#anyway that's enough introspection for tonight
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sigh. ethel cain brainrot lately.. cainrot ig.. listened to two children in a motel for the first time last night and. hu o e g h. stop making me think about my childhood challenge !!!!1 im gonna stpo talking before i say something stupid bcus i am extra prone to doing that once my meds wear off lmao.
#also if you do listen to the song um. cw for. uh. overdosing; unhealthy sibling relationships; uhh things with bugs in them#bad thoughts ideation; mentioned drowning; mentioned child death#deep down i dont wanna say no to you... you and i are not in love we are just the same.... literally inconsolable /hj#WELL THATS ENOUGH INTROSPECTION FOR TONIGHT. gonna go play animal crossing#wait am i using that word right. hold the phone#OKAY IM GOOD. anyway byeee
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A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs â Part Two
Pairing: Azriel x Reader
Summary: After a family dinner leaves him feeling more alone than comforted, Azriel finds himself at your shop once more. He's unsure why heâs come againâonly that something in him, and in his shadows, is drawn to you.
Warnings: some self-deprecation, envy, loneliness, insomnia, fluff, fun, deep introspection, az and his relationship with his shadows
Word Count: 4.3k
Part One | Series Masterlist |
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Step Two: Learn the Language of the Dark
Sleep does not come when called, nor does it linger where it feels watched. It prefers to arrive unnoticed, slipping in through the cracks of an unguarded mind. If you search for it too directly, you may find it has disappeared entirely.
The trick is patience. Let the dark settle. Listen to the quiet thingsâthe crackling of a fire, the rhythm of your own breathing, the steady pulse of something unseen. Do not demand sleepâs presence. Let it believe it has found you first.
â (A Sleeping Guide for Insomniacs, 27)
Azriel tried his best to control himself.Â
Trulyâ he did. But a few nights later, around half past two, Az found himself outside of your shop once more.Â
He hadnât planned to come here. Had told himself he wouldnât. But the moment he left the River House, he knew he wouldnât be going home. He couldnât bring himself to. He knew that tonight, even more than usual, the townhome would feel like a mausoleum. A place for something long dead. And he would be the only ghost haunting it.
Family dinner had been nice. Better than heâd expected. He hadnât realized how much heâd missed them all until he was sitting at the table, feeling that familiar warmth and laughter fill the space. Their happiness made him happy. Being surrounded by them shouldâve been enough. And for a little while, it was.
But Azriel had never been good at enough.
Even as he sat there, listening, speaking when prompted, he could feel it creeping inâthat itch under his skin, the restless, bitter twist of something ugly. Heâd wanted to stay. Heâd wanted to soak in their presence, as if he could steal a little of their light and make it his own. And yet, the longer he sat there, the more he wanted to bolt. Like some feral thing backed into a corner, too proud to ask for space but too tired to keep pretending.
After dinner, his shadows had heard Nesta. Had curled around the sound of her voice, quiet and careful as she asked Feyre how she did itâhow she managed being a mother. He pulled them back before they could hear more. Before the words could break and heâd hear an admission of fear that wasnât intended for his ears.
Azriel left the room, but the next was no better. Mor and Emerie were huddled near the bassinet, soft laughter between them, cooing at the newest addition to the familyâWren, all dark hair and violet eyes, bright and powerful, just like her fatherâs. Rhys was in the room next door, speaking in that same hushed tone Feyre had used, Cassian listening just as carefully. Family planning. Words of advice from one parent to another one, soon-to-be.Â
Azriel stood there, staring at them, feeling like something separate. Something apart.
He hated himself for it. Hated that he couldnât just be happy for them without feeling like he was standing in the cold, pressing his palm to a window, watching something he could never touch. Selfish, for letting his own misery take up so much space in his chest when he shouldâve just enjoyed the evening.Â
It was his own fault, anyway. His own doing.
So he left.
He had been too tiredâtoo sleeplessâto fight the urge to go somewhere else. He let his shadows lead him through the streets, through the hush of Velaris at night, until they curled around the door of your shop.
The bell above the door chimed as Azriel stepped inside. A soft, lilting sound, delicate against the quiet. He stilled beneath it, looking up, his shadows stirring at the noise. The brass caught the low glow of candlelight, swaying gently from where it had been fastened to the frame.Â
âItâs new."
Your voice brought his attention back down. You stood behind the counter, sleeves pushed to your elbows, hair barely held together with a crooked pin, as if you'd meant to fix it but got distracted. There was something easy about the way you smiledâamused, but not unkind.
âIt was a gift, I think," you said, glancing up at it. âSomeone left it outside.â
Azriel knew that. He was the one who left it there. A gift, in theory. A selfish comfort in truth. A bell above the door made it safer for you. And if it gave him even a fraction of peace, knowing youâd loudly hear should anyone come inside, wellâhe wouldnât think too hard about that. A wisp of shadow curled toward you, drawn by what Azriel could only assume was the warmth in your voice, before he managed to reign it back in.
He cleared his throat. âIt's nice.â
You hummed in agreement. âLooking for anything in particular?â
Company.
But Azriel didnât say that.
âAnother candle,â he said instead. âThe one you gave me last time.â
Your brows lifted, something flickering behind your gazeâcuriosity, maybe. âAre you starting a collection?â
He held your gaze. âIt's all gone. I loved it that much.â
A slow tilt of your head. A look that said you didnât believe him. But you smiled anyway, making your way around the counter. âOkay. I have some new ones as well, if youâd like to try them?â
Azriel nodded in agreement and you guided him through the shop, showing him the new additions to your collection. He noticed all the subtle changes in arrangement since the last time heâd been hereâthe way the dried herbs hanging from the rafters had shifted, a new assortment of small trinkets tucked near the register, the faintest scent of something floral and unfamiliar woven into the air.
You excused yourself momentarily to greet a few customers, welcoming them inside with the same gentle ease you had with him. Azriel, left to his own devices, felt a brief temptation to slip away. Not out of disinterest, but guilt. He was taking up your time, and despite the comfort of your presence, he knew better than to linger where he wasnât wanted.
His shadows disagreed. They remained close, lingering in the pockets of candlelit corners, curling against the floorboards like smoke. One drifted toward the counter where you stood, its edges flickering as if continuously reaching for you. Surely, if there had been any signs of discomfort that Az had missed, his shadows would have alerted him. They hadnât. The only murmurings theyâd offered him were small observations, whispers about you and your creations.Â
Besides, you didnât seem like the type of fae to entertain something you werenât invested in. If he was overstaying his welcome, he was sure youâd let him know.Â
It wasnât like he was wasting your time.
Azriel planned on buying as many candles as youâd let him. To make up for the free one youâd given him and to pay, without you even knowing, for the pleasure of your company. Which, now that it was voiced in his mind, sounded a lot more strange than he anticipated.
He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders back. His wings shifted slightly behind him, careful not to knock over anything fragile. Heâd been so focused on the small, grounding motionsâkeeping his hands from brushing against too many things, keeping his wings tucked, keeping himself smallâthat he hadnât noticed anything else.
âOh,â you murmured, glancing toward the front window. âItâs storming.â
Azriel looked up, following your gaze. The sky had darkened, thick clouds swirling low over the city, and a soft, rhythmic patter of rain had begun to tap against the glass. In the distance, thunder rumbled.
You looked at him.
He didnât know why, but something about the way your expression shifted made his throat feel tight. He could see you thinking, watch the thought settle behind your eyes before you voiced it aloud.
âNights like these are a rare occurrence for me.â
Azriel blinked. âHow so?â
You gave him a smileâsmall, slightly lopsided. Then, without answering, you brushed past him, moving toward the entrance of the shop. Azriel didnât mean to indulge, but he did, just slightly, inhaling your scent as it breezed past him. It settled somewhere deep inside him. He hadnât realized a smell could do thatâthat it could sink into him like a tangible thing.
He watched as you flipped the wooden sign on your door, turning the lock with a quiet click.
âI close,â you said, spinning back to face him. âAnd I work in the back.â
Then, without waiting for a response, you tilted your head toward the doorway leading deeper into the shop and started walking. You didnât look back as you called, âAre you coming?â
Azriel hesitated.
He had already been forming the words to excuse himself, to say something polite but firmâ Oh, no, itâsâ
But he stopped.
You glanced at him over your shoulder, raising a brow. âCome on,â you said, as if it were obvious. âYou canât leave in this weather.â
Azriel had traveled in much worse conditionsâin blizzards so thick they stole the breath from his lungs, in hailstorms that left bruises even on his wings. A normal Velaris rainstorm was nothing to him. If anything, it was comforting. Familiar.
But he didnât tell you that.
Instead, he exhaled, glancing once more at the window, at the downpour streaking against the glass.
And thenâ
âAlright,â he said. The shadows at his feet swirled, shifting toward the doorway, clearly happy with his choice. He could practically feel their pleased chattering, the happy vibrations they sometimes created.Â
You gave a small, satisfied nod before turning on your heel and disappearing into the back room. Azriel followed.
The space was different from the shopâwarmer, lived-in. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with jars of dried herbs, glass bottles filled with rich oils, and neatly arranged wicks. A long worktable sat in the center of the room, its surface covered in wax molds, candles in various stages of completion, and an array of handwritten notes scattered between them.
At the far end of the room, a narrow spiral staircase curled upward, disappearing out of sight. Azrielâs gaze lingered on it briefly. A way to your living space, he assumed.
You moved through the space with the same ease you had in the shop, lighting a few candles as you went, their soft glow adding a golden warmth to the dimming room. His own shadows shifted in response, mirroring the flickering dance of the candlelight. He hadnât seen them so animated in a while. So playful, almost.Â
Azriel settled into a chair near the worktable, and exhaled slowly. It was nice, he realized. The quiet. The scent of wax and herbs. The gentle crackle of the wick as one of your candles burned.
For the first time all night, he felt no desire to flee.Â
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The rain had only grown heavier, rattling against the windows as Azriel watched you work, cataloging each movement with a quiet, deep interest. His shadows coiled lazily at his shoulders, watching just as intently as he did. Every now and then, one of them would curl toward your hands, retreating just before it could brush your fingers.
Azriel had never given much thought to how candles were made, had never given much thought to candles at all, really. He was learning, however, that it was an intricate processâmore than just wax and wick. There was something patient in the way you measured things, in the way your hands moved with an ease that could only come from repetition. It reminded him, strangely, of sharpening a blade.Â
âIt has to be centered,â you explained, adjusting the wick with deft fingers. âOr it wonât burn evenly. And you donât want the wax to cool too fast, or itâll crack.â
He nodded, storing the information away.
The wax melted down into liquid gold, shimmering under the dim light. He recognized the stillness in your hands, the same kind he practiced when honing an edge to perfectionâwaiting for the right moment, for the right feeling. And then, just when it seemed right, you poured. The wax slid into the glass containers in smooth, curling ribbons, and Azriel swore it pulsed for a second before settling. Glowed. Just for a moment, he thought he saw the faintest shimmer at your fingertips, like embers beneath your skin.Â
Then came the oils. A few drops of something dark, something rich, something sharp. He watched them sink in, curling and shifting. âSome oils donât mix easily,â you murmured, taking notice of his extreme focus on their movement. âYou have to convince them.â
Azriel glanced at the tiny vials on the table, their labels handwritten in looping script. âConvince them?â
Some scents work together naturally. Others take some persuasion.â You tapped one of the vials. âBergamot plays nice. Cinnamon is stubborn. If you add too much, it overwhelms everything else.â
That caught his interest. It felt familiar. The wrong amount of pressure could make or break a blade. Too much force, and steel became brittle. Too little, and it dulled before it ever truly became sharp. He stored the information awayâ another note added to the mental archive of things he was learning about you.Â
One of his shadows curled along his wrist, then flicked toward the bottles, hovering over them like it was considering. Another slithered across the table, weaving between the vials before retreating back into the folds of his wings. You traced their movements with a pointed gaze.
âTheyâre curious things, arenât they?â
âItâs part of their nature,â Az offered, almost sheepishly.Â
âAll things must have hobbies,â you hummed. âDo they ever sleep?â
His lips parted slightly. It wasnât a question heâd ever been asked before.
They rested, yes. Pulled back into him like a tide receding from shore, still present but quieter, subdued. If that counted as sleep, then maybe. But Azriel didnât know sleep well himselfâhad never been able to slip into it easily, to surrender the way others did. So who was he to define what sleep was, really?
"I think they rest," he said slowly. One of the shadows drifted toward you, stopping just shy of your fingers. Hovering, like it was waiting for permission. "But I don't know if it's sleep. Iâm not sure Iâve been the best example. My habits arenât exactly⊠restful."
The shadow between you wavered, flickering like a flame. The corners of your lips quirked, just slightly, in response. A small smile of enjoyment, maybe, Azriel thought. Of awe, his shadows confirmed.
Your gaze dropped to your hand, where a trail of dried wax clung to your fingers in pale, ridged streaks. You rubbed your thumb along one, absentmindedly, then turned your palm upward. Open. Still. An invitation, Azriel realized.
Thenâslowlyâthey came.
They circled your hand like they were learning itâone loop, then anotherâbefore slipping gently around your fingers, brushing along your wrist. Like smoke, yes. But warmer. Almost reverent. As if they recognized something in you.
And for a moment, Azriel felt strangely vulnerable.
It was rare to see thisâa core part of himself, his very beingâso open with someone he barely knew. Because that was the truth, wasnât it? You were still, in many ways, a stranger. And yet⊠his shadows were drawn to you. He was drawn to you. That opennessâthey granted it freely. And Azriel, without even realizing, had let them.
No one ever really understood how deeply they were tied to himâhow it wasnât just power or convenience. It was identity. Intimacy. Letting them roam like this, show interest, was the closest thing to baring his chest and asking not to be wounded.
âThey like you,â he said quietly.
Your head lifted. âWith that tone,â you murmured, âIâm tempted to believe they donât like many people.â
âThey donât.â
You blinkedâjust onceâand he swore he saw something shift in your face. A flicker of surprise. Maybe even a hint of color across your cheeks. You looked down, almost shyly, as the shadows wound another lazy circle around your wrist.
You pulled your hand back slowly, and his shadows slipped away like theyâd been summoned homeâone vanishing into the curl of his wing, the other folding back beneath the table like a ripple disappearing into still water.
You cleared your throat. âSo, what about you?âÂ
Az blinked. âWhat about me?â
You smiled, just a little. âWhat does a Shadowsinger do for fun?â Then, with a slight tilt of your head, âBesides keep his shadows company?â
Azriel liked the wording you used.
There were times he felt⊠guilty about them. His shadows. As if he had trapped them in his orbit, as if they deserved more than to be tethered to him. They were brilliant creaturesâstrange and knowing in ways even he couldnât fully understandâand theyâd chosen to protect him. He used to wonder if they would have preferred someone kinder, someone softer. If they were ever disappointed by the male he had become.
But the way you said itâas though he was the one devoted to them, made him glow. Just a bit. Because he was. They were him. The best parts of him, he liked to think.
A lone tendril wrapped briefly around his wrist before retreating. A soothing motionâ a silent reassurance. Azriel shook his head. âNot much.â
You nodded, as if that was answer enough. And maybe it was.
But as he sat there, watching the wax cool and the storm roll on outside, he wondered if he liked that answer at all.
Azriel wasnât sure who he was if he wasnât neededâwasnât sure if he was anything at all.
He was a protector first and foremost. At least, he liked to think so. It was one of the only good things he could say about himself. That, and a brother. A son. A friend. Those were good titles, too. They gave him purpose.
He was a warrior, as well. That title was heavier, stained with blood he couldnât always see but always feltâ thick between his fingers, stuck beneath his nails. He was a Spymaster. He had duties, priorities, an expectation to shield his court from unseen threats. And that was what he was good at. Heâd learned how to enjoy it, in some twisted way.
But it wasnât like he had hobbies. Not really.
There were things he found joy in, once. Music, mostly. But he never indulged. He wasnât sure why. Maybe it was just another thing wrong with him, another flaw added to a list that never stopped growing.
Maybe it was because it felt wrongâ felt wrong to have things that brought him joy and peace. Things he didnât think he deserved.
Or maybe it was something else.
Azriel didnât like being bad at things. He didnât like falling short. If he wasnât the best, what was the point? What was he worth? He wanted to prove to people he was worthy, strong. Important. And maybe, in some childish way, he was afraid of loving something he wasnât perfect at. Afraid of failing at something that wasnât life or death but still meant something. Afraid of finding something that was his and losing it anyway.
Because Azriel lost things. That was what he did.
It was why he was suspicious by nature, why he questioned every good thing that fell into his hands. His family never seemed to understand.
Youâre not in that cell anymore, Az. Itâs okay to let people in.
They didnât get it. Not truly. Not even Mor.
Because Azriel was always in that cell. Every time things got hard, every time he fell into his bad habits again, he was there. Eight years old. Small and angry and afraid. A caged thing with no way out but violence.
That suspicion bled into everything. Even the idea of having something that was his. He didnât trust it. Didnât trust himself with it. What if he let his guard down? What if it made him weak? Distracted? What if someone he loved suffered for it?
But sitting across from you, watching the way your fingers brushed the rim of a cooling candle, Azriel let himself thinkâjust for a momentâof the things he did enjoy. The things that could be his, even if he never let them be.
âI like to draw,â he said before he even registered the words.
You looked up, brows slightly raised. He blinked.
Then, quieterâlike he had to ease himself into itâhe added, âSometimes.â
âReally?â
âYes.â
You stopped, the candle in your hands forgotten as you looked at him. Really looked at him. And Azriel thought he could get used to thisâthe way you focused on him so intently, so openly, as if he were worth paying attention to. As if he werenât something to be endured or feared, but something worth knowing.
âWhat got you into it?â
Azriel didnât want to tell you the truthâthat once his eyes had adjusted to the dark of his childhood cell, heâd learned to draw shapes in the dirt of the cement floor. That heâd sketch the things he wanted, as if bringing them to life in the dust could make them real. It started smallâa circle for the sun, a smiley face, crude and uneven. But as the years dragged on, his drawings became more intricate, more desperate. They were the only thing in that cell he could control.
Later, when he was older, heâd picked it up againânot for his mind, exactly, but for his hands.
Heâd spent years watching Rhysand and Cassian write with ease, moving ink across parchment like it was nothing, and heâd envied them. Envied the way their hands obeyed without hesitation. His had been ruined before he even had the chance. But Azriel couldnât accept that. He wouldnât. Heâd forced himself to practice in the dead of night, scrawling his name over and over again until his fingers ached. Until he could hold a pen without his grip faltering.
And then, in rare, fleeting moments, heâd find himself drawing again. Not to prove anything. Not to fix what had been broken. Just to capture something. The slant of a roof from where he was perched. The outline of a hand, a face, a familiar silhouette lost in the crowd. Sometimes, when no one was looking, heâd feel something close to satisfaction. A flicker of something childlike and untainted.
And then, like always, heâd snuff it out.
âJust something I picked up,â Az finally answered.
âIâm jealous. Iâm shit at drawing.â You huffed a quiet laugh. âThat's why I donât have a logo.â
Azriel exhaled something that mightâve been amusement. Not quite a laugh, but something close enough. He tucked that information away, curious as to why it made his mind perk up, why he suddenly had the urge to pick up a pen, to find a loose scrap of parchment.
âWell, Iâm not any good.â
âThatâs what the best of them say. I can tell youâre great.â
He frowned slightly. âHow?â
âYour eyes,â you said simply. âThe artistic ones always have lovely eyes.â
A blush crept up Azrielâs neck, settling at the tips of his ears. It had been a long time since something so simple had affected him like this.
He used to worry that he looked too much like his fatherâharsh lines and jagged edges, equal parts anger and spite. A face built for scowls, for war. But he had his motherâs eyes. He was grateful for that. Had always been. It was the one thing about himself he had never resented.
âI guess youâll have to see,â he said, and the tone of his own voice caught him off guard. Lighter. Almost teasing. It was⊠flirty. More than heâd been in a while.
He wasnât sure why he felt so at easeâwhy he let himself lean into it. It wasnât that Azriel didnât flirt; he did, though not as often now as he once had. And he was damned good at it. Even he could admit that.
But it was never like this.
Never with someone who could make him blush in return. Never in a moment that felt this close, this quiet. This real.
You raised an amused brow. âDoes this mean youâre going to show me your work?â
Azriel gave you a gentle, half smile. A sweet thing that pulled at the small dimples on his cheek. âMaybe.â
Something glinted in your eyes. Something warm and gold, identical to the light Azriel had seen flow into the candle youâd made. âI can take a maybe,â you said.
Azriel stored that image of you away in his mind, too.Â
The rest of the night passed easily.
Azriel watched as you poured more wax, as you tested scents and told him about the customers that would take these candles home.
You turned it into a game, making him guess the notes of each scent. You smiled when he got it right, laughed in surprise when he was spot on about its name. It made him feel like a thief, stealing those momentsâthe way your eyes lit up, the way your grin tugged at your cheeksâand tucking them away like something precious. Like they werenât his to have, but heâd take them anyway.
He didnât tell you the truth. That after centuries of broken noses, scent was a muddled thing for him. That it wasnât instinct or skill, but the creeping tendrils of his shadows coiling at your hands, ghosting over glass, whispering the answers to him. He had no plan on telling you, either. He was too enamored with the way you looked at him, too selfish to give it up.
The storm didnât let up until the early hours of the morning, rain easing into mist as the sun crept over the horizon. Azriel didnât leave until you unlocked the shop doors, until the first customer walked in as if on cue. And by the time he made his way home, breathing in the damp, earthy scent of a freshly washed worldâa scent he knew without helpâhe realized heâd forgotten how lonely heâd felt before he stepped into your shop.
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authors note: me rising from the dead to give you a tender slow burn hehe. this series is lowk my stress reliever/my excuse to dig deep into az's mind. my energy has been nonexistent recently so hopefully this isn't ass
i hope everyone is doing amazing <3 love u mwuah
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I really love your characterization, I feel like you're really true to the source material whenever possible †you're good at making cute moments without sugarcoating the unpleasant parts of characters!
I'm curious.. how would Peter/YB react to the reader confronting him about not actually loving them? Reader having been very accepting of him and having a sort of revelation when his Perfect Boyfriend facade slips. (I mean he'd absolutely just cut his losses and go full murder mode but I think it'd be interesting if he actually had any level of introspection.)
If the goal was to flatter me then it worked, like shit, what a beautiful compliment đâ€ïž I got you rn. There is a lot of ways to interpret this hc so Iâm hoping what is written is what you were asking for.
ââ
- Peter had a lot of red flags youâd had looked past. He was perfect and went above the bar when it came to past men who had entered your life. He remembered your birthday, the anniversaries, even those cheesy days like national hug day and he spared no expense into making it special for you even when there was nothing to celebrate.
- this was honestly a big part in why you were so accommodating when he was less than savory to be around, you yourself are surprised with how much of a pushover you were in the past. Guess it shows just how low the bar is for you.
- things eventually just started connecting as you got to know him. The possessiveness being a big part, it felt like ever since getting to know him your social life sort ofâŠ. changed. It suddenly felt like there was less time for the other people you cared about, even your family wasnât spared when it came to him. Everyone was a challenge for him.
- neither of you really ever really established a relationship, you always thought you two were just really close friends I mean ⊠sure there were some moments where it felt like something more but it wasnât something you were barely even beginning to consider after past relationships left you feeling drained. You were okay with this sort of situationship for the the time being you just hadnât noticed how much he had really wanted.
- He was always the guy there for you to talk shit with when you were frustrated or the shoulder to cry on, he was practically your best friend ever since Lucy had passed. You still blamed yourself for everything despite no consecutive reports on the case for months now but hey atleast you had someone to help you grieve and move past the tragedy that had happened at that diner. He was always there for you, he said it himself and had done more then enough to prove it through his actions towards you.
- one day he just changed. Itâs like the guy youâve been building trust with for almost half a year now just turned around and showed you a side heâd been forcing himself to hide from you.
- suddenly seeing those eyes that made you feel like prey, it was weird and quite frankly you didnât like it. You didnât like how he was treating you like a piece of meat, like any other guy would. It felt like you were beginning to see him for who he was.
- all a guy had done was catcall you, it wasnât anything. You ignored it and kept it pushing like you always do but he just couldnât let it go.
- he didnât do anything, not while you were watching anyways but you saw that change in demeanor. Heâs done it before though it was always a flash of an emotion you could not name, it always intimidated you but never for long as he was back to his same old lovable self.
- he sort of just dumps everything on you, everything heâd been keeping in all those nights working up the nerve at the mere thought of embracing you as more than just a friend. All those times you had cried to him but not because of him, it infuriated him that the relationship heâd been making up in his head since practically forever with you was nothing more than a mere delusion heâd created to cope with never actually being with you. That was going to change. Tonight.
- he knew, he just knew you wanted to be with him as much as he did with you so when you told him you were put off by his behavior and that you did not feel for him even a fraction of what he felt for you, hearing that âyou wanted some time away from himâ threw him through a loop. Not a pretty one either.
- those eyes again, the ones he has flashed at the man earlier. The ones that had you feeling helpless. A wolf in sheepâs clothing.
- it was like a gust of wind when he grabbed you with all his might, a meaty vein pulsing trough his forearm and the eyes of a killer gaping into your soul. A screaming fit paired with it, words along the lines of âwhy canât you just accept that you love meâ the words of a delusional freak that you know in your bones you should have never even given a single benefit of the doubt. That all this time that gut feeling in back of your mind was true all along.
- youâre in so much distress that itâs all a blur. The over-exertion of your muscles trying to fight back against the agonizing grip of a grown man paired with the ringing in your head from the screams, the wet on your face from the spittle of the man screaming intensely in your face. Thereâs a thud and suddenly everything is just black.
- you find yourself with a pounding headache and foggy vision bound against a soft surface, most likely a mattress. You try to move but you find your wrist cold from a handcuff keeping you fastened against the bed post. Everything from last night comes back and youâre reliving everything, a panic attack hits you before you calm down again having hope that there may be a way out of this.
- your captor, the person you thought youâd see comes walking in with a slight hop in his step. Almost as if last night never even happened, he has a tray of food. You arenât sure what it is but you know you want no part in it immediately readying your voice to try and talk your way out of this predicament.
- thereâs a stool by the bed your bound to, he sits on it and puts the tray on the bedside table right by your head.
- he tells you good morning in a sickly sweet voice you wish youâd never hear, almost as sickening as the deep purple bruise left on your arm after the mere grip put on you last night.
- you donât offer a kind response back (who would letâs be honest) but it doesnât seem like he minds. That flips a switch when the next words fly out of your mouth, almost as if you didnât even think about who you were talking to before you spoke.
- nasty words continuously come out of your mouth begging him to let you go all the while barking like a chihuahua as if you were trying to hit a nerve. Who could take anyone seriously while they were tied down though?
- he laughs it off, this is why he loves you so much. You have a quality that canât be copied, your spirit is so pure to him. He canât help but communicate how much he loves you with a breathy voice and an ethereal stare.
- youâre next words were your biggest mistake, the ones that sealed your fate. You just couldnât say you loved him back.
- his reaction, itâs not as bad as last night but still terrifying nevertheless. He understands itâs a process in a relationship but to spout such nonsense is enough to rile him up all over again.
- heâs more than offended at being told that he doesnât really love you and only like the idea of you, youâre more than that to him. Youâre essence, the mere presence of you is enough to blow him away. He huffs it away with a smirk, you donât mean that.
- youâre too weak to fight the cloth clogging your airways, the all to familiar blackness coming back into the corner of your eyes slowly drowning your vision in it as your brain goes numb.
- begging to leave it just wonât work, he knows you really love him and that you want to stay here. You just need time and heâs more than willing to take care of anyone else who seems to think they knows whatâs best for you and him.
- just like he did with Lucy.
- overall the guy is fucking delusional, say goodbye to the possibility of him having even a single moment of clarity when it comes to you.
#peter your boyfriend#yb peter#peter#yb fandom#yb your boyfriend#yb game#your boyfriend x reader#your boyfriend visual game#your boyfriend visual novel#your boyfriend game#your boyfriend#yandere
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HAIIII
my jazz band (club) was boring bc my bestiest westie wasnt there (THEY DITCHED ME AND WENT HOME WITHOUT TELLING ME)
but anyway, u said to blow up ur inbox with requests or something, so >:3
aventurine (i think u can tell i like him with the fact i put him in every request) and any other characters u want with a reader who plays one or more instruments (this is based off me, i personally play flute, bass guitar, and cymbals, but u can pick whatever instrument(s))
maybe do a scenario where like characters didnt know reader played instruments, and character walks in on reader playing something
could u also make it romantic, please? :3
-:3 anon
Symphony of Surrender
Tags: Aventurine x Reader, March 7th x Reader, Fluff, Romance, Vulnerability, Emotional Healing, Gentle Moments, Inner Struggles, Self-Discovery, Complex Relationships.
Warnings: Minor Emotional Angst, Themes of Trauma (Aventurine's past), Slight Manipulation, Light Romance and Sweet Moments, Minor Character Introspection.
A/N: I'M SORRY WHAT?! đ DAMN YOUR BESTIE SHOULD'VE AT LEAST INFORMED YOU THO!!

The soft, melodious notes of a piano drifted through the luxurious, dimly-lit room. Aventurine, dressed in his usual flamboyant attire, had just returned from a late meeting. His mind buzzed with the usual mix of strategy and calculation, but something felt different tonight. The air seemed to hold an unfamiliar tranquility. Curious, he followed the sound of the piano, his footsteps light but purposeful.
As he entered the room, his eyes fell on youâsitting gracefully at the piano, your fingers dancing across the keys with a fluid elegance that struck him silent. The soft glow of the room illuminated the delicate movement of your hands, each note resonating with a raw emotion he had not expected to find in this space.
You didnât notice him at first, completely absorbed in the music. Aventurine lingered in the doorway, watching you with an intensity he rarely allowed anyone to witness. His usual guarded demeanor faltered for a moment, the mask of charm and bravado slipping as he admired the way the music seemed to flow through you, as if it was part of your very soul.
Finally, you paused, the last note hanging in the air like a whisper. It was then that you turned to find him standing there, his usual smirk replaced with a rare, genuine expressionâone of awe.
"Didn't expect to find you here," you said with a teasing smile, your hands resting on the piano keys. "I didn't know you were a fan of music."
Aventurine stepped closer, his earring catching the light. "I appreciate all forms of art," he replied, his voice a mix of amusement and sincerity. "But I must admit, I didn't expect this from you."
You chuckled softly, a playful glint in your eyes. "I guess I have a few surprises up my sleeve."
He walked around the piano, his gaze never leaving you. "I should have known. You're full of mysteries."
Your fingers hovered over the keys again, as if debating whether to continue playing. Aventurine watched you carefully, his eyes intense yet tender. He stepped behind you, leaning in just close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence.
"I'd like to hear more," he said quietly, his voice low and almost vulnerable. The usual confidence in his words softened, revealing a hint of something deeper. "But this time... let me join you."
You hesitated for a moment, your gaze flickering to him. Then, with a small nod, you placed your hand on the keys, inviting him into this intimate moment.
As the music resumed, Aventurine found his own rhythm, not in the notes, but in the unspoken connection between you. Each sound was a step closer, each chord a bridge built between the two of you. The game of life was full of risks, but for the first time, Aventurine felt that maybeâjust maybeâsome risks were worth taking.

The Astral Express hummed with its usual rhythm, but inside your cozy little room, a quiet atmosphere settled. You had been practicing with your bow earlier, but tonight, something called to youâa need to express yourself differently. So, you decided to take a chance. With a deep breath, you reached for the guitar hidden in the corner of the room and began to strum, unsure of the melody that would come.
As your fingers found their way, the sound of the guitar filled the space with warmth. The soft, melancholic tune seemed to escape from you effortlessly, reflecting the longing and curiosity you often felt. You hadnât played for anyone yet, not here, not on the train. But tonight, you needed to.
Oblivious to the quiet music, March wandered down the hallway, her camera slung over her shoulder. She had been busy capturing moments all day, and now her mind was buzzing with thoughts of her mysterious past. But then she heard itâan unfamiliar sound. She stopped, curious, her eyes wide. The soft notes of a guitar? Was it you?
March, being ever the curious spirit, couldnât resist. She peeked around the doorframe, her heart racing with excitement and anticipation. There you were, completely absorbed in the music. Your eyes were closed, and your fingers moved across the strings as though it was second nature to you.
She took a small step forward, her breath catching in her throat. It was a side of you she hadnât seen before. The way the music seemed to flow from your very being, the way your body swayed ever so slightly with the rhythm, captivated her.
You paused mid-strum, sensing someoneâs presence, and looked up to find March standing in the doorway. A small blush crept onto her cheeks as she realized sheâd been caught.
"You play," she said softly, her voice tinged with awe. "I had no idea."
You smiled warmly, setting the guitar down beside you. "Guess Iâve got a few surprises up my sleeve too."
March stepped closer, her playful grin lighting up her face. "You know, I didnât take you for a musician."
You chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I don't often show it. Just felt like playing tonight."
Her smile softened, her usual bubbly demeanor giving way to something more earnest. "Itâs beautiful," she said, her eyes shining. "You really know how to capture a moment, donât you?"
You nodded, a bit of warmth spreading through you at her compliment. "Itâs like photography, in a way. Capturing a feeling, a memory."
Marchâs eyes sparkled with understanding. "I get that," she said, her gaze flicking to the camera resting on her shoulder. "But with you, itâs more than just a moment. Itâs... part of who you are."
Her words lingered in the air, and you felt something shift between youâsomething deeper than either of you had expected.
Before you could respond, March suddenly grinned mischievously. "Mind if I join you?"
You raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her sudden offer. "You play too?"
She winked. "I don't know, but Iâll give it a shot."
With that, she sat beside you, taking a seat with her camera beside her, and together, you found a new rhythm. It wasnât just about music anymore; it was about the connection between you two, woven through each note, each laugh, and the shared understanding of a journey you were both still figuring out.
As the music played, you realized that this was more than a simple tuneâit was the start of something special.

#x reader#honkai star rail#hsr#honkai star rail x reader#hsr x reader#hsr aventurine#aventurine x reader#hsr aventurine x reader#aventurine x you#hsr march 7th#march 7th#march 7th x reader#march x reader#fluff#romance#vulnerability#emotional healing#gentle moments#inner struggles#self discovery#complex relationship
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It's technically Wednesday and I started a new WIP tonight!
Definitely been tagged for WIP Wednesday in recent weeks, but haven't had anything, so here you go, and tagging @buckybeardreams, @underwaterninja13, @theotherbuckley
Been struggling to write but got some words down tonight, so here you go. This is BuckTommy, only the first scene (which is sorta a ficlet by itself I guess) Some angst and introspection, and then some soft hurt/comfort will come later in the fic (please forgive typos it's super late and this is a draft)
âOh, Evan.â His mother never seemed to say his name without a slathering of curdled disappointment, withering came to mind, thinking back now as an adult when he pictured her saying it, the sagging lines where there should have been creases from her smile.Â
Neither of his parents had ever been able to say his name without some soured pinch to their lips.
Sometimes even Maddie seemed tired when sheâd say it, no matter how much she loved him, not to the degree his parents did, with that trademark exhaustion, but enough to leave him feeling like a wraith for it, as if speaking his name sapped the life from her veins like it did his parents.
And love him or not, Maddie couldnât fix himânot in the way he needed.
No matter how many band-aids she placed over his broken, bleeding skin, it wasnât her love that had left his chest an echo chamber. That hollow place had been created for a parentsâ love that had never taken root.Â
So, he'd leftâlooking to fill that ache with somethingâfinding a new family with the one-eighteen and starting over with a better name. Because where Evan had been said with a sigh, a grimace, annoyanceâBuck could be said with a teasing and playfulness that his old name never could.Â
Yet, beneath his skin, Evan had never felt more alone, scared of losing everyone and being forgotten, and so Buck sought comfort in the heat of others, in their skin, changing his shape to be what was wanted, trying to fill the void.
He drank from that well until he nearly drowned in it.
Except that a person, like a house, canât stand dividedâor more directly, ignoring a part of yourself didnât erase it, nor any of the wounds that made you want to hide it away.
Especially when lightning stops your heart, and you dream of another lifeâone just a shy step to the leftâclose but just wrong enough to leave you rattled when you choose life, only to wake to your parents' faces as they say your name.Â
That same cadence and toneâthe whined note of pity as his mother says for the thousandth time in his life, âOh, Evan,â somehow still almost sounding disappointed.
Perhaps she always would beâprobably internally screaming at the unfairness that Buck had returned from the edge yet again and Daniel never could. If that werenât enough for another few years of therapy alone, he didnât know what would.Â
Their near-awkward attempts at caring in the After, how his motherâs voice still thinned across the bridge of his given name, nearly snapping and falling off the other side, reminded him of its wrongness of just how lonely that part of him would always beâa reality where Evan may never be said without pity or contempt.
A house dividedâand it might have stayed that way, if one Tommy Kinard hadnât arrived, looking like a brick shithouse with a sexy cleft, short-circuiting his brain and making him stumble over his own name.
âBuckâBuckley,â Buck had to clear his throat, scrubbing his palm over the pocket of his jeans before shaking Tommyâs hand.
âYour nameâs Buck Buckley?â Tommy raised his brows, nose scrunching a bit. âDid your parents really hate you that much?â
Buck hadnât missed Eddie, hiding his snort of laughter behind a fist, as he pretended to be working on the tailgate. Asshole.
Heâd sent a glaring squint in Eddieâs direction, subtly flipping him the bird, then turning back to Tommy. âUh, actually, somehow I have no doubt they didâor still doâbut, um, yeah, anyway.â He rubbed the back of his neck before dropping his hand. âHi, Iâm Evanâum, Evan Buckleyâthough most people like Buck better.â
And then, Tommy had done something unexpectedâhis eyes tightened, the soft blue made brighter by the afternoon sun, seeming to search Buckâs own before suddenly turning softer, then crinkling at the corners. âWell, if itâs okay with you,â Tommy said. âI think Iâll stick with EvanâI got a feeling heâs a pretty interesting guy, too.â
#bucktommy#kinley fic#tevan fic#911 fic#evan buckley#tommy kinard#bucktommy ficlet#snark writes#my wips#đŠââŹ
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Hi! 5 or 12 for the Rook story time prompts?
hiii! Thank you for the ask! And thank you for making such a wonderful list of prompts! I'm doing 12 tonight, though I may do 5 tomorrow đ
12. Rook making a new friend
Note: This takes place right after Thorne is conscripted. He has shed his slave name, but has not picked a new name to take yet. The is before he transitions, but I use he/him for him anyway. I guess it's Warden origin night đ Fennel is based on my cat Jazzy who has wobbly cat syndrome (though Jazzy is a black cat đââŹ) This got a little introspective, Thorne is adjusting to some major changes in his life.
G | 600 words
"And here's the pantry," said Warden Juliana Krist, waving an arm into the dark room. "You'll be in here a lot, seeing as you're starting on kitchen duty."
A few cats scrabbled out, threading between his legs.
"And there go the Regiment of Ratters." She said with a fond laugh. "They keep us rodent free."
He looked back into the pantry, a shine catching his eye. There was a small gray cat staring at the two of them warily.
"Oh, that's Fennel. He doesn't like most folk." Juliana told him, folding her arms across her chest. "Skittish little bastard. If you're lucky enough to see him walk and not flee, he waddles around like a duck. The other cats knock the shit out of him cuz he can't stand up right, so he hides usually." She shook her head and chuckled. "I'll be damned if he isn't the best hunter out of the lot of them, though."
He continued to watch the small cat, wanting nothing more than to comfort him.
Juliana watched him out of the corner of her eyes for a few silent moments. Finally, she sighed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Well, that's the full tour, then. Welcome to Weisshaupt...." She faltered. He still hadn't given the Wardens a name to use. "We're happy to have you in our ranks."
He stared pointedly at her hand on his shouler and she removed it quickly. "Let's head back up." She turned and headed back towards the stairs but paused and looked back when she realized he wasn't following her.
He stared silently at Fennel, whose eyes were the size of the moon. He squat down and fiddled in his pocket for a bit of dried meat he'd swiped from the kitchen.
"Uh... Elf?" Juliana called.
He flinched but looked over his shoulder.
"Ah, sorry, uh. You?" She tried again, looking a little lost. "Are you coming?"
He shook his head.
"All right...." She shifted her weight awkwardly. "Well, I've shown you where the barracks are. You're to report to the kitchens at dawn."
He turned back to the pantry and Fennel and held out a bit of the meat to the cat. After a few moments Juliana sighed softly and continued up the stairs.
He sat there for a long time. Alternating between tearing little bits of the meat up and placing a bit closer to Fennel. The first time he tried it, Fennel had shied away. Though this last time, the little gray cat didn't move, just stared at him with his big yellow eyes as he made his way back to his spot just outside of the pantry. He sat with his back against the wall and lost himself in thought.
This was home now. He would learn to fight. He would die in service to the continent.
Service.
Would his life ever truly be his own?
A quiet chewing noise brought his out of his reverie and he slowly turned his head to see Fennel chomping at the trail of meat he'd left out. He watched as the cat indeed waddled clumsily toward the next piece, his back legs heavy and cumbersome.
He thought Fennel was adorable and he felt his chest lurch with affection.
When the cat wandered close enough, he slowly held out his hand, offering it to Fennel to sniff. Warily, Fennel wobbled as he sniffed the air, then stepped forward to thoroughly investigate his knuckles with sniffs. When he passed Fennel's test, the cat began to furiously rub his head against his fist.
His lips twitched, the closest he'd come to smiling in years.
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SO they only reposted a couple but after rereading the main one i liked i left a long comment about what specifically i liked about it and how glad i was they reposted
and today they replied to the comment and an hour later reposted the other big fic of theirs i missed- idk if this is directly connected but it might be and regardless i'm so excited again love wins part 2
anyways tell authors when you like things!
back in january the author of a few fics i liked deleted all their works so i subscribed to them in the hopes they'd one day repost and today was that day LOVE WINS
#ollie talks#i'm not great about commenting because it takes me a minimum of four days to get my thoughts together enough to write one#(i missed the window to comment on these originally which is part of why i was upset about the deletion)#also in my comment i mentioned how the protagonist was very relatable and asked if the autistic coding was intentional#(bc it felt *so* obvious i figured it had to be)#and in the reply the author said it wasn't#that they based his mannerisms on their own but if he's accidentally coded then huh....#so may have accidentally sparked an introspective journey there#anyways i'm exhausted and have to get up early tomorrow so i shouldn't reread this tonight but i want to :(
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Love Sea Ep 4 & 5 Thoughts
Okay. As Iâm writing this, I know Iâve been gone from tumblr for at least a week (I was back(ish) a day earlier than expected. Weeeeee) Possibly more. So itâs been a minute since at least episode 4 aired. So Iâm lumping it in with my episode 5 watch next week. And if yâall think just because Iâm not on tumblr, Iâm not livebloggingâŠwell of course I am. My wrist does hurt though so Iâm not sure how talkative Iâll be. I am also having a bad brain day and I have had a whole weekend full of absolute shit. And my week is going to beâŠtiring. Iâll be on a plane, a road trip in a car, and then a train. All in the span of likeâŠ4-5 days. Donât ask. Anyway that will be in the past by the time I post this. Time to watch. As always, liveblog under the cut and will likely have criticism. Youâve been warned before you click:
âEvery meeting ends with a farewellâ please tell me they arenât going to try to be deep right now. They have not done nearly enough to build up Rakâs side of feelings for me to believe heâs feeling introspective at leaving this place. He pretty much hated it here for the most part. I could maybe understand if it was Mut since he just apparently immediately fell in love because he believes in love. And believing in love means automatically falling in love with the standoffish guest that youâve been fucking.
Okay the heart of my issue with Rak and Mut can be perfectly encapsulated in this scene where Rak learns that Mut has a pickup truck. âAnd did I ever tell you I didnât have a pickup?â Sir, what you feel for Rak is not love. Because if you actually loved him and cared for him, you would have heard his complaints about the motorcycle and the cargo tricycle and used the pickup truck for him instead. He literally told you the motorcycle hurt him to ride and still you did nothing. Because it means more for you to have this weird sense of superiority over Rak than it does to make sure heâs comfortable and not in literal pain. I had a more caring relationship with my former coworker than this. Because I did something where I thought I was in the right but it was a petty argument and honestly, I could see how much she was hurting from it. So I apologized and I let her know that she was more important to me than being right. And that was for a COWORKER (now friend yay). Mut canât even manage to do that with someone he supposedly likes romantically.
Why does Rak not get to be upset about this? Mut just immediately shuts it down by saying âletâs not end on a bad note.â Sir, you caused the bad note and made no apologies. Instead you laughed at Rak for daring to want some comfort while having no control over his own life while there. Like seriously. If you caused the pain, you donât get to dictate when the hurt is done.
And the flashbacks again. Will we get some every damn episode? Weâre 4 for 4 now.
Rak baby boy this doesnât make any sense. Does Mut have a magic dick? I do not understand.
What.
Noisy sidewalk people go AWAY
So Mook is paranoid for her valid concerns about STDs? He should get tested. So should Rak. If memory serves, both sleep around. Mut with guests and Rak when he needs to write smut. And Rak has slept with Mut already. I know they used a condom each time, but he should still get tested too. Seriously. Rakâs wealth and fame wonât protect him from STDs.
Noisy neighbor go AWAY
Man I wish this show would just let Rak be aro without making it about trauma and him just being scared to love.
Am I supposed to care about this random woman at the end? Cause I donât.
And I feel meh about this episode as well. See you in literally the bullet below for episode 5 but it will be a week for me. Time is weird man. Time is weird.
Time IS weird past Rae. And you were right, it was a tiring week. Iâm finally caught up on shows though..sort of. I still might start another show tonight. Or maybe listen to an audiobook. I think Iâm gonna return my library book and see if they have it on audiobook. If I thought my wrist hurt last week, thatâs nothing compared to today. Mistakes were made on my trip. One was unavoidable and the other wasâŠwell I did an exercise and that was a mistake.
Anyway now for episode 5.
Rak should wear his glasses all the time. That is all (speaking of glassesâŠwhere did I put mineâŠ)
I had issues with that whole scene but honestly Iâm too tired to type them all out. Mut is not as smart as he thinks he is and thatâs all I have to say.
Rak, sweetie, the waiter just stood there. You know that. You were there.
Iâve had guys say this to me after I told them I donât like them. You will never guess the outcome of that.
Absolutely the fuck not. There is no way that any person with a uterus wrote this line. Because what the fuck. Why is it that Mook isnât allowed to be upset with being sent all over yonder on an errand for someone who is NOT her employer and this is the response to her being upset? Believe it or not, people that have periods can be angry because of the actions of other people and not just because of their period. Yes, PMS is a thing, but it is not the only reason for anger. Who wrote this line? I just want to talk.
Save Mook. Save her.
I hate how Vie perpetuates the horrible stereotypes of women in order to manipulate Mook. Itâs awful.
So let me get this straight. MutâŠforced Rak to go out to eat with him (even though they could have gotten delivery) and then when theyâre shopping and Rak has explicitly stated that he wants to leave, it is a âdateâ because Mut is interested in Rak and he says so. But Rak has stated he does not like Mut. So the whole thing doesnât work because Rak DOESNâT WANT TO BE THERE. Itâs not a date if they both donât agree itâs a date. And to Mut, you canât use Rakâs novels against him. Those are characters in fiction. They donât represent Rakâs real feelings. I hate Mut. Have I mentioned that? I mean Iâm not Rakâs biggest fan either but Mut is justâŠdumb. Rak should be able to argue against this itâs so dumb.
Most novels donât have sound?? I mean there are audiobooks but the sound in those is typically just words. Unless itâs different in Thailand? I donât know. Also maybe this is a translation thing? (This is me after the end of the episode and I get it. He was talking about what the author says the sound effect would be. I admit it, I was dumb here. I don't think it came across quite right in the translation but this is fully on me for being dumb. But also the sound mixing at the end? Do NOT get me started. It was bad and I wanted to die.)
If someone put all of my alcohol and snacks back while I was shopping AND paying for itâŠI would murder them on the spot. I beg your finest pardon Mut, but let Rak have snacks? The alcohol Iâm less pressed about because he does have alcohol at home but the snacks? THE SNACKS? I hope Mut rots in hell. This is The Ultimate Sin to me. *guards my snacks with my life*
If Rakâs skin still looks that good on a diet of alcohol and snacks, then I will eat my hat. Also Mut mind yo business. You ainât his doctor. Câmere Rak. Iâll give you some snacks.
Save Mook. Save her.
This family drama is so poorly written. I feel bad for the actors who are killing it in this scene. They deserve a better script.
I did not hate the end of that episode. Or the scene in the dressing room. Mut's response to the drama was...he still has some work to do on boundaries but it wasn't bad. He did eventually respect the boundaries and they had some good communication in that dressing room. I donât like that he had to be screamed at before he left Rak alone, but he didnât walk to Rak which I was so scared he was gonna do and the show was gonna paint it as romantic.
The preview for next week has me concerned though. I probably wonât like episode 6. But thatâs all for this weekâŠand last. My wrist hurts and I need a nap.
#love sea#love sea the series#love sea series#i'm going to crawl back into my little hidey hole now i'm still very exhausted from my trip and i need to work tomorrow
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Hi, hello, itâs me again here.
So, of course my competitive butt had to take my own comment about Yuki/Alex as a challenge and now I have 12k or more of a draft.
But I donât know if Iâm doing it correctly, I NEED HELP (also mental help, possibly). I was mostly inspired by AJRâs song âTurning outâ, which I highly recommend because itâs A MASTERPIECE.
The general idea is: Yuki finds a stray puppy during a storm and he brings it to the prt clinic at the ground floor of his apartment complex where Alex has just started working.
They start to get to know each other but Yuki is still nit sure if he actually likes Alex or if he sees him as a best friend, since heâs never cared about actually getting into a relationship so he had never actually looked at the difference between love and in love.
But itâs also a big period of his life because both Charles and Pierre have moved out of the apartment that they used to all (as in Yuki, Pierre and Charles) live in during university because they have started working and have decided to move in either their respective partners.
Charles is already engaged with Carlos (of course thereâs Charlos, itâs my fic) and Pierre hints at proposing to George (I donât know where this ship came from in my mind but I wanted it, so I wrote about it), and Yuki is starting to feel lonely. [also, other side-couples are Sewis and Landoscar]
He has the company of a puppy called Kuri (because itâs Japanese for chestnut, and I imagine Yuki with a poodle with chestnut fur) and Alexander Albon, funny and tall and easygoing but he doesnât know what it means to him.
So, lots of introspection as itâs common in my fics and fluff because Yalex has to be a comfort ship, sorry. (And Iâm also planning on smut, hehe)
Anyway, here is a little snippet, let me know what you think about it (keep in mind that I am NOT British and I do NOT have a beta reader):
â
Karma may be a little fickle tonight, but it certainly pulls him to its side when the heavy rain turns into a light drizzle halfway through his way back to his apartment complex â which isnât a long journey, per se, but Yuki surely isnât one to look into a gifted horseâs mouth.
So, by the time he has reached the closed doors of the vet clinic, he is shivering much less than before and the biting cold in his bones has turned into an uncomfortable chill shiver running down his spine from time to time.
What is annoying is the hair plastered down to his eyes dripping wet and the fact that he canât even try and move a few strands out because his arms are already stuffed full of the sleeping body of a tiny, harmed puppy.
Good God.
The doors stay closed when he finds a sheltered place under the brick's roof of the entrance, but Yuki knows for a fact that Sebastian is never able to leave this place until itâs ten in the evening, because thereâs always some animal staying the night after an operation, and he would probably rather close the clinic for good instead of leaving them alone for more than eight hours.
Yuki had never got it, honestly, the sleep and the warm comfort of his bed seems like a much better prospect than staying around sleeping animals in pain, but now that heâs looking at the limp tiny thing in his arms, he may start to understand.
âSebastian!â he calls out, reaching with his pinky finger to the doorbell. He cries his name a bunch of times, because the rain is starting to fall again and his voice might get covered soon enough, and thereâs no way that Yuki is going to wait for him to close everything up â that might take hours, the puppy may be hurting too much by then. âSebastian, please, itâs an emergencyâ he must sound like a possessed man, and the lady on the first floor will probably have something to complain about in their next condominium meeting. But she always talks too loudly on her phone on Sunday mornings when Yuki is trying to sleep away a tremendous hangover, so she can honestly go fuck herself â respectfully.
It still takes a few more minutes and a few more desperate calls for the door to open and the dim yellow light of the waiting room to seep on the steps. Yuki slips inside without even waiting for it to open completely, clutching the jacket close to his chest and exhaling deeply through his nose when the warmth of the air-conditioned room finally engulfs him. The puppy sighs against his chest, so it must appreciate the change in temperature, too.
âSee, I told you buddy I would get you safe. Yuki always keeps his promisesâ he says softly, shuffling the bundle of leather closer to his face. The puppy smells pretty bad, a mix of blood and dumpsters rubbish from London neighborhoods, but its tiny eyes are staring back at him all lucid and wide and full of fondness, like it can actually feel love for him, and Yuki canât even consider the possibility of getting it too far away from his nose.
Yuki may have just fallen in love, too. But it also might be the adrenaline of acting like a freaking hero in a rainstorm when he can barely reach the top cupboard of his kitchen with the help of a stepladder.
But Disney never made a movie about short heroes; he never had a figure to look up to during his childhood.
âNow Sebastian here will take really good care of you, yes? He wonât ever hurt you. Right Seb-â Yuki stops in his tracks when his gaze meets a pair of brown eyes that definitely do not belong to Sebastian, especially with the way he almost has to bend his neck in half to actually look at the face in front of him and not at the expanse of a broad chest hugged by a plain blue polo.
This is not Sebastianâs chest and not Sebastianâs hair and definitely not Sebastianâs lips and definitely definitely not Sebastianâs white coat. Oh.
âYouâre not Sebastianâ Yuki says dumbly.
Surely enough, thereâs a tall lanky guy standing in front of the now closed door, looking only slightly stunned at Yukiâs sudden outburst, like itâs normal to have someone barging inside a vet clinic at half past nine on a Thursday night in the middle of yet another Londonâs rainy day.
Oh god, but what if this guy is the one who actually barged in? What if Yuki has just uncovered a burglar? But would a burglar open the door for him?
The guy stares at Yuki in silence for two long seconds before he starts patting his abdomen, pretending to check his whole appearance. âOh, fuck Iâm not Sebastian!â the guy exclaims, looking frantically at his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists like heâs trying to make out the shape of them.
Yuki snorts, shaking his head. This guy could never be a burglar even if his life depended on it, it seems. Besides, he might be slim enough to pass through anything, but heâs still too tall to go unnoticed.
âNo, Iâm not Sebastianâ tall guy says, chuckling to himself. âIâm Alex. You almost made me have an existential crisis right then and there.â
âIdentity theft is not a jokeâ
Alex raises an amused eyebrow at him, like heâs trying to make out the space where Yuki fits in his vision, and he smiles, wide and bright with big teeth and all. âYouâre a cultured man, Yuki.â
Yuki furrows his eyebrows in confusion, âHow do you know my name?â He asks, looking at the puppy in his arms to make sure- oh, right. âOhâ
Alex laughs again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He must have a tendency for it or maybe itâs just Yuki who looks funny in general. A lot of people have told him that in the past and he still doesnât know if itâs a good or bad thing.
âYouâre funnyâ Alex states, like itâs some kind of irrefutable axiom. He clasps his hands, taking a few steps forward to start inspecting the bundle between Yukiâs arms. âI heard there was an emergency.â
Instinctively, Yuki clutches the jacket closer, one finger gently caressing the single dot of white in the middle of the beige fur of his head. The puppy yelps softly, snuggling its little nose towards Yukiâs chest, and his heart swells like a balloon.
âYeah, I really need Sebastianâ Yuki says, âI mean, this little thing is hurt, and it really needs a vet.â
âWell, then, itâs a good coincidence I work here, no?â Alex smiles wide, teeth showing between his lips.
Yuki blinks at him. âUh, no you donât?â He says but it sounds more like a question than a statement. But, to be fair, he lives above the place, and he has known everyone around here for ages, he wouldâve surely remembered someone as tall as this Alex, with such bright dyed hair and this adorable smile-
âUh, yes I do?â Alex says back, grinning. âI mean, just since this morning. But officially I work here.â
âIâve never seen you around. And I live hereâ Yuki says defensively, trying his very best to show at least a smidge of self-consciousness even though he will probably give up pretty easily if Alex keeps staring at him like this â big eyes, big smile, hair that look incredibly morbid.
He hasnât seen a new face in a while, more so belonging to a cute guy, and thereâs still a beer slowly swimming in his stomach, so he should be justified.
âI moved recentlyâ Alex explains, not giving much information away to satiate Yukiâs curiosity. He arches an eyebrow, finally touching the sides of the jacket hanging from Yukiâs arms. Yuki lets him just because he doesnât really know what to do anymore, and if the guy is really a vet as heâs claiming to be, then he should trust him more than himself.
It definitely is not because his brain is slowly turning to mush at their proximity.
âNow, letâs see what we have hereâ Alex says, carefully taking the jacket from his arms.
The puppy goes willingly without even whimpering once, instead snuggling happily as itâs deposited against the chest of a new stranger. Traitor, Yuki thinks, though he would probably react the same in its place.
âHi little baby. How cute are we? So muchâ Alex coos gently, caressing with his index finger the same spot Yuki had been gently scraping earlier. The puppy gives another satisfied yelp. âOh, are we hurt? Poor little thing. But now Alex will take good care of you, alright?â
Yuki just stands there looking at the interaction with his hands to the sides, suddenly feeling too empty after so long of hanging desperately on to the tiny animal. But itâs incredibly adorable and endearing the way Alex keeps comforting it, as if it can actually understand what heâs saying, its tiny tail wiggling against the jacket when he manages to scratch a good spot behind his ears.
The puppy must sense that Alex is a good person, and Yuki may be a little dramatic most of the time, but he probably trusts the puppy more than himself. Especially if itâs about a cute guy talking with a high-pitched voice to an adorable animal in pain.
âNow Alex will take you to the other room and weâll check everything, yeah?â He looks at Yuki then, eyeing him up and down, probably taking in his conditions.
Only then Yuki realizes what he must look like, with his hair flat over his head, raindrops still sliding down his nose, the simple white T-shirt he had been wearing under the jacket now completely soaked, tight against his chest. His shoes make a weird squelching sound when he takes a step forward, his socks clinging uncomfortably to his toes and his pants scratching against his probably already bruised knees.
Fuck, he wanted to wear them for work, thereâs no way heâll wash them in time.
âUh, sorry?â He mumbles, painfully aware of the puddle he has formed under his feet. He grips at the hem of his T-shirt, uselessly trying to straighten it out and immediately regretting it when his palms leave sticky red handprints in their wakes. Yeah, no, thereâs no way this is recoverable.
Alex doesnât seem angry about it, and as his gaze falls to the stained fabric, he frowns, concerned.
âItâs the puppyâsâ Yuki says, cringing at the feeling of blood against his skin.
Oh God, itâs the puppyâs blood. A puppyâs blood is staining his clothes and his hands and heâs going to puke, isnât he? Or worse, what if this cute guy thinks he hurt it? What if this cute guy thinks he is an attempted murderer? A murderer of puppies?
Yuki is honestly afraid of his own shadow most of the time, and he still sleeps with his night light on when thereâs too many thunders outside, but how can he convince Alex of that without embarrassing himself even further?
To his delight, Alex smiles at him, shaking his head with a twinge of fondness that makes Yukiâs cheeks feel incredibly warm for the way heâs still shivering from the cold. âCome on, thenâ Alex says, turning around âYou can clean up and dry off in front of the radiator.â
Yuki doesnât have to be told twice.
#f1#ao3 fanfic#fluff#carlos sainz#lando norris#alex albon#charles leclerc#f1 2023#yuki tsunoda#yalex#sewis#formula 1#oscar piastri#charlos#george russell#pierre gasly#gierre#i think?#alexander albon#alpha tauri#williams racing#ao3#ao3 writer#pls help
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12/17/23 1:22 am
it's been a long time since I've written. I'm 21 now, and tipsy at a salsa gala. You can definitely find videos if you try, but nothing of me dancing because I've kinda been way too scared to dance.
things have been okay. I passed most of my classes with A's, and if I put proper effort in, I could've passed them all with A's, which is enough for me, honestly.
I keep having romantic feelings on a whim, despite knowing that I'd rather wait to find the thing that is right for me. Sadly, logic doesn't always overwhelm infatuation. Luckily, having no rizz renders it meaningless anyway.
I paid money to be at this gala tonight, and I'm definitely glad I came, even if I am not dancing much. Someone approached me and asked me to help her friend learn to dance, and she said I was amazing. Easy dopamine baby. I'm still a little bit too shy to ask strangers, though.
Just talked to a friend, and he gave me some tips on confidence when dancing, but I'm not sure how much it can do to overwhelm the rustiness I feel when it comes to salsa. Regardless, it was nice to talk to him.
I keep seeing so many beautiful people here, and yet still can't understand the men who spend their time simply looking at women.
maybe when I read this again I'll be in love. Maybe, as a lofty dream, I'll be married to someone that I treasure, and have no need to contemplate these thoughts. And yet, I can't help but think that I will be alone. if between now and that loneliness, someone special does end up reading these words? I guess this is my time to talk to you. Not as the person desperately in love with you, but as the coldly rational person who will inevitably (apparently) fall for you.
please don't break my heart. there's only so much more I can take. That doesn't mean don't tell me if feelings fade or blah blah, just be honest with me and try to be there for me afterward, and I'll be okay.
I guess it probably tells something about me that I'm giving future people tips on how to break up with me gently, but I suppose I'm just a bit of a cynical fellow.
anyway. I've got a night of salsa dancing left before me, assuming I decide to harness it. However, I am having quite a time just pouting and contemplating, so who knows.
I wish I could stop spoiling my days by thinking of love.
I wish I could forget the faith I have in the fact that I will find someone someday, who will warm my arms, my neck, my heart.
I wish I could simply live like there's no tomorrow.
but one day, I hope, someone will read these words. They will be the person I love unequivocally. The person I want to give my whole heart and mind to. And maybe the first person who I show the fullness of myself can't handle it. Maybe you are the second, maybe the third, and yet all I need is for you to hold a genuine love for me, for the things I love and the words I share, and you will be the first in my eyes, the only thing that I can see, the one that I thank endlessly for blinding me, because to have you as my final sight would be an honor above any other.
how pathetic, honestly.
to sit here, pining, as I could be doing something about it. What if the perfect person is here tonight? Lonely and introspecting all the same?
alas, I am pathetic, so I suppose I will never know.
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Wow, hugs. I didn't mean to make you go that introspective, but I hope it helped you! I want you to know that I'm proud of who you are and the person you've become. Your posts bring a smile to my face like nothing else. I'm damn happy that you exist! Maybe you the person you are today needs to forgive the person you used to be. Not excuse it, but at the same time, not feel the guilt that you have for so long.
Oh. No worries! I am almost always that introspective. Haha. That's just me 24/7. A lot of people find me too serious tbh. đ
You're so sweet and so kind. But, no. I absolutely deserve to feel the guilt for what I did. Frankly, I deserve to be punished, but I got away without anyone realizing I did the thing. And I couldn't speak up coz I wasn't in my right mind until months upon months later when I was finally out of there and away from that place and a person there. And I just sort of... never did. We weren't on talking terms anymore and I haven't spoken to them since. It is the only relationship in my life that has ever ended disastrously. Friends, family, romantic, etc. First and so far the last. So we respected each others wishes and didn't speak. I wouldn't know how to tell them anyways coz it wouldn't be just one person I'd be telling... and it would bring up so much grief and anger. And possibly put me in jail, but I'm honestly not sure about that one, whether there's actual laws surrounding what I did or not. I *think* there are but I haven't seen them enacted on anyone before so idk. But I'm sure they would come after me and they would have every right to. I deserve to feel guilty and awful for what I did and I won't ever forgive myself and that's how it should be. That's what is morally and ethically right. I need to think of it every day, at least once, until I die in order to respect the one involved that didn't deserve to be involved. The one that was innocent and got caught between a really complicated situation that I didn't know was happening to me at the time. I need it to repent, too. Not in a religious way coz fuck religion and all those cults. But repent as in absorb the pain I caused an individual for something that wasn't their fault and didn't even have anything to do with them.
There's so much more, but you get the gist. It's just what is right when you do something so terrible that you can't even say it aloud to anyone.
But your words mean so much to me. They really do. And I appreciate you so much. Thank you. Your words are like a warm hug right now and it is srsly much needed tonight. It's 1am where I am right now and I can't thank you enough for this. I hope you're having a wonferful day/night. And a wonderful life. I'm thankful you're alive and here, too. đ
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putting this here bc too many ppl I know irl follow my main but like. itâs such a strange feeling to realize that the way you approach relationships has changed. Like I have no idea when my fantasizing went from âI want to be cute and innocent and good for themâ to âI want to hold them and protect them and make them blushâ but apparently that happened at some point
#i dunno man I was just very suddenly struck by the fact that Iâm not necessarily the shy little softboy I always assumed I would be#and donât get me wrong itâs a GOOD feeling but itâs still new and strange and I still need time to fully settle into this#anyway. thatâs enough introspection for tonight gkfkfjdjdj#hi im arlo#personal
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Happy Thursday folks, we've almost made it. Have a small stand-alone snippit from a fic I started this summer and finally admitted I'm never coming back to. Sorry Joe, you're staying kidnapped.
***
âEnough, enough!â Nile laughingly pounds on Nickyâs back, dizzy. âPut me down!âÂ
Nicky tightens his grip and spins them around twice more, faster, before giving in to her pleas and depositing her back onto the ground. Nile groans and falls onto her back, the Oregon sky spinning above her.Â
âGotta work on your sea legs, kid,â Andy calls from across the fire, cackling.Â
Nicky turns on her, eyes twinkling. âBella.âÂ
âDonât you dare,â Andy warns, holding her bottle of whiskey up in defense. Sheâs too late. Nicky swoops in, stooping to grab her thighs and lift her straight up, twirling in a circle. Andy does her best to look dignified, resting the whiskey on top of Nicky's head, waiting him out. He tilts his head back and she breaks, laughing as she pours liquor into his open mouth.Â
Joe appears above Nile, blocking out the nightâs sky. He grins down at her, glitter raining down from his hair. âYou canât be done already, this is your holiday.â She refuses to sit up just yet, but makes a grabby motion upwards to appease him. He obligingly passes a half-burnt sparkler over and then taps his against hers in a mock toast.Â
âI still feel kind of weird celebrating,â she admits as Joe sits down beside her, watching Andy try to kick Nickyâs feet out from under him to steal back her cigarette.Â
He hums, tilting his head in acknowledgement. âYouâll have many years to contemplate. But who knows when youâll see that again,â he nods to where Nicky and Andy have come to a compromise, Andy riding piggyback while she holds the cigarette to his lips.
Nile snorts, sitting up and motioning for the last sparkler. Nicky had shot off the last real firework hours earlier with childlike glee.
âI guess it is July 16th anyway,â she says, âwe could be celebrating anything. Fuck it. Iâm celebrating electricity.âÂ
Theyâve spent the last three months infiltrating a cult with known ties to a particularly nasty trafficking ring. Nicky and Andy were on the inside, trying to figure out where the money was coming from, while Joe and Nile had camped out in a shack a few miles away, listening to the others spit some particularly inventive slurs over the comms while they worked out the supply lines.Â
Point being, Nileâs not feeling real patriotic. But they passed a run-down stand a few miles back advertising 75% O f all Fire orks!, the f and w lost to time, and Nicky had insisted they stop - the manâs never met an explosive he didnât like. Itâs close enough to the solstice that Andy had her annual itch to get blacked out next to a dangerously high fire, so, here they are. Celebrating something that isnât quite the Fourth of July, but isnât exactly not the Fourth of July either, existing in a liminal space between Nileâs waning national allegiances and a desperate homesickness ten years hasnât been enough to shake.Â
Joe, ever good at reading a room, lets the moment pass unremarked. Heâs the best at that. Nicky gets caught off-guard by his own introspection, going suddenly quiet for days at a time. Andy doesnât have much patience for the whole thing, she figures if she doesnât know herself at this point then itâs all a lost cause anyway. Joe, on the other hand, thinks clearly, deeply, and at his own pace. Meaning heâll probably have a lot to say on the complexities of celebrating problematic holidays a month from now, but thatâs not going to stop him from making heart eyes at Nicky tonight.Â
Nicky makes a grab for the last of the whiskey and Andy dodges, yanking all of her weight to the left so that they collapse to the ground together, rolling out of the fall. She springs up and gets a foot on Nickyâs chest, hamming it up as she downs the last of the bottle in victory.Â
âMy love, avenge me!â Nicky mimes dying, doing an appallingly poor job despite all his experience.
âAh, but then who would carry on your memory?â Joe laments.Â
Nile knocks her shoulder against his. âLooks like weâve found the limits of your love at last,â she tells Nicky. âIt was that gas station coffee.âÂ
Joe nods solemnly. âI can still feel its poison in my veins.â He lifts a hand shakily. âEven now, Iâm too frail to walk.âÂ
Nicky bats Andyâs leg away, moving to stand up with the single-minded focus of the very drunk. âGood. Then it will be less work for me to get you on your back.â He struggles to get himself upright, which doesnât bode well for his luck standing up anything else.Â
Nile gags out of principle. By this point sheâs all but immune to finding the two of them on any surface, at any time of the day, but she tries to remember sheâs supposed to be offended at least once a week.Â
Nicky collapses onto the ground beside them, rolling over to put his head on Joeâs lap. âIâve missed you,â he says.Â
Joe runs his fingers through Nickyâs hair. âAnd I, you.âÂ
These days, Nile knows that if she wakes first up and tastes rain, she should make sure Nicky has lemongrass tea. She knows Joe has never kept a pair of matching socks for more than a week but hates when one gets a hole in its heel, and that Andy loves cosmopolitans more than she will ever admit. She knows these people inside and out, but then occasionally theyâll do the most mundane shit and itâll sneak up and hit her all again how long nine-hundred years really is.Â
âDonât you ever worry youâll get tired of each other?â Nile asks absently, mostly joking.Â
Nicky squints up at her, blinking through the alcohol. He pokes Joe in the chest. âSheâs not making any sense.âÂ
Joe flicks his ear in admonishment. âStop teasing her.âÂ
âNo no, Iâm serious,â Nile says, realizing as she says it that she is. Also possibly more drunk than she thought. âLike, what happens if you break up one day. How would that even work? I know you guys have the most epic romance in all of history, or whatever, but what happens if that ends? Am I going to have to swap weekends?â
âWhatâs romance have to do with it?â Nicky asks, propping himself up onto one elbow.Â
Joe groans. âSee what youâve done?âÂ
Nicky hushes him. âI do not - choose - Joe. Choice is irrelevant.âÂ
Nile looks to Joe, who shrugs. âThe last time I tried to remember my wife, some years ago, she ended up having Nicky eyes, his face,â he reaches down playfully, âhis cock.âÂ
Nicky grinds up into his touch, relaxed and unashamed.Â
âI am right here.â Nile pretends to shield her eyes.
Nicky makes a dismissive noise. âI would burn the world to the ground for Joe, and it would be an act of self-defense.âÂ
Joe makes a wounded noise then ducks down, pulling Nickyâs up to meet him halfway. Nileâs seen this show before, too much of this show before, and knows thatâs her cue to leave. Or, in this case, wander the twenty feet away to where Andyâs set herself up with âsmores.Â
âTheyâll fall asleep soon.â Andy passes her a sharpened stick with a marshmallow already speared.Â
Nile shrugs. âItâs sweet, in a very X-rated kind of way.â She watches the marshmallow slowly brown, keeping her eyes carefully on the fire. âI just, I sometimes wonder if Iâll ever get something like that, you know?âÂ
âI donât have a damn clue,â Andy says, reassuring as always. âBut the worldâs probably safer if you donât.âÂ
#the old guard#joe/nicky#nicky/joe#andromache the scythian#nile freeman#nicolo di genova#yusuf al kaysani#andy the old guard#joe x nicky#nicky x joe#immortal husbands#shielwrites
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âAre you sure about this?â
âYeah. Why?â
âBit of an unusual request from you. Unusual colour, too. Arenât you worried about how people are going to react?â
âNope. Want to know why I want to do this? There was this teenage boy at the surgery last week. He wore nail polish â all kinds of colours, too. He had been in a fight after school because of it. He wasnât badly injured, thankfully, but enough to need some stitches. After Iâd treated him, he burst into tears, saying he wanted to get rid of the colours because the other boys at his school were teasing him and saying it wasnât cool. I told him that men could wear this stuff if they wanted to and still be cool, same way as itâs cool for women to not wear it, or make-up and stuff, and that generally, gender wasnât that clear-cut anyway, and coolness not always desirable. So, anyway ⊠uhm ⊠Sherlock? You okay? You looked ⊠oddly vacant for a moment.â
âI was thinking. Iâm surprised by you, John Watson. For a man who not long ago firmly insisted on being not gay â without mentioning that you were, if fact, not entirely straight, either â, this is very introspective and forward-thinking. But why do you wanted me to paint your nails?â
âBecause the boy is coming back today to have his stitches removed. He knows that Iâve been an army doctor, that Iâve seen active combat, and that now, Iâm helping you solve crimes, all of which I think makes me somewhat cool in his eyes.â
âYou want to impress him?â
âNo, I want him to feel more comfortable in his own skin. Sherlock? Youâre doing the staring thing again âŠâ
âIâm ⊠touched, John. You never cease to amaze me. And you know, you can do my nails, too. Later, when youâre back from work.â
âIâd love to. This colour as well, then? Itâs almost the same as that one shirt of yours.â
âThe one that makes your eyes dilate and speeds up your heartrate whenever I wear it?â
âYeah, that one. But just for the record, itâs not the shirt that does this, but its contents â and the fact that itâs so damn tight.â
âIâll make sure to wear it tonight, then.â
âPlease.â
For this monthâs @sherlockchallenge : Nail
#sherlock#sherlock fanart#johnlock#john watson#drawing#ink#watercolour#ficlet#fanfic#sherlockchallenge
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⏠ an admiration for perennials
summary: arthur meets a woman with an affinity for cliff maids
pairings: high honor!arthur morgan pov x female!reader
warnings: sad introspective arthur, sh*t word (:o), mention of mary, dying from flu, pollen (?? this thing is so fluffy, i'm grasping for straws here)
word count: 6.2k (estimated 26-minute reading time)
a/n: i have proofread this piece so.. many.... times... i'm so ready to finally publish it and get it the eff away from me. i hope y'all like it, i'm really happy with how it turned out! (i think, i can't tell anymore). i have a part two outline in the works so if you'd like to see that, please let me know by interacting w/ the post! also, this is categorized as a reader/self-insert but at one point there is very brief character description. i try to keep that to an absolute minimum and leave it generally gray enough to remain a self-insert fic. if that bothers you, i'm sorry, just overlook it! anyways, njoy, pardners <3
masterlist archive of our own
Revised for clarity 1/5/2024.
He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the harshness of the warm smoke enter his chest with ease. The cigarette had nearly met its end, so he knew it was getting to be that time. He jabs it into the ashtray along with the ashes from all the other bargoers and bids the barkeep a good night, leaving some change for his good company.
Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't found the solace he was searching for in the homely saloon. Heâd filled himself to the brim with watered-down beer and a few shots of whiskey when he felt especially plagued by his thoughts. But as he pushes open the swinging doors and steps into the cool night air, his head still swarms with a myriad of upsetting things.Â
His life is a complicated mess, though part of him knew it always had been. It just wasnât until recently that he realized how unnecessary it was for it to be such. On the same street where he currently stands, heâd been responsible for putting lead in the heads of countless men a few weeks prior. He didn't even know their names, and he surely doesn't remember their faces. It was a wholly avoidable disaster. Not to say heâs bothered by the act of killing, for when he finds it justified to end a manâs life, thereâs often no reason to dawdle. No, the mess of it all perturbed him the most.Â
Undeniably, the land he calls home is becoming a different entity than the one he was born into, a land of law and structure that spits upon his way of life. The West is becoming a docile place, its wildness broken by the cracking whip of civilization. And if the West canât survive, then all hope is lost for men like him. The only logical step to ensure that he, and the people he cares for, wonât meet their fates at the end of a rope is to adapt to this changing world. This meant mess would have to be a thing of the past. No more massacres over stolen oil wagons and certainly not wiping out an entire town to free a man he didnât care for from a cell he belonged in. No more innocent bystanders gruesomely losing their lives over foolishly shallow plans like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. No more lives need to be taken for his benefit or the ambitions of the man who guided him. Somehow though, that man didnât see things the way he did.
Whenever he brought up these concerns, Dutch always told him, âDonât be so simple-minded, Arthur. Look at the bigger picture.âÂ
But the bigger picture was all he could see, and it was a terrifying sight.
His heels sink into the damp earth as he makes his way to Saintâs Hotel, crossing his fingers that a room is available for the night. He made the mistake of riding his horse with a stomach full of liquor before, and somehow it almost ended up with him drowning. How he ended up sopping wet and his horse dry as a bone is still a mystery to him. So, a room at Saint's is in order since he doesnât particularly care to die tonight, even despite the pervasive thoughts that plague him.
Just as heâs about to step onto the hotelâs wooden porch, he hears a loud banging noise come from behind him. He turns around and, in the darkness of night, sees a woman knocking on the front door of the general store across the street. She raps her knuckles a second time against the door, just as loud as the first. The door opens and out steps the store owner, looking irritated.
âHi, I know youâre about to close, but Iâll just be a second, I promise!â She says this with her hands clasped together.
âAlright, alright. Come on in,â the man says, stepping aside so she can enter.
As the woman moves past the older man, light from inside the store hits her, and he can see her more clearly. Sheâs dressed simply with her hair loosely pulled back into a plait that falls past her shoulders. These things are ordinary enough, but then the light catches on a dainty pink flower tucked behind her ear on the left side.
He stops in his tracks.
It looks identical to the one he keeps at his bedside, a memento of his mother. However, those flowers, cliff maids, he thinks theyâre called, only grow out west in the rocky terrain bordering Oregon and California. Heâs a long way from California and possibly even further from a level head, so he dismisses the possibility, chalking it up to the delusions of a drunken old man.
He heads into the hotel, and thankfully a room is available, the same one as always. He closes the door behind him and starts fumbling with his gear, letting it hit the floor haphazardly in a heap. As he stumbles over to the bed, he regretfully catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He usually tries to avoid looking at himself unless itâs absolutely necessary. Simply put, he doesnât like the look of the man who stares back at him. Thereâs a residual yellow blotch fading away on his cheekbone from a dust-up heâd been in a few days prior. He doesnât even remember the reason. His shoulder-length hair has tangles heâs had no energy to comb through, and his eyes are lidded for want of sleep. They have a far-out look even when heâs staring right at himself.Â
âMaybe itâs you thatâs the mess,â he mumbles, then gives way to his exhaustion and collapses against the mattress. His boots, spurs and all, remain on his feet. So remain his worn trousers and unbuttoned maroon shirt, and so does the dirt caked beneath his nails that never seems to leave.Â
He checks out of his room early the following day and rides out beneath a sky as golden as dandelions. His mind feels clearer after a nightâs rest, and he thankfully doesnât feel as dreadful as he did when his head hit the pillows. Dew hangs in the chilled air and mists his face as he takes the beaten winding path leading back to Clemenâs Point, this new place his people called home. As he rides, he passes by some cottages and homesteads a ways off the path. He can recall the inside layout of a few of them, and even which ones filled his pockets the most back when he first arrived in the Heartlands.
Tall, thick-bodied oak trees loom over him and dance in the morning breeze. The way the sunlight flickers through them is beautiful but unfamiliar. It quickly becomes apparent that heâs taken the wrong path somewhere along the way, but just when heâs about to wheel his horse around and turn back, there lies a cottage beyond the tree line.Â
Itâs a quaint wooden home with a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney. In the window of the cottage sits a vase of pink flowers. The closer he rides, the more confident he is that theyâre cliff maids. There must be at least twenty stems in that one vase.
âIâll be damnedâŠ.â He says under his breath.
Suddenly, he hears the sound of a woman grunting coming from the side of the home. He presses his heels to his horseâs belly and trots toward the noise source. When he turns the corner of the house, he sees her, the woman he saw last night, pushing a wheelbarrow spilling over with dirt. She attempts to use her weight against the handle, but it hardly makes a difference, and the wheelbarrow doesnât budge.
He clears his throat to make his presence known to the woman.
âJesus Christ!â She yelps and turns to face him, shocked to see she has company.
âDidnât mean to frighten ya. Dâya need any help, maâam?â He asks.
She looks him over with caution.
âUh, Iâm alright, thanks,â she says slowly, her brows warily drawn together.
Arthur nods his head with a tight-lipped smile and pulls the reins to head back to where he came from. He considers asking her about the flowers in the window but disregards it seeing as she doesnât seem to care for company. As he begins back down the path, he hears a clattering noise and the sound of the woman cursing.
âHey, mister!â She shouts. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing with her hands on her hips and the wheelbarrow completely turned over, the dark soil spilling out onto the ground.
âI take that back.â She says with her head cocked to the side and a bashful smile.
He lightly chuckles at the sight and rides over, swiftly dismounting from his horse a few feet from the mild disaster.
âCould you help me scoop it back in?â She asks as she goes to the front of the wheelbarrow and picks up the dirt with yellow gloves.
âSure,â he says, kneeling beside her. His hands are perpetually dirty as it is, so a little more filth couldnât hurt. As he helps her pile the dirt back into the cart, he notices she smells earthy and sweet, reminiscent of the air before a storm.
âAlright,â she says, standing up and brushing her dirty gloves against her smock. âWould you mind wheelinâ it for me?â
He moves to grab the handles and pushes them down with ease so that the wheelbarrow can roll properly.Â
âWhatâs all this dirt for anyways?â He asks the woman walking beside him.
âJust a project Iâm working on. Itâs back behind here, mister.â She points to the rear of the cottage, which quickly becomes dense with plant life the further they step.Â
She crosses her arms over her chest as they enter the more secluded area.
âDonât get any funny ideas, alright?â She says, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.
He furrows his brows at the slight, but he canât deny it makes sense sheâs thinking that way. He looks the part of someone with foul intentions. The brim of his hat darkens his eyes, which would normally obscure them from anyone else. But, given that he's a head taller than the woman, she sees their darkness fine. He internally curses himself when he remembers he's wearing the one jacket stained with animal blood. It's still smeared dark brown across his shoulder. Of course, he looks like a damn menace. To top it all off, the rifle slung on his back casts a long shadow across her cheek like some twisted reminder of who he is, lest a single act of kindness threatens he forgets.Â
He glances at her with a small smile that raises up on one side more than the other.
âMost of my ideas are funny, maâam. But I ainât gonna hurt you if thatâs what you mean.â
Her shoulders drop from their tense position as she lets out a half-hearted laugh.
âIâll take your word for it, mister,â she says, slightly more relaxed than before.
The grass starts to reach his knees, and all along the path are bushes and fruit-bearing shrubs with dangling under-ripe berries. Various species of flowers grow throughout the backyard in no organized manner, like theyâd been living here long before anyone else. White bark trees stand tall amidst the entropic garden. Dark moss creeps up their trunks, and instead of leaves, canopies of draping blossoms erupt from the branches like something out of a storybook. They hang limply in the air, and when the wind tugs on them, they sway in synchronization while their blossoms flutter away in the breeze. Itâs all so beautiful. Heâs never seen an abundance of such natural beauty in all his life.
âIs this all yours?â He asks, turning to the lady with a near slack-jawed expression.Â
âIt is now,â she says, nodding her head. âMy mama used to care for it, as did her mama before her. But uh- well, the flu took my mama a few years back, and as fate would have it, now my grandmaâs flame is startinâ to flicker too. So itâs left to me to care for all this.â
âOh. Iâm sorry to hear that,â he responds. Her voice sounds sad, and it reminds him somewhat of Ms. Adler, the widow staying with them for the time being.
âItâs okay,â she says, waving him off. âSometimes in the darkness, thereâs light, and this is definitely the light. I get to care for this thing, and in a way, it cares for me too. Gives me purpose, ya know?â
âSâGood to have somethinâ that makes you feel that way. Lord knows most people donât.â
âYes, Iâve noticed that. Oh! Iâll hold the door open for ya.â She leaves his side and jogs ahead of him.
âDoor? What door?â Arthur looks around, but he sees nothing but trees and plants.
Suddenly, she reveals an entrance blocked by the tall grass, and he realizes that a small building made entirely of glass is right before him. It camouflaged against the greenery and the vines that drape across it. Now that the door is ajar, he sees inside plants of all kinds strewn about in terracotta pots and deep soil beds.
âWhat in theâŠ.â He begins to say but trails off, caught off guard by the unexpected reveal.
A sort of giddiness takes her when she sees his expression, and she waves her hand excitedly to usher him inside.Â
âCome in! Come in!âÂ
He rolls the wheelbarrow inside the structure, and once again, heâs greeted by the humble beauty of the natural world. Leaves spill out of pots hanging from the rafters, creating curtains that brush against him as he passes through. She gently closes the door behind him, and the air starts to feel thicker, heavier, like heâs being swaddled in a damp blanket.
The pots each have their own label, but the writing is so messy that he can hardly make out the names. Of the ones he can read, he recognizes names such as Sparrowâs Egg, Clamshell, and Dragonâs Mouth. Theyâre exotic flowers that the corset man in Saint Denis once asked him to collect, but he never got around to doing it. If only he had enough time to frolic through fields and pluck orchids. Heâd prefer that over the menial errands heâs been consumed by as of late.
âBack here!â The woman shouts.
He canât see her behind the tall plant-filled shelves that take up the center of the room, so he pushes past the vines and turns the corner to see her standing next to an empty plant bed. She looks at him expectantly because his task is clearly to dump the soil. But his mind is elsewhere. Behind her is another plant bed. This one is full and brimming with cliff maids so densely packed that he can hardly see the soil theyâre in. Heâs never seen so many of these flowers in one place. Whenever he found one in the wild, it was usually nestled between two rocks and sprouted three or four blooms. They werenât nearly as impressive as the ones infront of him.
âWhat is it?â She asks when he remains in his spot. She follows his gaze and gasps.
âWhy, are you a gardener too, mister?â Her voice gets high with excitement.
âWho, me?â He laughs. âNo, maâam. Iâm no gardener. Iâd make for a pretty awful one seeinâ as Iâm not too good at keepinâ things alive.â
âOh, forgive me. I just- you seemed interested in the perennials. Most people arenât, considerinâ how unassuming they look. Pretty things but nothing outwardly special about âem.â She moves towards the tall blossoms and reaches out her hand to stroke the petals.Â
âYou know, they donât like it here,â she continues. âThey like the sun, which would be easy enough if they liked the heat that came with it, but no, itâs the cool shade of cliffs and rocks they like. These little blooms arenât easy to care for, but if you can figure it out, theyâll live all through the years. Thatâs what perennial means, after all. Anyways, these guys are my favorite. I think itâs cause they give me such a hard time.â
She twiddled with the petals between her fingers as she rambled about the flowers. When she finally looks back at him, itâs like she has stars twinkling in her eyes. Thereâs a new liveliness about her, something that sparked when she was given room to air out her affinity for the pink blossoms. Arthur stands there, attempting to wrap his mind around the unlikely chance of finding someone who holds this particular flower as close to their heart as he does. He doesn't notice his aforementioned heart beating a little faster in his chest.
âI- I like âem too.â The words clumsily stumble from his mouth when he realizes sheâs waiting for him to speak. He quickly gathers himself.Â
âI mean, it was my ma that liked âem, but I guess she sorta rubbed off on me. They're pretty little things.â
âYouâre kiddinâ... what are the odds?âÂ
He can tell sheâs thinking about something during the half-beat of silence that follows, but he canât find any hint of what it is when he searches her face.
âI never got your name, mister,â she says abruptly.
âArthur,â he says. âJust Arthur.â
âWhat, you ainât got a last name, Just Arthur?â She laughs.
He considers telling her his real name but quickly dismisses it. On the off-chance she recognizes it from the bounty posters, it would mean that whatever was happening here would come to an unfortunate end. Of course, no harm would befall her, but heâd have to leave and go right back to his mess of a life. Heâd rather stay here, in the sanctity of the greenhouse, with this person he strangely feels like he was meant to meet.Â
âOh, I didnât realize we were on a full name basis, maâam,â he says flippantly, but he canât help the smile that forms when she raises her eyebrows at him.
âWell, Arthur, you have good taste,â she says playfully, but her gaze falls to the wheelbarrow heâs still holding, and her eyes widen. âOh, that must be heavy. I talked so long, I forgot you still had that. Go ahead and pour it into that empty bed right there.â She gestures with a quick wave of her hand.
He looks down at the wheelbarrow he also forgot he was holding and does as she says, tilting the lip of it into the wooden frame and letting the soil spill out.Â
She smiles at him and pats his shoulder before leading him out of the greenhouse. They step back outside, and the cool air is a welcome feeling. He props the wheelbarrow against the wall of the structure while she shuts the door behind her.
âThank you again. I wouldâve had a much harder time without you there,â she says.
He wipes his soiled hands on the front of his jeans and opens his mouth to speak, but when he looks at her, sheâs already looking at him with a gaze sweet as honey. It makes his breath catch in his chest. Not many women have looked at him like that before, and hardly any were as easy on the eyes as her. A thread of sunlight catches her eyes and reveals faint traces of amber, like sap spilling from the source. Her long lashes flutter when she blinks, and they rest against the soft edge of her brow as she looks up at him. Her hair, woven into a braid, is loose, disheveled like sheâd slept in it. Stray strands feather around her jaw and frame the angles of her face, not unlike ornate golden borders that surround paintings in a gallery.
He clears his throat upon realizing heâs been gawking at the poor woman like some boyish fool.
âAh, it was nothin',â he says, directing his attention elsewhere as heat creeps up his cheeks.Â
A dragonfly jitters down from above and lands on the stem of some thyme growing over a narrow creek. Water trickles over smooth stones into a basin where leaves float along the surface. Some of them sprout delicate white flowers that open up to the sky. A thought comes to him as he looks at them.
âIf itâs not too much trouble, would it be alright if I draw a picture of this place?â He asks. Heâs never had to ask anyone permission for this sort of thing before; it felt unnatural. But it certainly wouldâve been more so if heâd asked her what he really wanted, which was to draw her alongside it.
She tilts her head and looks up at him curiously.
âHow charmingâŠâ She says, then ponders it for a second. âI donât mind as long as you let me see it after.â
He chuckles, âAlright, just donât make fun of it.â
âI would never!â She says, feigning indignance. âMy mama taught me manners, Arthur! That means if itâs bad, Iâll just make fun of it in my head. Now go do your thing. I also have some work to do.â
She waves him off with a smile and steps back inside the greenhouse, closing the door behind her. He lets out a sigh, the tight feeling in his chest relinquishing now that heâs finally alone. He walks over to a bench along the path and sits down, taking his journal from his satchel and flipping to a new blank page. Before him, tall pink flowers that smell of vanilla cast long, dark shadows over the smaller flowering shrubs surrounding them. If they werenât so dainty looking, their height and the size of their leaves would give the impression they own the place. He gives them the most detail in his drawing. Then he starts to etch the dirt path, adding the indentation the wheel of the wheelbarrow had left behind and the imprint of the womanâs footprints next to his. Just as he finishes up the sketch, adding minute details in the leaves, he hears light footfall behind him.
On instinct, his hand moves to hover above his holster, but once he sees whatâs behind him, he feels ridiculous for it.
âHey,â she says quietly, a sheepish smile on her face. She holds nearly a dozen cliff maids in her hands, stems clipped and bound together with a thread of twine.
âI thought you might like to have these.â
He looks at her for a moment, unsure what to do or say. Sheâs giving him flowers. No one has ever given him flowers before. That was usually something a man might do if he were sweet on a lady, a gesture shared between lovers. But maybe for a woman who spends all day surrounded by them, it must not have the same romantic meaning he knows it does.
âThose are for me?â He asks. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He doesnât quite know what to do with himself.
She nods. âIf you want.â
The talkative woman from earlier seems to have been replaced by someone different entirely, her sentences suddenly simple and sweet. He also struggles to find the right words.
âThatâs too kind of you. Truly.â He reaches out to take them, and she places the bundle gingerly in his hands.Â
His hold is gentle for fear heâd snap the stems if not careful. He knows he has to look a little silly. A man as rough around the edges as himself, with ammunition draped across his chest and pistols hanging at his hips, holding an overflowing bouquet of pink blossoms as a gift from a lady. If Dutch could see him now, heâd tell him he lost his edge. But if this is what it feels like to have gone soft, then he doesn't mind that much. The warmth in his chest is too comforting a feeling to let go of.
Her sudden gasp brings him out of his head.
âIs that the drawing?!â She points at the journal lying open on the bench. Thereâs no time to answer before she reaches over the seat to hold the leatherbound book in her hands.
âWow⊠I- you captured it perfectly,â she says, her mouth slightly hanging in awe. âI didnât expect anything like this.â
âYouâre just minding your manners.â
She lightly thwacks him on the arm.
âYouâd know if I was, Iâm not a good liar. No, this is something special.â
He hardly knows a thing about this woman, and yet for some reason, her songs of praise feel so good that he wants to make ten more drawings. Hell, heâll move as much dirt as she wants if it means sheâll look at him the way she is now each time. As her eyes flit between him and the sketch, he feels a fondness growing that he couldâve never anticipated when he first laid eyes on her. God, he almost feels like a boy again. Itâs a feeling he hasnât experienced in ages since he was last with Mary. Though, admittedly those feelings were guided by something less innocent than what he feels right now. Whatâs happening to him?
She clasps her hands together and takes a sharp intake of breath.
âArthur, would you, um- would you like something to drink before you head out?â She asks. âI have just about anything.â
Without giving it much thought, he opens his mouth to answer, but a ringing noise sounds before the words can come out. Itâs a clear jingling sound of a bell, and itâs coming from the house.Â
âOh, never mind. It seems like my grandmother needs me,â she sighs and hands back his journal. âMaybe another time?â
âAnother time,â he agrees with a thin smile, deflating slightly at the abrupt goodbye.
She walks briskly to the back door and slips inside the house, the door swinging shut loudly behind her. He approaches his horse heâd left hitched to the womanâs front porch and goes to find a place to secure the flowers. As heâs slipping them through a notch on the saddle, the front door flies open.
She steps out, looking grateful he hasnât left yet.
âHey!â She calls out to him. She stands at the edge of the top step with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes from the sun.
âIâm sure you know already, but those can only last so long now that theyâre cut. Perennials live all through the years but only when theyâre planted,â she says, shifting her weight on the step.
Arthurâs mouth parts slightly as he searches for the words to respond.
âOh. Alright.â
She sighs and brings her hand to her forehead in an exasperated motion.
âOkay- what Iâm trying to say but failing at, is that when those flowers start to wilt, you come and find me.â
He tilts his head down, so the brim of his hat hides the smile forcing its way onto his lips. He hadnât been sure if she was just being polite before, if every word was mere courtesy. But now, part of him felt that maybe some of it was more than that. He could at least tell for certain that she liked him, and that was enough.
âIâll do that, miss. You take care of yourself, now.â
She then waves him goodbye before heading back inside.
The sun has risen high above his head by the time he returns to camp. Everything seems to be just as he left it a few days ago. Dutch is sitting outside his tent with a book in his hands, a finger pensively to his lips. Some men are sharpening their weapons or cleaning their guns and talking to one another while they work. Over by the campfire, Micah gestures wildly to Bill and Javier, who sit on the log by his feet.Â
âIf we leave at dusk, they should be sittinâ pretty at the station a while before leaving for town. So once things get movinâ, I say Javier handles the lockbox, Iâll deal with Walton and his lady wife, and Bill, you hang back in case anyone else shows up.â
Javier looks up from polishing his pistol, âYou donât think Waltonâs going to have any extra protection? Heâs carrying a lot of goods, itâd be stupid for him not to.â
âWell, thatâs what Billâs for. Ainât that right, Bill?â
Bill nods his head with a serious expression. âDamn right.â
As Arthur listens to this conversation, itâs as if he can see a dark thread spinning and tangling itself into a knot. A knot on top of a knot, on top of another. Soon enough, the thread will become one giant, twisted mess so tightly entwined itâll be nearly impossible to unravel. The way things are headed, this seems like the only plausible ending for his people. But before that happens, the Pinkertons will likely find them again, and theyâll be packing their things again, only prolonging this mess of things a little bit longer, letting it become bigger than it ever needed to be. People will keep dying for nothing like they always have, and maybe heâll be one of them, an unfortunate tally added to their death toll, necessary for the bigger picture.
The young woman had the right of it. Her words still echo in his head even now.Â
Perennials live all through the years, but only when theyâre planted. Only when theyâre planted.Â
The world wonât open its arms to drifters, even with a pistol pressed to its head. Itâs past time they grow some roots, start living like people, and stop living like wild animals backed into a corner. Sure, thereâs no glory in honest work but there sure as hell isnât any in dying. Arthur had given this idea some thought before. He wouldnât mind settling, living a simple life working odd jobs, or even finding work on a ranch somewhere. A peaceful life, a predictable one; it sounded just fine in his head.
He passes by Mary Beth and Tilly, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and laughing. Tilly looks up from her busy hands and waves at him.
âHey, Arthur!â
âHey there, Miss Jackson,â he says with a friendly nod.
He finds his tent and sets the bundle of flowers down on the cot before reaching into his satchel.Â
âAre those flowers, Arthur Morgan?âÂ
He jumps as Tillyâs voice is suddenly right behind him.
âWhat the hell! Donât sneak up on me like that, girl,â he says, turning to face her and Mary Beth standing just outside his tent.
âMy goodness, they are!â Mary Beth says, her hand flying to her mouth. âWhere did you find those?â
âA lady,â he responds, biting his cheek to force away a smile he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to be stuck rattling off every detail to the excitement-starved women.Â
âLike, you purchased them from a lady?â Mary Beth leans forward and raises her eyebrows.
âThey were⊠given to me,â he reluctantly admits as he places the stems inside a gin bottle on the table. He moves a few of them around so they look nice.
âDonât tell us theyâre from Mary, Arthur.â Tilly's voice goes low with disappointment, no longer seeming excited.
He grimaces at the thought. âNo! No, theyâre not from Mary. I met a woman earlier today, and she gave them to me, thatâs all.â
The two women quickly glance at each other and share an enthusiastic look.
âArthur Morgan, youâre in love!â Mary Beth nearly squeals.
He scoffs loudly, âI am not in love. I hardly know the woman!â
âWell, sheâs surely in love then. What kind of person just gives someone flowers if they ainât sweet onâem?â Tilly says matter-of-factly.
âExactly! So when are you gonna see her again?â Mary Beth asks.
âI donât know,â he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He shouldâve known this conversation would happen. He shouldâve sucked up his pride and said he purchased the flowers for himself to have avoided it entirely. âShe told me to come back when they start to die, so whenever that is, I guess.â
Mary Beth hums and looks past him at the flowers in their makeshift vase.Â
âHmm⊠well, they look a little limp if you ask me. Dare I say⊠dead even? What do ya think, Tilly?âÂ
Tilly nods her head dismally, but even she canât hide her smile, âYeah, look at âem. Theyâre all sad-lookinâ. Seems like youâll need to head over first thing in the morning. Just to be sure.â
He shakes his head and laughs, âAlright, out. Both of ya. I canât take it no more.â
He takes both women by their shoulders and guides them away from his tent despite their protests.
âWe just want you to be happy, Arthur! Is that so bad?â Tilly cries out.
âI know, I know. Thank you, ladies. But Iâm happiest when people ain't meddlinâ in my private business. Now go on.â
âThis ainât the end of it, Arthur!â Mary Beth calls out as they both walk away. They start talking animatedly as they return to work and keep throwing glances that he can only shake his head at.
Later that night, Arthur sits alone at one of the tables, eating his stew and staring off into the water. Most everyone else is off doing their own things, evening chores, and such. He's in the middle of bringing the bowl to his lips to get the last bit of broth when Mary Beth sits down beside him.
She keeps her word, not letting him hear the end of her numerous questions. Some of them he entertains, like when she asks what the garden looked like, and if she can see his drawing to get a better idea. He can practically see the story forming behind her eyes.
"What's she look like?" She asks, leaning against her hand on the table. "I'm picturing a sort of Isabelle Standish type in my head."
"Ah, come on now. You can't ask those sorts of things."
"Oh, Arthur! Please! This is the most exciting thing I've heard in so long. Just give me something to work with!" She gives him a pleading look, to which he dramatically rolls his eyes at.
"Alright. Well, she gives them girls on cigarette cards a run for their money, I'll tell you that."
She giggles, and asks him, "So when are you gonna see her again?"
He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know yet."
âYou donât want to keep her waiting too long,â she says, in warning.
âNah, I think sheâll be plenty busy without me. Iâll give it a few days.â
âA few days? But what if tomorrow another man comes by and sweeps her off her feet? What if she gives him flowers and forgets all about you because you took too long?â Her voice gets higher as she spitfires these potential events.Â
âMary Beth. If I visit her tomorrow, Iâll look like an idiot.â His face scrunches up, cringing at the thought. "And if that's really what happens then I can't do nothin' about that."
âWell, if I were her, Iâd find it romantic,â she says and pats his hand on the table.
âYeah, well, you find a lotta odd things romantic,â he chuckles, thinking back on the strange things in her novellas that have made her kick her feet.
For a second, it looks like she canât tell if she should be offended. But then she joins him in laughter, giggling at herself.
âYou might be right about that!â
Following his talk with Mary Beth, he retreats to his tent and slumps in his cot. He closes his eyes and turns to face the side of the wagon, but sleep doesn't come easy. The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. He groans and rolls over, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. Against the dark canvas of his tent, he can make out the silhouette of the cliff maids standing tall in their bottle. He traces the outline of their leaves and thinks back to the woman and her garden, the tranquility of her home, and the opposing restlessness of his heart whenever she looked at him. Before heâs ushered into unconsciousness, a strange thought enters his head that he can only explain away as the delirium of drowsiness. It was that in the distant future, he could see himself settling down, working odd jobs, or finding work on a ranch, sure. But maybe, the preposterous idea of taking care of flowers wasn't so bad neither.
#red dead redemption 2#red dead redemption 2 x reader#rdr2#rdr2 fic#rdr2 x reader#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x female reader#im so down bad for this man#sigh#that just means more fics for yall#also i made the flower text break!#ik its hard to tell but i did use a cliff maid as reference for the flower
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A fic about overworking and the limits of sms-based communication
Nothing New (G / 1.2k / Oneshot / Vault Tracks Series) [Chat fic, Phil identity angst, Early days (Manchester)]
âI've had too much to drink tonight How did I go from growing up to breaking down? And I wake up in the middle of the night It's like I can feel time moving
How can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22? Will you still want me when I'm nothing new?â
- Taylor Swift, Nothing New
mum (G / 1.4k / Oneshot) [Mental health, Mild Angst]
mum [ (mÊm) ] 1. noun - mainly British, an informal word for mother 2. adjective - keeping information to oneself; silent
A fic about that which we do and donât discuss with our parents.
Spaceship Earth (G / 1.6k / Oneshot) [Disney World 2014, Established Relationship]
Dan can't understand why Phil insists on repeating the most boring ride on the planet, but that doesn't mean he won't go along with it.
A fic about creating private spaces in public places.
Must Come Down (G / 1.6k / Oneshot / Gravity Series (2)) [Introspection, Established Relationship, Massage, Hypomanic Crash]
Dan is in the middle of his third round of recap to Phil, talking a thousand miles a minute with an ear-to-ear grin, when suddenly it all stops. His mouth fills with cotton, his smile begins to ache, and the train of thought heâd been clinging to completely loses its tracks.
A fic about falling and catching yourself on the way down.
pancakes + syrup (G / 1.9k / Oneshot) [Domestic, Slice of Life, post-WAD reunion fic]
âAre my nostrils deceiving me?â Phil asks, still out of Danâs line of sight.
Dan blinks, looks down at the pancakes, now almost ready to be flipped, and then back at the Phil-less space. âNo?â
meander through the garden of your mind (we can take our time) (G / 1.9k / Oneshot) [Exploration of sexual orientation, Mental health, Early days (Manchester)]
âI donâtâ,â Dan starts but then cuts himself off. He takes a deep breath. âItâs not PJâs reaction that Iâm worried about. Itâs the saying of words bit.â
A fic about identity and the ways we can create and explore it
Betta Late Than Never (T / 3.8k / Oneshot) [FishWhisperer!Phil, Strangers to ?]
Dan hires Phil to therapize his betta. They get along swimmingly.
#phanfiction#phanfic#i managed to write and post 11 phanfics this year!!#my word count is way down from previous years#but im really happy with what ive posted#(still working on a longfic that i hope to post eventually)#if you're reading this and you've written literally anything this year#this is your sign to make a 2022 masterlist!!
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