#he was camp so I had to make it more camp

[randomness-is-my-order]

i think one of the most wonderful traits of wei wuxian is how socially competent he is, which is why it always annoys me if he is mischaracterized as someone who is unaware about how those around him feel, just because of the way his relationship with lan wangji pans out in the books. the dynamic between them was extremely multifaceted and what seemed obvious to us was very rightfully NOT obvious to wei wuxian and he hardly had time to sort those feelings out, given the kind of harrowing ordeals he was going through. but that aside–the way wei wuxian’s “social competence” manifests isn’t just social courage–in that, the risk of embarassment or self-consciousness doesn’t stop his self expression–or just his general forwardness and social butterfly tendencies but also–and imo, most importantly–his perceptiveness and astute reading of people around him which comes from a deep understanding of the human social element, at the individual and the societal level.

he has full awareness of how his station is looked down upon in the cultivation world and so while others in his situation may bend or break–wei wuxian cleverly toes the line between the two until taking a stance becomes necessary. he deeply understands the ugly dynamics running within the jiang family and clan and acts accordingly–be it his prompt efforts to placate jiang cheng or his conscious silence when madame yu is in a mood or even his acceptance of the whipping in lieu of restoring stability for the clan. despite his personal biases against jin zixuan, he can recognise his bravery. even his scandalous move to begin undressing in the cave shows that he knows exactly what would make lan wangji tick.

hell, i’d say even his initial thought about how the resentment of the dead can be redirected towards a target shows his striking comprehension of how emotions work in general. what’s more, he’s able to recognise the machinations nie huaisang had employed and he was also aware of the bigger picture associated with how fickle and easily swayed mob mentality was when everyone took part in bashing jin guangyao when certain truths came to light. when he was first brought back to life, he quickly and correctly deduced what kind of life mo xuanyu must have led and how he could act in order to easily humiliate the mo family. he empathised with jin ling and yet realised how he was brought up left something to be desired and so, tried to inculcate some of his own highly regarded values to him.

the deft manner in which he handled the juniors speaks for itself–a good teacher will always have good communication skills and wei wuxian went above and beyond just “good”. his people skills on nighthunts are extremely helpful–his ability to make tongues loose simply by charming people is highlighted more than once. just off the top of my head–him politely appealing to jin guangshan about the wen remnants and apologising for “intruding”, him readily handing in his sword at the indoctrination camps, him suggesting to jiang cheng that he should leave the clan once he was at the burial mounds–all of this (and much much more) demonstrates wei wuxian’s competence at guaging complex social dynamics, which is why, when he goes against the current and stands firm, it is a deliberate, well thought out decision, one made after considering the risks and repercussions, and that makes wei wuxian’s stance at the end that much more powerful. he is not stumbling his way through life, is not unheeding of his social status, is not a “mad genius with poor social skills”. hell, i would say wei wuxian’s ability to see straight through people is more impressive than even his insane intellect and to reduce that aspect of him feels like a disservice to his character. because when it comes down to it, the fact of the matter is that the murky social world through wei wuxian’s lens is actually astonishingly clear.

[threadbearsweater]

one warm day is all i really need | arthur morgan

When you find yourself taken in by a gang of outlaws, the last thing you expect is to grow sweet on one of them- and have the feelings reciprocated. Arthur Morgan doesn't have time for romantic nonsense, but a few memebers of the gang want to make sure that he gets to indulge in his obvious affection toward you. Tags: 3.9k words, an unlikely romance, meddling gang members (with the purest of intentions, one might suppose); female reader, alcohol use, smoking, emotional smut. A repost from a (regretfully) deactivated blog.

Arthur first notices your eyes on him one evening around the campfire at Shady Belle. He won’t accuse you of staring– Lord knows he’s been known to look at you with the same foolish grin you’re wearing now– but he tips his hat to acknowledge you. The heat in your cheeks is suddenly warmer than what the fire has already provided; your grin only grows until your teeth are showing, and you duck your head into your shoulder to hide. Arthur takes a long swig from his whiskey bottle and grimaces as it goes down. He hasn't had a drop of anything in days, and the burn takes a little while to grow numb to now.

“Think she's sweet on you, Morgan,” Sean says in his Irish lilt, giving Arthur an elbow in the ribs.

“Naw, she's lookin’ at you,” Arthur deflects, though he hopes he's wrong. He thinks he knows.

“She told me last week to keep my eyes on my own work,” Sean continues. “I really don't think it's me she wants, Arthur.”

You turn to whisper something to Sadie, who laughs out loud with her face tilted toward the stars. You dare a glance back at Arthur, who is, in fact, looking at you.

Maybe there's some truth to what Mary Beth told you yesterday.

“Arthur's been awful quiet lately.”

The sun shines through the trees and dapples the table where you're seated with bright spots of pale yellow. It's your third round of dominoes with Mary-Beth, and she's whooping your ass, as usual. You don't know how she does it, but each game you play, you're a little more privy to her prowess.

“You think so? I don't know him as well as you.” You hope it isn't obvious that your heart started beating a little faster at the mention of his name. It leaves you breathless.

“Oh yeah,” Mary-Beth continues. “He's been scratchin’ away in that journal of his a lot more, too.” She leans closer, conspiratorial, her eyes twinkling with the gossip she's about to share. “Karen said he went to town twice last week to have a hot bath. If you knew Arthur like I know Arthur, why…you'd know that's highly out of character for him.”

“But you said he'd been quiet. Is that unusual for him, too?”

She hums and purses her lips. “Well you see, Arthur isn't usually a man of many words on a good day. But it's been real bad lately. He don't even give John a hard time like usual.”

You ponder the dominoes for a moment and then make your move. It doesn't earn you any points, but at least you didn't have to draw. “What do you think the problem is?” you ask, nonchalant as possible.

Mary-Beth smiles. Big and bright and sparkling. “Oh, it's not a problem at all.” She lowers her voice and cups her hand to her mouth. “Arthur's in love.”

You gasp, then giggle behind your hand, and Mary-Beth follows suit. Hosea looks on and shakes his head, so you quiet down, reaching across to grab Mary-Beth's hands. “Who do you think it is?”

Her cheeks are tinted pink, and she looks around to make sure there aren't any ears to hear. Word travels fast around camp if one isn't prudent. “I think it's you.”

A thunderstorm rips through Shady Belle a little over a week later. Your little tent that you share with Sadie is ripped straight off its supports in a terrible gust of wind, and you and the others hightail it inside the house to take cover just as it begins to hail. There's quite a ruckus as everyone huddles inside, windblown and rain-soaked. A few of the men hold up lanterns to illuminate the darkness while you watch the lightning and feel the thunder shake the old bones of the house.

“Everyone just calm down,” Dutch calls, descending the stairs, wearing some ridiculous robe with his arms spread wide. “Are we really gonna let a little old thunderstorm keep us from getting a good night's sleep?”

“Says the man with a bed inside the house,” Arthur bites, rounding the corner from what used to be the kitchen, holding a lantern up high in front of him. “Dutch, you better allow these ladies to take cover in here for tonight, or I'll–”

“Or you'll what, Mister Morgan? Pray tell, what kind of man do you take me for?” Dutch's eyes are fiery as he stares Arthur down; a display of dominance. A veritable cockfight.

Arthur's jaw twitches, but he doesn't back down. “The kind of man I should hope would have some goddamn respect for his family.”

There's a tense moment or two where everyone is quiet, then Dutch relents. “Fine, fine! But I expect everyone out there pitching in to clean up in the morning.” He points at Arthur and raises his voice again. “That includes the other man with a bed inside the house,” he sneers.

Arthur shakes his head, then looks away only to catch sight of you, shivering in your wet undergarments, huddled close to Mary-Beth for what little warmth the two of you can share. For a minute, he forgets to breathe, then composes himself enough to cross the room.

“Come on in here. Get yourself warm and dry by the fire.” His hand on your elbow is rough but warm as he leads you toward the fireplace. You nod and look back at Mary-Beth, who shoos you away with a flick of her wrist and a wink; you notice that her teeth are chattering. Despite the humidity that hangs heavy in the air, the temperature has turned chilly with the storm.

Arms crossed over your bosom to preserve any shred of modesty you might have left, you allow yourself to be led away by Arthur. Dutch and some of the others head upstairs while Charles and Javier keep watch from the front porch.

“You alright?” Arthur asks. He covers your shoulders with one of his heavy winter coats, and you pull it around you, grateful for the weight and warmth of it. Another clap of thunder shakes the house and you jump. Arthur chuckles.

“You laughin’ at me?” you quip, placing your palms flat in the direction of the fireplace. You don't even bother to hide the grin you feel curling on your lips.

“No madam, I am not,” Arthur says earnestly, taking a seat beside you on the old wooden crate he's set up as a makeshift bench.

“Then just what do you find so funny, Mister Morgan?”

He scratches the back of his neck, looking into the flames. “Aw, I dunno. I'm sorry. It's just that you're…”

You bump him with your hip, unable to stop the giggles that bubble up from your chest. “I'm what?” you pry.

There's a clatter of something falling on the front porch, and Arthur uses it as a good excuse to get out of this hole he's dug for himself. “I better go see what's going on out there. Charles might need my help.”

“I'm what, Arthur?!” you call, to no avail. He's gone before he can see the proverbial hearts in your eyes.

The saloon in Rhodes is a little nicer than the ones you visited in Valentine, though it's a far cry from the ones you used to frequent in Saint Denis. Still, when Sadie and the other girls decide that it's high time you have a little fun in town, you throw on your best dress and let Karen curl your hair and even apply a little of the makeup you snagged from a homestead up north. For the first time in months, you feel like a proper woman. There isn't time to be melancholy about the past, though, when the boys start whistling and cat-calling upon the sight of you and the other girls.

“Aw, knock it off!” Sadie hollers. She's decided to dress up a little tonight, too, much to everyone's surprise. But she hikes up her skirts to hop into the wagon, calling for the rest of you all to hurry it up. “I've got a bottle of rum with my name on it that's waiting for me to come drink her all down!”

You catch the sunset on the way to town. It's dazzling over the meadows, all golden light and warm, blazing oranges and reds that settle into a brilliant pink by the time your reach the main road into Rhodes. You wish you could see Arthur's eyes, but he's got a handle on the reins next to Charles in the front of the wagon. You've seen him watching the sunset before; he always looks so peaceful those evenings at camp, and you often wonder what he thinks about in those few minutes before the horizon is painted in pastel hues.

Karen starts singing a song that everyone eventually joins, and before you know it, you're pulling up in front of the Rhodes Parlour House. You can already hear the piano and a few voices from outside; the sound of it stirs something in your soul that makes you long for the familiarity of home, but you quickly shove it aside in favor of the company of your new family.

“Madam.” Arthur's voice brings you out of your thoughts and back into the present, where he waits at the back of the wagon with his hand extended to you. You beam at him, and he feels dizzy. And when your soft hand fits into his, he straightens his knees so they don't buckle and betray him.

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirts to step out onto the dirt road.

Arthur leans in, dangerously close to your ear. You can smell the whisky and cigarettes on his breath, along with the faint tang of gunpowder and hair pomade. “You sure do look nice in that dress.”

You demure and fan yourself with your hand. “Just how much have you had to drink already tonight?” you giggle.

“Ahh, just a little nip to take the edge off.”

“Mm-hm. Sure, Arthur. Whatever you say.”

The night starts off relatively calm, as most nights do. You and the other girls find an empty table to sit and pick up on the town gossip, and the men start a hand of poker. It grows loud and crowded sometime around midnight, and it's hard to have a conversation without shouting over the din of voices, the clink of glass bottles, and the slow drag ragtime music from the piano. The ambiance is charming and lighthearted, and there are even a few couples drunkenly dancing on the porch.

You push back in your chair and find that when you stand, you're a little more wobbly than you thought you would be. The alcohol has loosened you more than you realize, and you grip the table for support until you feel a firm arm around your waist. “Whoa there.”

It's Arthur, who has won the last round of poker and has come to check in on you and the other ladies. You're pulled tight against his chest for one fleeting moment, and you look up into his eyes. He, too, seems drunk, with his eyes gleaming and drooping at the corners, his smile easy and his cheeks flushed.

“My knight in shining armor,” you slur, pretending to faint in his embrace. He only pulls you tighter against him, both of his broad hands splayed across your back. You laugh, and he smiles.

“You weren't getting another drink, were ya?” he questions with a raise of his brow.

“‘m thirsty,” you whine, lifting your empty glass entirely too close to his face. It knocks against his nose, which sends you into another fit of laughter.

Arthur takes your wrist– gentle but firm– and lowers the glass away. “Think you need to drink something that's not whiskey,” he drawls. You can't help but watch the way his lips form around the words; the slip of his tongue between his teeth, the way his mouth turns up into the hint of a smile when you pout. Before you can think too long and hard about it, you lunge forward and kiss him. Hard and clumsy and impulsive. You don't give him time to react. You're far too involved in the kiss to notice, but the girls at the table behind you have all gone silent. Arthur slides his hand along the side of your face and presses his fingers upon the nape of your neck, kissing you back like he really means it. (He really does.)

You pull back suddenly, breathless and reeling, swiping the back of your hand over your mouth. You're still held firm in his embrace, but the playfulness in his gaze has been replaced with an intensity that makes your knees weak all over again.

“What'd ya do that for?” he asks.

“Could ask you the same thing.”

“Well, you started it.”

“And you finished it.”

“Oh, I ain't finished with you, yet.”

“That a promise or a threat?” Your pulse is thumping wildly in your ears.

“Ya know, they got rooms upstairs for that!” Sadie shouts. There's a ripple of laughter across the table. Arthur's hand on your cheek feels like a brand, his arm about your waist an anchor. The rest of the room comes back to you in a woozy blur, and you look around, a little lovestruck and a whole lot drunk. Arthur's lips at your temple make your eyes flutter shut, and the room fades to black as tIt'weight of you slumps against him. He staggers only slightly, but holds you firm, chuckling softly.

“It's a promise,” he whispers.

You come to some hours later. Your mouth is dry as the desert, your head feels like lead, your skin broken out in a cold, uncomfortable sweat. At some point, it seems you were covered with a downy soft blanket, and the pillow at your head is much more fluffy than the makeshift one you made out of a bedroll at camp. At first, you think you're dreaming. Then, you wonder very briefly if you're back at your childhood home in Saint Denis. You almost call out to your mother when you hear a soft snore from the other side of your bed.

The room spins when you turn your head, and you rub your eyes until Arthur comes into focus. He's sprawled in an armchair a few feet away. His arms are crossed over his chest while his chin is tucked into his chest. Off to the side, you spy his boots; his big toe pokes through a hole in his sock and you smile at how vulnerable he looks.

“Arthur,” you whisper, shifting slightly as you pull the blanket up around your chin.

He grunts and lifts his head slowly. He frowns a little at first, but when he focuses on you lying there, so close he could reach out and kiss you again like he did last night, there's a slow, easy smile that spreads across his face.

“Hey there, party girl. You feeling alright?”

You could kick yourself for all the giggling you've done around him lately, but you can't help it. He brings out something giddy and downright foolish inside you, so you toss a pillow at him and bury your face in the sheets.

“Aw, come on now. I'm just messin’ with ya.” He leans forward and rubs your head affectionately. “I'd say you were feeling pretty good last night.”

It's in that moment a white-hot jolt of sheer panic shoots down your spine. Quickly, you check to make sure you're still wearing clothes. Aside from your breasts being a little lopsided in the confines of your bodice, you're relieved to find that your dress is still intact and– more importantly– on your body. You dare another peek at Arthur and notice that his shirt is unbuttoned down to the middle of his chest and he's discarded his vest somewhere, but he, too, is fully clothed. Thank the good Lord above.

You must've said that last part aloud, because Arthur laughs. “Don't worry, nothing happened. Though it weren't for lack of tryin’ on your part,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought I was gonna have to lock you in here like some feral cat till you settled down.”

Oh. Oh Lord. You try to recall what happened that led you to this room, but all that comes to mind is a lot of loud conversation, some dancing, a spilled drink across Sadie's lap, and Arthur's hand on the side of your cheek. “Oh…”

Now you remember it in vivid detail.

“Didn't know you cared for me like that,” he says. It's earnest and tender, a few shades less intense than the kiss you now recall, the one where it felt like he wanted to eat you alive right there in the middle of the saloon. Now, he thumbs your cheek and looks at you so fondly you swear your heart jumps right up in your throat. “I mean, I'd been hoping. Wasn't sure you was looking for a romance.” He huffs a short sigh, frustrated with himself. “Aw, hell, what am I saying? ‘Course you weren't. You're just looking to survive, just like the rest of us, and here I–”

“Shut up,” you say, taking hold of his hand and tugging him closer. He resists until you pull even harder, watching the fire in your eyes blaze to life. “You talk too much, Yankee.”

“I ain't no damn–”

“Kiss me.”

He's over you in an instant; you're pressed flat against the bed, completely and totally at his mercy. This kiss feels different than the drunken one last night. It's sober and honest, if not a little hesitant, as if he's holding himself back from devouring you wholly. The warmth of his body against yours takes your breath away. Or maybe it's the way his tongue laves heavy into your mouth, unashamed of how badly he craves the taste of you. You grip his hair at the roots and tug him down to kiss him harder, lifting your upper body to meet him until he presses down, his chest flush with yours.

Things get heated quickly.

His mouth moves across your cheek, down your neck, and he groans against your skin, rutting his cock against your thigh. You fleetingly wish that he had managed to get you out of that dress before he presumably tucked you into bed and passed out in that chair, because there’s a whole lot of fabric between you and him that really pisses you off right now. Arthur must feel much the same, because he’s bunching your skirts up past your knees while you’re fumbling with his belt buckle, desperate to feel him against you, inside you. It’s clumsy and crazed, rushed and rough, but you manage somehow to shuck off every last bit of your clothes and his until you’re breathless and so, so eager beneath him.

“Need you now,” you whine. You feel insane. Dizzy and dehydrated, impossibly turned on, every nerve ending on fire when his callused hands grip the fat of your thighs and open you to him.

“Greedy little thing, ain’t ya?” One of his hands slips between your legs to find you wet and swollen. He presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and pushes a finger inside you; the sound you make nearly has him finishing there on the sheets, so he wastes no time in getting himself as close to you as humanly possible.

“Never wanted something so bad,” he murmurs into the dip of your shoulder. He wants all of you– all at once– wants to fuse his hands against your skin and sink himself into you so deep that it would be impossible to tell where he ends and you begin. The heat from his body takes away what little breath you have left, his mouth on each part of your body building the buzz in your chest until you feel like you might just burst open. You grabbed at each other like it was the first and last time you might have this opportunity, as if you wanted more than what the other of you was able to give.

Considering the kind of life you’ve both led so far, it’s a good possibility that you might never get to do this again.

“Give it to me,” you plead, opening yourself further to him, fingers wrapped firm around the base of his cock. “Please.”

Arthur Morgan is a man of incredible strength and self restraint, except when it comes to a woman like you.

There’s nothing gentle about the way he takes you. It’s primal, sweaty, filthy, rough. Arthur pushes as far inside you as he can go, then pushes further when you beg for more. He cups your knees with slick palms and presses you open as far as you can bend; you tug roughly at his hair and bite down on his shoulder when the pleasure builds to a blinding ferocity. The wooden bedframe knocks angrily against the wall with each thrust, but you can’t bring yourself to care if anyone hears. You can’t focus on anything beyond the feeling of him filling you with every stroke of his cock, of the taut, corded muscle in his back and shoulders as you grapple to hang on as tight as you can. Your orgasm hits your hard and fast, and he encourages you through it, taking his time to give you long, controlled strokes. It’s as pleasurable for him as it is for you. “‘Atta girl,” he rasps, lips moving against your ear. Your hand flies to your mouth to muffle your cries, but he pulls it away and threads his fingers with yours, pressing it onto the pillow. “I wanna hear it.”

Your moans are what drive him over the edge.

He buries his face against the side of your neck, panting heavily as he comes, driving into you so hard that you can almost feel the mattress beneath you begin to sag under the weight. You cradle his head in your hands and link your legs around his waist, boneless and languid in the aftermath of your own pleasure. When he moves, you move with him, riding out the waves together until you’re both too tired to move another muscle.

Neither of you speak for a while. He lies on his back with an arm around your shoulders while you curl against him, tuned into his heartbeat and swirling little patterns into the hair on his chest. It’s comforting to feel him next to you, to watch his chest rise and fall as he steadies his breathing, to soak up the warmth of his skin against yours.

You’re the first to break the silence. “Did everyone else go back to camp last night?”

Arthur nods slowly. “Something tells me they planned all this.”

“Planned it? You mean…” You lift your arm slowly and flick your wrist to acknowledge the room you’re laying in. “This?” You lift your chin and grin at him. “Or getting us together?”

“Room was paid for before I even had a chance to ask if they had one,” he explains. “Think it was Mrs. Adler.”

You vaguely recall her shouting something about a room after you kissed Arthur last night, and you shake your head. “You complaining?”

He turns to his side, draping an arm across your hip. “Me? Never.” You’re suddenly pressed beneath him once again; from the looks of it, you won’t be getting out of this bed anytime soon. “Specially when I’ve got you here to help me keep warm.”

[gay-dorito-dust]

Just some big three pjo things I think about.

Percy -the little shit- would absolutely utilise his ability of water to mess with you.

100%

If you leave a water bottle unopened, expect Percy to surge what little water was left inside to spray you when you’re going in for a drink. Leaving you soaked and glaring at the boy across the camp.

He thinks he’s funny but he’s really not.

You can’t even try to do this back to him as it usually results in it being thrown back in your face, literally as you’re reminded that this dude can walk into waist deep water, and miraculously come back as dry as he was before entering.

So needless to say you keep your water bottles tightly shut when you’re near Percy in case he’s feeling funny that day or has that certain gleam in his eye.

Percy can’t be trusted near uncapped water bottles, it’s a rule to never leave Percy near them or be within sight of any un opened water bottles.

Percy is not allowed to participate in watergun fights…for very obvious reasons and even if he does, the bastard had to be prohibited from using his powers at all during the watergun fights!

Everyone else in camp will be soaked and he would be dry as fuck, everyone calls it cheating but Percy calls it otherwise. Smug little twat.

Also don’t imagine Percy using the water out of an water bottle to douse you and when your chasing him, ready to kill him, his excuse is that ‘it’s a hot day in camp and I thought you could cool off a little!’ As if that was going to save him from the ass whooping your about to give him.

Nico has silent footsteps.

He can travel through shadows.

This is a recipe for disaster as he can easily scare you without having to try all that hard. And it’s the worst feeling ever.

He won’t know just how silent his footsteps are until you point it out to him or else he’ll think that he’s more than made his arrival known. (He absolutely didn’t)

Nico could emerge from the shadow nearby and walk up to you and casually say ‘hey’ and you’ll almost come out of your own skin when you realised the pale Italian in the aviator jacket next to you.

‘Fucking hell Nico’ you’d groan as you grasp your chest, trying to calm yourself down from the initial scare. ‘Warn me next time.’ You would add and Nico would only look at you as though you had grown a second head.

He had no clue what you were on about but would continue his day like he would any other, doing the same exact thing to other campers and getting the same exact reaction he got out of you too many times to be coincidental.

Even when he’s not shadow traveling, his footsteps are quite enough to have you believe that he had just appeared out of nowhere, and not walked the entirety of camp just to tell you something.

‘You’ve got to stop popping up out of nowhere.’ You tell him.

‘I’m not doing anything!’ He’d reply.

‘You’ve got silent footsteps Nico! Can’t hear shit when you’re creeping up on me, do you want me to die?’ You’d say and all of sudden everything made sense to Nico as to why everyone seemed to be unable to notice him until he was standing nearby.

‘Oh.’ He’d say. Does this change anything? No not really as Nico finds it funny to see people get scared. It’s made even funnier when on Halloween when everyone is done telling their scariest stories.

Jason tends to electric shock people, not on purpose, it just happens without warning.

I’m talking rubbing your hands on a carpet super fact and touching someone’s arm, or rubbing a balloon against yourself and watching in awe as it makes the hairs on your arms stick up.

However he didn’t need to rub his hands on a carpet to give someone an eclectic shock, he can just reach out to you and make it happen.

You could just be reaching for his hand and zap! You’ve been given an electric shock by Jason grace! You flinch back to rub your hand and Jason thought you were hurt and was already reaching out to you to help when-

You guessed it another electric shock happens.

It doesn’t hurt, you’re not in any pain but still you were being zapped at the end of the day.

Jason isn’t aware of this ability until afterwards and he’s just as confused as you and will not reach out for you for a while until he’s certain he won’t shock you.

Which is a solid 50/50. It happens when he least expects it or it can strike twice if you were the unlucky soul to get an electric shock back to back.

Guess it’s a weird perk of being the child of Zeus.

[storiesforallfandoms]

nature trip ~ sergei "kraven" kravinoff;marvel

word count: 2675

request?: no

description: in which she's on a camping trip to explore and connect with nature, and she doesn't expect to run into anyone else

pairing: kraven x female!reader

warnings: swearing, one use of y/n, scary encounter with a jaguar but no one is harmed, mentions of cheating

masterlist (one, two, three)

My friends thought I was crazy when I told them I was going to northern Russia for a nature trip. Of all the places to go, they said, why would I want to go to Russia? Nobody understood that there was some of the most beautiful places in Russia, places that were hardly ever explored because everyone thought the same way as my friends did. Going there meant it was way less likely for me to run into anyone else. I could explore on my own, take in nature, reconnect with it. It's what I needed after the last few months.

My first night was very peaceful. I had set up camp far enough in a wooded area that, on the off chance anyone else was around, they wouldn't come across my camp. It was a warm enough night that I didn't need to have the extra cover on my tent and I could watch the stars before I drifted off to sleep. I woke up early enough to make myself breakfast from the small amount of food I had brought with me, pack up my camp, and set off to explore.

That is when things became much less peaceful.

I had found a trail to take. I was considering taking a break anyways. I had been walking so long that my legs were starting to hurt, and my water bottle was starting to run empty. So, I was in search of any body of water I could fill my bottle with and could sit down next to, when I heard the low growl.

I stopped. When there was no follow up noise, I was sure I had imagined it. But then I heard rustling, and then I saw the jaguar.

She was large, even at such a distance I could tell. She was low to the ground, stalking towards me; a predator stalking her prey. My heart was pounding so hard. I knew she could hear it. Predators knew when their prey was afraid, after all.

I knew coming across wildlife was likely. I thought it was something I'd be prepared for. But in that moment, I had never felt less prepared. My only thought was fight or flight, but I knew I'd never win a fight with a jaguar, and I likely wouldn't out run one either. I was completely helpless, with a large, snarling jaguar inching closer to me.

Suddenly, I wasn't alone. I thought I had imagined hearing more rustling, but then someone was stood in front of me. It was a man, and I truly had no idea where he came from. I could've sworn I was the only person out here. There hadn't been another campsite as far as I could tell.

He was stood between the jaguar and I, almost shielding me from her.

"Back down, girl," he said. His voice was both gentle and stern somehow. "This is not an enemy."

The jaguar lowered herself to the ground. She was still on alert, but it seemed like she was trusting this man. Her eyes kept flickering between us, a slight snarl still curled on her lips.

"Hey!" The jaguar's eyes snapped to him. "She's good. She's not here to hurt anyone. Walk away."

Her eyes found me again. I felt like she was studying me. I felt the need to shift so she could see my camping gear and understand that I wasn't going to hurt her. Not that she needed that reassurance. I'm sure we both knew she could easily take me down if she wanted to.

To my surprise, the jaguar rose from her crouched position. She kept her eyes on us as she stalked back into the woods.

The man turned to face me. It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. I couldn't understand what he was saying because his voice was muffled, but he was right in front of me. The edges of my vision was starting to go black. Next thing I knew, the man was rushing to catch me as I fell to the ground. My vision went black before I hit the ground.

~~~~~~

When I came to, it took me a while to remember what had happened. When it all came back to me, I sat up quickly. I had expected to find myself still on the ground in the woods, but instead I was laying on something soft; a bed. I looked around to see I was no longer in the woods, or even in my tent. I was in some sort of building, rounded and made completely of windows.

And I wasn't alone.

I jumped when my eyes landed on a man stood in the doorway. It took me a second to remember who he was.

"Good morning," he said, a light tone in his voice. "Are you feeling alright?"

I nodded. "What - uh - what happened?"

"You passed out," he explained. "It must've been the adrenaline wearing off from your run in with the jaguar. Or the shock kicking in. It's not an unusual reaction to have."

I tensed a little when he started to approach me. He noticed and stopped. He held something out to me, and that's when I realized he had been holding my water bottle, and he had filled it.

I reached out to take it from him. "Thanks."

The feeling of the cold liquid was refreshing. I downed nearly the entire bottle in one go.

I capped the bottle and looked back to my savior. "And thank you for saving me out there. How did you do that, though? I mean...she was a wild animal, and you just...talked her down."

"I have a way with animals," he answered, shrugging as if it were that simple.

I narrowed my eyes at him. I wasn't about to argue when it came to how he saved my life, but it didn't mean I couldn't be skeptical. How was someone able to speak to a wild animal to stop it from attacking? Even if he "had a way with animals", no one was that good with any animal.

"My name is Sergei, by the way," he said. I mentally noted his quick change in subject.

"(Y/N)," I said. "Where are we?"

"My home."

I looked at him with wide eyes. "You live out here?"

He chuckled. "It's that hard to believe?"

"Kind of. I did research about this place before my trip and there was nothing about anyone living out here."

"I like to keep it that way. Less people bothering me."

"Except for campers who run into angry jaguars."

He nodded, an amused smile on his face. "Yeah, except for campers who run into angry jaguars."

There was an awkward moment of silence. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to do now. I guess I should've been planning to leave. After all, Sergei only saved me and brought me here because I had fainted. I wasn't supposed to be a guest or anything. But I wasn't exactly jumping to go back out into the woods again. I knew I would have to eventually, but the encounter was still too fresh in my mind.

Sergei broke the silence by saying, "I made food if you're hungry."

My stomach rumbled in response. We both laughed and Sergei gestured for me to follow him. I stood slowly from the bed, testing my ability to stand and walk after having been laid down for so long.

I couldn't believe how big Sergei's place was. I still didn't understand how he was able to live in secrecy like this. There was no way nobody had ever come across his place before. A giant dome home in the middle of nowhere was certainly enough to even just be added to a "trivia" section on Wikipedia when researching the area.

"I hope you like fish," Sergei was saying, snapping me from my trance. "The only other thing I have is some vegetable made food if you don't."

"I can eat fish," I said. "Do you gather your own food?"

"I catch fish to eat, and I have a garden," he explained. "I don't go after any of the other wildlife out here. I don't eat any meat."

"Just fish."

He gave me a look. I would've thought I had offended him, but there was a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "I don't get along with fish as well as I do other animals."

He passed me a plate of his self caught, homecooked fish, as well as some of his home grown vegetables. To say I was impressed would be an understatement. I couldn't remember the last time I had ever met someone who was this self sufficient. I mean, I had one friend who had a garden, but she mainly grew a few carrots and strawberries. Sergei seemed to be completely living off the land.

I took a mouthful of the meal Sergei had given me. It was delicious, and a much needed change from the protein bars and other smaller foods I had taken with me.

"What were you doing out in the woods anyways?" Sergei asked me.

"Camping," I responded.

He raised an eyebrow at me. "In Russia?"

I nodded. "I was looking for somewhere that other people don't typically go to. Somewhere that I could be by myself and get in touch with nature."

"And you didn't prepare for the event of running into dangerous wildlife."

I looked down at my plate as I shrugged. There was something about admitting how unprepared I was for that situation that kind of made me embarrassed, although I wasn't sure why. Who is ever really prepared to run into a jaguar? Besides Sergei, apparently.

"I knew it was likely," I said. "I guess I just didn't fully prepare myself in the event of it happening."

More silence fell over us. I could feel his eyes on me, studying me the way the jaguar had. I didn't want to meet his eye, though. I was feeling a little intimidated, just as I had when the jaguar had been watching me so closely.

"Most people go to Canada to camp," he pointed out. "Or like...Australia."

I scoffed. "You saw how unprepared I was for a jaguar. You really think I was ready to go toe to toe with snakes and giant spiders?"

He chuckled. "No, I guess not."

"Besides, like I said, I wanted to go somewhere that other people weren't going to go to. Somewhere that I could just...be alone. That I could reconnect with nature and clear my head."

Sergei hummed. "There's a story there."

I dared to look up at him, trying to glare. I hadn't noticed before - mainly because I was fearing for my life - but he was an incredibly handsome man. His dark hair a little long and unruly, but not in a way that made him look a mess or anything. It made him more appealing, actually.

"There's a story as to why you're living all the way out here on your own and keep a low enough profile for no one else to know you're here," I retorted.

He nodded. "There is."

I kept looking at him, expecting him to go on. Not that he owed me an explanation or anything, just like I didn't owe him one for why I was on a nature trip the furthest away from society that I could get. But I'd be lying if I said my interest wasn't piqued.

He was looking back at me, though, the same look on his face.

I sighed. "My story is boring."

"Who says mine isn't?"

"I have a hunch there isn't much boring about you."

He smiled, but he didn't say anything else. I knew he wasn't going to back down. So, because my curiosity to know more about Sergei was killing me, I rolled my eyes and said, "I've had a rough few months."

He shook his head. "You gotta give me more than that."

I let out another sigh. "I found out my boyfriend of a year was cheating on me with someone from his work for six months. He dumped me and immediately started flaunting around his relationship with her. And the way I found out was because I was passed over for a promotion I had been promised weeks ago in favor of someone else who hasn't been with my company even half as long as I have, so I was driving over to his place for comfort and found him fucking someone else instead. Oh, and then my fish died."

"Jesus," he breathed.

I nodded. "Yeah. So...your turn."

He hesitated. For a second I thought he wasn't going to tell me, and I was going to remind him that I had just dumped my trauma on him so it wasn't fair to not tell me his. Finally, he said, "I needed to get away from my dad."

I looked at him for a moment before gesturing for him to continue."

"He wasn't a good man. He...he did terrible things. To my mom, mainly, but also to my brother and I. I was sick of it. This place used to belong to my mom, so I ran away from home one night and came here. I keep a low profile so my dad can't find me here."

"That's a pretty far distance to run."

"The further the better."

I stabbed at the food on my plate. Suddenly I was not feeling as hungry as I was before. Something about exchanging traumas left a sour taste in my mouth.

"That's why there's no record of anyone living out this way," I said, mainly to myself but Sergei was nodding along anyways. "Has anyone ever found you out here?"

He shook his head. "I'm not found unless I want to be."

"And...you wanted me to find you?"

"Technically I found you."

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, yes, but you brought me back here. And don't say that's because I fainted, because you could've just stayed with me in the woods and left when you knew I was alright. You're okay with me knowing that you're here."

For the first time, Sergei turned away from me. Now it was him who was unable to meet my eye.

"I don't meet a lot of good people," he finally said. "Out here, there's a lot of poachers and hunters. There's never anyone who is just trying to connect with nature. You...intrigued me, for a lack of better words."

I almost wanted to laugh. This man was living off grid in Russia, in a huge sanctuary that once belonged to his mother. He was able to communicate with animals in one way or another, he was completely self sufficient, and, once again, he was probably the most gorgeous man I had ever laid my eyes on. And yet he was saying that I was the intriguing one, just because I wasn't trying to destroy the nature.

When my food was gone, I reluctantly pushed my plate towards him. "Thank you, again. For...well, everything. I guess...I should probably get back out there."

Sergei nodded. "I guess."

I went to stand, when he added, "Or you could...you could stay a bit longer. If you'd prefer. I know it's not exactly camping here, but...there's no jaguars."

"That's a pretty good sales pitch."

He smiled. "It's up to you, but I don't often get company out here that I actually like. I...I wouldn't mind getting to spend more time together."

I tried to seem nonchalant. I shrugged my shoulders, as if I couldn't be bothered with the decision making, and mumbled something along the lines of, "I guess I could."

But Sergei could see right through me. The look he was giving me was enough to completely shatter the facade. "I would love to stay, Sergei."

In fact, I didn't care if I ever left.

[polutrope]

For the birthday event... Maedhros, Maglor, the river Gelion? 👀❤️

also for @theghostinthemargins who requested Maedhros & Maglor, Himring

Maedhros & Maglor, a getaway on the Gelion. Rated G, 900 words. Written by @polutrope and @melestasflight. On AO3.

“Káno,” Maedhros said, voice dipping with displeasure on the second syllable, “do you mean to tell me you took me from overseeing the construction of the great gate of my new fortress… for a pond?”

“A pond?” Maglor laughed. “This is a glorious, crystalline swimming hole!”

“It is a hole, I’ll grant you that. You told me it was urgent.” Maedhros rubbed at the back of his neck and sighed noisily. “Stop laughing. I am not amused. We will have to make the journey back in the dark now, and the horses will be tired.”

“Not to worry!” Maglor patted his mare’s saddlebags. “I brought us all the necessaries for at least three days camping.”

“No!” cried Maedhros. “We are not camping! There is work to be done! Tomorrow the workmen are due to set the foundations of the north tower; I must be present to approve the plans of the tile-settings for the west kitchens — and before you say I can entrust that to Lostir, let me remind you of the pattern he approved for the crenellations — what is the matter with you?”

“The kitchens!” Maglor wheezed, doubled-over and clutching his stomach. “Crenellations! Oh! ho! Yes, yes, you had better be sure the kitchens are tiled to your liking, as I am certain you will be spending so much time in the kitchens!”

“I might. Once we are settled. Didn’t you say yourself that I should find new ways of 'expressing myself'?” Maedhros scowled. “And what if I am needed to assist with transporting stones from the quarry? It is good for the workmen’s morale if I participate in the labour.”

“Nelyo,” Maglor said, collecting himself. “Do you remember the year when Amil persuaded Atar to hire Rauron to oversee the restoration of the Mindon’s mosaics, so that he need not go into Tirion himself?”

“Yes,” said Maedhros, glaring. “And I know exactly where you are going with this. This is not like that. This is warfare, this is lordship, it is not mere… decorative restoration.”

“Decorative? It is good Atar cannot hear you now. But no, that is not what I was getting at. Do you remember, that time he took us with him to show us the project, how obvious it was to us — not to him, of course — how little the craftsmen appreciated his interference? Hóndil all but rolled his eyes right out of his head every time Atar turned his back.”

Maedhros went silent and looked away. Maglor waited. At last, he cleared his throat. “Do you think… ? I am not as bad as Father… ? Really?”

Maglor took several steps over the mossy riverbank to stand behind him. He gave his brother’s back three reassuring pats. “Yes, Nelyo. I’m afraid that is really how they feel about your participation. They respect you of course, immensely. But I fear if you do not leave them a little more space, where their expertise is concerned, it may wear away at their fondness for you. Besides,” he said, nudging Maedhros round to face him, “you have been working too hard. What good is a castle with strong foundations if its lord is brittle with cares?”

“I am not brittle,” Maedhros sneered, and shoved Maglor off him. But then his face broadened into a smile and he shook his head. “Fine, you make a strong case. I only wish you had not used deceit to bring me here.”

“There was no deceit!” cried Maglor. “The sky portends rain tomorrow – it was urgent that you visit this pool of the Gelion while the weather is pleasant.”

Maedhros dragged a long breath through his nose, then released it. “It is so quiet,” he said. 

Not so to Maglor: the Gelion bubbled and rushed and the wind rustled the grasses and the birds chittered in the trees, but he did not trouble to correct his brother. There is noise, and there is sound, and to many the latter is quiet. 

“I can hear myself think,” said Maedhros, “and I do not like it.”

There it was. “Yes, the mind will clamour rather loudly for attention when you have given it no opportunity to be heard for so long. But it will go away.”

Maedhros hummed his agreement.

“You know what helps?” asked Maglor, and winked.

“Cold water,” Maedhros answered, deadpan — and was well-prepared for Maglor’s assault, leveraging his much longer limbs to seize Maglor by the waist as he ran at him, then diverting the momentum to hurl Maglor directly into the pool, fully-clothed.

“You brute!” Maglor cried through his laughter, and swung his arms over a log that drifted near the water’s edge. 

“Repayment for your guile.”

“Fair,” said Maglor, and flopped lazily onto his back. He dipped down — the kicked as hard as he could, sending a spray of water into Maedhros’ face. “Now get in, you insufferable rat!”

“Watch how you speak to your lord!” Maedhros jested. 

Then he sat to pull off his boots and roll his trousers to his knees. Wading in, he hissed when his feet touched the water. Maglor drifted, without interfering, watching the lines of care slowly fade from his brother’s face as he surrendered to the waters of their new home.

[joelsprettyprincess]

Taming of the Shrew - Part 1

Pairing: dark!Arthur Morgan x f!reader Summary: After you finally call it quits on your on-and-off relationship with the outlaw, Arthur is forced to find a different way to make you stay. Series-wide tags: Toxic relationships, manipulation, obsessive behavior, smut, secretly unprotected piv, babytrapping, pregnancy, canon-typical violence, slight canon-typical misogyny. Wordcount: 3.3k A/N: I am very, very excited for yall to read this. It was so fun to write. Unfortunately I girlbossed a little too hard and it's almost 10k words. 😭So, this 'mini-series' will be split into 3 parts. As for accuracy, I did try, but the timeline is a little off. Just ignore that.. And what do we think of the series name?? Bonus points if you know the reference! I felt it was appropriate. Also, there is no smut until Part 2. Sorry! And as always MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. Tags: @dandelion-ranch @i-will-give-you-love @amaranth-writing @heloixe

Part 2 is out!

“Just leave me alone, Arthur!”

These words flew from your mouth like bullets that struck him in the chest.

“Excuse me?” he said in a low growl, stepping towards you. You were both by his tent in his gang's current camp, and it wasn't exactly isolated. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Kieran watching them curiously over by the horses.

You sighed, running a hand over your hair. “I'm just so tired of this.”

“Tired of what, exactly?” Arthur inquired dryly. He crossed his big burly arms and gave you an annoyed look.

“Everything, Arthur. The runnin’, the stealin’…the killing. I'm sorry, but I am not meant for a life like that.” You crossed your arms as well. A soft wind blew; inappropriate weather for the pressing conversation the two of you were having.

He came even closer. Those eyes…they were piercing yours with that discerning stare. “You say that like you've actually done any of it. I'm the outlaw, not you, sweetheart.”

You threw up your hands. “That's exactly the problem. If my daddy knew, he'd just about kill me, then hunt you down too. You know I can't…I can't…”

Arthur grasped your hand roughly, but you threw him off. You stomped away to where your horse was hitched, and of course he followed.

Arthur called your name, trying to stop you. Mary-Beth was watching you now too, but he didn't seem to care. Luckily most of the camp was out doing whatever it was this gang did for fun. Robbing, most likely, you thought, snorting.

“Quit the games,” Arthur spat. “We both know you're just gonna run back to me. You need me– and I need you. Don't leave.” 

“I most definitely do not need you, Mr. Morgan,” you snapped. “Why don't you go back to that Mary girl? I've seen them letters.”

A shadow passed over his face for just a second. “...Just go home. You are heartless, woman.”

You felt a little bad, but swallowed the feeling down. “I'm leavin', and I ain't coming back,” you cried, getting on your horse. “I've had enough of this gang's shenanigans. Don't come near me neither. I can't guarantee I won't let my daddy shoot you.”

With those cold parting words, you sneered at him and rode off towards Rhodes.

Regret sat like a pit in Arthur's stomach as he watched you leave Clemen's Point. Relationships were like a curse in the Van Der Linde gang. Inevitably they would be struck by death or divisiveness. Arthur had tried hard not to fall into the same patterns, but it seemed his loves were doomed from the start.

He paced around camp as he decided what to do. You and him had not been together long, only perhaps 3 months had passed since he first crossed paths with you at the saloon. 

You'd looked so out of place, sitting stiffly at a table in the corner with your maid. He'd watched you down a cup of brandy and immediately start coughing. It was clear you weren't used to the rough environment of a bar.

Arthur decided then, that he would show you.

And show you he did. You were initially attracted to his shadowy aura and western roughness, but spending more days with him revealed the genuinely caring man underneath. Arthur showed you so much of the world; he took you out for long horse rides through the forests, winding through the trees before making camp for the night and perhaps fucking before drifting off to sleep underneath the stars. 

He introduced you to a new way of life, one that was fading due to civilization, but exciting nonetheless. The first time you saw him shoot a man, you weren't sure whether to feel incredibly aroused or disgusted. Maybe it was a bit of both. Maybe the way of the outlaw was your path?

That is what you thought, until he brought you back to camp. It was a pretty bit of land, flat and grassy, but the people were something else. The men were loud, stinky, and violent, and the women were like men themselves. They all knew how to shoot, to steal, to survive. 

And you didn't. You were a wealthy girl; your father made his fortune in oil. You'd slept on a bed with silken sheets almost your whole life, and the closest you had come to a gun was looking at the ones your father had on display in his office.

Your mother was a society lady, obsessed with gossip and flirting with the help.

Both of your parents disgusted you, but you knew the privilege you had. You were their only child and therefore would receive a sizable inheritance upon your father's death. As cruel as it seemed, that was the only reason you tolerated them.

However, this was now threatened by your romance with one of the most wanted men in the country. Of course, you hadn't known he was wanted so badly when you first met. It wasn't until he had shot that bounty hunter that he'd told you the truth.

“I've got a price on my head,” he admitted to you while cleaning off the blood at a nearby stream. “A pretty big one.”

“How big?” you'd asked, sitting on the grass near him.

He dabbed at his shirt with a damp rag. “Er, about…five thousand dollars.” He mumbled that last part.

You whipped your head up. “Excuse me?”

“Five thousand dollars,” he repeated gruffly. “I know, I know.” He chuckled. “You can turn me in, if ya want.”

“Arthur,” you exclaimed, standing up. “That's…that's just so…who are you?!”

“Just somebody who's made a lot of dumb choices over the last 20 years. Listen, sweetheart, it's fine. I been runnin’ all this time and they ain't caught us yet.”

“Yet,” you said, then paused. “So…you killed a lot of people, then?”

He shrugged. “You really wanna know?”

“Good point.”

You weren't willing to completely submerge yourself in the pool of crime,  and Arthur couldn't quite blame you for it. He knew you were a society heiress, destined to hold luncheons, not revolvers. 

But that did not stop him from trying. Would not. That thing with Mary…well, he didn't like to think about that. It would not happen again.

Arthur jogged across camp to his horse…then realized that following you was probably not a good idea. You were angry right now, and you would cool off eventually, but right now you probably needed some space.

He sighed. Dutch was right. Women had so many needs. 

Arthur spent the rest of the day doing chores around the camp, plotting and thinking. And his thoughts got angrier and darker as time went on. Who did you think you were, anyway? Refusing Van Der Linde's most trusted associate? One of the most feared men in America? You were so uppity, with your silk dresses and thoroughbred horse. 

He slammed his axe down on the chunk of wood in front of him, frowning deeply and squinting his eyes against the sunset. Perhaps he should just tie you to his horse and bring you to Tahiti with the gang. Maybe then you would lose that damn attitude.

Arthur hit the wood so hard it burst into pieces, going everywhere. He grunted, then dropped the axe to the ground and trudged over to his cot. 

He could not pretend like your passionate declaration was unwarranted. You had seen the gang do violent things, things that made you think that being a sheltered rich girl wasn't so bad.

But the taste of freedom kept drawing you back like a drunkard asking for one more shot. You liked how the gang didn't answer to anyone but themselves, not dominated by any law or person or expectation.

It was a war of ideals, and his side was nearly out of ammo. Arthur really couldn't offer you anything but his love. It was no wonder you were running back to your parents. 

But his love was deep as an ocean, and as all-consuming as one too. After Mary closed the book on their romance (or was it just a fling to her?) forever, Arthur had been sullen and angry for a while. He swore he wouldn't let any woman make a fool of him again.

And then he met you. You, who was even richer than Mary, with twice as much sass and the same sweet Southern accent. You were drawn to each other like a ring of oil and a match. 

It was a love that was sure to burn and destroy.

Arthur slept fitfully, still angry at your rejection. He was hoping you were just caught up in the heat of the moment, but if you weren't, well…he would cross that bridge if he came to it. Tomorrow he would visit your father's manor.

After leaving Clemen's Point, you rode your horse back to Rhodes, fighting tears. That man! Arthur was an enigma sometimes. He was a stupid man if he thought you would really give up your life for him. No matter how handsome and broad-shouldered he was…

You were not returning though. You had a bad habit of pushing Arthur away, then coming back within a week. The two of you had an unpleasant cycle of affection: after you inevitably returned to his arms, he would act kind enough, then subtly become more obsessive and manipulative and suffocating until you’d had enough. He never chased after you too hard, knowing you would be back. 

And you always were.

Just before this latest rejection, Arthur had been angry because you didn't express much interest in learning to shoot.

“‘S not like we'll be sending you on missions or anything. Just think you should be able to defend yourself, is all,” was his reasoning.

“I thought you would protect me?” you had countered. He'd promised you wouldn't have to lift a finger if you stayed with him, that he would do everything for you.

“An’ I intend on doin’ that,” he insisted. “But it don't hurt to know how to use one. You see Molly? She don't know how to do much of anything, and you see how Dutch treats the girl. I don't want that for us.”

“It just feels like you misled me,” you huffed, smoothing off your riding dress. “I didn't know this lifestyle was so…so…”

“Well, newsflash, sweetheart,” Arthur said snarkily. “We survive out here. Ain't no oil money for us to fall back on. If that's the way you feel, then, just leave, ‘cause you obviously hate me.”

“Arthur!” you chided him. “You know I love you–”

“You sure?” he cut in. “It sure seem like you just came here lookin’ for a good time. I've bared my soul for you, and you can't even do this one thing for me.” He shook his head, disappointed.

That had set you off and caused you to take your leave, yet again.

But this time it was really going to stick. You were done running around with a criminal, especially since your parents were starting to notice how often you were absent. And if Arthur came around, well, you'd get your father to shoot him!

Arthur woke up early the next morning, still feeling annoyed from yesterday. The snooty look you had given him when you got on your horse pricked his mind like a thorn. 

He needed you…to behave. To submit. To love him. Violent feelings were coursing through his veins. This was different than with Mary. When she left, he'd let her go, knowing it was useless.

But you…you were different. You actually had an affinity for the lifestyle. Maybe you just needed…a little push?

He hopped on his horse and started towards your home. He was going to convince you, no matter what. Dutch was still talking about taking them to Tahiti. Arthur bet you would like it there, better than your stuffy manor, surely.

Arthur rode fast and hard. Usually he met you quite a ways away from the town to avoid anyone possibly seeing and recognizing you, so he'd only been around your home once or twice, which was north of Rhodes, near the Kamassa River.

He was really tired of this running around. You needed to commit, now, and stop the bullshit that kept spouting from your mouth.

A good bit of riding later and he slowed, seeing the stately silhouette of your manor. It always made him vaguely uncomfortable.

He hitched his horse nearby, then took up a position that would allow him to observe the front of the house without being seen. He just needed to talk to you.

Arthur was used to staking out locations for hours, so he settled in. You had never dared to sneak him into the house, so he wasn't sure which window was yours– but he would wait. Oh, yes, he would. You were not going to escape that easily.

After perhaps an hour and a half of watching the help come and go, Arthur finally saw you emerge from the house, alone. About time, he thought gruffly.

He hung back, waiting till you got on your horse and start towards town before quietly mounting his horse and following you.

Arthur waited till the path was isolated on either end, then easily rode up beside you. “Morning, sunshine,” he greeted you cheerfully.

You squeaked in surprise, then turned and looked. “Arthur?! What– what’re you doin' here?”

“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly. “You ran away so fast yesterday, didn't even give me time to defend myself.”

“Ain't nothing to talk about,” you replied. “We're done.”

“We ain't.”

“We are. Leave me alone.”

“This is what you want in life? Stayin’ in some giant empty home with cash to burn? No excitement or nothin’?”

“Maybe,” you said annoyedly. “What of it?”

“I know that's not what you want,” Arthur said firmly. “I gave your life meaning, and I'll be damned if you try to deny that!”

“You have no idea what I want, Arthur Morgan,” you snapped, riding faster. He kept pace with you.

“I know you want more than this. I know you love me…or at least, I thought you did. Maybe I'm a fool and you've just been using me this whole time. Is that it, princess?” he demanded.

“No, Arthur–”

“No, Arthur,” he repeated in a squeaky voice. “You always say that. I can't believe it! I've been such an idiot this whole time. You never loved me. You just wanted a– a chaperone. You women are such cunning creatures. I gave you my whole heart, and you just stomped on it.”

“Arthur!” you cried, feeling guilty and angry at the same time. “You know that's not true. You know I love you. But the truth is…if my father were to ever find out about you, he'd surely disown me, and cut me out of the will. How could I risk that?”

He snorted. “All you care about is money, huh? Listen to me, sweetheart. It doesn't matter if you get that inheritance or not. You'll be alone forever. You will never, ever find someone like me. No one else puts up with your bullshit like me. Maybe you'll find a nice enough banker, who'll give you a kid or two out of duty, maybe you'll live in this house and hold parties just like your mother. But you will never be fulfilled like you would with us. You'll be surrounded by fancy possessions, maybe, but you'll always regret not coming with me.”

“Arthur,” you said hoarsely, staring at the dirt path ahead. This is how he got you everytime. He knew your biggest fear was being unfulfilled in life. He knew, and he never hesitated to use that against you.

Arthur knew you like a priest knows sin. He'd listened to your confessions for days on end, and now he was using them to break you down.

“I…I…” It was difficult to articulate your thoughts. He was very skilled at making you feel bad.

Before you had a chance to answer, a shot rang out and a bullet zipped between you two. Your horse neighed loudly, reared, and you fell off with a shout. You fumbled, getting tangled in your skirts, trying to crawl away.

Arthur cursed, then vaulted off his horse to grab you and drag you to the nearest cover. He stowed you behind a large rock, then peeked over and started trading shots with whoever was trying to apparently kill him.

“Arthur Morgan!” a masculine voice called out. “Turn yourself in or we’ll be forced to put a bullet in you!”

“Who is that?!” you screamed, terrified. 

“Another damn bounty hunter, probably,” he grunted, switching to his rifle. “Just keep your pretty head down.” 

You covered your ears and cowered. A few shots later, and the only sounds remaining in the forest were your horse’s panicked neighs and Arthur’s labored breath.

He sheathed his rifle and wiped off his forehead, leaning his head against the rock. “You okay?”

“Barely,” you said angrily. “You see what I mean now? I can’t live like this, Arthur! I’m sorry! I can’t risk it.”

Arthur went silent for a bit, and you glanced over at him. He had his hat pulled down low to where you couldn't make out his expression. “I’m gonna see who was huntin’ me,” was all he said before getting up and going over to examine the bodies.

You had no desire to see any mangled corpses, so you stayed behind the rock while Arthur investigated. 

You heard a shout, then a sick groan. What the hell? You lowered your head even further.

Arthur came back a couple minutes later. “We’re clear,” he said. “Just some idiot who thought he could really capture me.”

He had blood on his hands and his shirt. That coupled with the sweat that was shining on his forehead, made him look kind of attractive to you. Wait, what? 

“He wasn’t quite dead,” was his explanation.

You shakily stood up, dusting off your skirts. “D-D-Don’t ever talk to me again, Arthur. I want nothing to do with this.”

Arthur examined you for a while, and you grew uncomfortable under his stare, but you looked right back at him.

He finally sighed and shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

You watched in disbelief as he got back on his horse and left, apparently riding back towards Clemen's Point.

What just happened? 

That little nymph. 

Arthur was internally raging, gripping the reins of his horse so hard it was sure to leave angry red marks on his palms. If it weren’t for that damned bounty hunter! He was sure he could have convinced you to come back.

This was going to require something more drastic. Something…serious.

He rode back to camp while he thought about it. Luckily things were pretty calm for now, besides those hunters. He hoped it wasn’t a sign of something urgent. Dutch and Hosea were working on locating some gold that apparently existed around these parts, and were opting for the long run instead of going in, guns blazing. That worked out for Arthur, who had no desire to leave you anytime soon.

The question was this: What would not only bring you back to him, but make you stay permanently? Hmm…some sort of pressing situation, obviously.

He couldn't threaten you; that would be a bad foundation for your relationship.

The untimely demise of your parents, maybe? No, you would most likely be sent to a relative’s house. 

Speaking of parents.

Arthur felt a good idea forming. He furrowed his brows in concentration.

Speaking of your parents…you had spoken about your fear of being disowned.

Would that push you back into his arms? If you had nowhere else to go, would you turn to him?

But under what circumstances would you be disowned? If he made an appearance on your estate, you would probably be disgraced but not disowned, and he would be shot on site with any subsequent visits.

He needed you so bad it fucking hurt. Even just the thought of never seeing you again made Arthur desperate enough to try even the craziest plan.

An inkling of an idea was taking shape…

Perhaps, instead of a death…maybe a birth?

End of Part 1.

[snowysosturn]

Fire & Desire - Matt Sturniolo Part 4

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Pairing: Y/n x Matt Sturniolo

Summary: Y/n has always clashed with Matt. Despite working for Chris’s clothing brand and being close with Nick, her relationship with Matt has always been tense at best. While being forced to be around each other more, their animosity turns into something deeper. Can they overcome their differences, or will their fiery emotions tear them apart?

Warnings: MDNI, angst, tension, toxic relationship, arguing

I woke up feeling groggy and disoriented. My eyes flickered open, it took me a minute to realise that I wasn’t in my room. Then it hit me, I was in Matt’s bed.

My heart sank, I sat up quickly, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, feeling a weird mix of comfort and awkwardness. Why did it feel so nice to be here?

I didn’t ponder on the thought for too long. Pushing myself up, I walked out of Matt’s bedroom. I sauntered into the living area, and there he was, sprawled on the couch, one arm resting lazily over the back of the couch, the other holding his phone. His eyes looked up as soon as he heard me approach.

“How are you feeling now?” he said, his voice low 

I stalled for a moment, still caught between the fog of sleep and the awkwardness of the situation. “Better..” I admitted.  “Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed.”

He shrugged, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips. “No problem. You needed the rest.”

The atmosphere in the room felt.. odd. Not in a bad way, just unfamiliar. Too nice. The kind of nice that would make you second guess everything. I scratched the back of my neck, trying to shake the feeling.

“I should go grab my sketch pad” I said quickly, breaking the silence. “I need to finish off some designs.”

Matt nodded, his expression unreadable as he watched me. 

I gave him a quick side smile before turning and heading up the stairs to my room. I flicked on the lights and my gaze shifted almost immediately to the corner of my room. A white AC cooler now plugged in, keeping the room at a perfect temperature. My eyes then fell to my bed. Sitting on top of the neatly made covers was an eye mask and a pair of earplugs, placed carefully as if someone had intentionally left them there.

I stood there in slight shock. “Did Matt do all this?” I muttered to myself, picking up the eye mask and turning it over in my hands.

Maybe this was Matt waving a white flag. A quiet, small gesture of goodwill to make things easier between us. Maybe it would actually be easy to live here now. It was almost like a weight lifted off my shoulders, cutting through the animosity between us. I should go thank him,

Eye mask still in hand, I turned to make my way back downstairs. But just as I reached the door, the sound of voices carried up the staircase. Chris and Nick were back from their day of meetings.

“I genuinely should be your Director forever” Chris’s voice was loud and triumphant, with a bit of arrogance. “I would make such an impact working at Space Camp!”

Nick laughed, his tone sarcastic. “You took a few photos, Chris. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I hesitated in the doorway, before walking down the stairs, all four of us now gathered in the living area, but I felt a shift in the atmosphere again. Matt immediately returned to his usual cold demeanor. He shot me an arrogant look. "Look who's finally out of bed"

I raised an eyebrow, questioning why he’d say that, especially since he knew how I was feeling, how he went out of his way, in multiple forms to try fix it. It felt petty.

Chris tilted his head, curious. "Did you sleep all day?"

I shook my head, brushing off Matt’s comment. "No, just a nap. I had a migraine earlier" I explained. "But I’ve nearly finished my sketches for the patches." I added, eager to prove myself.

"Nice!" Chris said with an approving nod. "Can you show me them?"

Nick flopped onto the couch beside Matt, giving me a quick smile. “Of course she nearly has them done, it's like witchcraft how she gets things done so fast.”

I smiled back faintly, trying to settle into the group dynamic, though Matt’s comment still lingered in the back of my mind. It was a reminder that even with small moments of truce, things could snap back to how they were in an instant.

’Yeah let me go grab them” I agree.

Before I can leave, Chris’ phone buzzes, the vibration loud enough to catch both of our attention. The screen lights up with a name: Nate.

Chris grins, already reaching for it. “Hold that thought. Nate’s calling. I gotta answer this first.” Without waiting for a response, he picks up and disappears toward the bathroom for privacy, leaving the rest of us in the room.

I wander upstairs ti grab my sketch pad, not wanting to sit in the awkwardness with Matt. I step over the AC cooler, carefully avoiding the tangle of wires on the floor, and grab the sketch pad from my desk. My hand lingers for a moment over the cover, my mind racing with everything I still need to finish. 

By the time I make it back downstairs, Chris has come back from the bathroom, grinning from ear to ear. His energy is even higher than it was before, showing a stark contrast to the tension that’s settled between Matt and I. Again.

“So, Nate’s in.” he says, sliding his phone into his pocket. 

I blink, caught off guard. “What?”

“Nate” Chris repeats, his grin widening. “Nick and I called him earlier and convinced him to come to Hawaii with us. He’s flying into LA tomorrow morning since there’s no other available flights, told him he could stay here while we’re in Vegas.”

“Wait, Nate’s coming here?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. He was only someone I met briefly once, but he seemed cool.

“Yup. He’ll crash here until we’re back, then fly with us to Hawaii.” Chris explains, looking proud of himself.

Matt perks up instantly, his face lighting up with a genuine smile, which around me was a rarity. “That’s sick!” he says, leaning forward with sudden enthusiasm. “This is gonna be good.”

I can’t help but notice the shift in Matt’s tone. It’s the kind of warmth and excitement he never seems to have when he’s talking to me. Amazing, really, how he can be so happy with five people in this house but act so cold when it’s just four.

I drop into the chair across from him, clutching my sketch pad a little tighter. The contrast stings more than I want to admit, why is he like this with me? I decide to focus on Chris instead, who’s still riding the high from Nate’s call.

Chris plops back onto the couch, gesturing toward the pad in my hands. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I even have the energy to go through the designs, but I set the sketch pad on the table and flip it open to the latest pages.

Chris leans forward, his expression genuinely interested as he studies the designs. “These are unbelievable” he says after a few moments, nodding in approval. “Exactly the vibe I was thinking. We’ll go over colorways tomorrow, but this is a solid start.”

“Great I was thinking adding letters into the patches too, all we need to decide on a font.” I say, but realistically my thoughts are already elsewhere. 

It’s hard not to feel like the outsider in this group sometimes, and Matt’s solely the reason. But then days like today confuse me, I catch myself thinking about the small things Matt has done, the AC, the earplugs, the eye mask, letting me sleep in his bed. Maybe I’m the problem?

I glance over at Matt, who’s back to scrolling on his phone, his expression unreadable. I sit back in my chair, flipping through the pages of my sketch pad while the idea lingers in my mind. I really should thank Matt for what he did, even if he’d probably just shrug it off or make some snide remark. Still, it feels right.

But how do I do it without the awkwardness? Without it becoming another weird, tension filled moment between us? Especially with other people around.

I pull out my phone and open the Uber app, scrolling through nearby stores. Target pops up, and I click on it, searching for something simple, like a Thank You card. I scroll past the overly formal ones and find one that feels more neutral, a plain white card with a gold "Thanks" embossed on the front.

As I add it to my cart, I pause for a moment, debating whether to leave it at that or add something else. A thank you card alone might come across as too formal, like I've not made that much of an effort. My finger hovers over the snack section before I give in and start browsing.

Matt isn’t exactly hard to read when it comes to his tastes. I’ve seen him tear through a bag of jelly worms during one of his late night streams, so I add a pack of those. Then a couple of chocolate bars for good measure. It feels like a decent enough gesture, casual, thoughtful, but not too over board.

I double check the delivery address and confirm the order. The app tells me it’ll be here within the next half hour. Perfect.

I glance across the room at Matt again. He hasn’t looked up from his phone, completely absorbed in whatever he’s scrolling through. Part of me wants to say something now, just to break the silence, but I don’t trust myself not to fumble over the words. This will be easier, quieter, but hopefully meaningful.

Chris, meanwhile, is still flipping through the sketches. “Seriously, you’re killing it with these” he says, his tone casual but genuine.

“Thanks” I reply, though my mind is still focused on the delivery.

About twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a notification: Your Target order has arrived. I slip out of the living area as discreetly as I can and head toward the front door.

The small brown bag is waiting at the door. I grab it quickly and head upstairs to my room, where I can put everything together without an audience.

I pull the card out first, grabbing a pen from my desk. I keep the message short:

Thanks for today, and the new bits for my room. I really appreciate it. - Y/n

It feels slightly awkward writing it, but at least it’s honest. I slip the card into its envelope and tuck it into the bag with the snacks.

Now comes the hard part. How do I get this to him without making it weird? After a moment of hesitation, I decide to leave it outside his bedroom door. He’s bound to come across it eventually, and it saves both of us the awkwardness of a face to face.

I wait until the living area clears out, Chris and Nick head to their rooms, and Matt disappears into his. Then, with the bag in hand, I quietly creep toward his door and set it down infront of the door.

Now all I can do is wait, and hope this can smooth out whatever tension is between us.

I head to my room and for once, the air feels bearable, thanks to the cooler Matt got me. I drop onto my bed, sighing into the quiet. I grab my phone, ready to set an alarm for the morning. My thumb hovers over the clock icon when a notification pops up at the top of the screen:

Thanks for ordering! How was your order? Tip Ethan.

I stare at it for a second, my stomach twisting. Ethan. God, that name. It feels like it’s haunting me, popping up when I least expect it.

I push the notification away reflexively, not clicking into the Uber app. I set my alarm and toss my phone onto the nightstand, my chest slightly aching. Why does something so small feel like a punch in the gut?

Shaking my head, I pull the blanket over me, turning onto my side. Tomorrow is a new day, I tell myself. A day to focus on work, on designs, on anything but ghosts from the past.

I close my eyes, hoping to let sleep take control.

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of my alarm blaring on the nightstand. I groan softly, but I force myself up, knowing I can’t afford to hit snooze. I stretch, pull on a hoodie, and head downstairs to the kitchen. The house is quiet, which I’m grateful for. Matt’s probably still asleep, and Nick doesn’t emerge before 10 if he doesn’t have to.

I make myself some scrambled eggs and toast, moving quickly around the kitchen, aware of the time. Chris and I have a meeting scheduled for 9am to finalize designs, and I’m thankful we get to do it here, at his kitchen table. 

Chris walks in just as I’m finishing my coffee. His hair is slightly messy, and he’s wearing a black hoodie and joggers, looking like he just rolled out of bed.

“Morning” he says, voice husky.

“Morning” I reply, offering a small smile.

He gets himself a soda, leans against the counter, and takes a sip. “Ready for this meeting?”

“As ready as I can be for 9am” I say, grabbing my sketch pad and laptop from the chair beside me.

We settle at the kitchen table, Chris leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against the edge of the table as we go over the color options. The table is scattered with swatches, mockups, and half drank liquids.

“So” he says, holding up a navy, white and red combo, “I think this one is clean. It’s classic, but it’s fresh.”

I nod. “Agreed. Navy, white and red always works.”

We scribble down notes on the mockup before moving to the next pairing. Chris points to a pink and red combination I’d suggested earlier. “I actually love this. It’s bold but not obnoxious.”

“Right? It’s kind of unexpected but still wearable” I reply. 

We continue debating until we settle on a full lineup: navy, white and red, pink and red, lilac and violet, and an all black option. 

“All black is always a hit” Chris says, jotting it down. “This is solid. I think we’ve got something here.”

We sit in silence for a moment, both of us looking over the finalized ideas. It feels good to have something concrete, a sense of accomplishment settling over me.

Before we knew it, everything was finalized and sent off to the manufacturer for samples. I was filled with a sense of relief and excitement.

“Alright” Chris said, pushing his chair back and standing up. “I’d better get going to the airport. Nate’s flight should be landing in an hour.”

As if timed perfect, Nick appeared at the bottom of the stairs, yawning and stretching dramatically. He leaned against the wall, still in his pajamas. “You’re heading to the airport?” he asked, his voice groggy but intrigued.

Chris nodded. “Yeah, to grab Nate.”

Nick’s eyes lit up. “Take me with you! I need breakfast. Please.”

Chris raised an eyebrow, looking skeptical. “You just woke up, and you want me to detour so you can fill your face?”

Nick clasped his hands together in mock pleading. “Yes! Please!. It’s a win win. You get company driving, and I get tater tots. Come on, you love me.”

I couldn’t help but smile at the exchange. Chris sighed, shaking his head in defeat. “Fine. But we’re not making a whole morning out of it. Quick stop and that’s it.”

Nick grinned triumphantly and darted back upstairs, calling over his shoulder. “Give me five minutes! I’ll be ready!”

Chris glanced at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s like a child sometimes.”

I laughed. “That’s rich coming from you.”

As Chris grabbed his keys and jacket, he paused. “You good here?”

“Yeah yeah, I’ve got plenty to do” I assured him as he headed out. 

A few moments later, I heard Nick bolting back down the stairs, still pulling on his Ugg’s as he followed Chris out the door.

Now that the chaos of work had settled, I decided to take a rare moment for myself. I sank into the L shaped couch, grabbing the remote and began catching up on some shows. For once, it felt like I could truly relax.

Then all of a sudden, I hear this loud, insistent pounding at the front door, completely shattering any calm I created. I froze, unsure of what to do. I didn’t like answering the door in general. Maybe it was just a delivery? But the pounding continued, more urgent this time. Should I get it? I hesitated, glancing at the empty stairs. I mean, I did live here now, sorta. If it was something important and it was missed, it would be on me.

I hopped up from the couch, cursing under my breath about how Matt should really be the one to deal with this. Each step down the stairs felt heavier as the pounding persisted. I reached the door and swung it open.

And there he stood.

Ethan.

Of all people, Ethan.

The world around me started to spin. His face was the last thing I expected to see. He looked rougher around the edges, but unmistakably him. For a moment, neither of us spoke, just staring at each other.

“Hey” he said, his voice steady, but his eyes searching mine.

“What.. are you doing here?” I finally managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I needed to see you” he replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

My instinct was to shut the door, panic and adrenaline coursing through my veins. My mind spun. How did he know I was here? Then it clicked in my brain.

The Uber notification.

He was the driver.

“Wait!” Ethan yelled, shooting his hand out to block the door before it could fully close.

“Ethan, what the fuck? What the fuck are you even doing here?” I hissed, trying to keep my voice low enough not to draw attention. 

“Just hear me out” he said, his tone becoming more insistent with every sentence.

“No. Absolutely not. You shouldn't even know where I am.”

His lips pressed together into a thin line, already getting frustrated. “It wasn’t intentional. I seen the name and recognised the address and I just couldn’t leave it so-”

“So you thought randomly showing up was a good idea?” I interrupted, my voice now raising.

Ethan sighed aggressively, leaning against the doorframe, his hand keeping the door open with his firm grip. “I didn’t come here to fight. I just.. I wanted to see you. We didn’t exactly end things on the best terms.”

I let out a pitiful laugh, trying to keep my composure. “And who’s fault is that?”

“Look” he said, his tone softening, “I know I fucked up, but I’ve been thinking about you. About us.”

I shook my head, stepping back trying to make the distance between us known. “Ethan, whatever you’re looking for, you’re not going to find it here. You’ve honestly lost it, showing up here like this. After everything you did? Trashing my apartment, stealing my things, making me homeless. You crossed every line.”

Ethan threw his hands up defensively. “I came here to talk. To explain.”

“Explain?” I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut. “Explain what? How you thought destroying my home was some way of winning me back? You’ve got to be fucking joking. I don’t want to hear it, Ethan. I just want my locket back. That’s it.”

Ethan’s expression darkened, and his voice dripped with venom. “You really are a bitch, you know that?”

His words hit me across the face, but I didn’t flinch. I’d dealt with his manipulation long enough to know how to stand my ground.

“Call me whatever you want. Just give me my locket.” I said firmly, trying to hold back tears longing for my locket.

Ethan smirked, taking a step closer. “I was going to give it to you. I really was. But not now. Not after you acting like this.”

I took a step back, my blood boiling. “Me? Acting like this? You’ve got some nerve, Ethan. Leave.”

He didn’t budge, his presence suffocating the space between us. I repeated myself, louder this time. “Go, Ethan. I’m serious. Leave. Now.”

But Ethan stayed firmly rooted in place, his defiance infuriating and almost threatening. Just as I was about to speak again, a voice came from behind me.

“She’s asked you to leave, kid.”

I turned to see Matt standing a few steps above me, his tone calm but carrying an unmistakable edge. His arms were crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed, but his eyes told a different story.

Ethan’s face scrunched. “This isn’t your business, man.”

“It is when you’re standing at my front door,” Matt replied, his voice low and steady. “She’s told you to leave. I suggest you do before this gets embarrassing for you.”

Ethan’s stance finally cracked, and with a final glare in my direction, he muttered something under his breath before stepping back.

“This isn’t over” Ethan said, pointing at me as he turned to walk away.

“Oh, it is.” Matt laughed after him.

The door clicked shut, and for a moment, silence filled the hallway.

“You okay?” Matt asked, his face softening as he looked at me.

I nodded, though my heart was still thumping. “Yeah.. Thanks for that.”

Matt shrugged. “No problem. Guy’s a fucking loser.”

I displayed a small smile, but the feeling of the encounter lingered. Ethan may have left, but his shadow loomed, reminding me that he wasn’t out of my life just yet.

As we walked up the stairs at the front door, the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the garage staircase. A second later, Chris, Nick, and Nate appear in the living area, their laughter bouncing off the walls.

Chris stopped mid laugh when he saw us standing there, his gaze flicking between Matt and me. “What’s going on?” he asked, his tone curious.

a/n: protective matt unlocked

taglist : @mattybearnard @sturn-33 @ncm9696 @yourfavsturniologirl @crazy4jewel @sodakid1234 @stupendoustreewinner @lovealwayssturniolos @matthewsturniolosss @m4ttsmunch @loveexxx @ilusa @starkeyszn @wonnieeluvvr @dylnblue @valxrieq @maggot3647 @cigarettecemetary @ribread03 @chrisstvrns @bandasaruswrx @noplaceissafeanymore @amexiass @witchofthehour @mattssgf @jetaimevous @v33angel  @ivysturnss @urmom69lol @ashlishes @watercolorskyy @sturnioloshottiekay @amelia-sturniolo3 @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @pvssychicken @alizestvrnss @chrisstxrnsaxe @sophand4n4 @vickytaa @marrykisskilled @bxtchboy69 @yourfavsturniologirl @julisturn @sydneyylainn @sophia-77n @trevorsgodmother @sturnslutz @yourmother29 @girl24cherry @astronea @pinkdyit

[iichfilwypj]

HII how are youu? I was just wondering if you could maybe write a part 2 of the "love at first sight" fic you just wrote! Its soo good but honestly it's fine if you cant :)

remember to drink water 💙

love at first sight? ² | percy jackson

part 1 ღ percy jackson x daughter of aphrodite! reader ღ warnings: a lot of tension!!! it gets a bit sexual but not that much i promise! no smut or anything,, ღ wc: 1.137 hii! i'm so late, but i hope you like it! sorry if you were expecting something else, i really didn't know how this could end except like this! i love u!

While waiting, Percy’s mind raced with possibilities. 

He pictured her stepping through the branches, as stunning as before, offering her name, and maybe even a kiss. 

Although, maybe the kiss was too much; a simple hand shake would suffice.

But then, doubts crept in—she might ghost him, turn out to be some monster trying to kill him, or show up with someone else.

The distant rustle of leaves drew his attention, one hand going to his pocket—for his new sword—and the other messing with his hair—to make sure it looked decent; you know, just in case.

Riptide remained untouched. A slender hand appeared, pushing them aside with ease to reveal what he had been waiting for. 

And she looked even more breathtaking than before. 

Her hair wasn’t all down anymore; half of it was tied up, a pink bow in it. Her cheeks were still adorned with the same soft pink flush, that shade that never seemed to fade. Her long lashes framed her eyes, and her lips—God, there was no doubt that some makeup had made them look perfect, so kissable.

Percy couldn’t help but swallow hard, his breath hitching.

“Hi, Percy,” She drew closer, stopping directly in front of him and simply gazing at him.

His heart hammered in his chest. He was intimidated—he had no clue what to do. He’d never been in this situation with such a beautiful girl.

But at that moment, a thought struck him. 

Who cares? I’m a God’s son; things can’t possibly go that wrong.

So his serious expression melted away, and he grinned—sideways and confident. His gaze sharpened with a renewed sense of purpose.

“Hey,” He answered, voice taking on a teasing edge as he took a step forward. The air around him seemed to shift as her perfume surrounded him. 

Gently, he brought his hand up to her shoulder, his fingers almost trembling as they touched the fabric of her shirt, and, with the same softness, he swept a lock of hair away.

His smile grew just a little more as he felt the delicate flutter of her response, a tiny shift in her posture at his touch.

“Are you going to tell me your name, or are we keeping up the mystery?” Percy asked, his grin playful.

Hell, she was taken aback.

Just a few hours ago, he had seemed so lost, confused about what was happening, and clearly intimidated by her. She was used to that, but now, things felt completely different.

He was gorgeous, his dark hair casual and his face something straight out of a movie. His green eyes held her attention, captivating in a way that was hard to ignore.

The shift in his confidence left her more than a little intrigued.

And she was always prepared for any challenge that might come.

Her name slipped from her lips, and Percy felt a sense of awe. It was the most beautiful name he’d ever heard, and somehow, he knew he wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.

“So, Percy, where’d you go? I didn’t see you at dinner,” She asked, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the bracelet on her wrist.

“Oh, a lot; camp’s a total blast.” Percy said with a grin, enjoying the irony.

“Really? You didn’t seem bored with me,” she raised an eyebrow.

“I said camp was boring, not you.” 

Her head tilted playfully. “You're cute, Percy,” She laughed.

And just like that, Percy spotted it: a faint, subtle kiss mark resting on her high cheekbone.

With that, it all fell into place; her way of speaking, each of her movements filled with allure, and the undeniable aura that surrounded her—making it obvious that anyone who got to gaze at her had already won the greatest reward.

And that would likely be the only privilege they’d ever have.

She had to be a daughter of Aphrodite.

“D'you figure something out, pretty boy?” Her voice snapped him back to the moment.

“Maybe,” He replied, leaning in slightly. “But I’m still figuring you out.”

The air in that hidden space became incredibly heavy, holding the intense tension that hung between them. 

She had no intention of taking the first move. Her eyes were fixed on his, looking for that sign of desperation she needed to find. Her hands trembled with anticipation, picturing what could come next as she noticed a trace of lust in his green eyes.

Percy quickly grasped the situation. If he wanted anything to happen, he had to be the one to start. He had fallen into her game, but he had gone too far to turn back now.

Too far to lose it.

“Something's telling me I shouldn’t be here, that I should walk away,” He murmured, his hand lifting to gently trace the line of her jaw. “But I think I’m willing to find out.”

“Oh, you sound brave,” She whispered, her hands exploring his chest, testing the waters. “Or maybe you are just reckless,”

“I guess that depends on what comes next.” Percy replied, his eyes glinting with determination.

His hands moved to her neck, holding it tenderly and never breaking eye contact. It was like a contest—each of them daring the other to break first.

“And what do you want to happen next, Percy?” She shivered slightly under his touch, but didn’t pull away. 

“I want to see if you're as fearless as you act.”

As he whispered the words in her ear, her lips parted for just a second; the faintest invitation. Percy couldn’t resist it, closing the distance between them in one swift motion.

As soon as their lips met, their bodies took over, deciding for them. His hands moved to her hair, hers to his biceps. Her nails scratched the skin and he could only push her against the large trunk of the tree, the wood scraping softly her skin as he lifted her.

Percy’s fingers skimmed the edges of her orange t-shirt, feeling the heat of her skin beneath his fingertips. His pulse raced as he felt her legs squeeze his waist and pulled her even closer, feeling the tremble of her chest against his own, the weight of her closeness making his head spin.

She was the first to pull back, lips brushing his lightly before she tilted her head back to rest against the wood. He couldn't stop, pressing soft kisses everywhere he could.

“Wait,” She said, making him tilt his head, slowing down his movements to listen. “Nobody is gonna get jealous, right?”

Last thing she wanted was to kiss a taken guy; there are some limits, y'know.

He smiled, amused. “Don’t make me laugh,”

Her fingers, light as a whisper, traced the line of his jaw, and in that moment, time seemed to stretch. He could feel himself losing control. Her proximity was both a dream and a nightmare.

But her laughter was like music to his ears, and Percy found himself smiling more than he expected. 

“You even have a pretty laugh,” He remarked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised by his words. She’d expected something more physical, something a little more bold, but this caught her off guard. She liked it, it was just weird.

“Do you know what you’re getting into?” Her challenge hung in the air, daring him to prove that he was more than just a guy caught up in the moment. “Do you want to?”

But for him it wasn't a challenge, it was what he wanted. Percy held her gaze, something in him shifting, the tone in her voice mixing with a vulnerability he hadn't expected.

His chest tightened as he realized how much he wished to take that step—to cross that line, to get lost in her world.

In any way he could, in any way she’d let him.

He not only wanted to worship her, but to love her.

“Yes, I want to,” Percy said, pecking her cheekbone, right over the kiss mark. “It was love at first sight, I’m not letting you go anywhere now,”

LOVE I'M SO SORRY! this request has been in my inbox for A MONTH! i hope you like it! <3

[meanbossart]

Couldn't find if this has been asked about already, so I apologize if it has, but I was wondering what DU Drow's thoughts on Alfira were? If he had any specific thoughts upon meeting her and/or after having killed her, and if/more so, did she personally have an effect on DU Drow after her death, or did the act itself (less so the person) have the biggest effect?

I didn't find Alfira at the grove in DU drow's original playthrough, so his first time meeting her was when she popped into camp asking to join our band of scoundrels. This makes her come off as far more naive since she has no idea who the hell you are besides for "the guys who killed some goblins outside the gate". Since this was my first playthrough, I also had no clue that Alfira had an entire quest of her own, and so the character didn't stick very much in my mind despite how gory her fate was.

And so, DU drow's impression of her would have been similarly indifferent. Thing is, fresh off the nautiloid pod, DU drow feels a pretty profound disconnect with the people and world around him, his "good deeds" just amounting to what is practical and common-sense. His empathy had to kind of claw its way out of him throughout the course of the campaign.

Alfira's, Lae'zel's, and potentially-Halsin's deaths are a blimp in his memory by the time he starts to conceptualize of others as fully fleshed-out beings with thoughts and feelings. Alfira is a foolish young girl he remembers about every once in a while (at least for the first couple of years), but her face is a red blur and her place in the world was never of any consequence. If anything, he may occasionally lament that he had no presence of mind while they were "together"; she was kind of his last hurrah, after all. Had he known that, he would have seized the moment more thoroughly.

He's never said this to anyone, of course. He realizes this is an insane thought to have.

I know that the game implies that Alfira's death has left a lasting impact on The Dark Urge in their redemptive ending, but to be perfectly honest her death did not leave much of a mark on him at all in comparison to others. I'd say Karlach's and Yenna's had a far, far bigger impact - though that might go without saying, since he traveled with Karlach for so long and Yenna was a child who just so happened to show up when he was further along in his journey and hence, slightly less of a bastard.

Again, the whole "having difficulty with recognizing that other people are fully realized beings" thing plays a big part in this. He had no time to do that with Alfira.

[callsign-rogueone]

bruised, but not broken

Sawyer Henrick x reader (peach!) words: 2.0k 🏷: pt5 for sawyer and peach, very mild iron flame spoilers, mild descriptions of injury, soft sleepy sawyer <3 (he's concussed and needs to be held, okay), second squad makes another appearance, peach has a mouth on her, peach getting distracted by his muscles, more will-they-won't-they (they will eventually, I promise), two updates in two days! that's a record for me. ok byeee

Tomorrow comes and goes with no sight of Sawyer or his friends. 

He wouldn’t have forgotten about you, especially not after all that ordeal yesterday with that piece of parchment that’s still burning a hole in your bookbag. Maybe they’re just busy training.

Yeah. Extra flight time, or something. Or they’re out in the woods again. But wouldn’t they have a healer with them, then? None of the third years are unaccounted for. Maybe the second time they send them without a healer, to make it more difficult — not that you really did anything for them when you were there, besides figure out that the two maps were different. 

You probably weren’t supposed to do that, but after passing by the same tree four times, it became abundantly clear to you that most of these city kids had never spent any time in the woods, and you just couldn’t help yourself.

You bring a hand up to hold the little flower charm between your fingers, taking a breath. He’s fine. He has to be fine. Just crack your knuckles and say a prayer, and he’ll be fine. 

The infirmary being full really isn’t helping you relax right now, either. Not when half of the patients are infantry cadets who have just returned from four days of camping in the woods, and James and his twin idiots could walk in at any time. You’ve had it up to here with one of them in particular, who has been mouthing off about how long he’s been waiting to be checked out for a tiny cut on his arm that would need one stitch, if any.

“They’ll get to you when they get to you, but keep whining like that and I will personally make sure you’re the last one to be seen today.” He starts to protest, but you cut him off. “Do I make myself clear?” you ask more firmly. He nods, looking sufficiently embarrassed. “Good. Now sit your ass down, and treat me and my classmates with some respect.”

The squad exchanges a look. “Has she always been like that?” Ridoc asks in a whisper.

“Only when I did something really stupid,” Sawyer replies, his eyes not leaving you. “I haven't seen her that mad since I pretended to drown in the river when we were sixteen.”

“That wasn’t funny then and it still isn’t now,” you chide, turning to face them. Your jaw drops at the sight of the two boys — and Rhiannon, too — all looking battered and bruised. 

“It’s worse than it looks,” Ridoc reassures, giving you a smile that stretches the purpling bruise on his left cheek.

“He means that it looks worse than it is,” Violet corrects from his side. She appears unscathed, but looks exhausted to the bone.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

You point down the hallway. “All of you, exam room, now.” The infantry cadet opens his mouth, but you silence him with your stare. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word out of you, kid.”

You exhale deeply as soon as the door is closed behind the five of you. “Sorry. It’s been a day.”

“All good,” Ridoc supplies. 

“Her first,” both of the boys say in unison, looking at Rhiannon. She doesn’t protest, sitting down in front of you and stripping off her flight jacket so you can take a proper look. 

The first thing you notice is that both of her wrists are circled with patches of raw, irritated skin. “What did they do to you, tie you up?” you ask, incredulous.

“Yeah,” she answers. “Handcuffs.”

“For what purpose?”

“Top secret rider stuff,” Ridoc answers around a yawn, and you see an identical mark on him as he lifts his hand to cover his mouth. “Torture training. But we broke ourselves out, ‘cause we’re the best.”

“Gods above,” you swear. “I don’t know how half of what they do to you guys is legal.”

“It really isn’t,” Violet answers tiredly, “but we signed up for it.”

It still doesn’t sit right with you, but you can’t do anything to change it. All you can do is keep patching them up the best you can.

“Ridoc, can you…”

“Gotcha.” He takes the small bowl from you, holding it under the tap, and the flow of water turns into several small chunks of ice.

“Thanks.”

He hums in response, taking one for himself and holding it to the split on his cheekbone.

“What’s your date of birth?” Violet asks quietly, pen in hand. She’d managed to swipe a handful of intake sheets off the counter without you noticing, and is sitting in the corner, dutifully filling them in for you. Scribe habits die hard, you suppose. Nobody will care as long as it’s your signature at the bottom certifying everything, especially when you’re so short-handed and the leadership has a dozen more important things to do than check it.

Ridoc looks deeply offended. “Ow, dude. You don’t know my birthday?” 

“April 23rd,” Sawyer answers for him, not looking up. He’s definitely got some sort of concussion — the unfocused look in his eyes and his unusually quiet, slow-blinking demeanor give it away.

“See? Somebody knows.”

“Only because you made a ginormous deal about it.”

“Excuse me for wanting to celebrate still being alive!”

The room falls silent. You’ve only heard a few things about their squadmates that had passed, but it’s obvious that they were all deeply affected by the losses.

“I didn't mean…” 

“We know,” Violet says gently, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

There’s another moment of quiet before you pull back, assessing your work. “I think that’s about all I can do.”

“Thank you. It feels a lot better already.”

The squad sits quietly, not saying anything as you patch up Ridoc, then turn to Sawyer. “You guys can head back without me,” he says quietly. There’s a moment of hesitation from the others, but they exchange a look and silently decide it’s okay. 

“For the road,” you say, handing them each a tin of bruise salve and a small bottle of pain tonic — and some more stretchy bandages for Violet. “Get some rest if you can.”

They take their leave quietly, thanking you, and shut the door behind them, leaving just you, Sawyer, half a bowl of ice, and the pile of neatly written paperwork. He slowly gets up, moving to sit on the edge of the table — almost at eye level with you now. “Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi.” He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, blinking at you slowly.

You cradle his jaw in one hand, tilting his head up so you can look at his pupils — they’re equal and reactive, with no signs of permanent damage. The few days worth of stubble covering his jaw tickles your palm as he leans into your touch, closing his eyes. “M’ sorry for bailing on you,” he murmurs. “I really was going to come get you, I promise.”

“I know, sweet boy,” you soothe. “Don’t worry about it.”

He reaches out, pulling you closer and resting his head over your heart — and whining like a sad puppy when you don’t return the hug.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say gently. 

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles. “C’mere.”

You wrap your arms around him loosely, resting a hand on his back and stroking up and down gently while you work the other into the hair at the back of his neck, gently massaging away some of the tension. He hums in contentment, settling against you and closing his eyes.

You’ve only seen him like this once, this clingy and sleepy, when he’d caught the world’s worst cold during harvest season and you were tasked with taking care of him while everyone else was out working. Of course you’d gotten the same cold from him, and then the roles were reversed. He would actually have made a decent healer. If only he were safe here with you all the time instead of risking his life every day doing gods-know-what in the name of preparing for war. 

“I worry about you, y’know. All of you,” you admit. 

“Don’t. We managed to escape a literal dungeon together.”

“I wish you hadn’t been there in the first place.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

You feel your stress slowly start to drain away, replaced with the reassuring steadiness of his breathing and the soft tick of the clock. You can finally stop worrying about his name being on the death roll tomorrow.

He pulls back, looking up at you. “Can you check if one of my ribs is broken?”

Your eyes widen. “You really just let me — asked me to hug you, when you thought you had a broken rib?” He winces at your volume, and you apologize immediately. “Sorry, sorry. Take your jacket off?”

He complies, setting it on the table, then tugs his shirt over his head, and your jaw drops — both at the yellow-purple bruises across his chest and ribs, and the definition there. He’s always been lean, but the last year has really toned him. All the muscles you had to memorize the names of are on clear display. You pick them out one by one as your eyes rake over the exposed skin.

“Is it that bad?” he asks after a moment.

Busted. “No,” you stammer. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen. Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

You lay your palm against his side, feeling for an obvious point of discomfort. His skin is warm to the touch, and the muscle has just the right amount of give to it. He’d be nice to cuddle with, among other things.

He inhales sharply, distracting you from your thoughts. “There?” you ask, prodding gently. “I think it’s just bruised. There’s no swelling or evidence of displacement.”

“Ah. And the other side?” he asks hoarsely, his cheeks flushed pink.

There’s no bruises or cuts on his other side, but you humor him anyway, moving your hand down his ribs. Five… six, seven, eight… nine, ten… “Turn a bit?” you prompt. 

You’re very grateful that he can’t see your face right now. You’d admired his chest, but his back… the expanse of his shoulders and the relic stretched across them, the thick lines of muscle there… Focus. Stop being a creep. He’s injured, for Amari's sake.

You smooth your hand over his side, finding the floating ribs… there. Eleven, twelve. “Nothing broken,” you manage. “Anything else to report?”

He shakes his head no. “Just sore.” He pulls his shirt back on, and it takes you every ounce of self control not to look disappointed as his skin is covered in the tattered black fabric. He looks you over like he’s assessing you for injury. “How are you doing? Any creepiness I missed out on when I was chained up?”

You wince at the mental image, but shake your head no. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. Are you going to be okay to get back on your own?”

“I thought I told you to stop worrying about me.”

“You did,” you answer. “But I’m not going to stop.”

He sighs. “You’ve always been stubborn like that.”

“I should probably get back out there, but if you want to lay down for a while, I can keep the door locked.”

He shakes his head, standing. “I’m gonna go shower, n’ probably sleep for the rest of the day.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Why are goodbyes with him always so awkward? You never know what to do, where you stand. You definitely aren’t in kiss territory. Maybe a cheek kiss, but that’s pushing it. You’ve settled for long hugs a few times, never knowing if it would be the last one you ever get.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For patching me up.”

“Always,” you answer softly, looking up at him. “I’ll always be here for you. Just keep coming back to me, okay?”

“Always.”

[jasmineandcedar]

Death glares at family dinners | Pathetically obsessed 3

An Elriel rom-com one shot (Azriel’s POV)

Before I joined the fandom, I always headcanoned Elain to be a bit of an embroiderer, crocheter, or knitter (and Azriel being the lucky recipient of her creations...). Since joining the fandom, I've seen a lot of other readers have headcanoned the same thing, like @nikachansstuff and @ramoneida’s headcanons here, or @bloomingdarkgarden's headcanon here, for example. So, this very chaotic one shot is in honour of and inspired by our collectively headcanoned Elain – the crafter, and Azriel– the lucky recipient.   

Summary: In ACOWAR, SJM describes Azriel’s “lethal gaze” as he arrives at the Illyrian war camp. What happens if that death glare is locked onto a target for insulting Elain's knitting? On top of that, what happens when a slightly unhinged Azriel in spymaster mode is falling in love but can't quite identify what he is feeling? It would seem Elain might have him wrapped around her finger... (or in a figurative chokehold).

Warning: sexual content (fantasies)

-------

Whoever thought looks could kill had clearly never been on the receiving end of Azriel’s death glare. The word “kill” didn't quite encompass the full, devastating effect of that lethal gaze. When Azriel locked eyes with his target, it was like anti-matter colliding with matter.

Poof!

Gone.

Utter annihilation.

Such was the dire fate of any poor soul who dared provoke the wrath of Azriel’s death glare, perfected and honed over centuries of silent brooding. That infamous gaze had been weaponized on battlefields, at high-level meetings with High Lords and other pretentious pricks, and in holding cells in the darkest corners of Hewn City.

Currently, it was locked and loaded at a family dinner.

“Isn’t he adorable?” Elain cooed, her voice as bright as the first rays of sunlight on a spring morning.

Azriel’s notorious death glare was locked onto Cassian, who, Azriel noted with some irritation, seemed to have built up a level of immunity over the centuries.

Cassian was biting his bottom lip so hard it was a wonder he hadn’t drawn blood. His chest shook with the force of stifled laughter before he collected himself enough to let out a shaky exhale. He took a deep breath, evidently summoning every ounce of willpower his warrior training had instilled in him, and had just opened his mouth to speak when a laugh threatened to burst out of him with such vigour, he was forced to fervently bite down on his lip again.

Azriel sat across from Cassian at the dinner table in the river house, his expression as though carved from stone, save for that lethal gleam in his gaze. Next to him sat Elain, glowing with pride. The source of her pride was perched atop Azriel’s head: a fluffy, hand-knitted hat in pastel pink, complete with floppy puppy ears and two fluffy strings tied in a neat bow under Azriel’s very clenched jaw.

Elain had presented the knitting project to the dinner table with glowing delight and Azriel had watched the inner circle squirm in their seats at the prospect of one of them having to don the creation. But Elain had simply turned in her seat and directed that glowing delight towards Azriel, who thanked the Mother he was already seated because otherwise his knees would have buckled.

“Pastel pink contrasts beautifully with his dark hair,” Elain had declared with absolute certainty, making Azriel the lucky recipient of her handiwork.

The hat was a valiant attempt, if one were feeling generous. If one were more inclined towards honesty, the quality of the hat was, truthfully, debatable.

If one had a proclivity for bluntness, it looked god-awful.

One floppy puppy ear hung slightly lower than the other, the stitches were uneven, and the strings were of different length. Particularly the last of those flaws caused an uncomfortable itch in Azriel’s need for order, and he had to blink hard to ignore it. Which he did. Because to Azriel, that hat was nothing short of a masterpiece. It was as precious to him as the still-unused headache powder she had once given him, sitting untouched on his nightstand.

It was a token of something far rarer than practicality or aesthetic beauty.

Azriel had nearly melted into a puddle when Elain's nimble fingers had brushed the sensitive skin of his neck, tying the fluffy creation in place with painstaking care. The preternatural stillness with which he usually held himself had crumbled into disarray immediately, his wings twitching ever so slightly as he shifted under her delicate ministrations. There was nothing accidental about his fidgeting. As with all things he did, it was intentional–just to have her linger, her fingers deftly working the strings into a perfect, unnecessarily neat bow.

She had said nothing, of course–Elain was all too kind for that–but the faint, knowing curve of her lips hadn’t escaped his notice. Neither had the way he shamefully bit his bottom lip in response escaped hers. The glint in her eyes of molten chocolate was all the evidence his observant eye needed of that. That glimmer of mischief and quiet challenge in her eye was enough to make his stomach twist into knots, much like the strings she took a damn long time tying under his jaw. Azriel might have fidgeted again, like a wayward boy caught stealing moments he had no right to claim.

He claimed them, nonetheless.

These moments of quiet, unspoken daring between them had become more frequent, each one a thread tugged loose from the fraying edges of his restraint. That restraint he had once considered as unyielding as steel but which now felt as fragile as cotton–unravelling with every stolen glance and lingering touch. Not even centuries of self-loathing could stop him from seeking out that gleam of silent daring in her eye.

Elain Archeron had Azriel well and truly wrapped around her finger. And now, she had wrapped that light pink, hand-knitted and very, very fluffy creation of hers around his head and Azriel was yanked back to reality.

He felt his cheeks flush under the weight of the Inner Circle's attention.

One didn’t need to be Spymaster of the Night Court to pick up on the fact that the entire table was teetering on the verge of laughter. But Azriel just clenched his jaw even tighter, a feat one might have thought not physically possible, and focused on maintaining his death glare on Cassian–or anyone else foolish enough to comment on the hat’s questionable aesthetics.

Azriel didn’t give a damn about being the cause of their amusement, because Elain was beaming up at him as if he were wearing a crown rather than a misshapen, fluffy, pastel pink hat with puppy ears.

To Azriel, he might as well have been wearing a crown.

“The hat is lovely, Elain,” said Mor with a smile, rocking Nyx in her lap.

Clever, Azriel admitted. With a single comment, Mor had subtly shifted the focus to the knitwear itself, from the undoubtedly peculiar image of Azriel donning fluffy knitwear that wasn’t even black. It was a degree of finesse that Cassian had clearly not mastered.

Cassian, who appeared only moments away from self-destruction, opened his mouth again, visibly shaking. “He… looks…” he managed, his voice trembling with the effort of holding back his laughter.

Don't push it, Azriel’s death glare warned menacingly, zeroing in on Cassian like the finely tuned weapon it was. It was a look that could put any Illyrian warrior in their place, freeze enemies in their tracks, and–if Cassian had any shred of self-preservation left–stop him from finishing that sentence.

That death glare was a vow.

A silent warning to the entire room, that Azriel would sooner unleash his annihilating death glare at a family dinner than allow a single soul to so much as snicker at the fluffy handiwork of sunshine incarnate sitting at his side.

His shadows gathered in the corners of the room, ready to strike. Azriel threw a quick glance at Elain. That should impress her, he thought, very pleased with his display.

Should he flex his wings too, just to really hammer the point home?

He tested the idea briefly, giving his wings a slight twitch. Just enough to catch the light in a way that highlighted their span.

Yes. That was subtle enough.

He was just about to throw another quick glance at Elain to reap the reward of his subtle peacocking, when a strangled sound erupted from Cassian and yanked Azriel out of his strategizing.

Cassian looked like he was attempting to swallow a burst of laughter and speak at the same time. Why he had taken it upon himself to act as spokesperson for the group was a mystery. His skills lay firmly in his fists and evidently not in his rhetorical prowess.

“… adorable!” Cassian squeaked at last, his voice a full two octaves higher than usual. His face had turned an alarming shade of red from the effort of holding back his laughter.

“I know, right!” Elain exclaimed proudly, giving Azriel a beaming smile.

Azriel froze.

Just like that, his death glare disintegrated with the speed of his wildly fluttering heart. That beaming smile–bright enough to rival the sun itself–left him defenseless and dazed.

Adorable.

Elain Archeron found him adorable.

He was suddenly overcome by the urge to throw her over his shoulder, bend her over in the nearest vacant room, and thoroughly demonstrate just how adorable he could be with his clothes off. Elain might have a rather unconventional definition of adorable, but who was Azriel to argue? Especially when her definition seemed to describe him.

He could be adorable. He suppressed a smirk as a dangerous heat flared low in his gut.

If Elain wanted adorable, he would provide.

Resisting the urge to adorably throw Elain over his shoulder and make good on the mischief sparkling in her eyes, Azriel forced himself to refocus. He turned to sinisterly survey the room for potential targets of his death glare, like a predator selecting its prey.

Next to Cassian, Nesta was stone-faced, her hands folded neatly in her lap. A calm mask of composure, save for the rhythmic rise and fall of her shoulders. Ah, breathing techniques, Azriel thought. A clean and efficient way to hold back laughter. Nicely done. Strategic. Azriel was certainly one to appreciate a methodological approach. He had come to expect nothing less from Lady Death. She even had a fine death glare of her own, and a menacing index finger to match it. Respectable.

Amren, meanwhile, was giving the hat her signature death glare, as if it had personally offended her. Since resting death glare was her default expression, Azriel let it slide–for now. No need to be hasty. Family dinners weren’t the time for rash decisions. There was no immediate need to annihilate Amren over his fluffy pink hat.

For now.

“Feyre helped pick out the colour,” said Elain modestly, a faint blush spreading across her lovely cheeks. Azriel suddenly found himself gripped by the entirely inappropriate urge to put his mouth to that delectable blush.

These urges were becoming a problem.

As a shadowsinger known for his legendary restraint, Azriel was alarmingly unfamiliar with the sensation of not thinking clearly. He simply didn’t know how to handle it. Except, when it came to Elain, it wasn’t so much a lack of clarity as it was an overwhelming sharpness of focus. Because that rosy blush had him thinking all kinds of things very clearly–just not the kind of vivid thoughts one should be having at family dinners.

Elain Archeron, wearing nothing but that blush while Azriel poun–

“What do you think, Rhys?

Elain’s question shattered Azriel’s increasingly pleasant thoughts like a hammer hitting glass. He was once again dragged–unwillingly–back to the present. He blinked dazedly, feeling heat rise to his own cheeks, his pants starting to strain uncomfortably. He shifted slightly in his seat, thankful for the concealment of his shadows.

Perhaps he should feel guilty. His fantasies weren’t exactly… proper. And if there was one thing his mother had taught him, it was to act proper around the females in his life. But any feelings of guilt eluded him when Elain kept throwing him those wicked sidelong glances when no one saw them. The kind of ravenous glances that made him wonder if she could read his thoughts the way it always seemed she could. If she, perhaps, knew exactly how wild they were.

And then there was the way her fingers lingered a little longer than necessary whenever they found an excuse to touch. How she seemed to revel in his helpless reactions to those brief, fleeting touches that seemed perfectly innocent to everyone else but sent sparks skittering through his body.

Yes, Azriel was growing increasingly certain Elain wouldn’t mind his wicked fantasies at all.

In fact, he had a growing suspicion hers might be equally wicked.

He was hoping they were even wilder than his.

Tucking those wicked fantasies away for later, Azriel shifted his death glare to Rhys.

The High Lord was undeniably more composed than Cassian, but only marginally. Rhys’ eyes sparkled with suppressed amusement. After five centuries together, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners of Rhys’ mouth was enough for Azriel to tell that he was bursting with witty remarks. Likely something about how perfectly pastel pink contrasted with Azriel’s well-maintained dark and broody aesthetic, or how the colour of the hat was about as aggressively cheerful as Azriel’s jaw was aggressively clenched.

Thankfully, Azriel knew Rhys had a soft spot for Elain that wouldn’t allow him to ever insult her.

Poking fun at Azriel, on the other hand…

Narrowing his eyes, he threw a swift glance towards Feyre, noting how she was staring intently at the ceiling and pressing her lips together so tightly they had turned pale. Her formidable determination to avoid looking at Azriel directly was a dead giveaway.

The pair of them were definitely laughing at him through their bond.

Azriel could live with that. What he couldn’t live with was even the faintest shadow of disappointment dimming the light in Elain’s beautiful eyes. He threw her another quick glance. She was still beaming up at him.

Noted.

No need for immediate action.

Yet.

Still, his death glare remained locked and loaded, ready to be unleashed should anyone push their luck.

Rhys looked worryingly tempted to do just that, biting his lips as if itching to make a mockery of Azriel’s peculiar predicament.

Azriel sighed up at the ceiling, as if pleading to the Mother herself to just give him a break. He tried to rub his temples, but his fingers tangled in the uneven stitches of the fluffy creation on his head.

“He looks…” Rhys began, his gleaming eyes locked on Azriel's and his voice trailing off with a deliberate and dramatic pause.

Azriel’s death glare swung back towards him, sharp as a blade.

Don't push it.

“… positively murderous,” Amren’s voice cut through the air like a dagger before Rhys could deliver his undoubtedly witty remark.

“What?” Elain asked, her alarmed gaze flickering to Azriel.

“Marvellous!” Feyre interjected hastily, her words tumbling out in a tone just a tad too enthusiastic.

“Vicious, more like it,” Amren murmured, the faintest smirk curving her lips.

Don't. Push. It.

“Sorry?” Elain asked, her brows raising as she glanced between Azriel and Amren, locked in a battle of death glares.

“Precious, Elain dear,” Rhys cut in smoothly, shooting his own death glare at Amren. “She said precious!”

“Or homicidal, take your pick,” Amren muttered under her breath, leaning back in her chair and looking thoroughly pleased with the simmering drama she had so effortlessly stirred up.

SWIFT AND CERTAIN RETRIBUTION.

That is what Azriel’s death glare promised Amren as he levelled its full, annihilating force at her.

Or so he intended.

Except, nothing happened.

Not so much as a flicker of discomfort crossed Amren’s smug face. If anything, that satisfied smirk grew wider, practically daring him to try harder.

It seemed all his time spent with sunshine incarnate had Azriel's annihilating death glare malfunctioning. Or perhaps it had lost some of its edge. That thought was mildly concerning, but less concerning than the alternative: that Amren was made of anti-matter too.  Azriel hadn't considered that. A tactical oversight, he admitted internally. He was getting lax.

He'd need to get on top of that.

He glanced over at Elain again, who was luckily too busy admiring her handiwork to notice Amren’s snide remark. Azriel’s worry faded instantly. Her gaze locked on his, her face lit with quiet pride, eyes sparkling as though she had found a way to knit joy itself. Feeling a sense of peace wash over him, Azriel allowed himself a moment to simply watch her.

He’d like to get on top of her, too–

“He is precious, isn’t he,” Elain said, her voice soft and dreamy.

Her eyes, hazy and warm with affection, made the rest of the room disappear from Azriel’s consciousness. Everything–the relentless banter, his looming headache–faded into irrelevance. His heart thumped unsteadily, his chest tightening with an unbearable ache.

Precious.

Elain found him precious.

Azriel simply stared at her, feeling his resolve unravel even further. Precious wasn’t a word anyone had ever used to describe him. Efficient, yes. Useful, dark, ruthless–death and terror–those were recurring. But precious?

For Elain, he could be precious.

For Elain, he would be anything she wanted.

Being wrapped around her finger didn’t really capture how well and truly done for he was. No, sweet Elain had him in a damn chokehold. And, although Azriel would never admit this aloud as long as he drew breath, he liked it. Thoroughly. From the blushing of his cheeks and the fluttering of his heart to the straining of his pants.

But why was she looking at him like that at the dinner table? That soft, affectionate gleam in her eyes, the faint blush still dusting her cheeks–it was simply too much. Azriel’s restraint was already fraying, the threads coming undone with every passing second.

Azriel felt the instincts of the spymaster within him take over. With expertise, he swiftly scanned his surroundings. Four walls. Solid. Sturdy. He nodded to himself, pleased with his finds.

Each wall a prime candidate for pinning her against, should the opportunity present itself.

He would unravel the threads of fate itself to have that opportunity present itself.

He’d let her choose which wall she preferred, of course. Ever the gentleman. He’d even take her wearing nothing but the hat if she liked that. Who was he to deny her preferences? Between his daggers and his shadows, he had some unconventional ones of his own.

“You’re scaring the children, shadowsinger,” Amren drawled, that dagger of a voice cutting through the increasingly improper fantasies Azriel had been spiralling into.

Nyx was staring at Azriel with an impressive death glare for someone so tiny. The babe had certainly captured the essence of menace.

Azriel’s chest swelled with pride. Internally, of course. Now was hardly the time to break character. Persistence was key to a well-crafted death glare. Azriel would lead by example. Teach them young, as they say. By the already determined clenching of his little jaw, Nyx was clearly a natural.

“Nonsense!” said Elain brightly, undeterred. Se leaned forward slightly, her curls of golden brown catching in the light as she beamed at her nephew. “Right, Nyxie?”

The instant Nyx heard her voice, his scowling little face transformed, his death glare melting into a brilliant little grin. Azriel couldn’t help but think that, despite being Rhys’ son, Nyx was shaping up to be a fine specimen. There was always the risk of Rhy’s loud and extravagant tendencies rubbing off on him, but he had potential to embrace the broody lifestyle.

“I’m making one for Nyx too,” Elain added cheerfully.

Nyx’s death glare returned in an instance. Azriel suppressed a chuckle. Give him another two centuries of silent brooding and he would get the hang of it. Fine-tuned intensity, sharper aim, better target selection. Azriel would personally see to it that Nyx mastered the subtle art of brooding and annihilation by death glare.

“How does it feel, Az?” Cassian asked, nodding towards the hat with a wide grin.

Azriel turned his head in a carefully practiced move, slowly and menacingly, before he spoke, in an equally well-practiced, low voice.

“Feels like there’s only one of these and it’s mine,” he said lethally. His eyes narrowed and his shadows swirled around them as he once again levelled his devastating death glare at Cassian.

Infuriatingly, Cassian simply bit his lower lip again, unable to hide his amusement.

Feeling slightly sorry for himself, Azriel’s eyes fell once more on the peace and quiet sitting next to him. His heart gave another traitorous flutter as his shadows receded, dissipating as though bowing to her light.

He froze, throat bobbing.

He was well and truly done for. This was not just some measly chokehold. This was annihilation on an entirely different level.

Elain’s radiant beam of death was aimed squarely at him.

How was he supposed to keep his composure when she looked at him like that? That softness in her eyes, the gentle curve of her lip–it was a weapon. And she wielded it with a precision that made the Spymaster of the Night Court want to fall to his knees. Because how could he be expected to not rip off his clothes, drop to the floor, and worship every inch of her right here at the dinner table when she looked at him like that?

She truly had a knack for torture, this one. Sweet, devastating torture.

Azriel couldn’t help but smirk at that. Of course, he knew a thing or two about the sweet kind of torture, as well. Something stirred inside him indecently, as Elain bit back her own smirk, turning away from him to once again face the rest of the room, leaving him desperate for more.

Naughty little thing.

Azriel’s hands flexed at his sides. A broody Spymaster with a yearning heart could only endure so much, and Elain Archeron was nudging him towards the edges of his restraint. Sweetly and deliberately, with seductive smirks and lingering touches, all the while gazing innocently at him.

Azriel nearly whimpered.

“So, you like the colour, Az?” Rhys asked casually, but that familiar glint in his eyes betrayed his mischievous intent. Azriel was yanked–once again–from his increasingly wanton fantasies.

“It contrasts beautifully with my dark hair,” he replied venomously, somehow making it sound like a threat.

Elain nodded vigorously, with a smile so radiant it lit up even Azriel’s shadows, still gathering in the corners of the room. Azriel’s chest swelled with pride anew, the ridiculousness of the situation evaporating by the sheer force of her approval.

“It what?” Nesta blurted out, her concentration on her breathing exercises shattering at last. Her voice broke slightly, and Azriel caught the tiniest flicker of mirth in her steely eyes.

Across the table, Feyre was battling what looked to be a losing war. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together even harder, exhaling shakily through her nose.

“It contrasts beautifully with his dark hair,” Elain repeated, with that sweet, unassuming, and utterly lethal smile on her face, as precious as a perfectly aimed dagger straight to Azriel’s heart.

Before he could gather what little was left of his legendary composure, Elain reached out a delicate hand and gently swept a dark strand from his forehead. The casual ease with which she touched him, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, caused a rush of heat to cascade through his body and across his cheeks.

“I’m knitting a matching sweater to go with it,” Elain said, gazing deep into his eyes. It sounded like a declaration of love to Azriel. He almost fell to his knees and declared his undying love and devotion for her right there at the dinner table. He shut the urge down with all the strength he could muster, opting instead to mentally draft elaborate plans on how to secretly propose to sunshine incarnate.

“I think it will really bring out the warmth in his skin tone,” Elain continued with a soft sigh so enchanting it might as well have been a spell.

Azriel swallowed hard.

And then Elain leaned in closer. Azriel nearly groaned as her sweet scent enveloped him. Her wide, chestnut eyes locked onto his, that death beam striking with pinpoint accuracy, obliterating the last remnants of his restraint. It was devastating. Flawless. Expertly executed. The kind of precision that would have any spymaster on their knees.

And Azriel was completely and utterly in love.

“Don’t you think so?” she asked, her voice so soft it felt like a caress to Azriel’s ear drums.

Azriel opened his mouth, intending to respond, but all that came out was a sound that most closely resembled a gurgle.

“Exactly,” Elain said with emphasis, as if Azriel’s gurgle had been even remotely intelligible. “I knew you’d understand.”

Azriel blinked.

His knees felt weak.

Was this what annihilation felt like? Did it start by disarming the target through immobilization of the knees? It would certainly make sense. He had immobilized many knees over the centuries. Efficient. Clean. Only now all his bones seemed to have left his body. Was this stage two of annihilation? Dissolution of the bones? A gradual disintegration of the skeletal structure? It seemed a bit macabre and excessive, even for his tastes, but it would certainly get the job done.

Elain’s warm eyes softened even further, becoming almost glazed, as if lost in a vision.

“The light pink will really emphasize the way the gold flecks in his eyes glow in the afternoon sun,” she continued dreamily, “right before twilight when the sky is painted orange and pink, and he is silently brooding in his favourite chair by the fire, next to that window in the sitting room in House of Wind…”

Azriel stilled.

His beloved brooding chair.

Elain had noticed his favourite brooding spot.

He could certainly brood. For Elain, he would brood harder than ever before. He would furrow his brows and clench his jaw tighter than the laws of nature allowed.

Azriel blinked hard again, willing his bones to return to their rightful places. He’d need them intact if he were to survive this dinner.

Except, now Azriel’s head spun so wildly he thought he might lift off the ground. Was this the next stage of annihilation? Dissolution of all coherent thought? A gradual disintegration of the intellect? It seemed plausible, given how his usually sharp mind suddenly was reduced to a swirling, incoherent mess. And why was it suddenly so hard to breathe? Was this part of the process?

Those couldn’t be wingbeats in his stomach, could they?

“…And the way his tattoos ripple over his muscled form with every movement when he’s training with those beautiful daggers, and the sun hits those magnificent wings just right, highlighting the reds and golds…” Elain’s voice was growing softer, more breathy. Her beautiful eyes were dazed, glazed over.

Azriel’s breath hitched in his chest.

His daggers.

Elain liked his precious daggers.

And Azriel was about to have a raging hard-on at a family dinner, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“…And when he looks at you with those hazel eyes,” Elain’s voice was turning downright husky now, “with that quiet, smouldering intensity, like he’s seeing straight into your soul…” Her words faltered, her eyes going half-lidded, as if she were the one being annihilated now.

“… I think a fluffy pink sweater would just really…” Elain’s voice trailed off into something most closely resembling a gurgle.

Across the table, Cassian dropped his fork with a loud clatter. Nesta crossed her arms over her chest, smirking knowingly. Feyre and Mor clutched their hearts in unison. Rhys clutched his pearls.

Amren yawned.

But Azriel noticed none of it. His pulse thundered wildly, the rhythm frantic and entirely out of sync. He suddenly seemed to lack the coordination to inhale and exhale properly. Annihilation really was no joke, he thought, as he neared the point of hyperventilation. But wasn’t this a bit overkill? A swift zap to the brain would have sufficed.

And why did his face tilt to the side and his lips part in perfect sync with Elain’s? Was this the final stage? Dissolution of all inhibition?

“If you want it, of course,” Elain breathed, her voice suddenly sultry, any trace of innocence gone from her eyes. Her lips hovered mere inches from his, and her large brown eyes gazed into his with an intensity that shattered every last shred of coherence in his brain.

And that smirk. That barely-there curve of her lips.

Oh, she thoroughly enjoyed having him in a chokehold, didn’t she?

Naughty little thing.

If this was annihilation, Azriel decided, he didn’t stand a chance. Annihilation simply felt too good to resist.

So, the Spymaster of the Night Court simply surrendered.

“Please,” was all Azriel managed to breathe back, his voice a husky whisper, before his eyes fluttered shut.

And just as the space between them was about to vanish, when her warm breath mingled with his and he could practically taste her on his lips–

“Get a room,” Amren snickered from across the table.

Azriel’s eyes snapped open, his death glare shooting straight to Amren.

Don't push it.

-------

This is part three of pathetically obsessed.

They are standalone (one shots), but they are written in the same style (romantic comedy) and on the same theme (Azriel being nothing short of obsessed...)

Part 1: He had seen the light  (where Azriel obsessively fantasises about Elain during an intel meeting with Rhys)

Part 2: An out-of-body experience (where Azriel finds himself with Elain straddling him)

Part 3: Death glares at family dinners (where Azriel death glares at anyone insulting Elain’s knitting)

[lavellansvh3nan]

A Letter From Dorian Pavus to Inquisitor Lavellan

//OOC//: First and foremost, thank you so much to everyone who has read and engaged with the first two letters! It’s a blast to write these two, so stay tuned. Creativity willing, I’d love to write more than just letters, maybe something long form. But one step at a time haha. For now, enjoy!

Foolish Elliana,

If you think for even one moment I’m going to just let all this go, you’ve clearly been damaged in your trip through the Fade. I suppose it was bound to happen, between the Anchor, the first trip through the Fade, and declaring your love for a half-mad asshole. So disappointing, truly. Here I’d hoped all our years together would provide the chance for my greatness to rub off on you.

You’ve been in contact with Morrigan, then. You know how quickly things are moving here in the real world while you play pretend with the spirits. Minrathos is receiving reinforcements from Treviso and Rivain. Josephine has written as well, she believes she can convince Ferelden to send aid as well, though I’ll believe it when I see it.

The powers that be are scrambling, but the defeat of their so-called god has scattered the majority of occupying forces. If the Shadow Dragons push the offensive, there is a chance they might be free from occupation. Another day in the fabulously exciting life of yours truly.

You repeated several times in your previous letter that you love me, and dear, I know. I’m a rare breed, literally. It’s only natural. But that being said, apparently not loved enough for you to stay. Not that I need you around anyways.

Though, you guess correctly. I am most curious about your little love triangle. Don’t deny it— I heard from Rook that Mythal was of precious importance to that prick. Morrigan says she lives on in her: can we expect a jealous duel to the death between you and the Witch of the Wood? Please tell me I can, liberating a country and saving the world really isn’t as interesting as that sounds.

*there are several attempts to start a new sentence, all scribbled over in frustration*

You are alright, aren’t you? He did choose you, right? I know you’ve waited ten years but no love is worth being the other woman for. Especially to a millennia old spirit queen. Or whatever she was. As cross with you as I am, you have better features than her. Hopefully your “vhenan” sees that. For all his self-proclaimed wisdom, he is fucking blind.

By the by, where are you in the Fade? Just…wandering around? Camping with welcoming spirits? Sleeping under the stars? I am curious where a pair of recently reunited lovers goes to, fuck reunite, so to speak, in the Fade. Please tell me you aren’t sleeping in Fade dust.

Not to make this about me, though we both know it should be, Iron Bull has been acting…strange. Or, stranger than usual. Don’t jest, I can practically hear you snorting.

He gave me something the other day. Half a dragon tooth. Just came up to me while I had a rare moment of peace and slammed it on the table I was eating at. Insisted he wanted me to start wearing it and now wherever I go, he goes.

What have I gotten myself in to? Is he moving in? Is this a marriage proposal? If you were here I could navigate all of my questions to you. You owe me after eight years of your longing babble.

I will expect your prompt reply. If you’re going to abandon me with all these problems, you might as well attempt to provide me some entertainment.

*several more sentences are hastily scribbled out*

I miss you. You fucking fool. Write soon.

With continued disappointment and love,

Dorian

[flo-zoinks]

Headcanons for if you followed them around camp but you were crawling and trying to bite their ankles :)

Chlo you are the weirdest omg 😭 suree

WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF YOU FOLLOWED EACH RDR2 GANG MEMBER AROUND CAMP CRAWLING TRYNNA BITE THEIR ANKLES💀 (MY OPINION)

(Again here assuming you're like John in terms of likability and age/gender because will responses differ greatly)

Arthur - give you evils and say "what the hell is wrong you? Get away from me" tells whoever you're closest to, eg hosea or Grimshaw to get you back in line before leaving camp because his mood is now ruined

Hosea - stop and just tell you to get up because you you look like a prize idiot, "more then already atleast"

Dutch - grab your shoulder and bring you to your feet then shove you outta camp, then rant for 5 minutes to whoever listens that society is destroying sane minds

Charles - "stop it. That's weird" looks at you weirdly and probably kick you if he had to just so you stop

Sadie - grab her shotgun and hit you HARD with the back end of it, then kick your ur ass shouting curses

Molly - runs to Dutch. Dutch probably would just tell you to get up cuz you look stupid but then scold her after for bothering him with such "trivial matters" because "obviously it was just in good fun"

Pearson - shout out like a child, try and use his cooking tools as weapons and back away from you aiming them. After it's over says he was holding himself out from unleashing his anger in camp

Trelawny - ridicule your weird behaviour very sarcastically but walk quite a lot faster trynna play it cool like he's not a bit frightened by your activity

Javier - "HIJO DE PUTA QUE ESTÁS HACIENDO 😨". Starts kicking you until your down then just continues until you promise you won't do it again. Probably helps you back up again just to threaten you with a knife

John - look at you disgusted and immediately pulls out his shotgun aiming at you until you stop

Karen - throws whatever shes holding at you (probably a beer bottle) and curse you for being a freak

Tilly - runs towards Arthur or Javier whilst hurling insults at you calling you a sick freak

Abigail - assume it's a weird perv thing then run away to suddenly stop and kick you when you don't expect it. Then tell John to make sure Jack doesn't go near you

Micah - "are you down there to practice begging me for kindness...heh..." (heavy breathing). If it wasnt Micah it would be assumed they are trying to creep you until you just stand up and be normal. If you're a minority he says "didn't know (slur) did that too what did I expect huh"

Jack - run away screaming into Abigail's, Hosea's, Dutch's, Arthur's or John's arms. Probably starts crying then later when you're sleeping throws rocks at you for revenge

Bill - "WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING I'M NOT INTO THAT STUFF" backs away almost running backwards with his gun pointed at you

Uncle - forgets he has lumbago and runs across camp trying to get you to attack someone else. Probably hides behind John and says to you something like "surely you'd prefer this one, sure he needs a bit more meat on him, but take him take him!!"

Mary-Beth - throws her book at you and runs to Arthur for help, or Karen. Thinks you're possessed.

Sean - thinks it's a game so joins you to chase after Kieran, then blames you when he gets told off for starting it

Lenny - "what the hell.." kicks you once then pulls you up. Gives you a lecture after on respectable behaviour

Grimshaw - just stops and grabs you by the ear up on your feet, then smacks you. Tells you off and then drags you out of camp, especially if you did it near the girls she doesnt take bs

Kieran - backs away, runs away, shouting he's not an O'Driscoll. Probably hides further from the edge of camp for the next day but on the bright side everyone thinks your funny, if not a little weird, except Mary-Beth ofc

Reverend - thinks you're possessed, tells you bible verses, throws water on you, then runs away and drinks away whatever tf he just saw

Strauss - he is NOT surviving that again.. he has no chance in these headcanons ever

Alr yall tell me who I forgot!! Thanks for the heacanon you sucha weirdo😭. ALSO CHLO BOO U STARTED SOMETHING BC NOW MY INBOX IS JUST CRAZY FUNNY HEADCANONS OMG

[fantasticfilmfanatic-123]

If I could stop you for a moment, support @ayuwbfamily and their campaign. Ayoub and his family are trapped in Gaza, and they need our help! Ayoub was studying at university, his sisters were completing their education, and they had high hopes for the future. Now, they have lost all of this! Ayoub is so worried about his father, who needed both of his legs amputated due to diabetes and experiences chronic illness and heart pressure. Israel is destroying Gaza’s healthcare system, making it impossible for Ayoub’s father to get the treatment he desperately needs! Ayoub is trying to raise funds to help himself and his family get life-saving resources, and he is also donating 10% of the funds to support children in their camp. They are now only at €80 of their €10K target! Please donate to help Ayoub and his family. If you are unable to donate, we can still help by sharing and posting as much as possible to bring more attention and donations to their campaign.

[margeoww]

In the Stillness of the Stars

back to my masterlist

pairing: luke castellan x fem!reader

summary: a quiet night under the stars reveals the softer side of luke as he shares a rare moment of vulnerability with you.

The stars above Camp Half-Blood always seemed brighter when the nights were quiet. Tonight was one of those nights, the kind where the air carried a stillness so heavy it almost felt sacred. You didn’t expect Luke to find you here, sitting on the hill overlooking the strawberry fields.

—Couldn’t sleep? —his voice broke the silence, soft and familiar.

You looked up to see him standing there, his golden hair catching the faint glow of moonlight. He wasn’t wearing his usual smirk; instead, his expression was calm, almost serene.

—Something like that. —you said, patting the patch of grass beside you. —What about you?

He sat down, the warmth of his presence chasing away the chill in the air. —Same. —he admitted, glancing at the sky. —Too much on my mind.

It was rare for Luke to talk about himself, to let his guard down. You didn’t press him, knowing he’d speak when he was ready. Instead, you tilted your head back to look at the stars, the silence between you comfortable and unspoken.

—Do you ever wonder if the gods look down on us? —he asked suddenly, his voice tinged with something you couldn’t quite place, bitterness, maybe, or longing.

—All the time. —you admitted. —But I don’t think they’re watching for the reasons we hope.

Luke huffed a quiet laugh, and you felt his shoulder brush against yours as he leaned back on his hands. —No, probably not. But it’s nice to imagine, isn’t it? That someone up there actually cares.

You turned to him then, catching the way his gaze lingered on the stars. In this light, he looked almost boyish, like the weight of his responsibilities had been momentarily lifted.

—They care. —you said softly, —just not the way we need them to.

He glanced at you, his blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of you, the stars above and the earth beneath your feet.

—Sometimes I think you’re the only person who really sees me. —he murmured, his voice so quiet it was almost lost to the wind.

Your breath caught in your throat. —I do see you, Luke. All of you. Not just the brave leader or the rebel. The person underneath it all.

He smiled then, small and almost shy, as if he didn’t quite know how to handle your words. —And that doesn’t scare you?

—No. —you said without hesitation. —It makes me want to stay.

His hand found yours, his fingers threading through yours with a tenderness that caught you off guard. —I don’t know what I did to deserve you. —he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You squeezed his hand gently. —Maybe the gods are looking out for us after all.

Luke laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, and for the first time that night, you saw a flicker of hope in his eyes.

As the stars continued to shine above, you leaned into him, your head resting on his shoulder. In that moment, the chaos of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the quiet, undeniable connection between you and Luke Castellan.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words. Luke’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, his touch sending a warmth through you that the cool night couldn’t chase away.

—I don’t deserve this. —he murmured again, his voice thick with emotion. —I don’t deserve you.

You turned to face him fully, your free hand reaching up to gently cup his cheek. His skin was warm under your touch, his blue eyes wide and searching. —Stop saying that. —you whispered. —You deserve so much more than you think.

For a moment, Luke just looked at you, his expression vulnerable in a way you rarely saw. Then, as if pulled by some unseen force, he leaned closer. His forehead rested against yours, and his breath mingled with yours in the cool night air.

—Tell me to stop. —he said softly, his lips just a whisper away from yours.

—I won’t. —you replied, your voice steady, your heart pounding.

And then his lips were on yours. The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, as if he was afraid you might pull away. But when you didn’t, he deepened it, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your head. It was a kiss filled with everything he couldn’t put into words—gratitude, longing, and a quiet, unshakable love.

When you finally pulled apart, you stayed close, your noses brushing. Luke smiled, small and genuine, the kind of smile he only ever showed you.

—Maybe the stars were watching after all. —he said, his voice light with a hint of awe.

You laughed softly, resting your forehead against his. —Then let them watch.

The world around you seemed to fade away again, leaving only the two of you beneath the endless sky, hearts finally beating in sync.

[slaaverin]

I rewatched AYS today, and I keep watching clips, and I just cannot get over the part in ep8 when the producers say they were worried about the show, or more reaffirm what JK was saying when he said they (he and Jimin) were worried!?

Why? Why were they so worried? If they are friends and have nothing to hide, why? It’s such a wild thing to say. Because really all they were essentially doing in the episode they watched was eating, and cooking at camp, so eating again, and Jimin got sick. So what stood out, or worse, what didn’t make it into the show?

https://youtube.com/shorts/JEwKfWQDisY?si=uZ3C4ogYS64vBhGl

Excellent question anon 🤭

I think jikook, the staff, and all of us were collectively worried about this show lol

Maybe it was for different reasons but I think not.

The rational answer would be that firstly the show had no real sense of direction. Jungkook voiced this in the first episodes. Jimin thought it wouldn't even air.

Yes because "they had nothing to do" except quiet moments and little adventures, but also because I think we all *know* that this show would be very tricky to edit properly.

How to show a couple's vacations without showing the couple coupling? Hard thing to do and everyone knew this!

As many have said before me, what was filmed in this show was only little time during their day. Few hours here and there, but most of their time was spent only the two of them. And even then, they were not sure. It was already a bit dangerous. Poor editing team lol

We also saw that there were soooo many cuts, I'm sure of many moments that would not be suitable for cameras, including the moments they turned the cameras off themselves (Jungkook with the bedroom in EP2)

Jeju had also a lot of weird cuts (side eyeing the shower situation) ANYWAY

I think the fact that this show was simply them being themselves (with all that entails) would be quite worrying for everyone.

They did the best they could to make it look cohesive and entertaining, but we know they left many things out for everyone's benefit.

I am still shocked about what they left in though, I guess it is impossible for jikook not to be jikooking so you have to put SOME in but??? It was wild even like this.

To put it simply, I think they were all worried it would show a little bit too much that they are a couple and it did, anyway. But just enough to still be able to deny it. Just enough so that there is no scandal.

Really, poor editing team 🥲 they had a tough job.

Who knows what was left out, but I think time-wise, quite a lot.

We didn't see anything about Tokyo. We didn't see the in-between-activities moments. We didn't see all the conversations. We didn't see the nights. We didn't see all the car rides. We didn't see THE SHOWERS *I will die on this hill* 😂 also the goings and returns home. And the mornings.

So yeah A LOT was left out.

I expected more from the behinds but they stayed on course with them.

Ahhh how frustrating not knowing, right?

But I guess I am also happy that the two of them got to spend time together, alone. Those trips were for them first and foremost before being for the show.

Everyone was on this edge of their seat with this show, and I applaud jikook for playing it cool, and for the editing team who did such a great job even in this risky situation.

But yeah, someone, somewhere at hybe has sensitive content about the two of them, and you can be sure about that.

Much to think about

Jikook will probably tell us more stories about the show too once they are out, and I can barely wait

Until then it's all up to our imagination

(Knowing they always exceed expectations so...yeah 👀)

Thanks for your ask anon and take care 💜