#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.”

[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...

[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?

[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.

[rorygilmoreclown]

Cunk on Ketterdam

Prompt: I have a generous request to all of the great fanfiction writers that please for the love of God can you write something like all the Crows are getting interviewed in Cunk on Earth 😭 . I would love to see them being flabbergasted by the questions of Philomena. It can also be Crows x Reader, where the reader takes the place of Philomena. 

A/n: I tried my best. Will prolly make it a series since it’s such an interesting concept. Lmk which character you want next. I have more for Kaz Brekker also. 😭

Word Count: 497 words

Y/n: Welcome on the Ketterdam TV, Mr. Brekker. I have been informed to remind you from time to time that not giving us an answer would result in deduction of kruge from your share. 

Kaz: I understand. 

Y/n: Now let’s start from the basics, the first question is, how many birthday party performances do you have on your resume?

Kaz: For what reason would I go to a tiny terrors’ tumultuous tribute?

Y/n: No, it says here (checking your script) that you are a magician. So I assumed that you’d work at parties. 

Kaz: I’m not a magician. 

Y/n: Very well then, next question, would you audition for the play of Now You See Me 3? I heard they need a magician. Although you would have to do something other than card tricks. A character in the 2nd play has already accomplished that. 

Kaz: Is this a joke? I'll leave that to the performers with less refined tastes.

Y/n: You have a bit of an emo vibe don’t you. You’d fit right into the band My Chemical Romance. Now, I have to ask, do you think your name would be better if it was spelled with a 'z' instead of a 'k'? You know, like "Kaz the Kool Kid" or "Zaz the Zany Zebra"?

Kaz: (looking around at the exits so soon) I’d prefer if you would stick to Mr. Brekker. 

Y/n: Party pooper. Okay, moving on. I've heard you're a great leader of the Dregs, but have you ever thought about starting a band? I hear kazoo music is making a comeback.

Kaz: I’m quite satisfied with my current employment. 

Y/n: Does your mother agree with your profession? 

Kaz: 👁️👄👁️

Y/n: And that’s what I thought. That’s why I was suggesting alternatives. I want to know where you stand on diversity. Considering your employees are all diverse. 

Kaz: I pick my crows based on their work, and not those extraneous factors. 

Y/n: Is that why all of you have one thing in common?

Kaz: Yes, all of us are- 

Y/n: - (cutting him off) in dire need of therapy. 

Kaz: No, we don’-

Y/n: Producers told me you might be in denial. Moving on, when are you going to change the last name of your adopted child? 

Kaz: I don’t have a child. 

Y/n: My saints the denial phase is worse than I had thought. Although I’ll tell you, I was talking about your son, Wylan Van Eck. Is he not your child? And answer carefully, he might cry if you deny again.

Kaz: (not saying no but not saying yes either)

Y/n: I’ll take that as a “as soon as possible”. Now, at last, the most simple question. Do you keep saying “Hello Inej” every five minutes? 

Kaz: No. I do not. That is absurd. 

Y/n: (to the producers) I think you should offer him free therapy sessions, he desperately needs them. 

Taglist: @wrapperpaper @lady-ashfade

[jackwolfes]

Polycrows // Six of Crows // 504 words // T rated

Day 4: Kink Negotiation

[all kinktober fills]

There’s a quiet little cafe just south of Little Ravka that Wylan loves. It’s perfectly foreign to the sides of Ketterdam Wylan knows, something different to the Barrel and the Geldstraat and the industrial districts with their tanneries all at the same time.

It’s nice. He likes it.

Something about the quiet hush of Ravkan words is appealing to him. Wylan ends up caught, suspended in something rich like melted candy. It’s liminal, almost. He likes that too.

“I don’t want everyone to dote on me.” His voice when he speaks in this quiet afternoon carries a note of dry sarcasm that makes Jesper laugh. “I’m not a seedy merchant with a harem. I don’t need everyone’s attention all the time.”

Across the table from him, Wylan sees Jesper smile. It’s a soft, private thing, and leaves Wylan wondering whether Jesper believes him. He doesn’t need attention; that isn’t why he’s doing this. That isn’t the urge that’s drawn him to this absurd idea.

He just isn’t sure he knows why he’s so keen on it.

“No harem,” Jesper repeats, emphasising each word as he notes something down. Wylan laughs.

He sips some of his drink, a sweet cordial with mint and ice. “Maybe– it’s more that I don’t just want everyone on me all the time.”

Jesper nods. He scribbles out the words Wylan is trusting him to write. “Some harem,” he says aloud. Wylan laughs again. Jesper pauses, tapping his pen against his bottom lip. “Something like…”

“I don’t know,” Wylan says. “Tell them to make out with each other, or something.”

That makes Jesper snort. “Can you imagine?”

Wylan glances down at his cup, dewy with condensation. He can imagine it very, very well. Almost too well. Gloved hands in blond hair, broad palms on the crisp clothes of a mocking merchant. Wylan is almost certainly flushing.

“Oh,” Jesper says. Wylan doesn’t look up. All he hears is Jesper’s quiet huff of laughter. Petulantly, Wylan kicks him beneath the table.

“Don’t be a skiv,” he complains, lifting his head to give his boyfriend a half-hearted glare. He gets rolling eyes in return. “Go back to writing.”

It’s awfully Kerch of him to suggest writing up a contract, but Jesper – and Matthias – had been very amenable to it. Kaz mocked him for it, but hadn’t seemed to disagree. A contract would be helpful. It will be. He knows it, but right now all he can think is– Saints. He doesn’t care for the written word at the best of times. Right now he’s so caught up in the eager urge to take this offered gift by both hands that he can hardly sit still. He really doesn’t want to think about a contract.

It will be worth the wait, he forces himself to remember; it will all be very worth it.

Below the table, he feels Jesper trail his foot up the back of his calf. Wylan looks up to see him slowly, smugly grinning.

It will be very worth the wait.

[lady-maracas]

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.

[berrypass-de-murdler]

2 - 27 Your Days are Numbered

(damn I was proud of my last drawing T-T)

NAAAA I'M SO HAPPY GOAT LORD IS BACK >w<

I KNEAD HIM

Check out my gorgeous first youtube video!! (or don't lmao)

DON'T READ THE EPISODES WITHOUT READING THE BOOKS!!

Irratino takes Logico to what he wanted to show him, a new room in the Institute.

IRRATINO: Now around here, the one department you can really count on, is the numerology department. [whEEZE] HAHHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAA!

He faceplants. Logico walks right over him and sees a large amount of humans with calculators - what the hell are they doing?

LOGICO: What the hell are you doing? PERSON: Shh.

They multiply 367 by 673. It equals 246,991!

LOGICO: …

There’s an apple orchard on the lot outside, with people taking many notes on the many apples. And there’s a small room full of people counting in unison.

IRRATINO: Oh, they’re trying to find the highest number! LOGICO: I hate you. IRRATINO: Come on, I wanna show you the director! LOGICO: I’m pretty sure we’ve met.

They approach Night.

NIGHT: Ah, President. It’s good you came. The director is dead.

Luckily the director was just some human… Logico reunites with Azure, and is startled by the newcomer Supreme Master Cobalt!

LOGICO: How many people did you hire?? IRRATINO: When I was disguised as Mister Shadow, I picked up a few friends from New Aegis! [whispers] They didn’t know I was supposed to be dead!

Wanting to erase that memory, Logico immediately turns to take statements.

COBALT: Based on my visions- NIGHT: Based on the numbers- AZURE: Look at the stars! LOGICO: ENOUGHHHHH

That’s one thing Logico sure didn’t miss - character-relevant dialogue prefixes! But he does somewhat enjoy examining the absurd weapon selection. Azure is chewing on a raw steak.

LOGICO: Are you trying to kill yourself? AZURE: It’s not real, it’s genetically modified soy. If I tried to eat a real steak here, the inspector would kill me!

Logico glances over at Irratino, who laughs. Cobalt is playing around with a little angel doll.

COBALT: I’m not playing, and it’s not a doll. It’s a sculpture of the patron saint of math. LOGICO: It has a tag from a dollar store on it, and you were prancing around while singing. COBALT: [absolutely nightmarish scream]

Logico is blasted backwards and slams into Night, who is maneuvering a hypercube.

LOGICO: Um, what is that? NIGHT: A hypercube. LOGICO: No, what IS it. NIGHT: It’s a hypercube, Logico. I don’t know what you want me to say. IRRATINO: It’s amazing, right? That shouldn’t even be able to exist! LOGICO: …  IRRATINO: I’ll cast some runes to solve the murder.

Logico looks at the runes.

LOGICO: Hm. Okay. It looks like the murderer is… Supreme- NIGHT: Me. I did it. LOGICO: Um, no, actually- NIGHT: It was me. It was all me. Take me away. Take me to prison, where I shall rot. LOGICO: Oh my god, you didn’t d- NIGHT: [clutches onto him] YOU WON’T TAKE THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AWAY FROM ME, NOT AGAIN, NOT EVER!!!!

Irratino is disturbed. He has never heard Night scream before! (No one has.)

COBALT: Love of your… what? NIGHT: I love you. COBALT: I’m hundreds of years old.  NIGHT: Age is just a number. LOGICO: We may have to arrest you for different reasons. But ANYWAY, Cobalt is the ACTUAL murderer.  COBALT: This is outrageous! Nobody should be able to invent new numbers except me. And I shouldn’t be held ac’count’able for stopping the count! Fortunately, my great mystic faculties will make me impossible to catch.

He tries running, but sprains his back and collapses immediately.

NIGHT: A new number… it’s sad we will never learn what it might have been. AZURE: Wait, look! 

She brings a slip of paper from the dead guy’s pocket.

AZURE: [gasp!] A googol and twelve!

Night and Irratino crowd around in awe, and Logico couldn’t be more done with this bullshit. But would he rather be suffering in Drakonia?

The end!

As much as I adore writing angst, I dearly missed writing dumb episodes where nothing happens as well <3

Now I'm going to cry to myself because I'll never get to attend a live murdle.

The power of Goat Lord compels you!

See you next time murdlers!

[rot-never-ends]

Here's my first foray back into writing after way too long of a dry spell, just a short queer revenge story loosely based on a dream I had.

Wrath of Calypso

A man in a pinstripe suit awakens in… nowhere like he’s ever seen before. Rocky ground with sparse, but brightly growing, foliage. Ferns of various colors, some flowers, the occasional tree. He’s laying against one such tree: a towering, leafless thing, glowing magenta and gently raining… dust? Pollen? Spores? But the oddest thing beholding him about this place? The sky. It’s a bright, saturated cyan. No toning or nuance like the blue hues of the normal world’s sky, just a solid, hideous color that strains the eyes to look at.

That is to say nothing of, of course, all of the bugs. Glowflies, spiders, beetles, isopods, anything you could name and reasonably call a “bug”, everywhere as far as he could see was teeming with them.

“Wha th’ell?” he croaks out.

As if to answer him, someone else does emerge. Someone presumably human. A remarkably beautiful woman in a dress made of chitin with a blue sheen. She has an ethereal presence about her, as if your hand would go right through her if you reached out to touch. She is both the strangest and most normal thing here. The man sits straight up.

“...Who are you?”

She answers, a voice like wind chimes in the fall. “You may’ve known me by another name, but here I am known as Calypso. You’ll do well to remember that name.”

He ponders. “Wait, aren’t you the broad I was just dinin’ with?”

“So you remember.” “What’s this about, then eh? Can you tell me where the ‘ell I am?” “Physically? You’re still in the back of your fancy executive, fast asleep as far as your driver can tell. In soul, you’re in my own personal realm.” “WHAT D’YA MEAN I’M-”

He stands up in protest, but something grabs him from behind and binds him to the tree. He looks down to see a massive centipede coiled around his chest.

“Shhh, don’t struggle sweetie. He might accidentally sting you. His venom is not pleasant to have your nervous system full of.”

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

She furnishes a photograph and holds it where he can see it.

“Do you recognize her?”

“Wait, her? That thievin’ rat dyke? Yeah I know of her. What’s she to you?”

“Then I presume you know how she died?”

“...”

“Try not to lie to me.”

“Look, I didn’t kill her.”

“Maybe not with your own hands, but you called the hit.”

“...It was just business. She was stealin’ from us, she was a liability. Besides, they weren’t supposed to kill her, just muscle a lesson into that head of ‘ers. Again, what’s she to you anyway?”

A pause. She closes her eyes and answers somberly. “That ‘thieving rat dyke’ was my girlfriend.”

“Ohhh… shiiiiit. Look I’m really sorry for your loss but like I said, it’s business. She shouldn’t have crossed us. You try building up a successful business from nothin’. You show any weakness and folks will walk all over you.”

She scoffs.

“Please, you gave me your whole rags to riches feel-good success story over our second wine bottle. You offer loans with absurd interest rates to immigrants then sell them coke on the side to keep them in debt. Some honest business.”

“...Your little lover girl was no saint either y’know. She worked for us. Was involved in the dirty work too.”

“I’m well aware. I knew what kind of life she was caught up in. But I also knew her heart was in the right place in spite of it. She risked everything to give back to the families you robbed, and to provide for the both of us on top of that.”

“So what d’you want from me? An apology? Money? An ass-kissin’?”

She doesn’t answer, instead she picks up a moth the size of a watermelon and cradles it to her bosom, gently stroking its head, neck, and wings.

“You know, I was utterly devastated when I lost my Alice. She was the first bit of real hope I ever had. She made me actually want to live again. When even my own family told me I’d never be anything more than a faggot in a dress, she alone saw me for what I really was."

The moth flutters a little. She plants one last kiss on its forehead and lets it fly free.

“But even without her, hope found its way to me for the second time. At my absolute lowest, the gods spoke to me. They told me I was an incarnation of one of their own. They beckoned me to arise and take up Her mantle. And I did. And they etched Her name into my being.”

“...C-Calypso…”

“You understand.”

“Ah jeez. I can’t fuckin’ win against a god.” “Your observation is correct my dear.”

“W-what are you gonna do?”

She lifts a finger towards him. In unison every creature around turns and faces the businessman out of his depth, and gazes motionlessly.

“You will remain here for now. I will hunt down every one of the miserable crooks on your payroll one by one. I’ll kill you last, so that you can see me take them all down, and suffer, suffer, suffer all the while. Your friends will surely realize you’re not just sleeping drunk soon and become paranoid, so I’d better get started now. Get comfortable, you’re going to be stuck to that tree for as long as it takes.”

“YOU FUCKIN’ FREAK. DON’T LEAVE ME HERE GODDAMMIT.”

“Oh, my children. Playtime.”

Calypso turns around and walks away from him. All at once, the bugs that had been surrounding with eyes locked to him scamper and flutter towards him, climbing all over him, until his vision is covered, and his ears are drowned out by buzzing…

[mister-president-lost-his-phone]

~BREAKING NEWS~

Tonight on America’s Top News Network, the reportedly “lost” President’s phone seems to have been stolen, and the culprit even has the gall to introduce themself...

Now with host Ray Raybeam on the situation:

The host tries to keep a straight face as the camera closes in on him in front of the blue news-room backdrop.

“Yes, for the past few days America has been eagerly awaiting the return of Mister President’s cellphone–twitter has been so boring without him. And apparently, Mister President could not remember his login info, but someone else did.”

Ray smiles again as an image appears with a blurry photo of the top of someone’s brown boots as they stand in tall grass.

“Now let’s see what top secret passcodes our president comes up with!”

The corner image then expands across the television screen, revealing the text beneath the image, the news host reads:

“Hello? I’ve never kept a journal before, though I have never seen one like this. Whatever old Kerch Merch lost this is incredibly stupid. All his combination locks were ‘1234’ and ‘Password123!’ I fixed that quickly, I even managed to think ahead and put my new address in the ‘mail’ with a ‘G’ portion and made some crafty combinations of my own.

I wonder if Ma and Da can somehow see this—just in case—

DON’T WORRY DA I AM COMING HOME THIS FRIDAY!

Oh right, journals are perfect for keeping track of to-dos!

List of note-worthy happenings this week:

Finishing up the schematics for a certain Ravkan pirate (while I do appreciate my apprenticeship...I’m not even allowed to meet him nor do I get to see the flying ships these giant guns will be attached to)

Ren’s telling me I’ve got the smarts to apply to University (imagine me in Ketterdam, big fancy suit and all, looking one hundred percent better than this greasy old Merch)

Mal’s girlfriend (he’s a friend from the farm’s affiliated jurda warehouse I don’t think Ma knows that) got a goiter, that is sad but—I said something so stupid. I told Mal I’d pray to the ‘God of Work’ for them, which that doesn’t even exist! To all the Saints and their Aunt Ida why did I say that!

This thing won’t stop buzzing, I’m going to bring this to Ren and see if he can make sense of it.

Why did this have to be in Kerch? There isn’t even a Zemeni language option.``

The camera pans back to the host. He nods and says, “Yes, this post reveals so much about Mister President, but raises so many questions. What is jurda? Who, what, where, are these ‘Ravkan’ pirates? A quick google search shows that many of these unfamiliar words are not places, cultures, or any known word...”

“But the White House had to take action, while we may be laughing at the absurdity of Mister President getting his phone stolen and social media hacked, this is considered a major cyber attack—here’s the goings-on in the White House:”

News coverage shows flashes of the White House, the president hosting meetings at roundtables, and a group of IT experts in suits typing furiously on computers as a female voiceover reports:

“The White House is scrambling to recover Mister President’s data after this unnerving theft and hacking attack. The situation becomes even more dire after Mister President admits to having many copies of classified documents saved to his phone and Gmail. It seems all of Mister President’s accounts have been changed except one: Twitter. And the president took to his favorite platform to address the perpetrator—”

(A tweet appears on screen)

——————————————

🐦‍⬛ THE Twitter 🐦‍⬛

👨‍🦳 Mister President ✔️

This criminal will be caught! And is determined to spread lies about me! But even this criminal knows he can’t silence Mister President! What? This great “hacker” can’t get into my twitter!

——————————————

(The screen fades to a spectacled 20-something white man in a suit)

He says, “While the president may be happy about not being locked out of his twitter, there are still mysteries we can’t figure out, which we have been working around the clock to stop. This simple theft and hacking can’t be traced. Every phone or data can be traced no matter where in the world you are...all our IT team sees is blank, blank, blankety-blank. It's as if Mister President’s phone fell onto another planet with magic Internet. Our team can’t even block this perpetrator from using the president’s phone and his various accounts.”

(The segment fades out to reveal Ray, visibly confused)

“MAGIC INTERNET?!” he exclaims. “The top cyber security teams in the United States can’t track the president’s phone and after a week deduce that Magic Internet is hiding this person? Phew, let's hope no other countries have access to this Magic Internet.

“Now, stay tuned the next couple of days...maybe this ‘criminal’ who found Mister President’s phone and was lucky enough to guess some easy passwords will finally crush all of Mister President’s dreams...and take over his twitter!”

(The camera pans out to applause and laughter)

[tornadoyoungiron]

TRAINTOBER | Day 31 - Lights Out

Flying Scotsman meets the City of Truro for the first time. It doesn't go well. 

~~~

“The LNER bought the City of Truro?” The young Jubliee class at the other platform was stunned. “Did the Great Western not want to save such a special engine?”

“He wasn’t even bought, he was donated to the museum,” the B12 next to her responded to her. “The Great Western didn’t want to spend money to preserve them.”

“Oh that’s a shame, Truro’s such a pretty engine!” The Jubilee cooed sweetly but there was a humph from the platform across the way. The Jubliee and B12 looked over to find a Gresley Pacific A3 with a sour look on his face.

“What’s the matter Solario? Can’t handle the fact that your twin got beat by a pretty little Great Western,” The B12 jeered and Solario snorted in response.

“City of Truro’s record is a fraud, the only official record is held by Scotsman,” he snapped annoyed. “We should never have allowed that engine into the museum.”

“You Gresley engines are all the same pompous snot-nosed gits," The B12 scoffed and Solario smirked. 

"Our arrogance is not without precedence," Solario preened. "If even a wimpy engine such as my brother could outclass the rest, then what does that say about the rest of you?"

"Such a horrible thing to say about your own brother! He’s your twin! You should be close!" The Jubilee exclaimed horrified. 

Solario rolled his eyes at her. The LMS engines and their undying loyalty to family did not breed success, it was childish and it was absurd.

“My brother is a foolish and weak-willed engine,” Solario scowled. “He does not deserve the time of day from me or our other sibling and especially Sir Gresley.”

The Jubilee was about to retort when the loud wheesh of an engine departing the station suddenly echoed through the station. The engines looked several platforms over the find the one and only Flying Scotsman departing the station, his expression unreadable and blank.

The B12 smirked but the Jubilee looked back at Solario angrily.

“For ones who pride themselves on being hospitable to your passengers, you’re real pieces of work you know that!” She snapped at them and Solario just huffed steam in response.

“The price of success demands it so, as Great Northern says,” Solario snapped back and without another word the Gresley A3 was gone, following his twin brother out of the station.

“Great Northern is a fool, everyone knows that!” The B12 sneered at his retreating tender but there was no response, the A3 long gone.

~~~

Flying Scotsman made his way to the museum. He didn’t really know why or what he was doing but he just knew that Solario’s words had stung him quite badly.

He had heard of the City of Truro. Great Northern railed at length against the engine, considering him a fraud, a phoney for even daring to try and claim ‘their’ record. Scotsman frowned, it wasn’t North’s record, it was his record. It certainly wasn’t that boastful child that was Papyrus’s record. 

Scotsman rolled his eyes at the thought of his sister. She was boastful and entitled and demanded respect yet failed to have it because of the way she acted. A horrid and cold engine who found complaint in anything anyone did. She made even Great Northern seem like a saint by comparison.

Scotsman was the judge of who and what could lay claim to his record and it surprised him that after all this time he had never met the Great Western’s famous engine.

Solario’s words had spurred him on. He had met Great Western engines before, the wonderful Pendennis Castle whomst they had hosted on their railway for the exchange trials. Then again he had met him in person at the Empire Exhibition. Pendennis had been nothing but lovely and charming. 

Scotsman found himself admiring and befriending the Castle Class. He wished he could see more of the handsome and beautiful engine.

He hoped that Truro would be the same. 

He liked the Great Westerns, admired them even. Their smart green and gold lined liveries. They appeared delicate yet strong and powerful. He liked that. He liked that a lot. 

He knew that Sir Gresley appreciated them too. Although he didn’t agree with certain aspects of their design, he remember Sir Gresley being very pleased and gave his approval to Pendennis Castle, a high appraisal indeed.

“Is something wrong, my good engine? May I assist you in any way?” A voice asked and Scotsman jumped and looked down to find a Steamworks engine, barely as tall as the average man.

“No, why do you ask?” Scotsman eyed the little engine, slightly annoyed at being startled.

“Your cheeks are red,” the little engine mumbled, Scotsman huffed embarrassed and glared at the engine who then seemed to notice his nameplate and squeaked. “I meant no offence Mr Flying Scotsman sir!”

“It’s okay,” Scotsman gave the little engine a comforting smile. “What’s your name little one?”

“Hendrick, sir! Hendrick the Steamworks Engine! If you have any faults come to me and I’ll get them fixed just like the day you rolled out of the works!” the little Wren peeped and Scotsman chuckled. 

“I’m certain I will if the need arises,” Scotsman smiled. He glanced around at the museum, searching for the engine he was looking for. “Is- is City of Truro here?”

Hendrick gazed at the big engine suspiscously. 

“I don’t want to start anything, I just want to meet him,” Scotsman assured the engine. Hendrick didn’t look convinced but he wasn’t exactly about to talk back to the railway CME’s favourite engine. 

“This way, Flying Scotsman,” the little wren lead the large engine deeper into the facility where other engines sat. Some unnervingly had no faces which irked him. 

"Why do some of these engine not have faces? What happened to them?" Scotsman asked and Hendrick seemed scared. 

"I don't like to talk about it Mr Scotsman sir," Hendrick explained. "But those engines suffered from Cold Iron Sleep and died from it."

"What is-"

"No more questions please, I'll get into trouble with the engineers!" Hendrick begged the Scotsman and the A3 Pacific pressed no further. 

They came to an alcove where a shining, polished Great Western engine sat, proud and glossy. The gold on its trim reflected the lights upon it, giving it a dazzling glow. 

"This is the City of Truro!" Hendrick squeaked as the said engine turned its attention to the Flying Scotsman. 

Scotsman looked the engine up and down. Though he was very impressed with the look of the engine, he found himself… disappointed. 

"You are quite the handsome engine I must say! Though, I apologise if I sound rude but I thought that you would be larger," Scotsman remarked quietly and the City class turned a disapproving eye to Scotsman. 

"Ah yes, another one of Gresley's fat, cumbersome engines come to try and pick a fight with me I see," City of Truro snapped at him and Scotsman was taken aback. 

"Fat? Cumbersome?" Scotsman was deeply offended. "I am neither of those things!"

Truro eyed him disparagingly with distaste in his gaze. 

"You are clunky and don't think I didn't hear you squeaking! An engine like this steals my record from me, how appalling! How embarrassing!" Truro hissed and Scotsman blasted steam in anger. 

"I did not steal your record! You never had it in the first place!" Flying Scotsman snapped back, incensed by this engine. 

Truro's eyes widened and he glanced down at Scotsman's number, painted on his buffer beam.

"Ah," Truro's expression turned sour. "So it's you. My rival."

"Rival? Rival!" Scotsman thundered furiously. "You? You! A simple goods engine?! You are NOT my rival I assure you! I'll have you find that Pendennis Castle is my rival, not some riff-raff like you!"

"This 'riff-raff' made 100 mph before you were even drawn!" Truro spat back angrily. 

"You don't even deserve the dignity of being melted down to be the tracks under my wheels!" Scotsman snarled. 

"Good because your heavy lard ass would just stress the rails so hard that you'd flatten them to sheet iron!" Truro shrieked. 

"Stop calling me fat!" Scotsman exploded. "You are an uncouth and nasty little engine!"

"ENOUGH!" A voice suddenly shouted and they both turned to find one of the LNER directors striding towards them angrily, his face a picture of fury. "Scotsman! You are usually one of the best behaved and gentlemanly of engines! I am surprised at you, acting like a child!"

Scotsman looked at his buffers shamefully. He didn't know how or why but Truro had somehow antagonised him. He did not like it in the slightest. 

"I am sorry sir. This is not like me, I know," Scotsman apologised profusely. "I just wanted to meet City of Truro. I had no intention of-"

"Stop. That's enough excuses. Sir Gresley will hear about this," the director snapped. "You will go back to your shed and you will not pull any trains for the rest of the week."

Truro chuckled and the Scotsman threw a glare at him. 

"But sir!" He implored but he was ignored. 

"Go!" The director snapped, pointing at the exit and Scotsman took his leave, feeling humiliated as Truro laughed at him. 

Hendrick’s basis - a 0-4-0T Beyer & Peacock ‘Wren’ 

~~~

The City of Truro was displeased to find that he had been taken out of the shed at the last minute to stand in for a failed rail tour engine. There is something about a lack of maintenance on one of the Stanier 8F’s and its replacement also failing.

Truro was displeased. Not because he had been pulled out of the sheds but because he knew that the Stainer 8F deserved so much better. They were one of the hardest working engine classes in the British Isles, nay, the entire world. The fact that it’s replacement had failed was even more of a concern to Truro.

It saddened Truro greatly, the lack of respect towards the working iron horses these days. It was depressing. 

“Thank you for saving our skins, City of Truro!” The Heritage controller thanked him. “It’s unprecedented that two engines would fail simultaneously.”

“Perhaps you need to keep a closer eye on maintenance,” Truro advised. “We Steam Engines are fussy things. We demand a lot more than a diesel or an electric engine.”

The controller seemed offended that Truro had chastised him but said nothing. Truro winched, wondering if he was turning bossy and pedantic like Coppernob. Maybe that was just what happened when one got to this age.

“Well, the Stainer 8F had a good maintenance record but Flying Scotsman did just return from Australia so we’re unsure what her condition is,” The controller remarked and Truro was surprised. 

“Flying Scotsman is here?” He asked and the Controller nodded. 

“You can see her if you like,” he offered and Truro thinning his lips in contemplation. 

“I’ll think about it,” Truro finally spoke and the controller nodded before offering a parting word.

~~~

The rail tour itself went smoothly and Truro found himself in a pleasant mood. Maybe it was a good thing that both engines had failed that day. He so rarely got to do a proper run these days and he felt good for it. 

He thanked the 8F and paused in the yard, contemplating whether to both his ‘rival’. Of course, Flying Scotsman never saw him as a rival, that position was reserved for Pendennis Castle. 

A dark cloud darkened his mind and he frowned. He didn’t know why but seeing Pendennis and Scotsman together made him angry, it had always made him sad. 

It shouldn’t have. Pendennis was a close friend, and he wanted to be happy for him and yet… when Scotsman had broken off the relationship, Truro had felt a sort of sadistic glee that made him feel ashamed.

He glanced over at the sheds and found the doors to Flying Scotsman’s berth closed. He contemplated leaving, he didn’t want to start a fight with her but he, despite himself, really wanted to see her.

Why? He had no clue.

Biting the bullet he approached her berth and waited for the crew to open the doors. Inside he found Flying Scotsman, asleep, her face pale and not looking all that well.

He was about to change his mind a leave her to rest when she stirred, groggy and extremely lethargic.

“...City… Truro?” She weakly croaked as she laid her eyes on him.

“You need your rest, I apologise for waking you, I’ll be going,” Truro tried to beg her pardon but Scotsman seemed to shake her frames to wake herself up in response.

“No, no, it’s alright, stay,” Scotsman gave him a weary smile. “I’m awake now anyway.”

“Quite,” Truro murmured and focused on her appearance. “You don’t look at all well.”

“I feel even worse,” Scotsman chuckled. “The Australian Outback did a number on me I think. I’m not used to such a harsh environment. What are you doing here?”

“Covering for you,” Truro smirked. “Did you enjoy Australia at least?”

“That I did,” Scotsman smiled. “Pendennis sends his regards.”

“Oh,” Truro looked away with a huff. “Are you two still, you know, together?”

“We talked about it,” Scotsman hummed to herself. “I decided not to pursue a relationship any longer. I didn’t see a future with him, even if we were still in England.”

Truro suppressed the sudden smile that came to his face.

Why was he glad that they had broken up?

“I’m going to wait a while before I consider a relationship with anyone else though,” Scotsman continued. “I need to get my smokebox in the right place first.”

“Of course, of course,” Truro mused. “No need to rush into anything. But if you were, did you have anyone in mind?”

Scotsman raised an eyebrow. 

“Didn’t think you would’ve cared about my love life, City of Truro,” Scotsman smirked. 

“I just want to know if you’re going to chase any of my colleagues,” Truro retorted and Scotsman gave a snort of mirth. 

“So you can chase them away and claim me for yourself?” She sneakily suggested and City of Truro turned bright red. Scotsman smirked at his reaction.

“What on Earth makes you think I would do something like that?” Truro scoffed a bit too quickly.

“No reason,” Scotsman smirked but the look in her eyes suggested that she very well knew the reason. “No reason at all.”

Truro felt his face burn with heat and he jolted himself backwards in a hurry to leave. 

“Right, well, I best be going,” Truro cleared his smokebox. 

“Of course, of course, good talk, Truro, good talk,” Scotsman’s expression became conceited and smug, she had the audacity to give him a flirtatious wink.

Truro humphed in response. He knew exactly what she was insinuating and he had a very good idea that Scotsman and Pendennis had discussed him at length in Australia.

“You are appalling,” Truro huffed and Scotsman laughed. “You and Pendennis both!”

“Oh, we know,” Scotsman extolled. “But I’ll come to you first when I'm ready to date again, yes?”

Truro turned completely red.

“Is that a threat?” He scoffed, flummoxed.

“No. It’s a promise.”

With that, Scotsman seemed to grow weary again, her eyelids growing heavy.

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to rest," she murmured and Truro took the hint that she wanted to be left alone.

"Very well, rest easy, Flying Scotsman," he wished as the crew flicked the lights back off in her berth.

"I'll try," Scotsman smiled and gave him a wink.

Truro felt his cheeks burn red hot but before he could answer, the doors to her berth shut in his face.

~~~

Flying Scotsman departs Kings Cross, 1967.

The City of Truro and the AUDACITY of this bitch. 

Scotsman has a type and that type is Great Western 👀 He thinks they’re pretty.

The little Wren, Hendrick is Dr Hendrick who appears in Young Iron and deals with Gold Dust issues and problems. Great Northern brought him back as a Gold Dust construct to be his assistant however Hendrick decided to study medicine and became a certified Doctor.

[qqueenofhades]

Hi Hilary. I want you to know how much your writing is brightening a sad Christmas for me. If you're still taking requests I'd love to see Ivan and Fedyor coming back together after being parted for a long time.

Doesn't have to be the 'big' parting, just anything for a significant length of time. I miss the husbands, and I'm rereading all my fave old fics.

It has been almost a month on the road, slogging through the frozen wastes of Tsibeya after an especially ill-advised invasion attempt of eastern Fjerda ended in predictable failure, and Ivan is gaunt, cold, filthy, sporting an especially scruffy beard that he loathes with the fire of a thousand splendid suns, and otherwise more than ready for the comforts of home, in more ways than one. He's normally impervious to whatever discomforts the field can throw at him, but they're more bearable when he's with Fedyor, and they've spent almost all of the last year apart -- Ivan directing the northern theater against the Fjerdans and Fedyor tied up with operations against Shu Han in the south -- and since the tsar's never-ending war is going even more stupidly than usual and they have very little to show for it, Ivan is therefore most displeased at this enforced separation.

As the dispirited caravan creaks and clanks through the gates of Os Alta, Ivan and Kirigan riding side by side at the head of the column and trying to look like this is a triumphal homecoming instead of a humiliating defeat, Ivan turns his head in all directions. The southern campaign broke off several weeks ago at least, according to the spies, and they were also obliged to beat a retreat northward to the capital. Not that this is an outcome to cover themselves in glory either, but at least it means Fedyor might be home.

Ivan swings down from his saddle, issues a few terse replies to the assorted underlings who swan up with assorted idiotic questions (his purpose is to deflect them from Kirigan, but he sorely needs a hench-henchman whose purpose is to deflect idiotic questions from him) and looks around again as if his head is on a pivot, barely listening to anyone or able to offer any explanations or strategic advisements. Fedyor is here, right? The fucking Shu didn't pull some funny trick at the last moment and either delay their return or -- Saints forbid -- even worse? Bad enough to be returning from the imbroglio in Fjerda with nothing to show for it, but if something happened to Fedyor --

Just as Ivan is about to properly spiral off the handle, he senses a familiar warm presence in the alcove nearby, waiting for him to finish his duties and come to meet him, and flatly ignores the First Army lieutenant pressing for a detailed status update. Ivan shoves past him, then breaks into a run, ducking under the eaves. "Fedyor!"

Fedyor grins at him, dark eyes dancing and dimples doing that stupid thing they do that causes Ivan's heart to perform all number of absurd calisthenics. "About time, don't you -- "

Whatever else he's going to say is cut off as Ivan grabs him into a rough, hungry kiss, dragging Fedyor off his feet, whirling him around, and pushing him up against the back wall of the cloisters. He almost doesn't care if anyone sees them (besides, they're all too terrified to ever say a word), and takes his time about kissing Fedyor slow and thoroughly, until he is good and properly ready to stop (or rather, pause for breath). Then he growls, "Yes, I would damn well say it is."

They have had one too many close calls with nearly being caught by Kirigan and/or some other officious underling walking in on them when they didn't bother to get all the way to to their room first, so they do, though it's a terrible strain to keep their hands off each other that long. Then they slam the door, shed their keftas, and get around to reuniting properly. There is that one upside to being separated for so long, Ivan thinks dizzily. It does make the reunion especially sweet.

Afterward, they lie in bed curled up in a tangle of limbs, Fedyor's head resting on Ivan's chest and his fingers lightly stroking and Healing away the worst of Ivan's new crop of scars. He doesn't bother to ask how Ivan got them, but Ivan can sense his consternation in the particular ferocity of his touch. "It's all right," he murmurs. "I'm fine."

"You always say that." Fedyor sighs. "You are, I hope, at least back until spring?"

Ivan shrugs. It's a week until the Winter Fete, when combat operations are technically forbidden by the Faith and when everyone just wants to huddle up by a warm fire and drink hot kvas, but there's no way to say for sure. Still, he doesn't want to spoil their reunion with such talk. So he just rolls them over, puts Fedyor on his back, and takes his time about reminding him that they are here, now, together, alive, real. And that -- as ever, as always -- is all that truly matters.

[anneangel]

Grantaire...

Curious how Victor Hugo manages to fuse personality into the characters. Grantaire may be in coadjuvant but he's so... quick-witted, intelligent and well-spoken, with a very social demeanor, but with a bottle in hand and alcohol in his body, he becomes easily depressing, truly dejected, melancholy and downright unhappy. And I sympathize???

They are characters so different from each other, it's crazy how the same author who creates the merciful, religious and God-fearing Bishop Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel, creates Grantaire too and so many other characters with such different and profound personalities.

Grantaire has such a skeptical view of life (see everything from a negative dogmatism point of view, that is, his justice about things is always conditioned by a feeling of disbelief, do not confuse with questioning, in the skeptic there is a surly, bitter, unproductive denial – people like that are usually pessimistic). This is described in the book as: "Grantaire was a man who took good care not to believe in anything." He's not genuinely a person contrary to those around him, his cynicism isn't an act of provocation towards his peers only, but really how he views life and the world.

In the book: “He was ironical and cordial. His indifference loved. His mind could get along without belief, but his heart could not get along without friendship”.

And too, he says :

“Gentlemen, my father always hated me because I could never be a mathematician. And here, too, I don't understand your love of freedom and the republic! I'm just Grantaire, the good guy! As I never had money, I never got used it, and therefore I never lacked it; however, if I were rich, there would be no poor people, you would see! Oh, if good hearts were the ones with good fortunes, it would be different and things would go along a different path! Why, imagine Jesus Christ, with the Rothschild fortune! What good would he do!(…)”

“In fact, this circumstance has just confirmed my conjectures about the situation of God's fortune, and judging by so many poverties that already exist up there and down here, in view of so much misery in everything, I suspect that God does not it's very rich there. There is appearance, it is true, but one knows the poverty that is hidden. Oh, by all the saints on Olympus and by all the gods in Heaven, I wasn't born to be a Parisian, I was born for the easy life, but that's not how anyone's life is. In view of this I will drink more. The earth is absurd. Oh, old world, old world! You are the vile vessel of demoralization, deprivation, prostitution, ambition, ineptitude!” And Grantaire, after this burst of eloquence, had a burst of coughing, which he deserved.

“My friends, I hate the human species! (...) I think it is time to clarify the human being. But here comes sadness to take possession of me again!"

"Oh my God! Morality is something that does not exist in this world! Oh, what in this world goes birds of prey! Almost all are bad eagles! So many that I am afraid of them. So, don't believe in anything. The only reality is drinking. Whatever your opinion, it doesn't matter, it's all about drinking!". This was his axiom: "There is but one certainty, my full glass."

Grantaire, completely intoxicated, stunned the ears of those around him, in one of the corners, disagreeing in a thunderous voice and shouting: “I am thirsty. Mortals, here is my desire: I wanted to drink, because I want to forget life. Life is a hideous invention by I don't know who. Something that lasts nothing and is worth nothing; and we kill each other to live. Life is a frame about to come crashing down. Happiness, a panel painted only on one side. Ecclesiastes says that all is vanity. It is a pity that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote you an immensity of things; but I don't know anything. I used to be gifted when I was in art class, but there are so many vices in virtue…” Bossuet tried to shut him up and Joly said “don't give Grantaire any more wine, he ends up this penniless and a little mad”, but R kept going at the top of his lungs “Who gave you such a right without my permission? And too much, I'm sad. What do you want you to say? Man is bad, man is deformed, miserable, infamous, melancholic... and I am angry, enraged, bored, I can only open my mouth, I feel dead, I feel stupid (...)”

"wine, mediocre source of dreams. Grantaire was an adventurous drinker of dreams. In the first glasses Grantaire, his prodigious joy appeared; then he reached this dismal (macabre) phase, a fearful intoxication, half-opened in front of him, instead of making him stop, it attracted him. He had left education aside and had left the cup, drinking from the bottle. The measure is the abyss. Having no opium at hand (used as a narcotic, taking the person into a stupor rather than anesthesia), nor hashish (cannabis extract used as a narcotic), and wanting to fill his brain with twilight, he had resorted to the dreadful mixture of brandy, beer and absinthe, which produces terrible lethargy (unconsciousness). It is from the three vapours, beer, brandy, absinthe, that the lead of his soul is composed. And his darkness is three: Nightmare, Night, Death, fluttering over his sleeping psyche".

“However, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was neither a dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science; it was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and venerated Enjolras. To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To the most absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him? By his ideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. That which we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him.”

One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of the alphabet. In that sequence, O and P are inseparable. You might just as well say O and P as Orestes and Pylades.

"A true satellite of Enjolras, Grantaire lived within this circle of young men (les amis de l'ABC). He dwelt among them, only with them was he happy, he followed them everywhere. His pleasure was to watch these figures come and go in a wine-induced haze. They put up with him because of his good humour. In his belief, Enjolras looked down on this sceptic; and in his sobriety, on this drunkard. He spared him a little lordly pity. Grantaire was an unwanted Pylades. Always snubbed by Enjolras, spurned, rebuffed and back again for more, he said of Enjolras, ‘What marmoreal magnificence'."

"There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the obverse, the other side. They are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They only exist on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction and; and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men. He was the obverse of Enjolras".