#his name is Nils and I love him

[hoperays-song]

Top 5 shipping tropes? Or if you prefer, a top 5 character tropes I'm also v curious about

Ooooooo, I take it back, this was the hardest one to decide for each. I mean, obviously my favourite trope is found family because it's perfect and adorable, but I do love so many others. And we will be ignoring what each of these say about me mentally, ok? Ok. Good.

-<3 Gooseless

Shipping troupes:

Hurt/Comfort (especially emotional hurt/comfort but also sickfics) is my absolute favourite. I use it in legitimately all of my ship based fics, all of them, without exception. It's everywhere. And the characters taking time to take care of each other and to help each other no matter the impacts on their lives because the other is more important? Literal chills every single time.

Slow Burn is also in legit all of my fics because I don't know how to write a faster romance to save my life. Also, I get really confused in fic where characters get together in less than 3,000 words, the aroace autistic brain over here honestly just doesn't get it and idk why it doesn't. Plus seeing the characters fall in love over time is just super heart warming because of that progression.

Sharing a Bed/Platonic(?) Cuddling are always together so they get listed together and I adore them both. It's typically done so so well and for characters whose love language is Physical Touch its just so cute. It's just cute ok?

Domestic Fluff is just so nice because you get to see how the characters interact in day to day life. It always just warms my heart to see them adding the other to their daily routines or admiring the others quirks. Like it's just so sweet to see them making space for the other in their life.

Friends to Lovers is genuinely amazing in my opinion because you get to see them falling in love with the entire person, not just their faults or their good side, or their appearance. They know each other and trust each other and fall in love because of that.

Character Tropes:

Ok, I'm not sure if these are actual character tropes but oh well, you guys will hopefully get what I mean by these.

Scary Looking Parental Characters Undoing Years of Generational Trauma is like one of my all time favourites if my found family posts never tipped you off. Also, I do write a ton of parental figures using this trope. Like a ton (Marcus, we're looking at you here).

Siblings Not by Blood but by Heart always makes me cry. Like choosing to be someone's sibling and to stick with them through everything is just always an amazing dynamic.

Autistic Coded Burnt Out Overachiever is just one of the best tropes of all time. And this isn't at all indicative of my kin list being primarily made of these characters, don't worry about it.

Mentor Figure Who Becomes Parental Figure is just super realistic and super heart warming. Like a character decided to train or teach this other character and ending up becoming their lifeline? Perfection. And definitely needs to be used more.

Fallen Heroes are another super relatable one because of how we watch them go from starry eyed to hardened by reality is just always so moving. And yes, I loved the Creation from Frankenstien, I named him Nils and he's my son and nothing was truly his fault.

My least fav troupes of all time are always misunderstanding/miscommunication (as it can typically be easily avoided) and manic pixie dream girl (this tope pisses me off so much I could legit rant about it for hours). At least those are my least favourites off the top of my head. I'm pretty picky about tropes at times tbh.

[erosiism]

A CASE OF REGRETS | YANDERE DUKE X M!READER.

prompt: you die during a rebellion, and he turns back time for you in desperation | reader is childhood friends with claude (OC), both are planning a rebellion to usurp the throne.

character(s): duke, you

warnings(s): nil

note(s): male reader, second person, past tense, not beta read, excerpt from my fic on wattpad, to make amends

FIND MORE MOMENTS OF CLAUDE AND THE READER HERE.

"Y/n!"

Blood spurted out.

"Y/n!"

Your vision blurred.

"Oh gods, are you okay? Are you—"

Your ribs hurt: were they broken? Bloodied? You could certainly taste the horrible taste of iron present in your tongue. It was clear to you that somehow you were dying. That something had turned against you. That you were...

"Please, please, please—"

Through your muddled vision you could make out a figure. A familiar silhouette running towards you, legs stumbling in desperation, breaths ragged.

It was nice to know that when you died, someone would grieve for you. That someone would cry for you.

There was only one person in the world who cared so much for you.

"Claude," you murmured. There was a smile on your face. "There's no need to cry..."

"Y/n, please—no—"

"Save it." You sighed, "there's no way I'm going to be surviving this."

It was true. Blood jetted out of your wound in spurts, staining your tailored uniform with a bright, crimson hue. You had loved that color mainly because Claude had ruby eyes, but now it just seemed gruesome, horrid. Pain had simmered down into a steady brew, and you wondered if your pain tolerance had simply grown stronger, or it was a telling sign of your fading consciousness.

"You were such a brat last time." You murmured. "You used to throw tantrums and everything...for a while, I thought you despised me. Even when we became adults, you were still heartless, cold...so why do you weep for me? Why do you grieve my death?"

I was a fool last time, Claude thought silently. I was a fool. I was a fool not to have shown my affections last time.

Because the truth was plain and simple, written in ink, written in the stars: Claude adored you. Was it not you who had held his hand in the gardens for strolls? Was it not you who accompanied him throughout, was it not you who could make him crack a smile, make him laugh? It had been all you. Every single joyous moment he had was caused by you. When he had finally received the title of the Duke. When he had finally defeated his family and his foes.

But Claude had been so wrapped up in his own troubles he had failed to notice your problems. Your dastardly family. Your...

He had neglected your wellbeing—he hadn't seen your deteriorating state, your weakening smile—he hadn't see any of that. He had been self obsessed, too engrossed in his own matters that he hadn't even—

Claude had taken too long to warm up to you. He could have been sweeter earlier. Made your life easier, no matter what it was. Claude had taken a while to truly open his heart to you: he had been rude, ungracious, curt. And you had been patient. Endlessly patient with him.

"We can save you," Claude said desperately, "we can."

You laughed. A tinkling, magical sound—but at that moment, it was so damned. So fucking painful to hear the cracks inside, the strain hiding inside the tone.

He knew it would be the last time he would ever heard it.

"You are the Emperor. You finally reclaimed your right to the throne. You finally..."

"Y/n," he whispered.

You shook your head.

"You achieved everything you sought for."

Perhaps he did. But the thing he truly wanted had been in front of him this whole time and he had been blind. Utterly blind.

And he would never forgive himself for that.

The tears slipped. His voice felt suffocated; choking.

"Don't cry," you touched his cheek gently and that pulled Claude temporarily out of his panic—"don't cry, alright? It was inevitable, Your Grace. Don't cry. The future Emperor doesn't cry."

Your Grace. Even then, you hadn't referred to him by his name. If he had another chance—just one singular chance—

He would allow you to call him by his name.

You were his everything.

You're my heart, Y/n.

If you die, then that would make me heartless.

There was so much blood, Claude realized. Coating his palms, running down your back. So much of its thick texture, its color, all drenched. Every single bit drenched—

Why was there so much blood? It wasn't his. He  wasn't unhurt, really. He wasn't that well off, but not to your extent. You sounded so tired when you spoke, so faint. So weak. You could have disappeared any second. Claude held you in your arms softly, gently—you could disappear any moment, your breaths wavering and quivering.

No, no, no.

I love you, Claude thought deliriously. I love you. I love you. I love you so much—

The voice grew and became stronger; louder even as you grew cold. Claude rocked you even when your hands fell, holding one to his own cheek. Your hands still had the faintest bit of warmth. He clung onto it desperately; motionless with the tears dried up with his throat feeling like sandpaper.

You can't leave me, he'd thought deliriously, hugging you close and rocking you again and again and again, you can't leave me.

Y/n L/n, I love you too much to let you go.

.

.

Claude had failed to save you. In front of him, your beauty was still visible in his eyes; your (h/c) hair, your (e/c) eyes—because of his arrogance, his incompetence, you had unfairly died. He had not noticed the blooming feelings in his stomach until you had been cold in his arms, and his tears had splattered on your cheek.

The universe has been cruel to you.

He had stood by your side and had watched you suffer and suffer and suffer; and for what? Only for the gods to turn their back on you? What was the point, really? Claude had been with you this whole time. Had seen the sacrifices you poured in, had seen—

He should have been the one that died, Claude despaired. Not you. Never you.

That night he couldn't sleep. The place was too empty without you. He had been crowned Emperor. But there was no you to accompany him by his side.

There was...absolutely no point.

Why was he even alive at this rate? Claude wondered. Everything would go back to life before you. Tedious. Long. Meaningless.

"Your Majesty, the Empire—"

"—do whatever you want." Claude rasped out. "Just...just..."

Please. If the Gods are listening. Please, please—

Turn back time. For me, for Y/n.

For...

[ The Gods have heard your prayers ]

.

.

Turning back time was unheard of. Something in the legends. Something Claude didn't believe in. Yet when he woke up—there had been disappointment in him, he had assumed that this was heaven yet you were nowhere in sight—there was the familiar surroundings of a room.

Not the Emperor's bedroom.

The bedroom from the manor he once lived when he was the illegitimate son of the Duke.

I must be dreaming, Claude thought. There was a flicker of hope he didn't dare to believe in. I must be dreaming of the happier times and the million what ifs.

Pain was tugging at his heart. It was painful. Everything was painful...

"—don't bother him. He just recovered from a sickness."

What?

What?

Delusional. Hallucinating. Delirious. To hear your sweet, sweet voice in such a dream—perhaps this was heaven after all. Claude didn't ever want to wake up. He didn't.

Because you were there. In front of him.

He sucked in a breath.

As sweet, as polite as he remembered. Every inch of his face had been committed to his memory. Every contour, every line. He had mapped you out in his head and had aligned you with the thousands of dazzling stars in the universe because you were the reason he bothered to continue living. Because you had become his reason for living.

You stood, in regal attire, with your posture as graceful as he had remembered. The sunlight streamed in through the paneled windows, caressing your features and alighting upon your lashes. He swallowed, trying to remember how to breathe.

"Ah, you are awake, Your Grace." You smiled at him.

"Y/n L/n," he said finally. "Y/n L/n." It's been so long since he could say this name to someone who would hear and respond to it. So many times he called your name out of your desperation in vain: hoping for some sort of hallucination to pop up, for some sort of inkling that your voice would carry over to his ears.

And you smiled.

Smiled.

Smiled.

Smiled—

Claude reached out to you and buried his face into your clothes.

You gave a startled smile.

.

.

The Duke had done a 180 complete turn.

"Y/n," he spoke with uncharacteristic fondness that you just didn't understand, "you are..."

Tears. There were tears on his cheek. Had you done anything to offend him? You thought not.

"Your Grace..." you reached out to brush his forehead with your fingers, "are you alright? You don't seem to have a fever."

Claude stared at you with wide eyes.

"Oh," You heard him say, and then, "you are as beautiful as I remembered."

What?

"Your Grace, are you really sure you are fine—"

Claude dashed forward, not even registering your words. He crushed you in his arms, a hand in your hair, head buried in his neck. He missed this. This warmth and this scent. Home, home. It's the smell of home. It's the smell of you. It's you. It's you. It's you. 

It worked, he thought. It worked. It fucking worked. I traveled back in time. 

"... Well then," you gave a small chuckle, confused upon what was happening, "it's a relief to see you have awoken—why are you crying?"

"You're here," Claude breathed, his first tangible words since his return. "You're here."

"Of course I'm here, Your Grace." You looked at him with confusion etched all over your features, frowning. "What's wrong? You..."

The Duke was looking at you like you were the only one that mattered in the world. And that—

Wow. What kind of coma did he have, to be behaving so peculiarly?

You wiped his tears, sighing and fussing.

"You know what—never mind. Tell me later—why are you still crying, Your Grace?"

Claude held onto you tighter.

Maybe he had bad dreams in his coma, you thought. He was holding on to you like you were a lifeline. Like you would disappear any second, any minute.

As though he would never let go of you again.

You patted the Duke's head gently, slowly, fingers running through his hair. "Don't cry. The future Emperor doesn't cry."

Those words. It was so hauntingly painful to him.

Claude didn't want to remember anymore. He didn't  need to remember. He had succeeded. The Gods had listened to him. You were alive and breathing, in front of him. You were—

Alive.

reblog/like the post! comments are appreciated even if you read this before :)

[toomuchracket]

halloween (dad birthday party!matty x reader fluff)

a slightly late final day of promptober fic, featuring both your daughter's cat and her slay of a halloween costume. short and sweet. enjoy! <3

the cat shuffling around on matty's chest makes his eyes shoot open. fuck, had he really fallen asleep on the sofa, dozed off watching the football like his own dad, and his dad before him? christ. 

how embarrassing. he's not that old. 

blinking back into the realm of the conscious, matty squints at the score at the top left of the tv screen - still nil-nil, the same as it was fifteen minutes ago. that comforts him, despite the looming threat of a newcastle league relegation dependent on them winning this match. he's not old, he's just a tired man who fell asleep watching a boring game after a long, work-filled week. 

matty hums happily at that conclusion. the noise vibrates through his shirt-clad chest, making eloise - the ragdoll kitten so named after amy's latest literary obsession, the protagonist of a book series her mum brought home with her from new york - lift her little head and look at him curiously.

he stares back at her. "yes, madam?"

unsurprisingly, eloise doesn't dignify him with a verbal response. she nuzzles softly into his chest, though, and goes back to gently kneading his ribs with a purr, which makes matty smile. not so much at the cat herself, although he does like how comfortable eloise is with him, but rather thinking about how your six-year-old would react to the sight; she's been obsessed with the "eloise is making daddy biscuits!" joke since you told her about it last month, and every time she sees eloise's kneading in action she puts on the gleeful smile she also learned (well, inherited) from you.

you, now audibly walking towards the living room, voice humming what matty thinks is fantasy by mariah carey, heels clicking against the concrete steps. the latter noise threatens to bring up memories of another halloween the two of you had in this house, where you ended up in bed in nothing but your heels, and matty has to focus really hard on thinking about the chord changes in the former noise before the memories become a problem for him, for you, and for getting amy to this bloody school disco on time.

"hi, baby," you smile, wandering over and leaning down to kiss your husband. mayhem pads in behind you, plonking himself down by matty's feet. "good game?"

"not in the slightest. what a shit evening," matty sighs, doing his best to reach down and scratch mayhem's head without disrupting eloise's baking prep. "you look hot, though, babe. really hot."

he's not lying, or exaggerating. the dark grey suit jacket you're wearing is cool as fuck, interestingly structured, and the matching mini pencil skirt and sheer black tights are doing wonders for your legs. maybe matty's biased, because you're his wife and he loves you, but if he had to define "milf", he would take a picture of you right now and use that to do it concisely.

"thanks, baby," you giggle at matty, and he grins and leans up to kiss you again. fuck, he loves flustering you with compliments - always has, always will. "it's not too… corporate?"

matty shakes his head. "it's hot, babe, really."

"well, it is ysl. you look hot, too, by the way, as always," you wink, and matty's heart skips a beat. "although we'll need to lint roller you before we leave, i think, given that somebody's gotten a bit too comfy resting on you and you're wearing full black. yes, missy, i'm talking about you!"

eloise languidly lifts her head again, to look at your smiling face this time; she purrs quite happily when you caress her, but her little face is almost defiant, unapologetic about her choice of seat. matty laughs - softly, as not to startle her - and waves a hand carelessly. "leave her be, she's comfy."

"you know, that old saying really is true."

"what old saying?"

"that there's nothing quite so special as the bond between a dad and the pet they used to claim they didn't want," you smirk, running a hand through matty's hair.

"oi! i never said i didn't want eloise," matty frowns.

"of course not, sweetheart," you kiss your husband's head, and scoop the cat up like she's a baby. eloise purrs again when you rub her stomach. "anyway, she's been summoned by our oldest baby girl, so your outfit's safe for now. there's a lint roller in that random drawer in the kitchen - use that, then meet me in the hallway in three minutes?"

matty smirks. "ooh, a secret halloween rendezvous?"

"no, matthew," you roll your eyes, but smile anyway. "so your daughter can do a big costume reveal for us before we have to leave the house. she's insistent we get the full effect, fully commit to the vibe."

"oh, my baby," matty beams. "i think we're doing a great job raising her. even though your habit of being late to parties has turned out to be a genetic thing."

"yeah, yeah," for the second time in as many minutes, you roll your eyes; you're clearly not that irritated by matty, though, considering you bend down to kiss him as slowly as time pressures (and eloise) allow. "see you in two minutes."

"looking forward to it," matty calls as you leave the room, sighing at the way mayhem follows you without a second glance at him. he supposes he should be used to it by now - ever since you started coming over to hang out all those years ago, mayhem's been completely, totally, utterly devoted to you.

like father, like son.

and like father, like daughter, matty thinks, when he meets you in the hallway a couple of minutes and a quick cat hair removal session later. he can hear amy from round the corner, frantically directing her mum before she makes her appearance. "from the top, mum! and don't forget eloise!"

"alright," you call through cheerily, a total contrast to the grimace on your face - matty has to bite his lip to keep from laughing. "presenting… her royal highness, amelia mignonette thermopolis renaldi, princess of genovia! and," you have to check your phone for the next bit. "the royal kitty, sir fat louie."

matty grins as amy starts to make her way down the corridor towards them, resplendent in a pretty white off-the-shoulder dress with matching gloves, a tiara adorning her bunned hair; his smile widens at the sight of her black headphones, eloise (also wearing a crown) comically big in her tiny arms, and the ray-bans he got her for her birthday to match his own. the princess diaries had been another recent literary and cinematic obsession of amy's, and she was adamant princess mia was her costume of choice for the halloween disco at school. she was also adamant her parents were going to be a part of it, too, which is why you're in your version of charlotte the PA's corporate chic outfit, and matty was forced to dig out an old leather blazer from the at their very best tour to loosely cosplay as joe the security guy.

he doesn't mind in the slightest, though - seeing his little girl smiling so big and having the time of her life is all that really matters to matty, and he'd do anything to make it happen. he's the same when it comes to you; he just loves his girls so much.

and he tells you both that when amy reaches the pair of you, curtseying demurely as you cheer and promptly burping dramatically immediately afterwards. yep. she's your collective offspring, alright.

"so," amy begins, putting eloise (who scampers off to bed) on the ground (with a "thank you for being part of this, eloise! i wish you could come with me, but i'll see you later)". "do you like my costume, dad?"

"i love it, munchkin," matty grins, kneeling to be level with amy. "you look beautiful. but also really cool! s'a perfect outfit for you, i think."

amy nods seriously. "i think so too," she turns to you, barrelling into your legs for a cuddle. "thank you for helping sort it for me, mummy."

"you're welcome, my girl. but," you tilt your head towards matty. "it wasn't me who got your glasses, the most iconic part!"

"oh yeah," amy launches herself into matty's arms, snuggling into him. his baby! he doesn't want to ever let go. "thanks, dad."

"that's alright, munchkin," matty catches a glimpse of his watch - the fancy one you bought him for christmas - over his daughter's head. "listen, my beautiful girls, we'd better get a move on if we want to get to the disco on time. coats on, please."

it's a sign of how excited amy is that she doesn't dispute putting a coat on and covering up her fancy outfit; instead, she just rambles on about her costume and her friends' planned costumes and how excited she is for the snacks and to see if any of her favourite songs are played. you and matty half-listen and half-swoon at how adorable she is, glancing at each other with little smiles on your faces as you begin the drive to the school.

one particular question of hers does pique your attentions, however. "see the foot pop at the end of the film when they kiss? is that a real thing?"

the car goes awkwardly silent as you and matty look at each other, truly unsure how to respond. matty does first. "it's certainly something you don't need to know for a good few years - decades, even."

amy's indignant. "i'm only asking, dad, i'm not going to kiss a boy! they have germs!"

"that's my girl!" you laugh, turning to wink at her; when you turn back to the front, your gaze locks onto matty's pretty face. "but yes, munchkin, it's a real thing. not for everyone, but it's real."

"even for you and dad?"

matty takes your hand and brings it to his lips. "definitely real for us, yeah."

"gross."

[practicedvmm13fullofpotatoes]

Things in The Neighbor's Under the Bed that drive me insane

(WARNING: IT'S A REALLY LONG POST FOR SOME REASON. CONTINUE IF YOU DARE)

Mark said "They beat us 7-nil", implying that Abigail was also a Raccoon. So. Both of them are retired Raccoon City players but Mark cares about football and getting back at Johnny and Janae's father. Abigail loves the guy enough to let him do his plans, occasionally helping him (like with the tunnel thing) but she doesn't obsess over football like he does

"A nipple a day keeps the Rangers at bay!" "That's what we've got on our house crest" I know all of these things are supposed to be for comedic purposes but that implies that Abigail's been doing the nipple thing since the Raccoons lost to the Rangers (hell, she could have also been doing it before they lost to the Rangers but I don't think she'd have the need to do that unless conspiring with Mark to get back at the Rangers)

THE ADDAMS JUST HAVE A BLUEPRINT OF THE EVANS' HOUSE. WHAT??

"We love you too, Dad!" Janae, that is your mother--

"Don't hit your brother anymore, that's not very nice okay?" "I try to but the night terrors" This is Janae responding. I can't tell if this is because Janae has nightmares and is hitting Johnny in their sleep or if Janae hits Johnny to wake him up from a really nasty future dream

Johnny coming out of nowhere while Martha was already telling the boys goodnight and her not knowing that he wasn't in the room shows how neglectful of a mother she is. Sure, she comforts him but also tells him to "shut up" and to "stop being weird".

"Yes, Johnny, that's the one" WHY DID JANAE HAVE TO CONFIRM THAT THEIR MOTHER WAS RIGHT WITH WHAT THEIR OLDER BROTHER'S NAME IS??

"I did say that he was my older brother. But he's emotionally less mature" This is definitely to clarify to the audience but I'm taking this as Janae knowing that their mother can't differentiate them sometimes.

"What do you mean you had another one of your future dreams?" SHE DOESN'T KNOW WHAT HE'S TALKING ABOUT. AND THIS IS A REGULAR OCCURRENCE, MIND YOU. SHE DOESN'T LISTEN TO HIM WHEN HE'S TALKING ABOUT HIS FUTURE DREAMS!! HE LITERALLY HAD TO EXPLAIN WHAT HIS FUTURE DREAMS WERE

"I'll try but I do have to finish the Oxford curriculum" Implies they're in school and then Tom throws the next line "Because, you know I'm lecturing in the morning" which throws my previous idea out the window. JANAE LECTURES AT OXFORD?? JANAE FUCKING GRADUATED AND TEACHES AT OXFORD??

"I dreamed a man came out from under my bed :(" I mean, sure, it's technically correct but not exactly correct?? Which implies that Johnny either has 80% accurate future dreams or his dreams come from another perspective sometimes??

"But sometimes they come true, mommy!" SOMETIMES?? SO THEY DON'T ALWAYS COME TRUE?? I MEAN. OKAY

"It's okay, I'm familiar with the carnal act" what has this eight-year-old seen....

"My seis-- my seismogram" Tom was blanking on what it was called but yes, a seismogram exists (I saw it on my exam. But now I'm starting to think that an 8 year old just recently invented it)

"It's not true" IMMEDIATELY TOLD HER CHILD THAT IT ISN'T REAL. DOES SHE CARE ABOUT HER CHILDREN? PROBABLY NOT

"If it was true, it would be called a seismoGRAPH" BOTH OF THEM SHUT JANAE DOWN. WHAT?? GUYS. HEAR 'EM OUT. COME ON

"I said I made it myself, it's something new, father!" NEITHER OF JANAE'S PARENTS WOULD LISTEN TO THEM. ALSO, THE EMPHASIS ON "FATHER" IMPLIES JANAE DOESN'T LIKE THEIR FATHER MUCH

"I know where he gets his power. I have to sleep with his wife" THIS IS LIKE THE MEME. ["I'VE CONNECTED THE TWO DOTS" "YOU DIDN'T CONNECT SHIT" "I'VE CONNECTED THEM"] NO BUT WHERE THE FUCK DID HE GET THIS IDEA I'M SOBBING SO HARD

"ENGORGE HIM AND HAVE HIM ENTE-- no wait-- ENGORGE HER AND HAVE YOURSELF ENTER HER" TOM WAS READY TO MAKE THIS GAY. I LOVE THAT

"It'll just be me and the boys--" "No, me and the boys" THEIR FATHER IS TOO FIXATED WITH FOOTBALL THAT HE DOESN'T EVEN CONSIDER HIS CHILDREN

"Tasting menu" "Expensive.." THIS ISN'T REALLY RELATED TO THE LORE I'M TRYING TO MAKE FOR NEIGHBOUR'S BUT THIS IS HILARIOUS

The nod to Luke before patting the chair. Again, not related to lore but I love this moment

AJ going to drink in the background until Luke spoke. Took a moment to pause because that was definitely not what Johnny sounded like previously (not related. again)

"We had a different daddy. Our daddy was not our daddy it was the neighbaah :(" Okay so going back to Johnny's future dreams, they aren't 100% accurate to what actually happens but rather a caricature of it?? Dreams don't always make sense in real life, so Johnny's future dreams being a bit exaggerated makes sense kind of??

"WHY ARE THEY DOING IT IN THE RECORDING STUDIO WITH ALL THE MICS ON?!" THEY HAVE A WHAT IN THEIR HOUSE? THEY HAVE A RECORDING STUDIO???

"I was going to suggest a fire but okay!" JANAE IMMEDIATELY THOUGHT THAT A FIRE WAS THE BEST WAY TO SOLVE THIS. THEY MAY BE BOOK SMART BUT THEY'RE A LITTLE BIT FUCKED UP IN THE HEAD. JOHNNY, THE ONE WHO GOES MORE ON EMOTION RATHER THAN GENUINELY THINKING, WAS THE ONE WHO HAD A RATIONAL IDEA. CALLING THEIR DAD WAS DEFINITELY THE BETTER IDEA. AND THEN HE JUST AGREES WHEN JANAE SUGGESTED A FIRE. YEAH, NO, NEVERMIND THEY'RE BOTH A BIT FUCKED UP (then again, younger children have wild imaginations. Janae might be intelligent but that doesn't mean they're not a kid. Hell, their boosted iq may or may not have aided with the fucked up ideas they might have)

Janae just being a news anchor/football announcer in a normal speed while Jack and Mark are in slow mo. Why is that? To make it a bit more dramatic? Because it's a slow mo playback? Huh??

"I'll be seeking forced adoption for myself and my older brother" GOOD BECAUSE BOTH OF THEIR PARENTS ARE NEGLECTFUL. THEY DESERVE TO LIVE IN A BETTER HOME, GODDAMN IT

Tl;dr: This play is insane and these two kids need a family that actually care about their interests and don't shut them down/force them to play football

[samsalami66]

Here we go again with a fun little drabble, this time for a spontaneous Knight!Hob and Prince!Dream au (which will probably get a few more additions lmao). It all started with my lovely @im-not-corrupted handing me the prompt "you know, it's ok if you're not ok" from this wonderful prompt list.

----

Dream ran down a corridor, his coat billowing behind him like an angry cloud of black smoke, set to destroy everything that would dare to stand between him and this God-forsaken door deep within the bowels of the castle. 

Dream ran, and it was the first time Dream remembered running since his childhood years, when he had been a naught but a babe, excited to explore every nook and corner of the massive palace that he called his home. Of course the first time he was forced to engage in such physical activity in as many years, it would be Hob Gadling's fault. Because it was always Hob Gadling's fault, from the moment he stepped foot into the throne room and announced he would become Dream's personal guardian, a Knight in his name alone, loyal to none other than the Prince of the Dreaming. 

What is he at fault for? a curious reader might ask, and Dream would whirl around on his heel and give a whole list of things Sir Robert Gadling could be blamed for, if only indirectly. 

For the blush he forced onto Dream's pale cheeks anytime their gazes met over a particularly boring dinner with his family. Perhaps also for the way Dream's heart skipped a beat whenever Hob spoke up to the King and Queen on his behalf, a feat so terrible even the most noble of men had failed before him. Good thing Hob was no nobleman, no son of high houses nor of new money. 

He was an idiot, first and foremost. A talented, quick witted and patient idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. After all, who just waltzes into a room with the King and Queen in it and promises undying loyalty to their adolescent son who no one particularly likes and expects it to simply work? And who decides to simply enter a jousting match without any former training or experience for fun?

Hob Gadling, of course, which was just one more example of things he could be blamed for. 

Nil consideration for his own physical well-being. 

Idiot. 

Dream was about to say as much as he threw open the door to Hob's chambers, but every ill thought spent towards his Knight's stupidity was immediately dropped as Dream found him hunched over the back of his armchair, one hand clutching at his bare chest as it rose and fell in quick succession. 

God's wounds, Dream had seen how Hob got shoved out of his saddle, how the lance had connected with his armor plate and sent him flying from his horse in one spectacular arch. But he never could have guessed just how bad it must have hurt, even through the steel and cloth. The bruise on Hob's chest was an angry black, his sides spotted with a deep red where his ribs were most definitely fractured. 

"Hob," the name left Dream's lips like a plea, like God's name would fall from a sinner's lips who prayed for salvation. And he did pray for salvation, in a way. Not his own, but salvation from endless pain nonetheless.

The man in question looked up between sweaty brows, a pained grimace painting his usual smile an ugly gray. Dream found himself by his side faster than lightning, hands coming up to hover helplessly over Hob's chest. 

Hob sighed at the concern clearly plastered into every corner of Dream's face, the way his lips tugged downwards in an obvious display of his dislike for the position he found Hob in. 

"Don't you worry for me, my Lord. I'm… fine. I'm fine, I promise." 

Tragically, the trustworthiness of this statement was negated by a heavy cough wrecking Hob's body, which left him groaning in pain over his injuries. 

"You are not fine, Robert Gadling," Dream hissed in response, hands finally coming to a rest on Hob's back. "Which is. Alright. It is alright if you are not alright. Just, please, lay down, my friend. You must rest."

Thankfully, Hob did not fight Dream as he was pushed towards his bedroom, and neither did he when Dream gently pressed him down into the mattress with a careful hand to his shoulder. His breath was still heavy and his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at Dream, something vulnerable hidden behind the dark brown of his eyes that Dream could not quite decipher in the near darkness of the bedroom. 

"Will you stay? My Lord?" Hob whispered, apparently balancing carefully between the realm of sleep and the world of the waking. 

"No duty could possibly force me from your side, my half-witted Knight." Dream responded quietly, his heart warming considerably at the soft smile that crept into his friend's eyes at the endearment, before they eventually fell close and Hob got pulled into deep and restful slumber. 

Dream placed a single feather-light kiss to the dark spot on Hob's chest before settling into the other side of the bed, his eyes fixed on the slowing rise and fall of Hob's breast. 

Hob Gadling really was an idiot.

Dream's idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

[ayaitch]

One of the things in the Horizon games that is a little tiresome to me is about all these Carja "good ones". Every time we meet a Carja (except for Nil, who is a whole other topic...), the narrative goes to lengths to assure us, the audience, that we should care about this Carja because they were "one of the good ones" during the Red Raids. This Carja wanted to stop things. This Carja opposed the Red Raids and senseless slaughter. This Carja always questioned things and strove to stop it all.

So that's great and all, and I appreciate having "good ones" right off the bat during awful, horrible times in a culture's history, but it's not very challenging. Show me why I should care about one of the "bad ones". Or someone who thought they were doing well by their culture, people, family, only to finally glimpse the big picture and realize how wrong they were and then try to change. Someone who snaps out of it, elbow-deep in blood (metaphrically?), and realizes something is off, thinks, 'Wtf am I doing, this isn't helping anyone.'

Even Avad, who usurped his bloodthirsty, tyrant father (and killed him, I don't want that to be taken away from Avad!) should have, at least up until a certain point, believed what his father was doing was right. It's how he was raised. It was the only lens by which he saw the world, especially considering the literal pillar upon which the Carja royal family resided. He had to be drinking from the same cup as his father (again, metaphorically) and so why wouldn't he believe up to a time, that they were doing what was right by their religion/culture. At some point, he had a Come-to-the-Sun moment (so to speak) and realized his father was a terrible, murdering person and worked against that, but what was that moment? He was already plotting against his father by the time he meets Ursa and helps her escape (if I recall correctly...).

Talanah's father and brother, prestigious and noble members of the Hunter's Lodge in Meridian, should have, at least at the beginning, been totally behind their Sun-King, who made it a point to justify more and more terrible things by claiming it for the best, that their people needed protection from this machine threat and degrading biosphere. I like the way the narrative handled them, but we were still presented with the idea that they were "good from the start."

Fashav too. "One of the good ones", who marched with the Red Raiders hoping to "mitigate" their atrocities. Which he failed at so why is he still considered a good one? Because intentions? There's a reason the adage is "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." (Don't get me wrong, I love Fashav, and wanted him to retire in comfort and accomplished lasting peace with laurels on his arms. He's such a compelling character as far as I'm concerned.)

Every Carja we meet that the narrative wants us to care about had figured out that the Mad Sun-King was awful and terrible before their hands got truly dirty, and were just trying to do their best from the inside to make change without creating waves and getting themselves executed (except Talanah's family, good on them).

So. I guess what I'm looking for in Horizon is an actual bad guy of the Carja who comes around before the end of the Red Raids. Someone too deep to see that they were wrong at first, but as soon as they did, made the needed change, and then did their very best to actively sabotage and undermine authority in every possible way. It's not that I don't like the Carja we meet in the game, it's just boring that they're always "one of the good ones" so we should care about what happens to them, instead of just having Aloy murder them on sight. Someone who did some things in the name of an unworthy institution and is now trying to come back from it and do the right thing.

Thinking about all this makes me wish we could have taken down those Shadow Carja in the Daunt at the beginning of HFW, because they're still nasty and awful (but still somehow good and peaceful types?????), but Aloy and Petra are all, 'aw, poor refugees...'. Like.... Pardon me? Weren't they were 100% supportive of the murdering, crazy Sun-King who tore apart both of their tribes and are anti-Avad who wants peace with everyone. What the hell is with that?

[thalialunacy]

[for the @calaisreno MayProWriMo, which we're halfway through, whaaaat. take heed: I'm gonna call this one nc-17/nsfw/explicit; also smol cw for John being a middle-aged white dude who tries hard.]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) (15) 16: experiment (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

'The true method of knowledge is experiment.' -- William Blake

John's birthday do turns into a Rosie-themed party, but he doesn't mind. He's chuffed, truth be told. And not at all biased.

Luckily, all the other adults present are also not at all biased, so she has a willing audience for her various toddler antics, and throws herself into them full-speed.

'Perfect,' John says aside to Sherlock as Rosie demonstrates to the twelfth guest how to use her new rocking horse. The thing is solid. 'She'll wear herself down and pass out as soon as I put her to bed.'

Sherlock glances down at him from where he'd been watching a folded-up Stamford give the toy horse a few rocks before listing to one side and plonking down onto the carpet dramatically. 'You have plans?' he deduces easily while Rosie's giggles spin through the air.

John clears his throat. 'Possibly.'

Sherlock's lips curve into a smile, even after he turns his focus back to the room. 'Indeed.'

---

'In the spirit of science, there really is no such thing as a 'failed experiment.' Any test that yields valid data is a valid test.' -- Adam Savage

In true contrarian form, Rosie fights the fight of the exhausted and over-stimulated when John tries to start her bedtime routine after finally shoving all the guests out the door. He gets more water on him than she does during her bath, she ends up with backwards jammies on because she absolutely refuses to wear them any other way, and she has declared her disgust with every single one of their normal bedtime stories before he can blink.

John loves her to the ends of the earth, but he's suddenly feeling some strong nostalgia for his bachelor days. Very strong. Very. Strong.

A few moments before his patience is truly drained to nil, there's a knock on the door and Sherlock sticks his head in. 'Rosamund?' he asks, walking over and meeting her gaze. 'What's all this?'

'Don't want bad story!' she exclaims with watery eyes, like the idea is tantamount to state-sanctioned torture.

Sherlock glances at John, who just shrugs wearily. 'There's no accounting for taste.'

Sherlock snorts. 'Alright, Watsons. Here's the plan. Watson the Elder will go have a bath and some tea, and Watson the Younger will listen attentively while I tell the most riveting story of all time.'

He tucks her blanket back around her and she settles a little at his touch. Then he starts in with That Voice, and she's no match. 'Long ago, there once was a woman named Marie. She was from a land far, far away called Poland.' John makes a noise, and Sherlock in turn makes a shooing motion at him.

Plodding his way down the stairs, John muses that all of Sherlock's Rosie stories have involved female protagonists, usually non-fictional. They're not a particularly outwardly 'woke' bunch, the residents of 221 Baker St, but John reckons it's the little things. Like raising a daughter with heroes like Marie Curie.

It's not something they've even discussed, as her caretakers, and affection for Sherlock hits John hard in the chest. He's the luckiest bastard in the world, he really is.

---

'Argument is conclusive, but it does not remove doubt, so that the mind may rest in the sure knowledge of the truth, unless it finds it by the method of experiment.' -- Roger Bacon

That appreciation is still lingering when John exits the loo in his bathrobe to find Sherlock sprawled on the kitchen table, which is a new one, reading a book that looks about as old as the earth itself.

'Feel better?' he says without lifting his eyes to John.

John nods, approaching him. 'You left out the part where Marie Curie died of radiation poisoning, yes?'

'Obviously,' Sherlock says, easing his legs over the edge of the table until he's sitting on it like a normal person, but still reading. 'That will keep until she's at least four.'

'Right. What's the book about?' John asks as he makes his way between Sherlock's knees.

Sherlock holds up a pointer finger. 'One moment.'

John shakes his head with a small smile, then without really considering it he rolls his palms up Sherlock's thighs. The detective is still wearing his party trousers, fine wool John really doesn't want to know the cost of, and it feels smooth and satisfying under his skin.

He leaves his hands at the top of Sherlock's thighs, pressing lightly into small spaces. Sherlock coughs. 'If you distract me, it'll take even longer.'

John raises his hands. 'Fine, fine. I'll just be in bed.' He lowers his voice a little. 'In your bed.'

Sherlock goes very still, eyes staying glued to the page. But his thighs tighten around John when he tries to back away.

John chuckles, and debates the merits of keeping his hands to himself. But before he's decided, he's interrupted.

'Done,' Sherlock announces loudly, slapping the book shut and putting it down on the table with only a modicum of care. He pulls John into him immediately, but his brow is a little furrowed. 'Do you mean it?'

'We've shared beds before,' John strings him along with.

Sherlock tuts. 'John Watson, don't be coy, it doesn't suit you.'

John sobers, and then nods. 'I want… ' He goes for the plain truth. The opposite of coy. 'I want to sleep in your bed, and I'd prefer it'd be after some orgasms.'

Sherlock makes a noise John's not sure how to interpret.

'If you want,' John adds lightly. 

Crystalline eyes search John's face. 'Aren't you tired?'

His smile blooms slowly. 'Yeah, I am. But not too tired for this.' He reaches up to cradle Sherlock's face in his hands, and kisses him, slow and steady, feeling the beat of his heart.

---

'If I experiment enough, I get a deeper understanding.' -- Terence Tao

The first word gets drawn on Sherlock's right hip.

John's left index finger traces eight letters while his right hand tucks into Sherlock's pants and draws them down and off, his mouth following then trailing along hot, hard skin. He knows Sherlock's watching, and likes the idea that he's being at least a little unpredictable.

He's not done this before, but he's done this before. His tongue, and palate, and salivary glands adjust without much fanfare.

The second word, also eight letters, is then stencilled into Sherlock's right thigh, where the hair is downy, and the tendon cords under John's hand.

'John--' Sherlock murmurs roughly. 'What--'

John, on a whim, tries a thing with his tongue, and Sherlock cuts off with a groan. Then John finds himself so involved he forgets to do the next word until Sherlock pulls him up into a tight embrace.

John lets him, because it leaves him in the perfect position to tongue the ten letters into Sherlock's long, exposed neck.

'John, really. Your penmanship is--' His breath catches as John uses a few teeth. '--terrible.'

John huffs a laugh, genuinely amused. 'Doctor, remember?'

'No excuse,' Sherlock says blithely, then starts pulling away.

John is unashamed to admit he tries to stop him, tries to keep him close. Sherlock's gaze softens, and he leans back in.

'Not going further than this bed,' he says against John's mouth. 'It's just that I have something I wish to do.' He smiles, slow and long, and says, 'You did just have a bath, did you not?'

John searches his face, feeling scorched down to his toes at the implied invitation. His thumb traces the fourth word, only four letters, into the thin skin of Sherlock's unbroken wrist, and Sherlock's eyes widen fractionally.

'Perfect,' Sherlock says, then captures his mouth in another kiss. 'Turn over.'

'Your fracture,' John protests. 'It isn't fully healed.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John is reassured he's still the same as he ever was. 'Which is why you should turn over. I'm going to kneel at the foot of the bed. That alright with you, Doctor?'

 'Oh, hell. Yes.'

The fifth word-- Well, John is surprised it took this long for the tables to turn, really, but the fifth word gets bitten into the rounded flesh where John's upper thigh tucks into his arse, before he has a chance to rise up onto his hands and knees. All seven letters, nibbled precisely into sensitive skin while Sherlock's uninjured hand teases at the goal.

'Jesus God,' John mutters weakly. 'Sherlock--'

'Up,' Sherlock says with a tap. John levers himself into position with a grunt, and barely has time to steady himself before Sherlock licks into him.

'Fuck,' he hisses, almost surging forward but being caught round the hip by Sherlock's good hand, steadied.

And then absolutely taken apart.

'Sher--' he falters, ages and a moment later, panting and trying to hold onto his clanging heart. 'Please, come here, I want-- I want you to come with me-- Oh, fuck.''

Sherlock's groan reverberates into him, and John falls onto his forearms, arse held in the air purely by strength of will. He'll congratulate himself later.

When Sherlock pulls away and climbs back onto the bed, John is caught in a messy web of lust and turns over just enough to pull Sherlock down onto his side. 'Please,' he says roughly, reaching for Sherlock's prick. 'Can I--'

'Yes,' Sherlock hisses, seeking out reciprocation. 'Whatever you want.'

And they sync up without too much struggle, racing to bring the other pleasure, and John can't quite remain tethered when he feels Sherlock's tongue tracing the sixth word over his heart. 'Sherlock,' he whispers. He tenses, and it's over; he's awash with sensation and floating away.

---

Seven steps of the scientific method: 1) Question 2) Research 3) Hypothesis 4) Test 5) Analyse 6) Conclusions 7) Communicate.

'You know,' Sherlock says enough moments later that John can focus on him again. 'The seventh step is debatable.'

John smirks sleepily, reaching blindly for his pants to wipe the majority of the evidence off their skin. 'I'd say communication is the most important part, actually.'

Sherlock huffs; John feels it on his temple and decides he's not moving for a while. And it takes a while for Sherlock to say what John can tell is brewing in his mind, anyway. It's alright. He can wait.

'What was that about, truly?' Sherlock finally asks quietly.

'Well,' John says, thinking as he traces figures, meaningless figures this time, into Sherlock's arm. 'Sometimes experiments are about demonstrating a known fact that’s already proven. '

'And this one proved…?'

John's hand comes to a stop. 'Oh, come on, you know what.'

Silence stretches after that statement, and John finally raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's. A smile spreads across his face at what he sees there.

'Just that I love the hell out of you,' he says matter-of-factly.

Sherlock lets out a stream of breath he'd apparently been holding. 'A reasonable conclusion,' he mutters, bringing their mouths together.

John grins, knowing exactly what Sherlock is saying with those words, and lets him have it.

[❤️]

[mariemariemaria]

Bhreathnaigh mé ar 'Kneecap'. Bhain mé a lán sult as an scannán — sé go mhaith!!! Agus go diabhalta greannmhar.

Spoilers below 👇 (as Béarla lol)

the opening was sooo good not the Brits thinking a christening at a Mass rock was an IRA gathering. Doesn't that say a lot?

Cowboys are cunts

The cinnamontography 👌👌👌

Lmao when the cop calls him a fenian and he's like that's a fair question rudely asked

Bobby Sandels

Michael Fassbander is like is anybody gonna play a too handsome west Belfast Irish republican with empathy and nuance and won't even wait for an answer

I found the sex scenes kinda cringey tbh. But I guess they got across what they were supposed to

Never thought I'd see the telegraph building in a film but here we are lol

'We're the Radical Republicans Against Drugs. We're radical Republicans before we're against drugs. It's in the name' lmao a lot of people do act like that once they find out they can get in on the drug money too

I liked the class element. With JJ and his partner being more middle class (if teachers can be called middle class these days) and having a secure job, meaning he could quit easily but also had to hide his identity. Interesting

The two telephone boxes really moved me

Never underestimate the power of Belfast mothers too true

I've seen the quote 'gach focal a labhraítear i nGaeilge, is é piléar scaoilte ar son saoirse na hÉireann' repeated a lot which I understand because its catchy and its said a few times during the film, but I quite like the end where they add that maybe we shouldn't talk about things in terms of bullets anymore, even as a metaphor, and the Protestant girlfriend going to an Irish language class.

An indigenous language dies every 40 days??? What the fuck

Overall really enjoyed it and cant wait to watch it again. Love hearing Irish spoken in the north so this type of film and band are just iontach! ❤️🅾️ the DUP really created a horrible atmosphere with their attitude towards an Irish language act and their crocodile comments. Like just because people were asking for the same thing Scotland and Wales had 🙄 It really wasn't nice to be viewed like that. But now there's an ILA, and multiple Irish language films are doing well internationally, so I'd say that's Fenian cunts 1 - DUP nil

[oleksiak-pettersson]

Shitttttt... I accidentally deleted this blurb.

The sun has long set by the time you look up from your book. Vancouver winters have a habit of sneaking up on you.

With the fire place roaring and the fuzzy blanket on your lap, you’d created the perfect reading atmosphere. The grumble of your stomach draws you out of your reading reverie.

Concrete, the cat you share with you boyfriend, cracks an eye open from the other side of the couch where he’s curled up like a shrimp. He mews softly at your movement before turning back over and resting his paw over his eyes.

You laugh at the cat, “Drama queen,” you poke his belly teasingly as you shed the blanket and stretch. The cat doesn’t even move, just continues to nod off into dreamland.

You can see the lights of Vancouver beginning to turn on from the buildings surrounding yours. You sigh contentedly as you glance at the clock on wall.

It’s dinner time. Lacking the energy to make food, you scoop up your phone and go in search of Elias. It’s an easy search, you can hear the echoes of his game from down the hall.

He’s left the door open a crack, you can hear the gameplay and he drops a f-bomb that has you chuckling.

You push the door open, watching with soft eyes as he’s focussed on his computer. There’s a headset covering his ears and a microphone attached to it that hovers near his pink lips.

His hair is a bit of a mess. You can hear the guys he’s playing with through the headset.

Brock, Nils, Quinn, and is that Kuz? You can’t be too sure.

“Petey? What do you want for dinner, babe?” You inquire, leaning against the doorframe.

You’re not prepared for how quickly he pauses the game and whips around in his chair. His jaw has dropped slightly and you can hear the confusion of his teammates and friends falling through the headset that previously rested on his head before he ripped it off.

“Sorry sweets, did I scare you?” You ask again, confused as to why he’s reacting this way.

“What did you just call me?” He counters, dead serious. There’s silence from the peanut gallery in the headphones.

“Sweets?” You shrug, still confused about the reaction.

“No, before that,” Elias rises from his chair, hands grabbing your hips with an urgency you’ve never seen him possess before.

“Babe? I call you babe all the time.” Your own hands come to rest on his chest. You raise an eyebrow at the seemingly now high-strung Swede.

“Before babe.” His eyes narrow into thin skits and you try not to chuckle at the long forgotten ‘alien death stare’ he’s sending your way.

“Petey?” You question, confusion taking over your face.

“Yes.” He says grumpily.

“But that’s your name, babe!” You laugh, hand moving up to cup his cheek.

“No. That’s what the guys call me, that’s what the fans call me.” He pauses, eyes watching your face shift. “You are my girl, the love of my life. I’m not just Petey with you.”

Your heart soars at his baring of emotion. You can’t help it as you pull his face to yours and press your lips against his.

He smiles into your grip, lips plush against yours as his tongue slides out to meet yours.

“Now that Peteys done being cheesy, can we have him back?” Brock’s voice rings in your ear.

“No!” Both you and Elias chorus as you pull apart.

“Play without him boys, it’s date night.” You grab the mic and place the headset back before smiling suggestively at your boyfriend.

You don’t think you ever seen him shut down a game so fast.

[belit0]

Itachi with number 12 please, i need this man biblically 🛐

Me with Indra 🛐🛐 OKAY BUT WHAT IF ACTUALLY, the reader cheated on him with Shisui? That would be so hot.

NSFW prompts!

12) Imagine that Itachi and reader lived together. Itachi comes home one day and hears loud moaning coming from their bedroom, recognizing reader’s voice. Itachi assumes, to their horror, that reader is cheating on them, and they rush to the bedroom and open the door. Instead of seeing a cheating partner, Itachi actually walks in on reader masturbating/using sex toys while moaning out Itachi's name.

Being Hokage is one of the most daunting tasks of his life.

Itachi thought things were difficult when he had to prevent the almost military takeover his family was planning, when trying to stop Orochimaru from killing the Third Hokage, when preventing his best friend from committing suicide, when he had to remove that idiot Danzo and displace all the corrupt people from Konoha's power.

The villagers grew to love him so much, with him replacing the murky image of his clan with one of respect and responsibility, that there was no hesitation when a new leader for the community had to be chosen. A unanimous vote decreed him as the new Hokage, and Tobirama Senju is probably rolling over in his grave because an Uchiha reaches the pinnacle of authority.

Consumed by his new role, Itachi forgot what freedom was, leisure time, not being stressed or anxious about the amount of work he must do every day. Many old-school skeptics still believe him incapable, and he is determined to prove to everyone that not all Uchihas are demented psychopaths.

With the death of his father at his own hands, he had earned the hatred of the entire family, but he ended up making them understand the motives behind his actions, how wrong it would have been to allow the clan to take control by force. Shisui had been the mastermind behind the plan, and while people accused them of being double moralists for killing Fugaku and taking the leadership, they eventually understood that it was the right thing to do.

He tried to have his best friend be the one to take the position, but Shisui, missing an eye, excused himself under the pretext of nobody respecting a half-broken Uchiha, and absolved himself of the responsibility. With no other options, the people proclaimed Itachi as the village's savior, trusting the young boy to be capable of leading them all to a good future.

Drowned in meetings, events, documents, papers, he lost his free time, and returns home late at night every day. With his face ruined by fatigue and barely able to move his legs because of sitting all day, he manages to walk through the doors of his home, having refused to live in the Hokage's tower.

He knows who suffers the most from all of this is (Y/N).

Neither of them was prepared for events of such magnitude, everything happening overnight, and the period of adaptation was practically nil. Overnight, she lost her man's presence as if the earth had swallowed him up.

When Itachi comes home late at night, the girl is already asleep. When Itachi leaves home, early in the morning, the girl has already left for her own work.

Having lost close contact without warning, the Uchiha has almost no time to see her, talk to her, or connect with her in an intimate or sentimental way. Shuffling his feet, he makes it home, and after leaving his shoes at the door, he enters.

His ninja instincts kick in the moment he walks past the entrance, confused by the noise heard throughout the house in the middle of the night, when his wife should presumably be asleep.

He assumes the worst. The lack of touch, absence of dialogue, no physical presence had finally broken (Y/N)'s patience, and his wife decided to look for in other people what she had previously found in him.

Destroyed and with a heavy heart, he suddenly feels a huge emptiness in his chest, and becomes paralyzed. He cannot move, nor approach the room, neither can he open the door and find another man between his wife's legs. He doesn't know what his reaction would be, and he doesn't want to find out either.

Is he willing to throw it all away, everything he achieved, people's respect and affection built with painful effort just because his wife is also human and has needs? Killing the person who is pleasing her, replacing him, will only bring disgrace on everyone's head, with citizens wondering who they elected to rule. It would unleash new chaos as they would see him as an insane Uchiha and this would catapult that-.

"Where the fuck is he? He should have been here by now... dammit!" His wife's voice exclaims from the room, snapping him out of his dark lucubrations and bringing him back to reality. That doesn't sound like another person fucking her, does it?

Unsure, he approaches the half-open door, and peers through the gap of vision it provides. Could he have used his Sharingan to detect other presences in the house? Yes. Is he too consumed by his own inner demons to think about it? Also.

In front of his eyes, he sees a naked (Y/N) on the bed, legs spread and lying face up on the mattress, holding one of the toys they both use for their intimate moments. The object vibrates non-stop inches away from her pussy, but she seems to be distracted looking at the clock.

"What are you doing, (Y/N)?" Itachi asks in a mixture of confusion and relief, not understanding what his wife is up to but happy that she hasn't dumped him for someone else, watching the image with intrigue and helplessness.

Startled, she suddenly throws out the vibrator, her body involuntarily jumping in surprise, and it flies off towards the ceiling only to land on the floor "ITACHI!".

The Uchiha laughs, suddenly relaxed and calm, shaking off today's troubles and understanding his wife's effort to revive the passion their relationship was lately losing. "You should be sleeping, love." He walks over to her, and sits down on the bed.

"I wanted to surprise you... I know how stressed you are lately and maybe I could help you like this..." He takes her in his arms and all he wants to do is hug her, kiss her, squeeze her until suffocation and make her understand how much he loves her.

"Well, you succeeded, but let's not waste your state, hm?" He kisses her eagerly, pouncing on her even with the Hokage robe on, not losing a second.

Tomorrow, his work clothes will have strange light stains on them, but no one will dare ask where they came from.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Man-sized Part 2/9 After Dark

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

A/N: Can be read as a Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!reader. Little to nil description, the OC has a name.

She didn't usually do this.

Bring guys to her apartment after a few giggles. She especially did not bring guys like Simon "I kill people" back home to fuck.

It was her night time self. Her show belonged into a different realm. And that was okay. Everybody had a dark side, and she just... worked with hers in this way.

When people asked about her job, she told them she was a dancer. If they asked more, she told them she taught pole dance lessons. Only a handful of her most trusted friends knew that she danced at a strip club. Danced: she was a dancer, not a stripper. Pole dancing required minimal amount of clothing so that tricks could be performed safely and efficiently. She viewed her job as an opportunity to hone her skills and have a workout after her studies. And it paid the bills. She called it a win-win situation.

Simon belonged to the nighttime world too.

And what happened after dark just had to happen at some point, she figured.

But it turned out that Simon wasn't just a tall, dark stranger who fucked women and killed people.

He was also a lover.

She supposed that he was good at fucking, too, but he seemed to hold back from that this night, with her, at least. She didn't really know what to think of it. She thought he had brought her here – to her apartment – to be fucked. Because that's how it was; he called the shots, not she.

Her clothes were gone as soon as they entered the darkness that was her bedroom. Not a single garment had left his body, other than those big, black shoes that were now in her hallway, somewhere amidst all the girl shoes. Huge hands ran down her back and cupped her ass before she could turn on the lights, they raised her to his lap as he carried her to the bed.

He was a good kisser, and he kissed her all over. She was left with her panties and an icy terror in her stomach as he continued to explore her body with his mouth. She was still not over the fact that he was a cocky stranger who had gotten her into this situation just by pouring honeyed rum in her ear.

In other words, she had fallen for bullshit.

"What's wrong, dove?"

He wasn't stupid, though. He noticed that she was a bit tense, a tad uncomfortable. As much as she wanted to let him do whatever he wanted with her, the prospect of seeing him leave after he was done was a turn-off. In horror, she realized that she wanted to get to know him, wanted to get to know Simon.

"You afraid of me?"

She supposed he would probably get kicks out of it if she said yes.

"Should I be?"

"No. Just here to make ya feel good."

He continued to kiss her, took her breast inside one of those huge palms. She wasn't a small woman, the muscles in her back, shoulders, forearms and stomach might've been a bit too much for some guys. But they weren't for Simon. She felt like a delicate, feminine flower with him, and it was scary: how her breast nearly disappeared inside that warm and calloused hand – of course it was calloused, so much so that the callouses scratched her skin – and when he licked her, she tried to hold on to her sanity for a little while longer.

"What's your last name?"

He huffed a short laugh on her stomach, and her muscles contracted at the hot air suddenly hitting her skin.

"Is that what you wanna know right now?"

When she wouldn't answer, he continued kissing her, went down, even further down…

"Riley."

The name was whispered, short and sweet, against her soaked panties.

"What do we have here…"

She could only swallow and let him take that last bit of shielding fabric away. She hadn't expected this at all: that he would come to her apartment to adore her. That he would go down on her. At this very moment, it felt too intimate, too much from a guy whose name she barely knew. She had come to know him for months and months through his stare only, but now he was here, in her bedroom, between her thighs… he was real.

"I…"

"Yes, love?"

Calling her love already… It was a bit too tacky. But then again, she guessed she did kind of like it because it made her even more wet.

"Could you take your clothes off too?"

This time, he laughed like someone who found the situation greatly entertaining, and her… adorable?

"You never cease to amuse me."

What will happen when I cease to amuse you?

"You always fuck with your clothes on?"

That did something to him. He almost froze, then proceeded to take those goddamn clothes off.

She had ruined the soft, sensual mood, but it was okay, or so she told herself. She wanted to tear down this setting, the scenes that only rubbed it in her face that this was a one time only occasion before Simon would find another girl to obsess about. If he didn't have a girl in every town already...

"No nonsense with you, is that it?" He commented - the mood had definitely changed. "I like it."

The silk gloves were off with the rest of his actual clothes, and this time, when he positioned himself between her legs, it was to guide his erection in.

It was dark in the room, but she could see enough — after all, there was never a complete darkness to be had in the city. The blue-colored light filled the night and showed her that Simon was big.

No, that's not gonna…

He pushed just the tip in, and a needy groan escaped her lips.

"Yeah… I think you like me too."

He was so fucking cocky… Even and especially when his actual cock was inside her, with more and more pushing in by the minute.

She brushed her fingers along the lines of all that muscle, first his shoulder, then the forearm… the skulls and bombs and death. And she was wet, alright. Didn't know if she had ever been this wet for anyone. It was fucking frightening.

"That's a good girl…"

No, not the good girl talk, Jesus…

But she couldn't deny it: it worked. Everything he did, worked like a charm.

His balls touched her as he slid fully in... and stayed there.

The intimacy was unbearable, the stranger was inside her, and she could feel every inch of him. He was hovering above her, looking at her like "Ya feel that? Ya feel it too?"

But she must only be imagining; this wasn't real — a man like him couldn't hold such a sea of emotion in him. He was… a what, a soldier? A killer? There was nothing romantic here. They had met at a strip club.

And what was she to a killer… an exotic dancer, a uni student who barely had her life together, who paid her bills days after the due date.

"Don't flee from it."

She raised her eyes back to his and found that he was examining her. Those eyes now revealed much more than just dark, melting chocolate; they looked like they had seen too much. She briefly thought about whether the man was skilled in torture; if he was skilled at breaking his enemies and if he could hear their thoughts as he broke them. Could hear her thoughts...

"Sarah.. Come back."

Her inner muscles tightened around him, and he reacted instantly. "That's it...- good girl."

No one had ever talked to her like that... And she didn't even want to slap him for it. She followed his voice and was courageous enough to wrap her legs around him, that narrow waist that still managed to be bulky and broad, like everything in him was. He finally started the rodeo, which turned out to be the most sensual fuck she had ever had the privilege to receive.

It was like he fucked her soul or something.

Her lips were quivering, the moans he pulled out from her could've made Nicki Minaj blush. He was thorough, precise, and attentive — traits of a good soldier, she presumed. And he must've been some kind of a leader, the way he cheered her on like a highly ranked officer, a widely respected superior.

"Looking gorgeous," the rough voice washed all over her as she was approaching her orgasm. No one had ever made her come with cock alone. She assumed it was just the months and months of tension that was at work here, but some part of her knew that it was just pure, undiluted Simon Riley who she had to blame for it.

"Eyes up here," he commanded when she was only seconds away from a breakdown. Eyes up here... He talked to her like she was a soldier about to die, and he wouldn't let it happen, not on his watch. But it was a small death and a coming back to life as well: she broke for him so hard that he hissed as she dug her nails into his arms. An invisible string lifted her from her sternum, made her arch her back as she came, screaming, and the eyes held her, beheld her: amused, pleased... He was performing an exorcism on her, waking her from a year-long coma, restarting her heart with electric shocks.

She half expected him to praise her with that sultry good girl stuff again when she was in that vulnerable state, but he bent towards her and went for her mouth. He drank the rest of the orgasm from her lips, almost suffocated her with his kiss as she convulsed beneath him, and he wouldn't stop… he made love to her as she moaned on his tongue, and the thickness continued to fill her slowly as she came down from that life-saving orgasm. By the time he left her mouth, she was panting and squeezing the grinding hips with her hands, sinking her nails in there as well.

"I knew you were a wild one," he whispered against her lips. "That was almost as good as that little slap..."

She couldn't speak, could only catch for air at what Simon had said before he dived for her mouth again. The bed was moaning too under the heavy weight of her mercenary lover, especially when he upped the pace.

"I'm close too," he broke another kiss, slightly panting. "Where do ya want me?"

"Don't pull out..."

He gathered her thighs, lifted them to his shoulders like they weighed nothing, drove deep, so deep that his pelvis touched her and his whole upper body rubbed against her, and all she could feel was muscle. All she could smell was tobacco and hints of scotch and something which she reluctantly labeled as primal. It was his sweat and pheromones and all the tension that came undone as he came inside her. She heard an abrupt grunt that turned into a hoarse, shaky moan... and that earlier, unemotional declaration "I kill people" still echoed in her head.

---

She saw the scars in the morning when he got up and went to the shower. She had thought he was a torturer, but it looked like he was the one who had been tortured sometime in the past.

The white protrusions on his skin were evenly inflicted and in places that were not supposed to end a man but simply give him pain. She didn't know why exactly had she refused to believe him, to believe that his work was something highly unusual. The scars finally rubbed it in her face: this was not a regular, normal dude she was dealing with. He did not work as a desk officer in the military or even as a pro fighter in the combat sports business.

She was both fascinated and disturbed at the thought that Simon likely had invisible injuries too, a collection of scars on his psyche.

"You want a towel?"

It somehow grieved her that he wanted to wash her scent – their scent – away so soon, even if it was a simple, natural thing to do… to shower in the morning. He didn't answer, but when she went to give it to him nevertheless, it suffered the same fate as those flowers as he pulled her under the descending water with him.

The second round was more of a sloppy, dazed fuck. He took her against the wall, and she briefly thought that she would get a huge water bill next month. But it was worth every cent. She didn't come, but enjoyed watching him, now in a fully lit room with half-lidded eyes and a slightly open mouth. He even had a scar on his jaw...

"You're… tight, did'ya know that?"

She was still not over the fact that he talked like this during sex. He was almost chatty when at the bar he had barely spoken full sentences. She never knew dirty talk could be so stimulating.

Or perhaps it was just the magic of Simon Riley again.

"Why so serious?"

She laughed a little — Simon made her laugh. If anything, it was he who could be called serious, even with that dry, dark sense of humour.

"Don't know what to make of you."

"You're not the most open book yourself," he muttered, and she barely detected the hint of sorrow – yearning, in his voice.

He eventually came with an agonized, tired grunt. He seemed to be in a hurry, and when he pulled out and reached his hand to satisfy her as well, she grabbed him by the wrist and gently pushed it away. Simon sighed, and dropped his head against hers while the bulky shoulders closed in on her like walls. The water was running, and he was clearly having a moment, even though it was just supposed to be a quick fuck.

Hesitating, she reached to give him a hug, then started to slowly caress his back as he leaned his head on the wall and against her. His breathing only deepened. He sounded like someone who was taking a cold bath while trying to maintain a controlled breath. At some point, it almost sounded like he was in pain.

"Am I your pet?" He asked rather gruffly, and her hand stopped midway down his back.

"You don't like being touched?"

He nuzzled closer to her neck, placed a kiss behind her ear.

"Perhaps a little too much."

He then surprised her by giving her a wash. Like she was his pet. Perhaps it was his reaction to having shown vulnerable parts of himself to someone, even if what they had shared was just simple human connection. She relaxed a little too much under his touch, which was again deliciously attentive.

"The things I'd do to you if we had more time.."

He was crouching and the soap on her legs eased his caresses, but when he stopped for a while to give her a kiss there, she recoiled from him. It was simply out of surprise, because his hands and the warm water had left her drowsy and melting, but he rose and gave her another look. Simon clearly wasn't used to women refusing him, not to talk of shrinking from his touch.

When they came from the shower, she went straight to the kitchen. While searching for something to offer him as breakfast, she noticed that Simon was examining the course material on her desk.

Art history major and a professional killer — what a hilarious pair.

But he seemed more than interested, almost intrigued. He skimmed through a certain book about studies on the influence of natural philosophy on the Renaissance. The man might surprise her yet, but still, she couldn't see them chatting about Erwin Panofsky over a cup of coffee.

"You want some?"

She was standing there with only a towel on, holding a coffee pan in her hand: far too domestic a setting, and far too soon.

"Nah, gotta go."

Heaven came down in just three words.

Yeah… of course you do.

She abandoned her mission with the coffee and went to get her clothes, to have some kind of protection against the cold Simon would leave her with.

"Will I be seeing you again?"

"If you want to."

Polite, reserved... A gentleman instead of a no-nonsense soldier who would say it like it was. She could see now that he was definitely in a hurry.

"Can I call you?" She tried to flesh out a future for them and not think about the fact that she would, very likely, only have a ghost of him as a memory.

"I'd rather call you."

Right. I'm not seeing this guy again.

"Sure, whatever."

She gave him her number and watched how he walked out of the door and out of her life.

---

You wanted to know what I do for a living.

Holy Mother of…

Not only did he contact her, he sent her a picture of himself looking like… like war. The tired eyes stared at her from inside what looked like the top of a human skull attached to a black balaclava. He wasn't a foot soldier, or a mercenary, he wasn't even working for the UK version of a SWAT team. He was something else. She didn't even have a name for all the gear he was loaded with.

Still want to see me?

Fucking d.e.f.i.n.i.t.e.l.y.

She hadn't expected to see him ever again. She was sure he had asked her number just out of common courtesy. The chemistry was there, but the eventual sex had been awkward — satisyfying, and life saving, but awkward. She didn't really do one night stands, and Simon had flown into that category as soon as he had shut that door.

But now it seemed that she had to find him a new category. Everybody always said to give the guy three days. That the guy would show up if he wanted to.

It had barely been two days since he had been inside her and checked out what it was that she was studying.

I don't know. Doesn't look like James Bond to me.

I can put on a suit if that's more to your liking.

Hah, yeah… She would masturbate on that picture of him wearing a fucking human skull to work at least a hundred times.

No need.

Are you going to return the favor?

She sent him a picture — a rather naughty one. It wasn't the same kind of naughty she did at the club, no. She was wearing barely a touch of makeup, she was a little sleepy, her walls were down... and the only thing she wore was an oversized t-shirt she lifted just enough for him to see a little bit of something.

A smile rose to her face when he answered immediately.

Shouldn't have asked.

Not Bond girl enough for you?

Just the right amount, Sarah. It's your fault if I get killed.

Part 3:

[cowboydisaster]

The Fire In Your Eyes

part VII: horshoe overlook iii

pairing: Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

word count: 15.2k

summary: You and Arthur take Lenny to drown his anxieties at the saloon, and it ends up bring more trouble than you would have imagined. The gang finally deals with that O'driscoll, and Arthur opens up more about his past when Abigail asks you both to take Jack out. You meet a couple of threatening strangers.

a/n: highly recommended playing 'a quiet time soundtrack' when you get to the bar scene. This chapter was so fun to write omg. Lots of set up in this chapter, along with plenty of fluff, angst and more talking about our feelings. You're still in denial, Arthur is opening up, its a whole thing. P.S. if you aren't sure who Nils is, just google him on yt. Please please check the warnings before you read! beta read by @margowritesthings <3

warnings: Violence, gore, blood, attempted/implied mention of SA, its very brief and we kill him hehe, wanted to add the tag just in case)

hotlinks: TFIYE on AO3 & official series playlist

SERIES MASTERPOST

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow

series taglist: @catnotbread @chxosangxl @globetrotter28 @justalittlerayofpitchblack @fruittiest-of-loops @randomidk-123 @heyworld-whatsup @btsiguess-kpop

“Okay, pick a color. We have pink, red, orange or white.” Marybeth asks, excitedly weaving her fingers through your hair, neatly braiding it. You smile, glancing over to her basket of wildflowers. 

“How about white?” You suggest, looking at the assortment of flowers in her basket, eyes honing in on the pale white jasmines and baby’s breath.

It's a warm evening, with golden light peeking over the mountains as the sun begins to set. You had ventured down the hill towards the Dakota River with Marybeth earlier, and she had picked from a patch of wildflowers, bringing home only the most beautiful specimen. Tilly and Karen sit around on the ground next to you, and you chuckle as the three girls giggle and gossip. 

“Marybeth, you oughta do me next. I can’t be goin’ out on the town with hair like this.” Karen jokes, and Marybeth lights up, excited to share the time with you girls.

You bite into an apple, crunching and savoring the sweet flavor as Marybeth braids your hair down your back. You glance into the mirror, the one Marybeth stole from Arthur’s shaving station, noticing how much your hair has grown since you’ve joined the Van der Lindes. She ties the bottom of the braid with a little white knot, smiling as she plucks some white flowers from her basket. 

“You’re gonna love it.” Marybeth sighs, eyes sparkling as she begins to tuck the stems into the creases of your braid, leaving little white flowers embedded in your hair. She’s missed a few tiny pieces around your face, and they fall down, framing your cheekbones. From across camp, sitting outside his tent like an overseer, Dutch keeps his eyes on you. You ignore it, purposefully refusing to meet his glance. 

You glance around, people watching as Marybeth finishes up her work. On the other side of camp, Uncle is wasted, Strauss is scribbling away in a journal, and Abigail is having a hushed argument with John. It's all so normal. 

"I heard Abigail and John yellin' again this morning." Tilly tsks, shaking her head with a sigh, glancing to their tent. 

"What about?" You ask, eyebrows pulled together. Marybeth releases your braid for a moment, allowing you to turn towards the girls. 

"The usual." Karen bites, irritated by their bickering, and Tilly elaborates. 

"Well John ain't exactly been… a great father to Jack." 

"John's an ass. Jack only wants his daddy, but he knows his daddy wants nothin' to do with him." Karen explains, scowling in the scar-faced outlaw across camp. 

"Poor Jack…" You frown, familiar with the feeling of being unwanted. 

"How does Abigail do it all?" Marybeth asks, pulling and perfecting your braid and the flowers lined in it. 

"No idea." Tilly mumbles. It grows quiet for a while as you all get lost in thought. You think about what Arthur had said, just a few weeks ago, about his son, and you sigh. 

"Done!" Marybeth chimes and you smile at her as she holds Arthur's mirror up, letting you see. She's done a beautiful job, leaving the braid tight enough so it won't fall out, but loose enough for it to be beautifully messy and comfortable. The little white flowers are an intricate touch, just enough of them to add dimension to your hair without overpowering it. 

"Marybeth, it's beautiful!" You say, smiling sweetly at her before reaching into your satchel. 

"For your troubles." You whisper, winking as you slide her a candy bar. Marybeth's eyebrows pop up in surprise as she takes the little sweet, tucking it into her skirt. 

"Thank you, Marybeth." You say, standing up and stretching your knees. You address the other girls then, nodding to them. 

"I'll return this to Mr. Morgan, thank you for your good company." You say, taking his stand mirror from the ground and walking away from their wagon. Arthur's tent isn't far, and within a few moments you stand outside his covered wagon, placing his mirror back down on his designated shaving barrel with a hum. 

A throat clears behind you, startling you as you whip around to find the source. 

"Stole my mirror, huh?" Arthur jokes. He's standing in front of his wardrobe, wearing only a pair of jeans as he digs through the clothes in search of a shirt. He's looking down in the chest, and you swallow thickly, watching the muscles flex as you blush.  

"Yeah uh, well Marybeth took it to do my hair. I'm just bringin' it back." You mumble, running your finger along the barrel lid to distract yourself. 

At the mention of your hair, Arthur looks over at you. His eyes wrinkle with crows feet as he smiles, a little warm grin. The white flowers frame your face, and you look up at him with those eyes. He's sure you've fallen from heaven, looking as innocent as a lamb. How deceiving, because your temper is anything but. 

He comes toward you, still shirtless, though he holds a deep blue patterned shirt in his hand. 

"You uh," Arthur nods to the white flowers that crown your hair like a halo. "Your hair looks real pretty." Arthur says, pulling the shirt over his arms before buttoning it up. 

You huff, pulling one of the flowers out and dropping it to the ground.

"Marybeth." You explain, just as hooves sound out like war drums from the outskirts of camp. Without a second thought,  your hand rests on your holster, prepared for the worst. You jog towards the camp entrance with Arthur just as Lenny gallops through the trees on Maggie, both out of breath. Lenny practically throws himself out of the saddle in a panic, and Maggie rears up. 

“They-! They got Micah!” Lenny hollers, running towards the two of you. 

“Arthur! Star, Dutch! They got Micah, they got him in Strawberry. They nearly lynched me!” Lenny yells, hands resting on his knees.

You rest your hand on his shoulder, making sure he's okay, as you all try to catch up. 

“What is going on?” Dutch asks, striding out of his tent and straight up to the three of you. Your braid flips over your shoulder as you make sure Lenny is steady before letting him go. He takes a breath, calming down before continuing as Dutch joins. 

“It’s okay, son, breathe.” Dutch pats the younger man on the back.

“They got Micah at the sheriff’s in Strawberry, and there’s talk of hangin’ him.” Lenny explains, and you raise an eyebrow, unsure of what the problem is then. Arthur seems to be sharing a similar train of thought as he mumbles under his breath. 

“Here’s hoping.” Arthur bites, and Dutch looks at him with a comically shocked face. 

“Arthur.” He scolds, as if disciplining a dog, and you snort. 

“Micah deserves to sit in that jail for a while. Let him get nervous, let him rot a little more, it’ll do him good.” You point out, leaning down to strike a match of the bottom of your boot. 

“She’s right. You know my feelings’ bout him Dutch.” Arthur warns, voice low and you nod, lighting a cigarette. 

“He is a fine man. But she’s right. He’s brought this on himself. Go get him in a few weeks, Me and the lady’s faces are plastered all over Blackwater, it’ll have to be you, Arthur.” Dutch explains, and Arthur groans with a sigh. They continue their bickering, and you leave them to it, walking over to where Lenny sits at the wooden table. 

“You okay?” You ask, sitting on the table, placing your boots onto the seat of the chair next to Lenny.

“Yeah, just shaken up. I hate ridin’ with Micah, it’s like he loses his mind.” Lenny whispers, eyes far away as he shakes his head. 

“Yeah… I seen it too.” You mumble, scowling. Arthur and Dutch wrap up their conversation, and then Dutch walks over to the two of you. 

“C’mon kid. We’re gettin’ a drink, Dutch’s orders.” Arthur chuckles, and you slide down from the table, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. 

“I’m comin’ too.” You chime, following the two boys to the hitching posts. 

“Maybe just one or two will calm my nerves.” Lenny sighs, climbing back up into Maggie’s saddle.

You pet Athena, giving her a mint as a peace offering for taking her from the hay before mounting up. 

“We even allowed to go in the saloon after all that ruckus you caused?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at Arthur. Lenny turns in his saddle to look at you for a moment before spurring Maggie further into the evening. 

“What trouble have you boys been causing now?” Lenny directs at Arthur, hollering over the sound of cantering hooves. 

“Nothin’ much just some good n fair bar fightin.” Arthur says, downplaying the situation. 

“Ha! Yeah, Arthur, just some friendly punches. How much you wanna bet that the windows’ still broken from your ass flyin through it?” You holler, and Arthur laughs, crossing over the railroad tracks into town. 

“It’s all done with now, and at least nobody died.” Arthur points out to which you nod. Good point.

You trot up the main road, pulling your horses in front of the new Blacksmith building. Typically you would just hitch in front of the saloon, but the bar must be packed tonight because horses line the street in front of Smithfields. You jump down from Athena, petting her neck while looking at the new building in front of you. There's some light inside, a candle or two, and an ‘open’ sign on the front door. Outside two men talk, one wasted. 

“Y-You open mis-” he hiccups, “Mister?” The one man asks, a plain looking feller. But the man he is talking to, presumably the shop owner, is a small man with small features and a big white beard. He wears a red beanie hat on his head, and his face is bright red. 

“Okay…” The peculiar man says with a strong accent. Your eyebrows draw together, and you chuckle. Maybe he doesn’t speak english. 

“I need a hammer… you see I'm building’ a house, buildin’ a house down the road..” The drunk man slurs, barely able to keep steady as the smaller, foreign man grabs the drunkard's arm, pushing him inside the shop. 

“Okay!” The small man says, and you laugh at his oddity. You remember Hosea telling you about this shop owner, and the strange little things he sells in his shop. 

“Star? You comin’?” Arthur asks, and you turn around, realizing you’d been eavesdropping on the strangers. You turn back to the shop for a moment, eyeing its peculiarity before sheepishly turning back to Arthur.

“I'm gonna go check this place out for a minute. I’ll be over shortly.” You smile, looking towards the shop excitedly, remembering that you have a little cash from your box on you. Lenny rests against a beam under the porch of the general store, out of earshot from you and Arthur’s conversation. He only knows that you’re both doing a whole lot of talking and not a lot of drinking. 

“You two comin, or what?” Lenny hollers, and Arthur gestures towards you. 

“We’ll catch up, just give us a minute.” Arthur yells back, following after you towards the shop entrance. 

“I’ll start a tab.” Lenny chuckles, walking up the sidewalk towards the bar. 

“You need somethin’ from the blacksmith?” Arthur asks, holding the door open for you as you step inside. 

“No, just wanted to look is all. Hosea said there was some more stuff in here than tools, the man likes to work metal into all kinds of things.” You say at a volume so that only Arthur can hear you. He nods, and you take in the shop. The little building is split into two sections. On the right, the bigger section, all sorts of home made tools hang from nails in the wall, for sale. There's hammers, screwdrivers, bits, and all sorts of other things that you don’t care about. You glance to the left side of the shop, and your eyes light up. Shelves line the wall, and the little foreign shop owner sits on the checkout counter beside them, swinging his legs. The shelves are lined with hand crafted metal cups, decorations and jewelry, anything one can think of. He has little metal spoons, crafted and twisted beautifully. There are necklaces, belt buckles and rings, none of them resembling another, all unique. Your eyes light up, and Arthur watches you with a sweet smile as you run your hand down the expanse of one of the shelves, taking everything in. A few other people mill around, looking as well.

“Arthur, look at all this.” You gasp, bewildered by the handcrafted, intricate things that this odd man has made. Arthur walks with you, falling into pace as his spurs click against the floor. He’s mesmerized, alright. But the trinkets on the shelf have little to do with it. The flowers in your hair, the excitement on your face from such a small pleasure, the stars in your eyes that shine brighter than any night he’s ever seen. 

Arthur steps away, walking towards the other side of the shop as you come up to the accessory section. Particularly what catches your attention is the hat accessories, and you pick a few up, wondering what they might look like on your own hat, back at camp. Then it catches your eye. A smaller hat accessory rests closer to the back of the shelf, and with your eyebrows pulled together in concentration, you pick it up. It's a piece to be added on the side of a hat, a small bundle of feathers, bound with twine and wrapped in beautiful, coiled metal. But what catches your eye is the teal agate, embedded into the metal that wraps around the bundle. It’s a color you've seen time and again. A throat clears behind you, and you turn, meeting eyes of the same teal. 

“Ready?” Arthur asks, not noticing the little gift that you’re hiding behind your back. You nod, glancing at the older shop owner for a moment. 

“Yeah I’ll be right over, but first could you… could you give me a minute?” You ask, and Arthur nods, looking a little confused or worried. 

“Sure. Everythin’ alright?” Arthur asks, and you nod. He steps back, tipping his hat to you lightly before walking out of the shop. With a breath, you pull the accessory back in front of you.

The agate is the same color as Arthur’s eyes, and you look over the gift with great fondness. No because of the accessory itself per se, but because of the man you’re going to gift it to. Holding the feathered accessory up to the light, you gasp, seeing almost unnoticeable stars stamped into the fine metal. You want to give Arthur something new for his hat, something that he can use to make it his own. Damn his father, and the fear that Arthur feels every day, wondering if he’s turning into the bastard. You want Arthur’s hat to be his, something he can pass down to his children or whomever one day with good memories, not bad ones.

With your mind made, you walk up to the shopkeeper. 

“How much for this?” You ask, placing it on the counter where the man sits. He hops down, not saying a word as he walks around the other side of the counter. He takes a piece of paper from under the register, writing some things down in a language you can't understand. Then, he opens the cash register and looks up to you. 

“Ja, Okay.” He says, holding his hand out for you to place cash into and you chuckle, sighing. 

“You?- Alright mister.” You chuckle, reaching into your pocket and pulling out a five dollar bill. A man, leaning against the wall laughs, filling you in. 

“Yeah, that there is Nils. He don’t really talk much, he understands though. A Norwegian fella, not even sure he speaks English, but he’s a damn good smith.” The man says, picking up a belt buckle and looking it over.

“That he is.” You hum as Nils hands you back a few odd cents.

“Names’ David Geddes.” The informant smiles, reaching to shake your hand. “I work with Nils here. He’s helpin’ me to build a ranch up in West Elizabeth.” Mr. Geddes says, releasing your hand. You smile, hearing that northern West Elizbeth is beautiful territory.

“If you’re ever in the market for tools or land, you know where to find us.” Mr. Geddes smiles, and you nod, knowing that you’re never going to need either of those things. You keep it in mind, though.

“Thank you Mr. Geddes, pleasure to meet you. You as well, Mr. Nils!” You smile at both men, giggling as Nils says ‘okay!’ when you walk out the door. Proudly, you place the little gift in your satchel. You want to wait until the perfect time to give it to him. Smiling, you walk past the few shops towards the saloon. You can hear the music from outside, a pianist enjoying himself on the keys, probably drunk as a skunk. You were right earlier, the window is still smashed out from Arthur being thrown out of it. 

You push the saloon doors open, walking in just as a man was walking out. Your shoulders hit off each other, and you scowl deeply at him before moving towards the bar. A loud game of poker is being played at the table, with drunk, laughing players. Working women linger about, draped over chairs and men, waiting to be taken upstairs for the night. You squeeze past the people, slipping onto the bar beside Arthur and Lenny, with Arthur in the middle. 

“Boys.” You greet, waving down the bartender. The saloon is loud, and you have to yell over the music to hear each other, even with the close proximity. 

“Now just one or two. Right, Arthur?” Lenny asks as he clinks his bottle against Arthur’s.

“Course, just a drink.” Arthur responds, tapping his glass against the counter before taking a long swig. 

“Hey!” You yell to the bartender, irritated. He doesn’t pay you any mind, and you huff. 

Jumping up onto the bar so that your stomach is on the counter, you grab a bottle of whiskey from behind the counter. It’s nearly empty, and you groan. Arthur shakes his head as you slide back down to the ground. 

“I don’t plan on staying too long.” Lenny reiterates, and you nod, tapping your fingers against the bottle to the rhythm of the funk music. 

“Me neither.” You say, swallowing the little bit of drink left over before tossing it over the counter.

Another man slides onto the open space of the bar beside you. He’s already been done in by the drink, eyes glazed over with red cheeks. Arthur keeps an eye on him, not too comfortable with the way this man is looking at you. 

“Hey- Hey miss?” He asks, and you turn to him. Arthur watches it unfold as you bat your eyelashes, and at first he’s confused as you look up to the sleazebag with doe-like eyes.

“Yes, mister?” You ask, twirling your finger around your hair. 

“Can I buy you a beer?” He asks, smiling like an idiot. You smile, resting your hand on the man’s chest. Ah, a pocket watch,right in his vest pocket. You feel the outline of the fine metal through his shirt, and you smirk.

“She likes whiskey.” Arthur bites, not seeing your scheme playing out. You elbow him lightly, and his eyebrows pull together. 

“Hey, Hey a beer for this fine woman!” The drunk man calls out, and as he leans over the bar to pay the tender, you sneak your fingers between him and the bar, gently pulling the chain until the pocket watch emerges from his pocket. Very content, you slide it into your pocket, smirking up at Arthur. He looks bewildered, amazed, as he laughs, elbowing Lenny and filling him in. 

“For you, m- m’lady.” The drunkard says, handing you a beer. You take it, no trace of a smile on your lips as you slide it down the bar to Lenny. The drunk man scowls angrily, slamming his fist down on the counter.

“What the hell?” He asks, face turning red with anger. You smile, leaning against the bar, acting as if he doesn't exist.

“This what a feller gets for bein’ nice?” He huffs, and you bite your tongue, slipping your eyes closed to quell your rage. Arthur orders a whiskey, and places the glass in front of you. 

“Tried to tell you partner, this lady likes her liquor.” Arthur chuckles, toasting another glass with Lenny. You swirl the glass in your hand, sipping from it while putting all your attention into not killing this man. 

“You owe me!” He yells, spittle flying. Even Arthur tenses at your side, pointing a threatening finger to the drunk. 

“Shut your mouth, buddy.” Arthur warns, and the music grows louder, more intense, as does your grip on your drink. 

“Or what?” The man laughs maniacally, sizing you up and down and concluding that you wouldn't hurt a fly.

“Leave this idiot alone, he ain’t worth it.” Lenny interjects, always the voice of reason. The man laughs at that, turning to you three like he's an old friend. 

“Leave me alone? Well people been leavin me alone for nearly ten years! I say that's their loss, I’m a great guy, bought this bitch a drink-” The man rambles on, and your shoulders set, eyes glazing over as a rage fills you. You slam your drink against the counter, spilling most of it before grabbing that damn idiot by the back of his collar. You slam his head down onto the bar in one swift motion, and it cracks. Sparing him no time to recuperate, you tear him away from the bar, dragging him towards the door where you literally kick him through the saloon doors.

Lenny whistles under his breath as you come back, wiping your hands on your jeans before picking your glass back up. 

“Where were we, boys?” You ask, turning to the men. 

— AN HOUR (OR TWO?) LATER —

‘Clink, clink, clink’ is all you hear as bottles and glasses continuously toast against each other. You’ve lost count of the amount of drinks you've been handed, or stolen off the bar. Arthur laughs loudly over the music, a contagious sound that has you and Lenny giggling like fools. You feel good and warm, a buzz running through your veins and filling your head with a fuzzy cloud.

“You want another one, Arthur? Star?” Lenny asks, laughter dying down as he waves to the bartender. 

“Sure, we’re already here!” Arthur hollers, words slurred as you nod your head.

“Yeah but first, I- I gotta go play that piano!” You holler, picking up your glass and dancing your way down to the pianist. 

— A WHILE LAETR—

You sit up on top of the bar, laughing so hard that you can barely breath. You don’t remember what was so funny, but it sure was. You slap your knee, cackling at something with Arthur. Lenny’s laughing too, leaning down against the bar to stop from falling over. 

“You! You are a hilarious feller, Arthur Morgan!” You snort, taking a big long swig from your bottle. You think it's whiskey, but you're not sure. It doesn’t even burn anymore, just going straight down.

“Arthur!” You call, grabbing his biceps to shake his attention. He jumps, startled, and then laughs. Being on the bar has you sitting a little taller than him, and he looks up at you with a dumb expression. 

“You ever-” You hiccup, “-had a dog?” You ask. It's a very serious inquiry, and you need to know. Arthur’s brows pull together as he thinks, and it looks kind of painful. 

“One time… bout a million years ago.” Arthur squints, dead serious, staring at the wall behind you. You erupt into a fit of laughter, smacking the outlaw on the shoulder. 

“What the hell is a million years?” You ask in between chuckles. The music is loud, the mood is good. The sun has set, and more patrons have joined the saloon.

“I don’t know, but I bet it's at least a thousand.” 

You nod, concluding that he’s probably correct on that account. You turn to your right, right where Lenny was sitting, to ask him his opinions on the matter. 

“What about you Lenny? You ever-” You stop, dumbfounded when you realize he’s not there. Surely he was just a second ago. 

“Lenny?” You ask, turning your head around to find him. 

“Oh no.” Arthur mumbles, looking around as well. 

“Arthur, he's disappeared!” You yell, panicked, but Arthur grabs your waist, pulling you down to the ground. Once you're down from the bar, Arthur keeps grip on your hips for just a moment longer. 

“We’ll find him, don't you worry. If anybody can come back from disappearin’ it's Lenny.” Arthur explains, and you nod. That makes sense. 

“Should we split up?” You ask as Arthur leads you to the center of the saloon. Arthur nods, stumbling lightly as he pulls you through the crowd. 

“Yeah, youse smart. We can cover-” Arthur burps, chuckling deeply for a moment, “We can cover more ground if we split up. I’ll go upstairs.” Arthur explains, and you nod, pushing past people. 

“Smart thinkin. I’ll go upstairs too.” You say, following him up. 

“Good plan.” Arthur approves, stumbling up the staircase while pulling you behind him. 

“LENNY!!?” Arthur yells, looking around for your lost friend. You see lots of people, but you don’t see Lenny, least you don't think you do.

“Lenny!?” You mimic Arthur, chuckling as he pulls you around the fenced in overhand that overlooks the bar downstairs. 

“There you is!” Arthur calls, and you look around until you see him. Lenny is leaning on the little fence, trying to balance a glass on his nose. 

“Whatcha doing?” You ask, both confused and amazed. Lenny laughs, swaying so as to not drop it from his nose. 

“I- I don’t know!” 

The glass falls, and Lenny tries to catch it but his delayed reflexes do him in and the glass falls down the overlook, shattering onto the saloon floor downstairs. You all laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world, doubling over as you try to breathe from cackling. 

Then somehow you all have more drinks in your hand, and you’re toasting them together, cheering loudly. You don’t even know what you’re drinking, but it sure goes down nice. Lenny hooks his arm under yours, and you do-si-do, tripping and stumbling and laughing like you’ve never laughed before. Arthur switches spots with Lenny then, hooking his arm under yours and dancing around. But Arthur lacks Lenny’s grace, or maybe he’s just more drunk, and halfway around the circle he accidentally trips you, sending you straight to the floor. Your drink smashes against the ground, and you lay on the floor for a while, arms and legs spread out as you chuckle. 

Arthur pulls you up, nearly falling over himself, and then you all lean against the railing with more drinks. 

“Arthur why ain’t you never married?” Lenny asks, and Arthur’s mouth hangs open as he thinks. 

“No one would have me.” Arthur sighs, a pathetic, sad little noise. You slap him on the back, trying to encourage him. 

“Whaddya mean no one would have you, Arthur everyone wants you! Hell I’m sure you had ladies lined up round the block back in the day.” You say, and he nods, thinking it over.  

“Well maybe, but I did not see them!” He responds, toasting his drink to yours. 

— LAETR?—

Arthur jumps up and down, stomping against the floor with his arms flailing. 

“I’m doin’ it!” He screams, earning multiple annoyed glances from other patrons. 

“You sure are! I- I don’t know what you’re doin’ but it’s somethin!” You yell back, laughing. 

Then suddenly you’re sitting on the poker table, legs swinging over the side. You’re not even sure how you’ve gotten here, but your head is so fuzzy and relaxed you don’t care. Arthur stands on the ground, in between your knees looking up at you. 

“Why ain’t you never sweet on no one?” You ask, fingers tracing stars on his right shoulder. Arthur’s hand rests on your thigh, and he looks up at you, confused. 

“Huh?”

“Karen said you- you didn't like girls. I mean- Karen said you didn't like any of the girls in camp. They're all beautiful, young n kind, why haven't you gone sweet on em?" You ask, drunkenness loosening your lips and releasing some of the questions you've been holding back for ages. 

"Well I am sweet on someone, dumbass." He says, laughing and you slap his shoulder lightly. 

"Who?!" You holler, eyebrows pulled together in confusion. He's not sweet on anyone that you can think of, but you can't really think right now. Arthur's hand gently squeezes your leg before he backs away, downing the last of his beer. 

"You're funny, y'know. Askin all kinds of questions, but I can't even think right now." Arthur's lips form a little confused pout, "least I don't think I can…"

"Yeah, you're right that's a lot of thinkin'." You say, nodding your head. Arthur comes back forward, placing his hands on the table on either side of your legs.

"It's easy thinkin' bout you though. That's somethin' that don't make my head hurt." Arthur whispers, fuzzy eyes transfixed on the pout of your lips before they trail up to your sparkling eyes. A blush creeps over your cheeks, and you slide down from the table, sneaking under his arm towards the bar. 

"Buy me another drink Mr. Morgan!" 

— LNENY?—

You cackle, leaning over the bar sometime later. The sun has long since set, but you have no idea what time it is. Arthur's on one side of you, and you look over to where Lenny- 

You look over to where Lenny used to be. 

"Wait, where'd Lenny go?!" You slur your words as the room spins, flashing all sorts of different colors. 

"DAMMIT LENNY WHERE YOU AT BOYYY-" Arthur yells, slamming his drink down on the counter.

"We gotta find him, he's probably lost." You conclude, looking around the room. 

"Yeah or maybe he's stuck someplace." 

You wander around, losing Arthur as you yell for Lenny at the top of your lungs. You can hear Arthur yelling too, and you giggle. Lennt must have vanished, like those magic shows in the city. 

"Leave the kid alone, you goddamn animals." Arthur growls, and you turn to see him walking down the stairs. Lenny is standing up on the bar, yelling at a group of men in front of the bar. The man in front of the bar, who Arthur was yelling at, turns towards Arthur. 

"And who might you be?" The man hisses, growing irritated with you all. Arthur looks mighty confused for a moment, and you stumble towards the scene playing out. 

"They call me Arthur, n' people who don't call me Arthur? Well I guess they do not know my name." Arthur whispers, chuckling. 

"What-?" The other man asks, and you stride right up to him, punching him straight in the nose. 

—SUME TYME LTAER—

You line kick, arms intertwined with Arthur's and Lenny's, hoisting your legs up in the air with a bunch of other people, you laugh carelessly, dancing away. 

Then you're not dancing- you're laying on the staircase next to Lenny and Arthur, drinks in hand. 

"I gotta piss." Arthur says, tapping your knee before standing up. 

"You should probably do that. You can't drink more if you ain't peed." You explain, and Arthur frowns, thinking. 

"Really?" He asks, and you nod. 

"It's true Arthur! I read that once. I- I think I did anyhow." Lenny chimes in, and Arthur runs outside. 

You sit with lenny for a while, feeling light as ever, drinking your fill and then some.

— ??? —

"I got a quesstionn…" You say, pressed up against the wall by Arthur's hands. 

"Hmm?" Arthur asks, eyes heavy as he tries not to fall over, arms bracing themselves on either side of your head against the saloon wall. You're outside, and the walls buzz from music and banter. 

"I probably don't know an answer but… but I'll try." Arthur says. 

"Back in Colter, in Horseshoe durin' that storm, up in the hills in your tent… why’d you do all that?" You ask, a sense of clarity overcoming you even though you're drunk beyond help. Arthurs' trying to think back, but his head hurts. 

"Huh?" 

"You- you laid with me, held my hand till I fell asleep. Why'd you do that?" You ask as Arthur's hands slide away from the wall, down to his belt. It hits Arthur then, all the things he'd done, things he knows he shouldn't have done, but couldn't stop himself from doing. 

"I- I don't know. Guess… you was sad. I wanted to make you feel better." Arthur mumbles, eyes downcast. You smile, buzzing. 

"Did it work? Do I make you feel better?" Arthur whispers. His voice is low and deep, that familiar, gravelly tone. You smile up at him as one of his hands comes back up to the wall beside your head, trapping you in. 

"You make me feel great, Arthur. Real great." You breathe out, veins pumping with adrenaline as Arthur leans closer in towards your face. His eyes are dark, pupils blown and you can smell the whiskey on his breath with the proximity.

"I bet I could make you feel even better, Star. I could make you feel lots a' things." He growls, eyes trailing from each of your eyes to your lips. You laugh, pushing him away from you lightly. 

"Well maybe! But you can’t beat me at poker for shit!" You laugh, pushing the saloon doors open and walking back inside. Arthur follows behind you, laughing all the same. 

"You seen Lenny?" He asks, looking around. 

"Dammit!" You curse, pushing through the patrons of the saloon towards the steps. You grab onto Arthur's hand, dragging him along with you. 

You see a few doors there, and thinking Lenny might be hiding in a room, you push one open. You gasp, laughing loudly as you open the door on a man and a woman having intimate relations. You laugh, apologizing as you swing the door shut, but Arthur screams.

You turn to him, chuckling and confused. 

"You n-never saw a naked woman before, Arthur?" You ask. He looks like he's just seen something traumatic as he points a finger towards the door, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. 

"That weren't a woman." Arthur bites, the image of Lenny riding Lenny burned into his mind forever. But you're clueless as to what he's just seen.

— …..?—

You laugh uncontrollably as Arthur pushes that man from earlier into the pig's water trough. He dunks the man's head under one more time before tossing him to the ground. You leave the pig pen, oinking and wheezing with laughter. 

"I'm a- a police!" Arthur laughs, slipping in the mud as he jogs after you, down the main street. 

"I'm gonnaa get'cha!" He yells as you run down the road, sliding and laughing. 

"YOU CAN'T! You can't get me, HA-" You scream, running towards the stables, jumping over a fence, tripping and falling into the mud.

"Fuck!" You yell, unusually colorful language for you as the sheriff and a deputy approach you from the road. 

"Hey! You two, come here!" Sheriff Malloy hollers, jogging after you. Arthur picks you up from the mud and slings you over his shoulder. 

"Arthur! They're- they're gonna get us, we gotta run!" You yell from his shoulder as he bolts, slipping and sliding. 

"WE'RE AMERICANS! YOU'LL NEVER CATCH US ALIVE!" Arthur screams into the night, approaching a mighty high fence. 

"Yeah, we got RIGHTS!" You yell. 

Arthur tries to jump the fence, but he's so drunk, and with you on his shoulder he doesn't even come close to clearing it. The fence breaks as Arthur lands down on it awkwardly, and you both land in the mud.

— — — —

The light hurts your eyes as they flutter open, and you squint, head throbbing. Everything hurts, your head feels like it's been filled with lead and if you move too quickly you know you'll throw up. You finally come to, and realize you're laying on a wooden bench. Arthur is laying on the floor next to the bench, awake but not moving. Then you realize where you are. 

You spot the unmistakable metal bars, and you groan. 

"Arthur, what did we do?" You ask, not remembering an ounce of the previous night. From outside of your shared cell, Sheriff Malloy stands up, grabbing a cup of coffee from a percolator. 

"Well the typical stuff for folks such as yourselves: harassin people, causin trouble, bein loud and breaking shit. But you also waterboarded a fella within an inch of his life, and stole a pig, this man here carried it around half the town oinkin and causing a ruckus. Although it sure was something to see, I don't appreciate being pulled outta bed with the wife at five in the damn morning." He says, taking a sip from his coffee before sitting down in his seat, propping his feet up on his desk. You look around, wincing from the movement. 

"Well where's Lenny?" You ask as Arthur groans loudly, holding his stomach as he sits up on the bench beside you. 

"Only brought in the pair of ya." The sheriff shakes his head. 

“However you two managed to drink that much without passin’ out or dyin’ is beyond me.” Sheriff Malloy whistles, shaking his head.

Arthur stands up, slowly walking over towards the front of the cell. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a bill fold before handing it through the bars. 

“Should be enough to cover our bounties, and some extra for your troubles.” 

Sheriff Malloy takes the cash and stuffs it into his pocket, silently grabbing the keys off of his desk.

“Go on. Get. And how about layin’ off the hooch for a while?” The sheriff asks, and you nod. He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You and Arthur walk out of the jail scot free. As soon as you’re out of the building, you lean against the wooden support beam, heaving. 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Arthur winces, pulling your now very messy braid behind your shoulder as you throw up. You cough, wishing you were dead as the sunlight burns your eyes, killing your already throbbing head. 

“Here.” Arthur hands a rag from his satchel down to you, leaning on your knees as you clean yourself up. 

“Just one or two, huh? Jesus-” You take slow, deep breaths, trying not to puke again. 

“You even remember what the hell we did last night?” He asks, and you shake your head. 

“Nothin. I remember nothin.” You admit, standing up from the beam. Arthur hums, he remembers it all.

“Come on, let's get you home, you need a lie down.” Arthur groans, feeling like shit as he whistles. Luckily somehow, the horses stuck around and they trot up the main street.

The ride back to camp is very quiet, and very slow. Neither of you push your horses past a walk, not wanting to sicken yourselves even more. The silence is comfortable, a mutual understanding that opening your mouth to speak right now would be too much, and you just need to lie down and feel sorry for yourselves. Upon arriving at camp, you find Lenny is there, passed out in the grass next to his bedroll. You dismount Athena, groaning as your feet touch the ground. 

“Here, take this. It’ll make you feel better. I’ll go make sure Grimshaw doesn’t give you any trouble.” Arthur mumbles, handing you a glass bottle of tonic. 

You take it, quietly thanking him before dragging your heels to your tent. You’ve never been this hungover in your life, you’ve never had reason to drink so much. After closing the tent flap to prevent any extra light from coming in, you drink the whole tonic and flop down in your bed, groaning. 

— — — —

You wake up, about twelve hours later, to the sounds of maniacal laughing and screaming. You groan, sighing and covering your ear with your pillow to drown out the noise. It proves futile as the screaming and crying continue, and you figure you should probably go check it out. You get up from bed, mood sour as ever,  but you’re feeling a little better. Pushing the flaps open to your tent, you’re met with the pros and cons of living with twenty people.

“Mornin” Arthur chuckles, eyebrows raised at the state of your hair. Your braid is half fallen out, and the few flowers that have managed to stay in your hair are wilted. You groan, rolling your eyes before pulling the band out from the bottom of your braid and finger brushing the flowers out. 

“What's got you so sour?” Arthur asks, looking fresh and cleaned up. He's washed up, taken a bath and trimmed his beard. He looks good, and you look like you just barely escaped a natural disaster.

"How the hell are you even awake right now, let alone bathed and cleaned up? I'm pretty sure I still got puke on my shirt." You sigh, re-braiding your hair neatly, but loosely. Arthur takes a sip of his coffee. 

"I can actually handle my whiskey." Arthur jokes, "Go back to Valentine, buy a bath." 

"Firstly, I don't think you can, considerin'  what happened last night. And on account of the bath, I can't. I don't have enough cash." You sigh.

"A bath is only a dollar, thought you had some cash on you?" Arthur raises an eyebrow as you roll back on your heels. 

"I did. I spent it." 

"On what?" Arthur asks, sure that he'd paid for the drinks last night, except for the ones you stole.

"Just a little present, it ain't much." You smile, sighing and gripping his hand to pull him into your tent. You lead him through the tent flap, pulling him along by his hand.

"What're you doin, woman?" Arthur chuckles as you pluck his hat from his head. 

"Don't make fun of me. I saw this yesterday, n' it reminded me of you." You whisper, pulling out the hat ornament and attaching it to the rope band on his hat, on the left side. 

Arthur watches on fondly as you attach the little accessory. A warm feeling spreads through his chest, knowing that you'd thought of him. After you've finished, you hold his hat back out to him. He takes the hat back with a shocked expression on his face, and you're worried he doesn't like it, so you rush to reassure him.

"If you don't like it, or think it's dumb- maybe this was stupid I just, it reminded me of you, and-" You ramble, stopping to prevent further embarrassing yourself. 

"It's perfect." Arthur smiles, looking down to the agate, feathered ornament, dappled with little stars that remind him of you. He means it. The little decoration is perfect. The teal agate matches his eyes, the imprinted metal ensures that you're with him all the time, as if you don't already linger in his mind 24/7. He couldn't have picked out something more perfect if he tried. The accessory is fashionable, a fancy and intricate piece to add to his hat, and he's excited to wear it.

You blush, smiling happily as Arthur fondly runs his finger over the accessory before placing his hat back on his head. You lean up, adjusting it correctly while on your tiptoes. 

"You carry a lot of bad memories with this hat," You whisper, thinking of Arthur's father, "Figure it's about time you make it yours, start makin' some good memories with it." You explain. 

"It's perfect, Star." Arthur all but whispers, and you sheepishly nod, blushing. You’re proud of the little gift, and Arthur is shocked by the thought you’d put into it. 

“Looks real nice. You needed somethin’ to match those eyes.” You nod up to his hat as he leads you out of your tent. He opens his mouth to speak, but much to your growing annoyance, he is cut off by another yelp from across camp.

“Goddamnit, what is happening?” You groan, nodding for Arthur to follow you to the source. You’re ready to beat the hell out of someone, irritated and hungover. You stomp towards the scout fire where the screaming and yelping comes from, with Arthur following behind you.

The scene in front of you is nothing short of insane. That O’Driscoll from Colter is tied up to a tree. His pants have been pulled down to his knees and you make a point to avert your eyes from his… nether region. His bare quads scrape painfully across the treebark as he fights to get away from Dutch. Your eyes boggle when you see Bill come around the corner of Dutch’s tent with a steaming red pair of gelding tongs. 

“What are you idiots doin’ to this poor feller?” You gesture to the O’Driscoll, wincing at the way he shoves himself further into the tree to avoid Bill’s eager tongs.

“We’re takin’ his balls!” Bill laughs maniacally, looking all too pleased at the idea. He snaps the tongs a few times for good measure. Your jaw drops a little, and your eyebrows draw together in a mixture of shock and confusion. 

“They’re only balls, boy! You probably weren't using them anyway!” Dutch chuckles, slapping Bill on the back.

“You’re- You’re ‘taking his balls’? Really, Bill? What the hell is this, a farm? Get out of my way. Someone please pull his goddamn pants up.” You sigh, ordering the men around. Bill just looks at you for a moment, but you glare at him, and remembering how hard you can hit, he obliges. You sigh, bracing your hand against your nose as Bill drops the tongs and fixes Kieran’s jeans. Then you push past Bill, shoving him out of the way to take his spot in front of Kieran. The O’driscoll is terrified, shaking like a leaf on the tree as if you’re about to torture him. You eye him over curiously before turning on your heels and looking at the men before you.

“What exactly do y'all want outta this feller?” You question, making a plan to get some answers that doesn’t involve castration. Your hands rest on your gun belt, tapping the grip of your revolver in thought. Dutch’s eyes grow dark as he spits something onto the grass. 

“We want Colm.”

Turning back to Kieran, you eye the boy up and down.. He’s a weaker looking fella, the kind you would have stolen off of back in Tumbleweed. He’s terrified, and you know he’ll do anything to avoid a beating, including giving up his old pal, Colm. He’s surely hungry and thirsty. They’ve only been giving him enough water to stay alive, and you don’t know if he’s eaten. 

“You hungry mister? Thirsty?” You ask, watching as tears fall down the O’driscolls mud-caked face. He frantically nods his head up and down. 

“Oh yes! Yes please, please. I'm so hungry, I- I’m so thirsty, miss.” Kieran whimpers, and you nod. Without another word you push past Arthur, Dutch and Bill, straight to Pearson’s wagon. Arthur looks at Dutch, tossing his hands up lightly before following you. He comes up to your side, watching as you dip a metal cup into the barrel of water. Arthur lightly grabs your elbow to get your attention.

“You sure about this? He could be playin’ you.” Arthur warns. 

“Yes, I'm sure. You wanna help? Get me your map.” You say, leaning over the table to grab a piece of salted venison from the table. Arthur isn’t sure about this plan, but he trusts you. He nods, taking his map out of his satchel before following you back to the tree. 

“You.” You nod to the O’Driscoll, and he nods frantically, terrified of you, but glad that you’re not approaching him with some torture device. 

“Y-yes ma'am?” Kieran whimpers, and you hold the deer and water up. 

“You want this?” 

Kieran nods, and you raise an eyebrow. 

“Good. Point me to Colm n’ you can have it.” You give him an ultimatum, knowing that he would rather deal with you than the boys any day. Kieran nods, flinching as you pull your knife from its sheath. You hold it up in front of him for him to see. 

“Try anything, and this’ll be lodged in you, okay?” You warn, moving behind him before cutting him free from the tree. Kieran winces, rubbing at his wrists once he’s free. Dutch and Bill look irritated with you, but you pay them no mind as they file away. Arthur has laid his map out on Pearson’s table, just as you’d asked him to, and Kieran rushes towards it. The O’Driscoll eagerly leans over the map, following the roads with the tip of Arthur’s pencil before stopping and circling a small area north of Valentine. 

“They’re holed up here. It- It's called Six Point Cabin, and Colm will be there. It should be easy, they’ll all be drunk and asleep if you go now.” Kieran offers, looking past the horizon where the sun is starting to set. You look at the circle on the map, then up to Kieran. He has many reasons to lie, but you dont think he's loyal to Colm. You don’t think he’s dumb enough to lie to you either. But… just for good measure, you grip onto the collar of his shirt, threateningly. 

“If this is a lie, or you’re leading me into a trap, I will let this sick bastard take your manhood. You hear me? All. of. It.” You threaten, pointing to Bill behind you. The O’Driscoll frantically nods his head, audibly gulping at your promise. Quickly, you release him from your grip, dusting his shirt off a little from where your iron grip has left wrinkles.Once he’s been thoroughly threatened, you turn to Arthur, trying to ignore the sickness in your stomach as you hear the starved man gulp down all of the water, and tear into the venison..

“Good! Now that that's settled, John, Arthur, you’re with me. The three of us should be able to get this done quickly.” You tell the men, who are standing in a crowd behind you. John is wide eyed, shocked, but of course, Arthur isn’t. With a smirk, you pace through the wet grass towards Athena. Everyone mounts up and rides out pretty quickly, not wanting to waste another ounce of the limited daylight. 

“When we get here, we should do it quietly. Arrows, knives. There’s no reason to start shooting if we can take them out quietly, one at a time.” Arthur yells over the pounding of Balius’ hooves. He’s right, doing this quietly will give you the best chance of getting to Colm before he can run.  

“I agree. John, you know how to use a bow?” You ask.

“Ha! Little Johnny Marston over here can’t shoot a bow. Not that I should be surprised, he can’t do much of anything. Can’t even swim.” Arthur pokes, chuckling in his saddle at his own stab. 

“Oh shut the hell up you big bastard.” John counters, irritated as usual. It's quiet for a bit as the three of you enter Cumberland Forest, moving into a single file line to fit on the narrow trails. 

“How’s your leg holdin’ up?” John yells up to you. Instinctually you trace the scar that's hidden under your jeans.

“It’s fine now, healed up nice for the most part.” You chuckle, hollering back, “How’s your face?” 

“Ugly as always.” John chuckles.

“Hey, quiet, I think we’re close.” Arthur says back to you both, slowing Balius down to a trot. You all grow quiet, trotting the horses into the woods and hitching them off of the trail a ways. After dismounting, you offer Athena an oatcake for her work. The boys wait as she finishes it, and then you grab your bow from her saddle. Arthur and John crouch behind a fallen log, and you get down, coming between them.

“That bastard weren’t lyin’.” Arthur whispers to himself, shocked. 

The camp has one large cabin surrounded by various tents and wagons. Campfires scatter the place alongside a decent number of drunken idiots. Most of the O’Driscolls have retired for the night, snuffed out their lanterns and hit the hay. Some of them voluntarily went to bed, others passed out, completely wasted. A few O’driscolls with greasy hair and green bandanas sit around a campfire, not far from where you’re all perched. 

“Arthur?” You ask, waiting for some instruction. You and John both look to him as he formulates a plan, getting a headcount of the O’Driscolls and peeking around for other vantage points. 

“Okay we take out the ones at the fire from here. I count four. I'm good with knives, so I'll take two and you each take one.” Arthur grumbles, pulling out two throwing knives from his satchel. You’re curious if he has the skill to take down two so in such quick succession. If he’s just a split second late, the O’Driscoll will alert others. Glad that your job is easy, you grab your bow from your shoulder, steadying it in your hand as you squint to aim for one of the awake O’Driscolls. You exhale, releasing your hand just before the arrow lodges into the man’s chest. Within two seconds the other three men fall, thanks to John and Arthur. 

“Good job with the bow.” Arthur whispers, and your breath hitches in your throat when his hand squeezes your elbow with a small, proud smile. He doesn’t miss the hitch of your breath, and unbeknownst to you, he blushes, removing his hand from you and shaking his head. John looks over to Arthur with a raised eyebrow and a chuckle. Oh, he's gonna chastise Arthur for that later. Rolling your eyes, you glare back at the boys.

“Stop foolin’ around,” You hiss, “We sneak in and look for Colm. I'll take the cabin. John, go see what's worth stealin’ from their tents, but don’t wake anyone up. Arthur, cover me if I need it, please.” 

With that you stay crouched, jogging off in the direction of the cabin. You have to step over the sleeping men, and be extra careful not to wake them as you go. Colm better be here. If he’s not, you'll hand that O’Driscoll straight over to Bill tied with a ribbon. You gave him a second chance, and by god, he’d be a fool not to take it. 

Approaching the cabin, you take a quick glance through the windows. The glass is very dirty, and even squinting through the dirty glass, you can't see much. There's no light emitting from the cabin, so you assume its empty or everyone is asleep. 

You quietly step around to the front porch, hoping that this isn’t one big waste of time. Your spurs click ever so quietly with every step as you approach the front door. You lean down a little, readying your bow in case someone jumps out.  Just as you reach out for the door handle, you hear a sharp, quiet whistle, one that you’d recognize anywhere. Your head snaps around and you spot Arthur down a ways in the middle of the camp. He leans his head down a little, warning you to be safe before he gestures to your bow and then to his knife. Despite the fact that hes signaling you without speaking, you know exactly what he’s saying. 

He's telling you to put your bow away and pull out your knife instead, you curse yourself, realizing that you’d neglected to use your head. You need two hands to pull the bow, and opening the door leaves you vulnerable. The knife is a better option. You nod to Arthur in thanks, and swing your bow back over your shoulder before grabbing your hunting knife. You pull it out of its sheath, readying it as you grip the door handle.  You hear a loud grunt from the camp, and as you snap your head over you see that one of the O’Driscolls had woken up, and Arthur knocked him out. You need to hurry.

 With one hand gripping your blade, the other turns the door knob. You push it open quickly, holding up your knife in defense. It's pitch dark inside the cabin, and it takes a few moments for your eyes to adjust as you step inside. The cabin is pretty standard, across from you is a fireplace, a large table and some bedrolls laid out. You step further into the cabin and find two half-empty bowls on the table. They’re filled with some sort of mushy, brown looking stew, and they’re still steaming… 

You connect the dots too late. By the time you whip around, the men who were hiding in the shadows of the cabin slam the door shut so you can’t escape. Your eyes grow dark, and you back up as they step towards you until your back hits the far wooden wall. The two O’Driscolls are tall. They could be twins, black hair hidden away by bowler’s hats, green scarves around their thick necks. They repulse you. 

“Get back you bastards, ‘less you wanna end up like your sorry friends.” You threaten, holding your knife up in warning. The bigger one chuckles while the smaller one slides a chair under the handle of the door.

“Oh, Gabe, she’s a fiery little thing.” He says with a sickening, greedy grin on his lips. You hear Arthur try the door knob, cursing that it’s locked. 

“Anyone touches a hair on her goddamn head I’ll kill the whole lot of ya!” Arthur yells from behind the door. You can hear him dropping his weapons, and you know he’s going to try to kick the door down, but he won't be able to with the chair. You’re on your own.

“She’s a little one. She’ll be easy to handle,” The other man says before directing his attention to you, bringing up his knife and running it along the jut of your cheekbone. Your knife is in your hand, hidden behind your back as you come up with a plan to take them both down. You know his threat isn’t empty. You know what the O’driscolls have done to women, proudly, with no shame. You’ll be damned if you go down without a fight.

 “Hey, sweet thing, is that your man out there? Cause I want him to hear what we're gonna do to y-” You take a deep breath before plunging your knife into the man’s throat with a roar. Blood shoots out from his jugular, spraying all over you. Just as quickly as you had inserted it, you tear it out, and he falls to the floor, clinging to his neck. The sound of flesh tearing sounds through the room as you aim for the second man. Just as you bring the knife down towards his chest he catches your hands. You can hear the loud, angry thumps and screams of Arthur trying to beat the door down, along with his string of threats and curses towards the O’Driscolls. Shots ring out from around you, presumably you’ve woken up the entire O’Driscoll camp and now John is dealing with them. You struggle against the man for a while, as you try to push the knife down into him, and he tries to turn it around. Arthur gives up on the door, instead running around the side of the building to smash in one of the windows. He doesn’t know what's happening, he can't see who’s winning this fight, or what's happening to you, all he knows is that you’re struggling and yelling. As the glass shatters, you hesitate, letting your guard down. A painful sting slices along your abdomen, and you glance down to see that the man has cut your stomach through your shirt. It’s not very deep, but it could have been.

“You goddamn bastard!” You hiss as the O’Driscoll backs away. He smirks, watching you struggle. Arthur wastes no time jumping through the shattered window before running and tackling the O’Driscoll to the ground. Arthur starts beating the O’Driscoll, knocking chairs and items down, and after he gets a few punches in, Arthur smashes the mans head against the wall, killing or knocking him out.

“Colm aint even here!” You seethe, holding a hand against your stomach to ease the sting. Arthur looks up, seeing you covered in a spatter of blood. Immediately, he rushes over to you. 

“How much of this blood is yours?” He asks, running his eyes down your shirt until he sees the tear in it. 

“Not much of it, I’m fine Arthur, just a scratch.” You sigh, looking down at your destroyed shirt, “Shit.” 

It was a good shirt, and now it’ll be joining the burn pile when you get back to camp. You groan,  realizing you’ll have to ride back to camp like this. 

“Is John okay? And where the hell is Colm?” You ask, pulling up your shirt a bit to look over the cut. It’s just over the lip of your jeans, not deep, but a few inches wide. You won’t need stitches, thankfully. 

“Johns fine, lootin the camp now, and who knows where the hell Colm is.” Arthur says, eyes fixated on the bleeding patch of skin in between your jeans and shirt. 

“You think that boy Kieran set us up?” Arthur asks, making a mental note to buy you some poultice, considering how much you use it. 

“No. He’s not that stupid, or that brave. Don’t think he wants to lose his balls just yet.” Arthur chuckles. He motions for you to follow him out, but you raise your finger up signaling him to wait. 

“All this, and we ain’t gonna rob the place?” You ask, and Arthur watches as you climb over the scattered items and corpses. As if you knew exactly where it was going to be, you walk up to the chimney, reach into it and pull out a wad of cash. Quickly, you run your fingers through the folds, counting six hundred dollars. Arthur huffs, forever amused by you, especially as you walk towards him and then stop. You turn on your heels, looking up to the double barrelled shotgun resting on the mantle, and with a satisfied hum, you strut right over and pluck it from the wall. 

“Okay now we can go.” You say, walking past Arthur with a smile, soaked in blood. 

“Whatever you say, boss.” Arthur mumbles, whispering the last part before you glare at him .

— — — —

You’d stopped in Valentine on the way back, breaking off from Arthur and John to take a bath at the hotel. You’d taken your time, using almost every bath soap and oil just to try them out. Each one smelled so good, it was well into the night before you’d finished. It was a refresher that you needed, and deserved. With a new hundred dollar bill in your pocket from the job, you’d rented a room for the rest of the night, and then bought yourself some new clothes in the morning. You picked out a nicer outfit than usual, a dark burgundy shirt, over the shoulder styled with ruffles on your arms. It’s beautiful, and fancy, something you’re not used to. You tucked the shirt into a new pair of black jeans, and smiled contentedly in the mirror before braiding your hair down your back and heading back to camp. 

Much to your surprise, Arthur convinced the boys to let Kieran live, and to keep his manhood. Now as you peel potatoes next to Sadie at Pearson’s table, you watch him talk to and pet Athena with a small smile. Sadie follows your gaze, scoffing. 

“You should have just killed him. Can’t trust any of those damn O’Driscolls.” She hisses, garing daggers at the man, causing him to tremble lightly as he feeds Athena a mint. 

“He ain’t hurtin’ nothing. Sides, same thing could be said about us.” You point out, and Sadie doesn’t argue back, but she shakes her head in disapproval. You haven’t seen much of her since meeting in Colter. She’s kept to herself, hid amongst the shadows and cried herself to sleep most nights. You can see her bottling up, hardening. She’s turning into you 

“Star?” 

You look up, drawn out of your thoughts to see Abigail smiling down at you. There is a subtle redness to her eyes that indicates she’s been crying, and your eyebrows draw together in worry. 

“Everything okay?” You ask, standing from your seat and dropping your knife to the table. 

“Could we talk for a minute?” She asks, a hand sheepishly toying with a piece of her hair. 

“Course… What’s goin’ on?” You ask, smiling back to Sadie in an apology before following Abigail towards her tent. 

“Well, it's the boy.” Abigail says, biting on her nails as she leads you into her A-frame. Before the flap falls closed, you glance out of the tent to see Jack playing with a toy horse. He seems fine, just playing as children his age do. You look at her, confused, as she sits down on the corner of his tent. 

“He’s real sad, Star.” Abigail exhales, tears forming in her eyes that she pushes back, “John don’t- John don’t really care about him like a father should.” Abigail sighs, and you move to sit on the open space beside her.

“Arthur’s always been there for Jack, even when John left…” Abigail says, and you make a note to ask Arthur about it, you don’t recall hearing of John leaving.

“I'm sorry to ask, and I know it’s unfair to, but could you or Arthur take him somewhere, or do somethin’ with him? He looks up to you both so much.” Abigail explains, and you place your hand over hers, nodding. You can’t imagine how she does it all. This life is an unkind one, and raising a child amidst it? You’re sure it's tough. Your heart aches for Jack, and you understand the pain of wanting to be loved by a father that chooses his life over his kids.

“Of course, Abigail, I’d be happy to. I miss Jack, haven’t gotten to chat with him in a while.” You explain, and Abigail smiles bittersweet. 

“Thank you so much, I’ll owe you.” 

“Nonsense, you don't owe me nothin, this’ll be fun. Let me find Arthur, we still have some time before dark.” You respond, pushing the tent flaps open before walking out. The sun is just beginning to set over the mountains, and you reckon that you have a few hours yet. You manage to find Arthur carrying a bale of hay across the camp, and he drops it to the ground in front of the horses. 

“Ride with me?” You call to him, and he looks over at you, pausing for a moment to take in your new shirt, and the neat braid running down your back. 

“Course, always.”Arthur says, entranced by the way you look in the dark red blouse. He debates telling you that you look beautiful, but decides that it would sound odd, so he coughs awkwardly and follows you. 

“Where we goin’?” He asks, dusting some hay splinters off of his hands. 

“That's up to you, mister. We’re takin’ Jack out.” You say excitedly, leading him towards the boulder where the boy sits. Arthur watches as you sort of skip along, smiling to himself. 

“How about fishin’?” Arthur asks, and you stop dead in your tracks, turning around to squint at him. 

“You gotta take a lady and a child out for fun and you wanna fish?” You ask, lost on his decision. But Arthur looks pretty excited, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Well sure, fishin’ is fun.” Arthur defends, covering his heart in mock pain. 

“Yeah and so is dysentery, are you serious?” You huff, chuckling with a shocked expression. Arthur looks at you like he can’t fathom why anybody would think fishing to be boring. 

“Fine, we’ll go fishing, but you gotta do something that's actually fun with me later.” You chuckle, approaching Jack. He’s playing with a wooden horse, a sad little frown on his face. 

“Hey buddy, do you like fishin’?” You ask him immediately, kneeling down to his level. He looks up to you almost offended.

“Aunt Star, fish are smelly! I hate fishing!” He says, looking up to you with drawn together eyebrows. 

“Well we’re goin’ fishin, so go get your pole off of Uncle Hosea.” Arthur says, and Jack sighs, stomping off towards Hosea’s tent. 

“Arthur Morgan.” You chastise, looking at him with an open jaw. 

“What? It’ll be good for him, he’s practically the man of the house now, considerin’ John’s contributions-” Arthur starts, sarcastically and you swat his chest to shut him up.

“Go get on your horse with your damn pole, I’ll meet you over there.” You sigh, waiting for Jack to come back with his little pole. You smile sweetly at him as he jogs back towards you, a grumpy little frown on his face. 

“I don’t even know how to fish that good, but at least I get to stay up past my bedtime!” Jack says, handing his pole out to you, “Can I ride with you? Uncle Arthur’s horse looks scary…” Jack mumbles, looking at the huge black stallion with trepidation. You chuckle, thinking that Athena is definitely more of a force to be reckoned with, but you trust her. 

“Sure buddy, c’mon.” You nudge him towards the horses with your hand. Arthur has the horses all tacked up, and is tightening the last cinch on Athena’s saddle when you approach him. You climb up into the saddle first, sliding back as far as you can against the seat, and then Arthur lifts Jack up with a groan, placing him down right in front of you. 

“You got a spot picked out?” You ask, turning Athena towards the trail out of camp while Arthur mounts up. 

“Yeah, head down to the Dakota, there's a nice spot down by the bank.” 

Per Jack’s request, you lope down the slope towards the river. You make sure to keep Athena at a very slow, steady pace so that Jack doesn’t lose his balance. Athena seems to be aware of the fragile life on her back, and takes extra soft steps. Jack giggles the whole time, a belly aching laughter as he hangs on to the horn in front of you for dear life. He’s upset when you have to slow down, but grateful for the fun that it was. 

“Here should do.” Arthur says, pulling Balius off the road. He’s chosen a spot in the river with a deep pool off the bank, a nice spot. The grass comes down almost to the water, and wildflowers and big rocks scatter around the area, creating a perfectly peaceful resting spot. It’s a perfect place to read or chat, but of course you’re here to catch fish. Arthur dismounts, coming over and lifting Jack down from the saddle onto the grass. You follow, and both of the horses step aside to munch on the sweet grass. 

“Either of you know how to fish?” Arthur asks, hands resting on his gun belt. You and Jack both shake your heads and Arthur nods, moving firstly to Jack. You stay quiet, watching on as Arthur adds a worm to Jack’s hook. He shows Jack how to do it, and then gets him cast out into the water. Despite his predisposition to fishing, Jack seems rather proud of himself 

“Real good, Jack!” Arthur smiles, patting Jack on the shoulder. You conclude that he must have been an incredible father, it all comes so naturally to him. Jack looks up to Arthur, so proud of himself, and your heart aches for the whole situation. 

“Now, when you got a bite, let me know. We can reel it in together.” Arthur says, nodding to Jack before coming towards you.

“I think I’m gonna sit this one out, Arthur” You chuckle, and Arthur nods. 

“Fair enough.”

Jack waits for a long while next to Arthur, and both have their backs faced to you as you sit in the grass behind them. You pluck some pieces of grass from the dirt, and then bored, you grab your little journal. Arthur and Jack talk about nothing and everything at the same time, waiting for something to bite. Eventually, Arthur gets a catch, and he shows Jack how to gut and store it, and then they’re back to waiting. The whole process is a bit mind numbing for you, and your attention is focused solely on the pages of your journal as you update it. 

New horses, new blacksmith, and a newfound sobriety after the other night. Lots of things are changing, and yet lots remain the same. It's a confusing thing, and I find myself so caught up in between what I should do and what I want that I fear it’s breaking me in two. Honestly, its getting harder to tell the two apart any-

Your pen stills, as you look up to where Arthur and Jack stand. You’re sure you heard what he’s just said, but still you find yourself analyszing it. 

“Y’know I taught another boy to fish once.” Arthur says quietly, head turning towards Jack. Jack looks up at Arthur with his eyebrows drawn together, mirroring exactly your expression. 

“Lenny?” The boy asks, and Arthur chuckles, recasting his line. 

“No, not Lenny. This was long before I even met Lenny. Hell, before you was born too.” Arthur sighs, recounting just how many years it's been. Sometimes he’s grateful that his life doesn’t require the modern calendar. The passing of time would be far too painful if he was more aware of it. Jack’s confusion turns to excitement, as he once again misinterprets Arthur’s words. 

“Oh! What is his name? Could I meet him? I’d like to have a friend…” Jack says, not quite old enough to understand the passing of time, and the growth of children to adults. He’s never been around other children before, and you can’t blame him for his naivete. Arthur’s head dips down, and a bittersweet smile tugs at his lips. You watch on, connecting the dots with an ache in your heart. 

“Nah, don’t think you’ll be able to meet him, buddy. He woulda liked you though, was only a few years older than you.” Arthur whispers, swallowing thickly as a fish tugs on his line. He doesn’t even bother to reel it, staring blankly across the river, lost in thought. 

“Oh. What happened to him, Uncle Arthur?” Jack asks innocently, pulling on his rod too quickly while trying to attract a fish. 

“He passed away.” Arthur mumbles, and the night grows silent save for the buzzing of frogs and the quiet splashes of water. Arthur gives Jack a few more pointers, but after a bit, Jack is tired of fishing, and he sets his pole down, yawning as he walks over towards you. 

“I’m bored now.” Jack states, sitting beside you while plucking a few wildflowers from the grass, “Maybe I’ll make a flower necklace for momma.”

Smiling at the kid, soothed by the sounds of Arthur’s pole splashing in the river, you lean back against a boulder, looking up at the night sky. It’s still early, and streaks of orange and red paint the sky alongside dark blue. It’s a beautiful night, and even though its early, you can still point out a few weak constellations. 

“What are you looking at, Aunt Star?” Jack asks, curiously tiptoeing towards you with a bundle of flowers in his hand. He plops down right beside you, sitting against your waist as he starts to weave the flower stems together. Now Arthur is the one eavesdropping, pole dipping into the water as he listens to you and Jack’s conversation. 

“Oh, the stars, I guess.” You chuckle, thinking that you find yourself answering that question with the same answer frequently. But you just can’t help but eye them, they’re so beautiful, so free. Jack yawns, leaning his head against you as his fingers slow down on his little project. 

“You like looking at stars, don't you?” Jack asks, eyes never leaving his flower necklace. Arthur chuckles, asking you the same question in his head. They seem to follow you like a trail, leaving star-shaped kisses on your heart. 

“Yeah, I do. I think they’re fun to watch. Aren’t they just beautiful?” You ask, watching as the whole sky twinkles and flickers. Jack nods, yawning again. 

“They sure are.” 

You watch them for a while, occasionally glancing ahead to watch the slopes of Arthur’s back as he packs up his fishing pole, retiring for the night. After everything is all packed, he starts to make his way towards the two of you. Jack snores lightly against you, and surprised, you look down to find him asleep. Arthur smiles at this before sitting down against the rock at your side with a groan. He rests against your side opposite of Jack, and as he takes his hat off, dropping it to the ground, your hand reaches out to rest over his knee. 

“Y’okay?” You ask, turning your head to gauge his eyes. Arthur’s eyebrows draw together, and he nods. 

“Sure, why?” 

“That must have been hard to talk about.” You nod towards the bank, recalling Arthur’s memory to the conversation about Isaac. Arthur sighs deeply, removing the weight of the world off his shoulders as his hand covers your own on his knee. 

“It’s gettin’ easier.” He admits, but his eyes are far away, lost somewhere decades ago. 

“Tell me about him.” You invite, leaving the decision up to him. You won’t be upset if he chooses not to talk about it, you understand isolation better than most. But if he chooses to open up, you’ll be there. A supporter, a friend, an ear, whatever he needs. 

“There’s a lot to tell…” Arthur huffs, squeezing your hand lightly. 

“We got time, if you’re comfortable.” You whisper, hand instinctively running up and down Jack’s sleeping back. Arthur nods, tongue darting out over his lips for a moment. He’s never told anyone the full story before, but as he looks into your warm, familiar eyes, he knows he can trust you. 

“About fifteen years ago we was stayin’ in this town, we were there for a while,” Arthur toys with your hands, avoiding your eyes, “Got to know this waitress, god- she was just a kid, only eighteen at the time… Eliza was her name. We had- well it was nothin’ special, just someone to spend the night with. First time it happened we were both drunk, both hurtin’. Then everytime I was in town I’d stop by her place.” Arthur shakes his head, disappointed in his actions, “It was wrong, but we were young and stupid and lookin’ to feel somethin’ other than hurt I guess.” Arthur whispers, a crease in his forehead from the way his eyebrows are drawing together in pain. You squeeze his hand gently, letting him know you’re still present and listening before he continues. 

“One day, after we’ve been doin’ this a while, I rode up and I just knew somethin’ was wrong… Said she was pregnant, said it was mine.” Arthur brings his knee up, resting his arm on it as he recalls memories that he has spent years shoving down, “I knew it was. I didn’t know what to do, I was so lost, Star. I knew I wanted to do right by her, so I made sure she had enough money so she wouldn’t have to work no more…” 

You lean your head against Arthur’s shoulder as he runs his thumb over your knuckles. You’re terrified of the end of this story, and you wish there were something you could do to ease his pain.

“I wasn’t ready to be a dad- not in the least. I had no role model worth a damn, and I was so afraid of turnin’ into my daddy…” He whispers, and your eyes glance to his hat on the ground, and the new accessory adorning it. 

“But then he was born.” Arthur chuckles, a little huff at some good memory in his head, “He looked just like me, and he was growin’ so fast.” Arthur has a joyful smile on his lips, but it dies out the longer he stays silent, thinking about the next chapter to Isaac’s life. 

“I stopped by when I could, always brought him somethin’ from my travels… He’d get so excited when I rode up, Eliza was always hollerin’ after him for runnin’ out the house.” Arthur whispers, an ache in his red eyes.

“I taught him how to write, how to draw, even how to fish and ride. My lord, did that kid love horses.” Arthur huffs a chuckle, “Boadicea especially, she was just under saddle then, a handful of years… He named her- named her after a queen from one of the books I read him. He liked history too. He was such a good kid, Isaac. Smart like his momma and stubborn as all hell like his daddy.”

The smile from fond memories fade away, and are replaced by an old pain. One so deep that you know you could never attempt to reach the bottom. His hand shakes lightly, encased over your own, and he swallows thickly, looking down at his lap. 

“One day I was goin’ back like always, but this time I had a real big surprise for him. Saved up for a long while n’ got him his first pony, a chestnut like Bo, his favorite… I rode up the trail, it had been about a month, soon as I got up the path I saw two crosses out front and I just knew.” 

Tears trail down your cheeks, and you squeeze Arthur’s hand. It’s all you can do to let him know you're here, feeling this with him. He knows. You’re here, and that's more than enough. Jack is still blissfully asleep in your arms as Arthur finds the strength to continue, unshed tears in his eyes that he won’t allow to fall.

“Found her daddy, he said some gang had come through. Robbed n’ killed them for ten goddamn dollars,” Arthur inhales deeply, and that tear finally falls as he whispers, “And Star- his grave plot was so small. He was there and then he wasn’t, and poor Eliza. She deserved so much better than that, than what I provided, they both did…” Arthur regains his composure, hiding his face from you as he sniffs and wipes the tear away. 

“I fell hard into the bottle after that, didn’t come back up for a long while.” 

Arthur looks over at you then, and at the sleeping boy in the crook of your arm. You’re shocked, speechless, and hurting for a loss that you never had to grieve. The trauma that Arthur’s gone through, the loss, and he still gives so much, he has such a big heart and yours aches for his.

“Arthur I- I’m so sorry.” You breathe out, tear tracks running down your cheeks, “I’m so sorry you’ve had to carry that alone.” 

Sitting in silence for a few moments, offering eachother little glances and touches of support, a question pops into your head. 

“You a religious man, Arthur?” You ask, looking up to him from against his shoulder. His eyebrows pull together, not expecting this question as he shakes his head. 

“I don’t know, not really.” He explains, having heard a lot about church and god, but never having actually listened, “Why, you believe in all that?” he asks. 

“I believe that some way or another, we all get what we deserve in the end, whether that be redemption or mercy or suffering. And kids? They gotta be granted somethin’ good.”  You mumble, thinking about it all. Arthur purses his lips, placing his hat back on his head as he looks down at you. 

“N’ what about folks like us? What do we deserve?” Arthur asks, looking at your intertwined hands. You could have pulled away by now, but you haven’t. You sigh, contemplating his loaded question before coming up empty handed. 

“I don’t know.”

Arthur nods, holding your hand up to exaggerate the fact that you’re holding his hand, pressed into his side. 

“What are we doin’ here, Star?” Arthur finally asks, a question that has been on his lips for a while. You bite your lip nervously, looking at your intertwined hands before pulling yours back, and placing it over Jack’s sleeping form. 

“It’s nothing, Arthur.” You say plainly, anxiety panging in your chest at his directness, and he sighs. 

“Is it?”

“Arthur, stop.” You warn, wanting the conversation to be over. You don’t want to talk about this, not now, not here. 

“Why do you keep closin’ up on me?” Arthur begs, having just poured his heart out to you, and you can’t manage to speak to him about anything. You don't speak, eyes purposely avoiding Arthur as your cheeks burn red. You want to cry, to scream, to tell him everything, but you can’t. You can’t because people you love get hurt, and people you love hurt you. Arthur sighs, watching as tears pool in your eyes. He’ll wait. 

You’re about to wake up Jack, to take him back home. Just as you start to move, a pair of horses trots down the road, pulling off the bank where you sit. Arthur is up in a second, confronting the people riding up in the night. It happens so shockingly quickly that you don’t even have time to ask questions. Jack stirs awake, confused and sleepy as you shove him behind you. 

“Good evening! I’m Agent Milton, this is Agent Ross.” A man calls out, climbing down from his branded chestnut morgan. His uniform is identical to his partner’s, stamped with a damning Pinkerton Detective Agency seal, and you gasp. 

“Mr. Morgan, and you,” The bald man, Milton, looks to you then, scowling, “I hear they call you Star now, right? Though it’s not the name on the bounty poster, is it?” He chuckles, humorless. Then, he gestures to Jack hiding behind your legs. 

“I’d ask if he’s the both of yours, but you ain’t been riding with these degenerates long enough.” The agent nods to you, as you fume.

“Tell me, Mr. Morgan. Did you coax this poor woman into joining you? Did you tell her all about your philosophy? Your code? Or was that all old Dutch?”

“What do you want?” You hiss, ready to kill these men. Your hand has flickered to your holster more than once, but you hesitate, not wanting Jack to see. 

“We want Dutch. You give us him and we'll clear your names. You know what they say about a king-less monarchy, hmm?” Ross says. Arthur steps forward then, feigning innocence. 

“We ain’t seen Dutch, not in a long while.” Arthur explains, but Milton chuckles, shaking his head. 

“Yeah that’s what Mac Callander said too, before I shot him, it was really more of a mercy kill.” Milton hisses, and your jaw falls. Arthur is filled with rage, hands clenched tightly as he holds back for Jack’s sake. 

“He didn’t talk though, don’t worry.” Ross chuckles, walking back towards his horse. 

“You best think over our offer, you’re running out of time.” Ross hisses, climbing back onto his horse. 

“Have a good night, kid. You don’t got many more of them.” Milton addresses Jack, and you shove the boy behind you as they gallop off. 

“Arthur-” You exhale, shocked and terrified. The Pinkertons have caught up, and if they’ve chased you this far, you doubt they’ll ever stop.

“This ain’t good. We better get the boy home, talk with Dutch. He ain’t gonna be happy about this.” Arthur says, low with a dark edge. Nervously, you watch them ride off. 

“You think we’re gonna have to move again? We just got here.” You exhale, emotional at the thought of leaving. This is one of the first places you’ve felt at home in a long time. 

“I don’t know. C’mon, we’ll get Jack back and see.”

— — — — 

Dutch isn’t worried about the Pinkertons. No, he's furious. He sees it as some personal stab at his ego. Your eyes roll, sitting beside Arthur outside of Dutch’s tent. 

“I don’t think you understand, Dutch, they know where we are. They killed Mac.” Arthur growls, trying to get Dutch to see reason. But Dutch’s mind is clouded by delusions of grandeur. He believes he can win the fight against the agency, and you think he’s a fool. 

“They’re testing us, son. They’re pushing us. They think they can herd us? Me? They’re wrong. We are NOT abiding by the rules to their twisted games. We are staying here!” Dutch yells, and Arthur sighs, begging  Dutch to cut his loses, but the man is insistent. Arthur tries to speak, but Dutch cuts him off, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“Son, in the morning I need you to go get Sean. We are not losing anyone else.” Dutch orders, then he moves towards the fire where John is. You and Arthur share a worried glance before following him. 

“John! Gather what you need, we are HITTING THAT TRAIN!” Dutch calls out, smiling brightly as if his master plan is falling together, “Watch them try to control this crew. We’ll hit their bounty hunters, hit their train in the same goddamn day. This is going to be beautiful.”

Your stomach turns as you recall Dutch’s orders about needing your level head on the robbery. You have a bad feeling about this train, a real bad one. But as John and Arthur start packing to head in separate directions tomorrow, you realize that there’s no way out of it. You’re a van der Linde now, and you follow his orders.

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

Okay, since we're sharing trans headcanons lately, hear me out: transmasc Rafal.

It's already established that he was frustrated with the body he was born into, feeling like it couldn't do everything he wanted. He wasn't strong enough to compete or be safe amongst his siblings. Then he realised those weren't the only reasons he felt dissatisfied.

Nil was the first person to be kind to him, and use the name he'd chosen, and treat him as a brother (not that dragons in general seem to care about gender, but I get the impression that most of Xeno Sombron's brood would bully each other over anything). Nil's death was devastating, but he also presented an unexpected gift: pretend to be me, and keep on living as one of Sombron's sons instead of his daughters.

An additional struggle, trying to keep that secret from Nel as they grew older (she knew anyway, because she always knew Rafal wasn't Nil, so that didn't matter – this was still her brother, who she'd love and protect). Things grew easier once they were in the less toxic environment of Lythos, and I'm sure we can imagine helpful trans-your-gender magic potions that someone might be able to covertly get their hands on. The real prize, however, would be the ability to use a dragonstone, because if that lets you shapeshift into a completely different creature, why wouldn't it let you make subtler changes too?

Five hundred war crimes later, Rafal does indeed acquire a dragonstone, and heads over to another Elyos, resolved to be a brand new man in more ways than one. Good for him (except for the war crimes part, I guess).

So he's following the Divine Dragon around and killing the Divine Dragon's enemies, and they end up thrown a thousand years into the past. And run into a foe who looks...somewhat like this world's Alear, and somewhat like the one from Rafal's own world, but not quite the same as either. Long red hair, a rather impractical miniskirt, and an aura of blank misery.

She didn't figure things out as early as Rafal, since every shred of personality was crushed down by Sombron. It'll stay that way until she finds refuge in Lythos, and quietly mentions to Lumera that she might like to cut her hair, the way that young man wore it, from her strange encounter in the snowfields. The one who had a face similar to hers, but looked so much happier, surrounded by his friends and comfortable in his own skin.

Rafal looks from the woman in black, to the man in white, and thinks, “Hey, you too?” ...But probably never actually mentions it to Alear, because he sucks at personal conversations. Oh well.

.

[lizard-on-a-window-pane]

Hii Ria! Hope you’re doing well. I saw your requests were open and I saw Tangerine was on ur list so if you have the time I’d love a (possibly nsfw but all is fine) blurb with Tan. Thanks so much💗

hi, lovely! wow, i’m so glad you requested tangerine. i love him and had too much fun writing this. i hope you don't mind it's not set on a job. i know you said “blurb,” but i got carried away, yike sorry, hope you like it!! and hope some of my marauders readers give it a go!

pairing: Tangerine x reader

tags / warnings: NSFW (minors do not interact!), fingering, fem!reader

notes: the “blowing bubbles” song is West Ham’s theme song and it repeatedly plays in the movie in Tangerine and Lemon scenes 🍊🍋

word count: 2.2k

“I’m forever blowing bubbles!” you sing at the top of your lungs with the rest of the elated stadium even though you’d left your seat to go to the loo. “Pretty bubbles in the air! They fly so hii…HEY! What the fuck?!” 

You quickly go to grab the wrist of the hand you felt trying to knick your wallet from your pocket. As you turn to curse out whoever thought they could just steal from you that easily, you’re met with the prettiest pair of blue eyes you’ve ever seen. It throws you off balance for a second — but only for a second — before you work to quickly recover you’re pissed off facade. You give the man a “what the fuck?” look, eyes wide, eyebrows expressive.

“So sorry, love,” he responds. “Just bumped into ya.” 

“Oh? You’re fingers bumped into my pocket?” you shoot back, your look scathing. 

He’s surprised you caught him; pretty much no one ever does. He’s even more surprised you’re calling him on it with as much feist as you  are… and he fucking loves it. 

“Alright, alright. ‘M sorry.” He lifts his hands up then puts one on his chest as he swears, “Truly.” 

He has nice hands, you can’t help but think. You scold yourself for thinking that when this bloke is so clearly a prick, but you justify it to yourself by thinking it’s just that his many rings caught your attention… and damn do they make his hands look even better. You shake your head at yourself, but thankfully, he seems to think it’s your response to his apology. 

“Let me make it up t’ya,” he offers, and you’re curious. 

You cross your arms across your chest, and shoot him a harsh “how?”

“However ya like.” He smiles and takes a step closer to you. He’s charming as hell, and you hate it. “How bout… you let me buy ya a drink somewhere round here? This thing’s basically over anyway. No fuckin way they come back from three nil.” 

You debate for a moment, biting your lip in consternation, and you notice his looking at your mouth when you do. You hope you’re not imagining it, and think “fuck it”; you had nothing better to do after the match anyway, your friends wouldn’t mind, and you could just ditch him if it’s not fun. 

“Okay… fine.” 

“Alright then,” he says with finality, his gorgeous smile sneaking back onto his face. “Let me just tell my brother I’m leavin, and I’ll be right back, alright?” He turns to go then turns back and adds, “Don’t disappear on me, love.” 

You shrug but then lean against the wall. He smirks a bit as he walks away. 

The walk to the nearby pub is mostly quiet, but strangely not awkward... except for the moment you have to ask if you heard him correctly when he said his name was Tangerine. “It's a kind of nickname that's just sort of stuck,” he explained, shrugging. “Besides, tangerines are very sophisticated, right?” You weren’t sure if he was joking.

The pub’s emptier now the match is still going on than it will be soon, and you manage to sneak up to the bar on the end furthest from the telly everyone’s eyes are still glued to. 

“What’d ya like?” he asks from beside you, and your heart rate increases a bit — okay, a lot — at the proximity. You both order, and you take a nervous sip of your pint when you can’t think of much to say. 

“So you a big West Ham fan then?” he asks.

“Yeah. Don’t miss a match. Since I was a kid really.” “Oh yeah? Same here. My brother and me, we watch ‘em all together unless we’re in the middle of a job.” “Sounds nice,” you smile. “What do you do?”

He hesitates, taking his own nervous sip of his drink this time. 

“Odd jobs, you know? Freelance stuff.” You can tell he’s being vague but don’t want to push it so soon. 

“And you work with your brother?”

“Mmhhmm, best part ‘a the gig sometimes. He’s a riot.” 

You find this affection extremely endearing and hope in the back of your mind that you get to meet his brother next time, that this will lead to a next time… So, you take a chance.

“Sounds like he’s the fun one, and you… you’re the handsome one then? Or is he as handsome as you?” You make an effort to stop yourself before you start ranting and ruin it. 

“No. He’s not,” he chuckles seriously. “But I don’t appreciate ya insinuating I’m not fun, love. What? You’re not having a good time?” he challenges. 

“Early stages,” you reply mock-serious. “We’ll see.” “Oh, alright,” he nods. “You should know now though, darlin…” He leans in. “I’m a man who loves a challenge.” He winks at you, his face closer to yours than it has been thus far. You’re sure you’re not imagining it this time when his gaze lowers to your lips and lingers there. 

You don’t know how to respond and clear your throat lamely, turning back to your drink, clearly flustered. You hear his amused chuckle beside you, and you roll your eyes at him teasingly. 

Your chat continues, the two of you quickly falling into a rhythm, and before you know it you’ve finished your first drink. Seeing he’s doing the same, taking a long last swig, you hope this isn’t the end of it. Relief and excitement wash over you when, as he puts his glass down, he looks over at you, a mischievous twinkle in his eye you’re starting to love, and asks, “The same?” pointing at your empty glass. You nod gladly. 

As he leans into the bar to hail the bartender, your heart feels like it somehow both stops and races in the span of one second when you feel his hand on the small of your back. He asks for your drinks, but when he leans back, he leaves his hand there. You love the contact and lean closer to him to let him know. He smiles down at you, and you feel his hand caress your back. 

You keep chatting and drinking; he’s brilliant at making you laugh, and you have him cracking up not infrequently as well. 

The pub starts filling up now with the post-match celebratory crowd, and though you’re glad for the excuse to be even closer to him, tingles shooting down your spine every time he leans in to speak into your ear, you also lament the loss of the somewhat intimate bubble you’d created with him. You’re mid-sip when a seemingly drunken man pushes against you aggressively in his attempt to get to the bar, making you spill your drink on yourself and lose your balance. Tangerine’s arms come around you immediately, catching and stabilizing you. You love the warm, firm feeling of them, but it’s gone as quickly as it came as he shifts next to you, turning toward the man and squaring up with him. “Oi! Better fuckin watch it, mate!”

The drunken guy doesn’t even fully turn to him, responding, “Fuck off, pretty boy,” slurring his too-loud words. 

You see something slightly terrifying shift in Tangerine’s expression, a kind of craze come into his eyes, and you can tell already that he’s not someone you want to mess with. You see his fists tighten and his lips snarl, but before he can make a move, you stand in front of him and put your arms on his broad shoulders. 

“Hey, hey, it’s fine. It’s not worth it, really. Please, I’m fine, and you getting in trouble for beating his arse would really ruin what we’ve got going, don’t you think?” You try to sound playful and comfortingly rub his shoulders. 

He exhales slowly, puts his hands on your hips, and leans in. “He’s lucky you’re here, love. Woulda ended up crying for his mum otherwise.” You laugh but feel the stickiness of the the spilled drink on your shirt as you do. You look down at it and tell Tangerine you’ve got to go clean up then make your way to the toilets. 

You’re glad of your luck that they’re individuals since it lets you take your shirt off to rinse it at the sink. You’re wiping yourself down when you hear a knock at the door. “Occupied!” 

“’S me, love. Sorry to rush you, but I gotta go.” “What?” Your heart sinks.

“‘M so sorry, really, but I just got a call about a job I was waitin on, and it can’t really wait.” 

You come up against the door he’s just on the other side of, a knot in your throat. You crack it the tiniest bit to be able to look at him, to say goodbye you suppose. When you do his eyes, full of emotion that makes it clear he’s sad to be going, immediately go from your eyes to your shirtless torso, landing on your bra-clad tits. He takes a beat, looks around, whispers what you think is “fuck it” under his breath, and pushes into the bathroom with you, locking it behind him. 

You’re shocked, standing completely still in front of him. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says, looking you up and down before grabbing your face, the cold of his rings on your cheeks, and kissing you. 

You kiss him back immediately, wrapping your arms around him, entangling your hand in his thick brown hair. He groans at this, and you feel the vibrations in his chest that’s flush with yours. You moan in response, sucking on his tongue in your mouth, and pulling him impossibly closer. He pushes you back against the sink counter; it’s too small to sit on, but it helps give you some leverage.

He kisses along your jaw, sucking on your neck, moving his hands down to squeeze your tits. He kneads them, pinching your nipples through your thin bra. One hand caresses down your stomach to the waistband of your trousers. He unbuttons them adeptly and sticks his hand in your knickers. “I thought you had to go,” you laugh into his ear, lifting your hips to give him better access, already reveling in the feeling of his hands on you. 

He groans into your neck and takes a teasing bite then responds, his voice much lower than before.

“I do,” he grumbles. “But they can fucking wait.” He kisses you again then adds, “And I can be quick when I need ta.” His smirk is devilish as he runs his fingers across your already wet slit. “Feels like you are having a good time after all, love,” he jokes. 

You moan and lean your head back at the feeling. He returns to kissing, sucking, licking on your mouth, your neck, your chest, as he massages your folds, rubbing your clit before slipping a long, thick finger inside you. You whimper at the delicious sensation and rut into his hand. He chuckles appreciatively and expertly tilts his wrist on every thrust, hitting your spot over and over. He adds another digit inside and adjusts his thumb on your clit to rub as he strokes. It feels incredible. 

You’re holding on to the sink behind you for balance but bring one hand to his neck, gripping his shoulder and caressing his cheek, bringing him closer as you kiss him. He kisses back passionately, not missing a beat in his other actions, holding your face with surprising tenderness with his other hand. 

He reads your body, your sounds perfectly, speeding up and slowing down, adding and removing pressure, better than if you’d tried to explain to him out loud. You know you only met him today, but he doesn’t even feel like a stranger to you anymore. The connection excites and scares you at the same time, and you moan his name into his ear as you cum.

He kisses and touches you through it, and when you’re finished he leans his forehead on yours then kisses it as he steps away. 

“I do really have ta go now,” he bemoans. You nod wordlessly, your lips parted, your legs jelly. You spot the giant bulge in his trousers and another wave of pleasure washes over you at the sight. You wish you could do something about it, but he’s washing his hands and straightening his clothes before you can gather yourself. 

He’s adjusting his rings on his hands as he comes back in front of you. There’s conflict in his baby blues as you stare back up at him. 

“I’m not exactly relationship material,” he says softly. “But I really would love to see you again.” 

You kiss him gently and slip your hand in his pocket, taking his phone without his noticing. You lift it up in front of his face, and his surprise quickly melts to adoration as you whisper, “That’s how you do it.” 

He laughs and answers, “Not really fair, love. I didn’t have the benefit of a brilliant kiss as a distraction.”

You shrug and smirk; he unlocks his phone, and you put your number in it. He gives the phone a little shake, slips it back in his pocket, and kisses you quickly but roughly before turning and leaving without another word.

[bluedalahorse]

Hi! I hope everyone is doing well. I am popping up to let you know that I’m alive, that there’s a lot going on, that I still love YR, and that I’m thinking about boundaries and priorities.

I loved Young Royals season three. I especially love how it engaged with the legacy of Erik and the systems of Hillerska. I love that it took the idea of the legal system providing catharsis and that it threw that out the window. I love the way characters got words for what they were going through, how Felice got to name the racism happening to her and August got words to name his disordered eating. Most of all I loved the way Lisa wrote Sara’s relationship with her father and her reconciliation with Simon. That meant so much to me, and I can’t wait to imagine a future for the Eriksson siblings.

Here is a brief list of things I loved about the finale. They were all written in the afterglow of seeing the episode. I stand by them. Especially how much I loved Wille’s ending, and what happened there.

In the coming weeks, I’m sure there’ll be stuff I’m more critical of or don’t feel as strongly about. I especially have mixed feelings about the way Lisa seemed to structure 3.5 in a way that mimics the emotional roller coaster of trauma. I’m not really focusing on that stuff here or now, because I don’t want to. But it’s on my mind, and I don’t know if I’ll end up posting about it here and elsewhere.

At present this post isn’t rebloggable or tagged with much of anything. That’s because I’m trying to figure out the best way moving forward with tumblr. I don’t know if I want to delete this blog and abandon it entirely, but the pressure to present a curated version of myself is too much, and is a pretty big trigger for things like rejection sensitivity and anxiety. The pace here is also too fast and there is no way to keep up with everything, and (forgive me for this cardinal sin in tumblr-land) I wish I had some easier way to not see the same sets of gifs a hundred times with the same commentary. I’m experimenting with slower ways of doing fandom, where I can enjoy myself more.

I do, however, want a way to get the cultural footnotes for Young Royals, especially when they help me write better fic and create better fanworks. I know there’s some pretty darn useful posts about how lines get translated and various holidays and traditions (and looking forward I would like to know more about universities in Sweden, and how the monarchy works and such.) So I want to be able to find the stuff I need without having to spend as much time on what I don’t need. The resource posts people make are truly helpful.

And I also have some other fannish things I want to see here, like Les Mis and Interview with the Vampire. And the memes are nice. I miss the memes.

Before I make the decision about how I engage, I think it will be useful for me to know my priorities. So I’ve thought about them a bit, and I want to make the decisions that align with my priorities. Here’s what I want to focus on moving forward:

I want to spend more time creating. The thing that has always brought me the most genuine joy in this fandom is writing fic. YRS3 ended in a place of possibility for so many characters, and I want to keep writing about them and learning about them that way. (I won’t even lie, of course most of my ideas are about August—August and Kristina working on their intergenerational cousin relationship, August getting pulled into weekly DND sessions with Wille and Simon so they can all get better at being human together while pretending to be elves or something, August doing the personal and liberatory work that allows him and Sara to one day have a Second Chance Romance with they’re older, even August/Nils because oh boy did that season give me ideas about them I never knew I had.) One of my goals is to cut down on browsing time significantly so that I spend more time writing, especially so I can finish Heart and Homeland. I think it’ll make me happier.

I want to spend more time helping others create. Some of the most meaningful experiences I had in this fandom involved being a beta reader or hearing out another person’s fic ideas, and getting to live in that space of creation and collaboration. For that reason, I’d like to still make new YR connections on occasion, especially with people who wanna share their writing process with me. Tumblr may or may not be a place to do that. I’m still figuring out where stuff should happen.

I want analysis to be something I do as part of my creative process, and that’s it. I don’t know if this is fully true, but it felt like ten years ago there was more fandom meta focused on what fans wanted to write in their fanfics, and how their interpretations of canon led to them creating cool art. There was some meta that was about how to interpret canon “correctly” but that wasn’t the priority. Now, it feels like—and this is true even outside of YR fandom, so this is no reflection on YR specifically—there is more emphasis on having the “correct” interpretation of canon. About getting it right, and having the right predictions and interpretations. It feels competitive in a way that wears me down. From this point forward, when posting analysis, I’m going to ask myself, is this furthering my creative pursuits and my understanding of the writing process more generally, or am I just trying to win an argument? If the answer is just to win, then I’m not going to post my argument. That runs counter to my goals.

I don’t want to engage in any space where anonymous discourse flourishes. Even when well-intentioned. Being away for a while was clarifying for me on that point. Turns out one of the biggest triggers for my anxiety and shame are extensive, heated conversations where I don’t know who is saying what and who I can trust. Spaces where there’s a lot of anon conversation are probably going to be ones I block and unfollow first moving forward. It just seems like a good baseline for how I engage.

So this is where I am as of now. I’ll probably continue to hold off on doing much posting in the coming days, but I did want to poke my head up for air for a second to let people know what the state of everything is.

Here’s one picture of the plushes for the road:

And here’s a picture of the waffles I ate on finale day:

Oh, to have cloudberry jam and time spent with friends. These things are truly joyous.

[creator-indy]

Uh…indy *holding up i riot shield* what is this…

Heheh hehehe

That’s commander Tartar the main antagonist of the splatoon 2 dlc octo expansion

Basically he was built by a professor to store humanity’s knowledge and pass it down to the next dominant race after humans went extinct

Problem is he was stuck in an old subway for 12000 years so he might’ve went a tiny bit insane and when he saw the inkfish for the first time he was like

“Wow you guys fuckin suck time to take matters into my own hands”

So he decided to lure inkfish in so he can blend them into primordial ooze and blast the entire world into oblivion while also brainwashing some of them

And at the end of the dlc you gotta stop his giant Greek statue named nils and it’s giant hoop cannon you do and he dies and it’s really sad andbIGAOABAOBSISBSISBJSBSJBSNSJSJJSJSJ

Yeah I love him and I can’t believe I thought he was some silly npc