn't inconvenience you dreadfully." She stands and approaches me with an air of authority, her poise unshakeable. As she gets closer, I can't help but notice her posh accent, which echoes the one I had as a child, a stark reminder of bitter times. "But seeing as you were due to be hanged in a week... I'm sure you don't object too strongly." I exhale a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Can't complain," I say, my voice steadier now, yet still tinged with disbelief.

"I know you're innocent," she tells me, her tone unexpectedly sincere. "Well, not perhaps entirely innocent, but not guilty of what you were accused of," she corrects herself, her gaze intense. "I know you and those who died with you were little more than patsies... and that you were set up." Her words leave me momentarily confused, the meaning tangled in my thoughts. "Set up? By who?" I ask, my voice shaking ever so slightly with uncertainty.

"By the same people who made Mrs. LeClerk a widow," Horley interjects, his voice firm, as if punctuating the seriousness of our situation. "And I will avenge my husband's death, so help me God," Mrs. LeClerk continues, her voice rising, infused with indignation and sorrow. "But I will not take my vengeance on those who did not cause it... or who did so unwillingly." I stare at her, grappling with the weight of her story and feeling foolish for not fully grasping it sooner.

"Anyway, I'm sure this is all a bit confusing and melodramatic. Where are my manners? Horley, would you show our guest to their tent and provide them with some fresh clothes? Then serve us both a little refreshment." Relief washes over me; I can't wait to shed these godforsaken clothes, evidence of my unpleasant past.

"Certainly, madam," Horley replies, leading me through the camp, my heart pounding as I anticipate the reprieve to come. My stomach growls in protest; I haven't had a proper meal in months, and the thought of food stirs a deep yearning within me.

I find a change of clothes and take a moment to freshen up in my tent. The interior is sparse but functional, with a few personal items strewn about, and there's a mirror in the corner that seems to beckon me to confront my reflection. Taking a breath, I step closer and gaze at my sorry self. Dark bags hang under my eyes, a testament to sleepless nights, and my complexion appears rough and worn. My dark brown hair is so matted it resembles a bird's nest, tangled and unkempt. I can't suppress a sigh as a thought crosses my mind: 'What happened to you?'

After a brief moment of self-reflection, I head back to Mrs. LeClerk's tent, taking care to smooth my new outfit as I walk. "That looks more comfortable!" she remarks playfully as I enter, a hint of warmth in her voice. Shortly after, Horley joins us, skillfully balancing a plate with two glasses and a bottle of white wine in his hands. "Thank you, Horley," Mrs. LeClerk says, reaching out to pick up the glasses. "To your good health! I suppose it beats dying, hm?" She smiles at me, warmth radiating from her. I return the gesture, lifting my glass for a sip of the wine, and I'm taken aback.

"Damn, that tastes expensive," I blurt out, unable to hold my thoughts back. Both Horley and Mrs. LeClerk give me curious looks, surprise flickering in their eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm used to moonshine; I..." I begin to explain, my voice trailing off, but Mrs. LeClerk finds my bluntness amusing, a slight chuckle escaping her lips.

"Mrs. LeClerk's husband was murdered by one of his business partners," Horley clarifies, his tone shifting to one of gravity. "And I intend to find out which one. Or rather, I intend for you to find out which one and kill them." She states it so matter-of-factly that I blink at her, dumbfounded.

"Me?" I ask, the word sounding foreign in my mouth.

"Yes, you. I know what you were up to before that mess. Some could even call you a mercenary. You're the only person I could possibly trust to do whatever it takes because you're the only other victim of their lies that's still alive." I nod slowly, absorbing the implications of her words. "You see, you walked into town at the exact same time my husband was shot in the back by another gun. The bullets fired were different from those you possessed when you were arrested." She holds out three bullets in her hand, displaying them like precious artifacts.

"These bullets—this was their mistake. You were rounded up and sentenced to death all because you happened to come to town, didn't talk too much, and seemed like the kind of person who would commit such a crime. No offense." She delivers the last line lightly, and I can't help but chuckle.

"None taken." I raise my hands, signaling that her comment doesn't offend me. In truth, I've always been the kind of person who had no trouble committing murder—when the price was right.

"Anyway... here they are: the people who run Blackwater." She hands me pictures of the suspects. "This is Jeremiah Shaw, a banker. Here is Amos Lancing, a ranch owner. And Mrs. Grace Lancing, his wife and my former best friend. Finally, this is Teddy Brown, her disgraced brother—an outlaw. All I need is your help in finding out what happened." Her eyes are earnest, almost desperate.

"Mrs. LeClerk would like to help you get back on your feet, back to work." Horley takes my now-empty wine glass, his earlier composure unwavering. "Whatever your 'work' may be. I don't judge. You want to rob? Rob. You want to save innocent folk? Do that as well. But you need me...just as much as I need you. I think we both understand each other." Mrs. LeClerk gestures toward a table, inviting me to sit with her.

"I think we do, ma'am," I reply with a light smile, feeling the gravity of our alliance.

"Good, I look forward to rewarding you for killing those who made me a widow. Goodbye, for now."

With that, she turns away, returning to her previous task of writing letters, her expression focused and determined. Horley introduces me to a funny old whose name is Cripps. He's rugged, and has a hat pulled low over his brow. Despite his age, there's a spark of resilience in him as he extends a rough hand for a handshake. "I'll help you settle your camp," he says, chuckling softly. Apparently, I am now his 'new boss,' which elicits a sympathetic smile from him, as if he knows the challenges that lie ahead.

I decide to establish my camp in West Elizabeth, strategically positioned between the sprawling Great Plains and the dense cover of Tall Trees. The landscape is inviting yet daunting, with wide-open spaces on one side and thick woods on the other. Cripps nods in understanding, stating he'll meet me there while I make my way back to my horse. "Good luck!" Horley calls to me, his voice carrying a hint of encouragement as I set off toward my new camp.

As I walk away, a swirl of thoughts fills my mind. I'm uncertain about how I'll accomplish what Mrs. LeClerk has requested of me. It's clear that this task is incredibly important to her, making it feel almost like a mandate. I recognize that I can't fail her; doing so would reflect not just on her but also on me. Those people—the ones behind the terrible injustices I've faced—are the reason I suffered for months, and I would gladly eliminate them if given the chance. Yet, I realize I won't be able to do it alone. I need to assemble a capable team, individuals I can rely on, but I have no idea where to find them or how to navigate the chaotic world ahead. I let the uncertainty wash over me for a moment, but there's also a flicker of resolve.

I decided to hitch a ride with the wind, and let him decide where I'll go from now on.

[critique-masochist]

Ah, I rolled a 1, I was hoping you had something in a pastel masculine sort of energy... By the way, have you heard of the bloke on craigslist offering top surgery for meat? I've heard Jared's work is good but... the steaks are high, hah!

Its smile grows a little too wide and a little too forced and you slowly realize that this one isn't going to be wholesome. (sorry)

“Oh, is that what he’s doing now?” it asks, its tone lower than before. “How quaint! First, all the chickens get to be free-range* and now this! This thing! Illegal trans surgeries, yes, I should have known that this would be a competitive field!”

You try and put on a brave face as it storms out of the changing room, violently rummaging through the tightly stacked clothing racks. Admittedly, you have no earthly idea what it's talking about, especially with the chicken, however…

“Isn’t, uh, more illegal trans surgeries a good thing?” you ask and it groans.

“Sure!” it says, frustrated. “It is! It’s just beyond irritating to tap into a market only to find that other vile scum are doing the same thing!” and it sighs, coming back with a look of defeat and a gorgeous light pink leather jacket. It’s adorned with silver studs, beautiful but far too fancy to wear casually. “I don’t even know what he’ll do with his batch of trans people! Will he eat them? Will he tear them apart bit by bit like he’s trying out what it’s like to be a spider? Maybe that’s the perfect body, who knows! I bet he doesn’t either!”

Again, you have no idea what it's talking about, but you notice that its fingers seem to have grown in length, and you quickly turn back to the mirror. You wear the jacket over your white wifebeater and- yup! You look like you’re about to perform the sickest lo-fi rock concert the world has ever seen. Incredibly awesome, yes, but you were really looking for something you could actually wear out.

“I guess I eat some people too,” it muses, making all your hairs stand on end. In the reflection, you see a claw like finger coming to scratch at its face, and you keep your head down, noticing how the carpet on the floor keeps changing in pattern every time you blink. “But it’s different when I do it because transphobes aren’t a minority group, you know?”

You nod and tense when it fixes up your jacket, looking you over. Its nails are sharp like needles.

“No, it's too much,” it decides, going off to the clothing racks once more.

You deflate in relief. Perhaps you should run while it’s distracted? It did just imply that it killed people. Then again, if it caught you running, it might just kill you as well.

“Ugh,” it says, and you hear an orchestra of joints popping. “Sorry, I got a little rattled there. See, I know I seem like a saint, but this is only my side-hustle. My real work is, uh… exploitative. I didn’t choose it, quite the opposite, but it’s my only means of surviving. Unfortunately, I’m not the only one who lives like that! I’ve seen what he’s done and I hate it. I hate him and I cannot conceive of a reality in which he has any compassion for anyone, it’s just absurd.”

It returns with a profound sense of unhappiness that only seems to lift once it sees what you look like in a pastel pink denim jacket. The denim looks a lot more casual than the leather. It has barely noticeable shoulder pads, which help give a more masculine silhouette.

“That’s good,” it says. “Let me see if I can find you a chain or something.”

It disappears once more, going to the other end of the shop and complaining about someone not fashioning their extra limbs or something. You don’t quite make it to the door before it returns and herds you back to the changing room.

“Necklace,” it says, lifting up one chain. “Belt thingie.” It says, lifting up the other. You try out both, finding that they look quite lovely on you. The jacket looks really nice, especially with the matching denim pants that you don’t remember putting on. Maybe you could add some embroidery to it though. Well, but now that you’re looking at them, the pants do seem to have little pastel flowers embroidered around the pockets. Oh, fuck, the other pocket has a fucking frog, hell yes, best pants ever.

“I really like this,” you tell it, and its gaze softens further.

“It suits you,” it admits, and you feel like maybe you’re not going to be murdered!

“I, uh, I don’t blame you for the job you have to do,” you say. “I mean, under capitalism you can’t really be a good person, right?”

“I am a good person,” it says, its gaze a swirling pool of emptiness. “What I do doesn’t define me, only what I, uh-“

“Maybe Jared is like that too?” you ask. You didn’t realize there was ambient music until it’s gone. “I-I mean, you said it yourself that you’re not the only one forced into that line of work.”

It looks away from you, folding its arms over its chest. You notice it's holding something shiny. A little pin. A trans flag.

“Don’t tell anyone,” it says, looking at the floor. “but survival of the fittest is kind of a bullshit concept.”

You chuckle, relieved when the inaudible cosy jazz returns.

“See, people say that mother nature is good and that survival of the fittest is natural, and they don’t question it,” it muses, motioning you closer and attaching the pin. “but it’s kind of evil. Survival of the fittest starts with wolves eating rabbits, but always ends in ants climbing to a high branch so that their brain fungus can sprout. It’s always parasites, all the way down, everyone exploiting everyone just to further a rather lonely and miserable existence. It's eat or be eaten and neither is a good time.”

“What’s your point?”

“Never trust anyone who engages in that kind of rhetoric,” it says. “it’s a red flag.”

The pin is in place. You look up to see it's wearing a similar pin on its chest. Its red.

“Do you think I should put up ads on Craigslist?”

“I should go,” you decide.

You walk out the door utterly stunned that you’re still alive. It waves its goodbyes at you as you speed walk away, never to return.

(sorry, I’m super biased in terms of pink since my bigender wife always wears it claiming it’s the most masculine colour you can physically wear, she’s so cool. I think her reasoning is “it used to be the boys colour” + “other men won’t do it” + “when one does it it’s the coolest fucking shit ever”. I’m paraphrasing, she swears a lot lol)

 *only 3,5% of chicken are free-range in the UK. This is not your fault. This is capitalism. It will take time but things will get better, I promise. Michael is upset about this miniscule change because of the sheer amount of horror, confusion and insanity that animals are subjected to in those cages. It is objectively spiral territory and 3,5% is a lot of chickens, actually.