#horseshoes part one

[stareiiez]

𝐇𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐬

sylus x female reader.

content : adult cis female reader. love and deepspace. indie portrayal of sylus. suggestive content. luke and kieran appearance! sex references. drinking. smut in later chapter. MDNI. 4.3k words. proof read to the best of my tired eyes.

note: returning just to post this! college and homework has had me busy and focused on other things!! sorry! this is just part one of this sylus one shot! part two is where it'll really ! get! juicy :) hope y'all like drunk sex.

likes and reblogs are loved and appreciated!

Your first-ever date with the leader of the Onychinus was something you didn't ever picture.

Being kidnapped and forced to stay with your kidnapper who wanted you to resonate with him so badly for whatever reason he didn't feel inclined to reveal to you or his henchmen; was never something you pictured to happen in all of your lives of living. To put the cherry on top of it, said kidnapper had made a date for you too to partake in.

Sylus, the man who kidnapped you and now the bane of your annoyance, had invited you out to this date. The way he even ' asked you out ' had been through both Luke and Kieran bursting into your room. Luke had parted the thick blackout curtains to let glorious shades of gold and yellows of morning sunlight stream into your room, and perfectly hit the folds of your eyelids. You groaned in response, an arm falling over your eyes to save you from blinding yourself. Kieran took the liberty of yanking away plush blankets and satin sheets away from your warm body with a grumble of ' get up.' leaving his mouth.

" Boss has plans for you!" Luke chirped, sliding to his twin's side. Cool pointy fingertips prodded at the cheeks of your face in insistent pokes. Sylus decided to announce his plans to the twins at the crack of dawn and make them wake you early so you wouldn't forget. Lovely.

" Tell your ' boss ' I don't care." Your voice is muffling into your plush pillow when you roll over onto your stomach and hide your face and morning breath into its soft material. One of your hands reaches blindly behind you for the blankets that Kieran pulled off your bed.

" Can't, he won't be back till later. Come on lazy bones, let's get up and be ready for the day." Luke chirps again, his fingers pinching at the swell of your calves sharply. Your skin flushes red and stings lightly, no matter how hard you try to wriggle out from his persistent fingers, you still manage to get pinched into giving in and rising from your bare mattress.

Your eyes sag at the corners, exhaustion still present on your face. Your hair is askew in some parts and matted in other parts of your skull. First, you look like you slept and woke up like the dead. Grumpy and craving more shut-eye. '

"Yeesh." Kieran comments. His hidden eyes look at you and your rumpled sleep clothing up and down. Luke nods in silent agreement.

You yawn, and a hand runs through your knotted hair. Not sparing either twin a rebuttal to their judgement, and Luke's faux fear of the smell of morning breath when you walk past both to meander to the luxuriously large themed bathroom of your bedroom. It's not like you're a morning person. You could have sworn Sylus assumed it when he spotted you late one night, in his floor-to-ceiling library; perusing the expanse of perfectly kept novels for you to read by the fireplace. Maybe this was just his way of driving another thorn, including the hundreds he's embedded into your skin, into your side just for amusement. Mephisto would have been the first to tell him how pissed off you were this morning to be woken up at the first light.

Another yawn stretched your jaw wide as you cranked on the hottest temperature of water you could handle and peeled off the satin sleep set Sylus had gifted you to wear to bed. Your eyes threatened to shut under the steamy stream of water from the rain showerhead. You were so warm, unfortunately wet, but so warm and comfortable under the gentle stream.

Hot water dripped down in tantalizing rivulets down your shoulders and back, head bowing down to tuck your chin towards your chest. Your weight swayed back and forth ever so slightly before you would catch yourself from leaning too far to one side. You could have started to fall back asleep standing up if it wasn't for the thundering rounds of knocking from the twins once again. Four sets of strong knuckles rapping against thick black wood was the sound of gunshots to your sensitive ears. A yelp escaped your lips, feet jumping and threatening to slip out from underneath your body when you were startled awake for the second time this morning. You rapidly blinked water out of your eyes.

"Hey! Did you die? Breakfast is getting cold." Luke's muffled voice called out. "You've been in there for almost an hour, you're not a plant." Have you been in there that long? Perhaps you did end up falling asleep in the shower after all. A woman of many talents.

The rest of your shower was done rather quickly. The sweet scent of expensive soaps and shampoos followed you to breakfast. Your hair was still wet and clinging to the soft fabric of your hunter's shirt when you arrived for breakfast. The grumbling of your stomach and the constant half-baked fear that Luke and Kieran would burst into your room to bother you one more time had left you rushing through the halls of Sylus's home just to eat.

Breakfast and even lunch passed by without much trouble from the twins once you gave in to their cumbersome ways of making sure you ate plenty. Lunch was quiet, only you sat at the end of Sylus's extensive dining room table. The air about the dining room seemed lonely, way too lonely for you to shovel another bite of one of the delectable foods made specifically to your palate's tastes. No matter how much you tried to coerce the butler to sit with you, every time he came to refill the multiple glasses of water and or juices, he always denied your pleas to sit and join you with a simple smile and a shake of his head. The tails of his petticoat and the clipping of shiny shoes on the cold tile made you realize that you had nobody. You were a prisoner locked away in a remote fancy prison cell, while the guards that watched over you pretended to be your friends so that you could warm up to their big bad boss.

Your fork twirled between your fingers, her cheek propped on your other hand as you gazed out of the floor-to-ceiling window. The views of the N109 zone stared back at you with its gleaming lights and ominous red fog that seemed to settle as a skyline for the dangerous city. The warm rays of the afternoon sun didn't affect the eerie look of the cold-looking skyscrapers. Daylight didn't belong in a zone that held nothing but crime and dark things that humanity wouldn't think twice about committing.

"Why so sad, kitten? Missing me already?" A dark timber voice practically rattled your eardrums. Whoever spoke to you, was so close you could smell nothing but expensive cologne, the sharp notes of red wine, and clean leather. Sylus.

"You wish. " You mumble, brows furrowing at the ends to portray your frustration even if Sylus can see your blush-ridden cheeks. You look so cute trying to play off your embarrassment.

Sylus's brows raise, and his pretty red lips turn into a shit-eating smirk that doesn't wipe away from his features even when he takes a step back and stands to the full height of his stature. His right hand extends out towards you. "Let's go. We have lots to do today, kitten."

You eye his hand, lips puffed out into a pout for a second till you sigh. Brows relax and your shoulders drop with the air that leaves your lungs. You accept his hand wordlessly, letting him pull you to your feet. He doesn't waste any time pulling you along after him and his long-legged strides. The clip of his expensive shoes and the faster clacks of your steps trying to catch up to him tenfold fill the empty halls of the base.

"When you said we had-- "

air quotes are given sarcastically with your fingers.

" lots to do today."

end air quote.

" You didn't mention we'd be dealing with him again." Your hands gesture out, dramatically motioning to the tall and strongly built all-midnight black Alhal-Teke horse that was one of Sylus's prized possessions. His tail swished at non-existent flies that buzzed over his gorgeous sleek body. Horse poop, sweat and sawdust floated in the breeze, irritating your sinuses enough to sniffle every now and then.

The stallion regarded you with a frill of his nostrils, blowing hot hay-scented air at your face. He was so pleased to see you too. Glad the feeling was mutual.

After the last encounter with the stubborn animal made up to be called a horse, you had the pleasure of knowing firsthand what it was like to attempt to tame his master afterward. Needless to say, you couldn't quite look at Sylus in the eye for a few days after. The vivid dreams of the rich leather of both collar and whip still haunted your senses in your sleep. The sharp intake of breath and shuddery exhale Sylus let out as the only noises he ever granted you when you traced up and down the expanse of his chest and abdomen with the cropping whip. You shivered visibly in the warm air. Goosebumps raced up your arms at the echoes of Sylus's voice, promising you to ke

Your head shakes from side to side, ridding you of such dark and unclean thoughts. You shouldn't reminisce now, not in front of such curious red eyes that watch your every move with precise calculations. The ends of his lips curl upwards in a minute smirk like he can sense what you're thinking about. Annoying.

"Are you testing me again on how to tame a horse again? I thought we were over this." With subtly laced pink cheeks, you turn your gaze from eyeing the ornery horse to gazing at Sylus. Your hands plant onto your hips.

"Silly kitty." Sylus purrs down at you like you were a wide-eyed child. His tone was slightly patronizing yet the strangest inkling of unnerving comfort. His eyes flick towards the sounds of approaching hoof steps and another set of boots crunching dirt under the soles.

A stablekeeper, you guess, walks up to the two of you. In a pristinely kept white glove, leather reins gently pull a snowy white horse to follow the steps of the unknown man. Braided mane and tail swish with every step shiny black hooves take. Needless to say, the horse looks unreal; like every pretty princess pony young girls dream about owning when they're little.

"Right on time," Sylus says once the stablekeeper comes to a stop at his side. The reins of the white horse are held out to you wordlessly, a polite smile in greeting is on the man's mouth. "Take them, I'm going easy on you this time."

You glance at the snowy white horse, unlike the headstrong and stubborn demon incarnate stallion that Sylus adorns with soft pats and low coos to please the black stallion. The other horse is kind-looking, pretty long white lashes blink delicately at you. Piebald eyes of brown and blue watch you with no harmful intent, only slight curiosity about who you are and what exactly you smell like. She was the yin to the stallion's yang. Two drastic differences between light and dark.

"Her name is Lucero," Sylus says when you finally accept the reins from the stablekeeper's hands, and he departs as he comes. Quiet. "Luce for short if it's easier."

One of your hands reaches out, open palm face up so the mare could sniff you. Your lips curl upwards and a short giggle escapes at the tickling sensation of white horse whiskers sweeping over your hand. Hot hair blows over your hand in a friendly exhale, and Luce raises her dainty head. Shiny hooves take a few steps forward on her own to you, her muzzle bumps at your cheek. A friendly greeting, something you wish could have happened when you met Sylus's horse.

"Good, she likes you. Let's mount up, we have a little while to go before sunset." Sylus interrupts the bonding moment of rider and horse by placing a riding helmet onto your head so quickly you don't even get a moment to protest at being able to buckle your helmet yourself because he does it for you. The strap borderline chokes you from how tight he tugged at the helmet straps, but it's better safe than sorry for riding three-ton animals.

He wastes no time in swinging himself onto the sleek leather English saddle. His helmet crushes his hair to his head. A riding crop, perhaps the same one you dreamed of using on him, is tucked neatly into his armpit. He looks so natural atop the steed.

You follow suit. Swinging yourself effortlessly into the sun warmed riding saddle, the reins held between your hands. Your brows lift quizzically at him. "Where are we even go-- hey!" Sylus doesn't give you the chance to finish your question, both rider and mount are cantering away; not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if you're following behind because of course, you are.

With a clicking of your tongue and a squeeze of your calves to the round sides of the mare, you break into a matching stride to catch up and ride side by side with him.

There isn't much talking when it comes to the actual horseback riding. You doubt you would even have heard of the almost synchronized beating of horse hooves thudding along thigh-high grassy fields. Sylus seemed to be in his little world. You could swear your eyes saw the way his face softened and let himself exhale in contentment at the continuous rocking ups and downs of the stallion's gait. He wordlessly guided you both through the unmarked fields, the racing track already far behind you both, and through a pebble-riddled trickling brook of water then further into more grassy dips and curves of the land.

The spray of cool water droplets splashed onto your cheeks and clothes. You couldn't help but let out a gasp at the sudden cool sens

Sylus couldn't help but smile to himself at your reaction. The way your lips parted in a shocked ' O ' formation, your right hand parting from the leather reins to shield your face from another spray of cool water flying off the hooves of the stallion he rode. You looked so cute. Not cute, that wasn't the right wording to describe it in this angle and this exact moment of lighting. You looked . . ethereal? gorgeous? breathtaking?

"Beautiful." his words decided to flow from his mouth rather than stay rooted in the recesses of his brain. He spoke them into the universe and the slowly turning golden rays of sunbeams that kissed your cheeks and eyes when they flitted over to him. Your pupils are minuscule and swim in the lightened colors of your irises.

This was falling in love all over again. He felt this feeling before. In another body, in another time. In another century of dark demons and another girl that looked exactly like you with a slightly different name. But this was you, his pretty kitten.

Thankfully you couldn't hear him, the moment of his was cut short thanks to his stallion kicking out his hind legs; like he could sense Sylus' wandering thoughts and rounded eyes of warm syrupy adoration.

"Easy, boy. You're still cherished by me." A warm leather-bound hand patted the sweat-slicked neck of the horse.

The horses slowed to an easy trot when the fields of green grew even longer blades of grass that tickled at the bottoms of your boots. They'd come up to your waist, or tops of your thighs once you would slide off the horses. Finally, since it was quiet enough to talk amid the heavy snorts of winded horses. Your head turns to fully address Sylus with your previous question.

"So, where are we going? Or is this just an act to finally get rid of me since we can't resonate?" Half teasing the leader. You let a brow raise. If that was true? What a serene way to go out, not that you wouldn't die fighting. But you couldn't ask for a better place of scenery to draw in your final breath.

"Up there, don't you see it?" Sylus gestures up ahead with a gloved palm, where dips and rises of the fields finally swell to a gentle incline of a grassy hill. A large oak tree sits rooted in the rich soil.

A deep crimson-colored blanket lays strewn on the ground under the cooling shade of the tree. Adorning the blanket was an expensive bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. An array of meats, berries, sweet chocolates, crackers, and cheeses sit on a carved board of wood. A small container containing a few slices of rich cake consisting of differing flavors and frostings sat in the middle of the large board of wood. Faux candle lights are scattered around the borders of the blanket, giving little light to set an intimate mood for the two of you. Who knew the man was into finger foods? Not you.

Your breath catches, unknowing that your eyes rounded in awe when you two rode closer to the supposed romantic scene Sylus went out of his way to prepare. Was this the plan the twins awoke you for so early? Did they help their boss pick out cute charcuterie foods to share between you two while gazing into each other's eyes? Your cheeks warm at the scene playing in your head of the three men, consulting in the large kitchen back at the Onichynus base. Discussing what foods were trending that couples were eating together, and where exactly would be a good setting to enjoy it.

"Sylus--" Your words fall out breathlessly, oblivious to how the male had reached over to grasp at the reins of your horse with one hand; and with the other, he steered his stallion around the less steep side of the hill to ride on. Your fingers blindly reach out to bat at his large hand, you can steer yourself even if you're in mild shock.

Another ploy just to gain your trust? Maybe, but you somewhat doubt the intention behind this impromptu picnic. Sylus slides out of his saddle when the two of you crest the top of the hill, his right-hand goes to reach up between his horse's ears to pull the English bridle off. The stallion snorts, shaking his long elegant mane of midnight, dark eyes blink at your mare; seemingly waiting for you to slide off and unbridle her so they can graze together in peace.

Sylus moves to your side, one hand reaching out to offer his help; the other unbridling the snowy mare with the ease of his skilled fingers. You don't turn his hand down, not that you have a choice because he takes your hand in his anyway even when you hesitate to accept such help. He's pulled you down from your saddle with enough force to have you tumbling into his arms and bumping into his strong chest. The smell of wine and rich leather only gets stronger with the proximity.

"Must I do everything for you? You make me feel like I'm your caretaker right now." His chest rumbles against yours, his voice quiet. Words whispering darkly against the shell of your ear. Even if he was taunting you, you wouldn't be able to properly comprehend it. Not when you catch his eyes lowering to the curve of your jaw and sweeping along the pout of your lips.

He takes extra long to undo the buckle of your riding helmet, his pinky and ring finger stroking along the small bump of your chin with feather-like touches that make your skin twitch pleasantly.

Sylus retracts, tucking both helmets under an arm each he strides to the picnic spread. The helmets are placed down at a spare corner of the blanket with such care, then join them by sitting down in one free spot on the blanket. His long legs are tucked languidly together, while he reaches for the bottle of champagne.

The ends of his lips quirk upwards when you take the glass from him, and bring the tart but fizzy alcohol to your lips for a long sip. The bubbles make your nose tingle, you can feel them in your sinuses. To Sylus, you look so cute he could push you down and eat you whole right here. The sweet little picnic he and the twins laid out ahead of time would be forgotten, the main course and sweet desserts would be every inch of your body.

Instead, he sweeps his arm out to you; another invitation for you to indulge yourself while he picks at the food like a bird would. He's more like Mephisto than you even know. Your legs fold underneath you, sitting across from the male. One hand still holding your half-full glass of bubbly, the other reaching for a crisp slice of bread that's smeared with salty homemade butter. It tastes like heaven on your tingling tastebuds. You chew thoroughly, eyes flicking shyly to avoid Sylus's intense gaze and watch the two horses standing side by side grazing in contentment.

What a picture-perfect view. In Sylus's eyes once again, the light illuminates your side profile in a sunkissed golden hue. The shine of golden rays on your hair makes you look like a halo is forming above your head. An angel is in the presence of a monstrous demon of a man, who watches the precious creature with a dark possessive light in his pupils.

His flute of champagne rises to his lips. The alcohol is drained in a matter of two gulps, and his glass is being refilled in no time. You're oblivious to his staring, seemingly still uncomfortable with trying to fill the caverns of silence that radiate in the air between you two. You pick at the charcuterie board, grabbing at one of the fruits that are sweetened with a thin coating of powdered sugar on top.

"Penny for your thoughts?" You quip, your voice trying not to break when you turn to meet those sharp vermillion eyes eyeing the tart strawberry you hold to your lips. His eyes are hawklike over the rim over the glass's rim.

Instead of answering the shitty excuse of small talk, Sylus quirks one brow upward. He reaches out one of his hands to grasp at your wrist and yanks you forward hard enough to send you careening forward onto your knees and into his personal space. Your hand that held the strawberry is held in a grip that screams you shouldn't pull away from him without risking your shoulder or elbow popping. His damp lips brush over the bend of your fingers, and his warm breath fans over the back of your hand in a slow exhale. You can't help but let the flush of pretty pink and rose to stain the apples of your cheeks when Sylus hums down at you.

His lips parted to reveal the glimmering white teeth that remind you of a predator's. He could lunge forward and sink those pretty teeth that smile in those unfortunate businessmen's faces before he rips them apart. Whether with his mouth or evol, he would be your undoing; and currently one of them is teasing the tips of your fingers when he sinks them into the berry for a bite. Red juice trickles down the plump bow of his bottom lip, then runs off the sharp edge of his chin. Sin incarnate is showing in the way Sylus maintains eye contact when he pulls back, chewing the sweet and semi-tart strawberry with red staining his skin. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip to catch stray berry juice and you feel chills run down your spine from the sight.

He doesn't wipe his chin, perhaps he likes it messy like that. It fits him. His eyes twinkle in knowing that he has you trying to suppress the urge to shiver weakly at something so innocent. After all, he does have the right to share this spread of food with you, this was his plan after all.

But how the hell can you last the rest of your time here, when he keeps looking at you like that?

[answrs]

anyway so a few years back at one of mom's old churches, someone snuck a pair of nunchucks (illegal in Ohio, also sir this is A Fucking Church) into the donations for the rummage sale.

I went to help out sorting through and pricing things yesterday for her newest church's sale and found a whole-ass iron(?) dagger with a very sharpened foot-long blade in one of the bins...

with a bonus eagle & swastika hilt

so that's fun 🫠

my dude. like what was your plan here. "yes the 50¢ an item fundraiser is definitely gonna sell a fucking nazi knife to support their free community breakfasts. I am a Good Person."

[you-hate-time-travel]

RUNS AWAY REALLY FAST. CHARM POST I GUESS

horseshoes are a charm for horseplay: it's wrestling, it's playfully needling someone, it's stepping on your partner's feet while dancing and it's asking a stupid riddle with an intentionally annoying answer. it's a mutual cycle of "what are you going to do about it?"

[musical-chick-13]

*puts my head in my hands* The reason that so many of us say, "I don't trust people who say that all men are evil no exceptions you should never interact with any of them for any reason" ISN'T because we are coddling abusive men, it's because we a) don't want to get into bioessentialism territory, and b) are WELL aware of your history of using this rhetoric to blame women who are abused by men because "Well men are horrible, what did she expect, she brought this on herself."

[today-i-am-thinking-about]

my awful camping experiences

[bluedestinybluebird]

Outburst-y October

I really should set a timer for complaining, and then try to move on with my life, because the state-of-the-art of my emotional management right now is terrifying.

[dilfartist]

A foolish endeavor

Pairing; Yandere Miguel O’hara x reader

Synopsis; You manage to snag Miguel’s gizmo and escape to another universe. How long will it take before he, or the spider society, find you?

Word count; 2.8k

Reader description; Female/GN

TW; kidnapping, probably terrible spanish (i did use sources Spanish-speaking users suggested), non-con touching, yandere themes, dark writing.

Notes; {if i mistranslated any of the spanish please do contact me in my DMs. I wanted this fic to be better but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Did not proofread.}

Midnight coated New York in a dark blue hue. Most nights the city lights illuminate the darkness, providing the ability to see. However, the motel you find yourself ambling to is the more isolated part of the city.

Rain poured down heavily, producing cacophonous echoes of raindrops slamming against the concrete. Clad in a drenched hoodie and damp black yoga pants, you scurry to the other side of the street just in time to avoid being hit by the passing truck.

Cigarette smoke and frigid rain overwhelm your senses, mainly due to the cigarette buds scattered on the motel parking lot.

The motel is okay looking. By no means does it look nice, but it isn’t a hard no.

“Guess this is where I’ll sleep tonight,” you mumble to yourself. You take a brief glance at your surroundings. Night overcame the sky, giving the atmosphere a dark hue but the lights gave you a clear standpoint.

Numerous lights hummed irritatingly, not even a minute passed and you found yourself obtaining a headache. You navigate the main office, which is on the left side of the horseshoe-shaped building, and a blue neon sign points in the direction of the office. You started sauntering over, putting pep in your step when the cold rain declined heavier than it did the last five minutes.

Six months ago, you wouldn’t be having this problem. At least that’s what you believed. You could’ve been at your apartment, catching up on a show you’ve failed to complete thanks to your busy work schedule.

Unfortunately for you, doing a task as simple as watching your television, in your home, was truly impossible. Why? Because the earth you roam isn’t yours, to begin with. Your apartment isn’t yours. The job you work isn’t yours. You aren’t certain you even exist in this universe.

You can’t find the strength to complain. Honestly, you’re delighted to be away from the man who stole you away from society.

Miguel O’Hara.

Otherwise known as Spiderman 2099. You know, the superhero.

It must be confusing to hear that a superhero kidnaped a poor civilian. Superheros don’t normally commit unforgivable acts. Regardless, Miguel didn't care. Miguel is aware he is different from other heroes given his beliefs. Abducting you was just one of the many wrongs Miguel fulfilled.

You just wished you knew his motives at the beginning. If you did, you wouldn't have to search for sanctuary. You wouldn't have to lie low in a different universe.

Before Miguel, you lived a decent life that included a decent job. It was a Tuesday afternoon with sunny weather and clear skies. Your friends invited you to a picnic at the park and, for once having a clear schedule you agreed. You recall the sun beaming down on you, overheating your body to the point shade was a necessity. You moved from the picnic blanket to a nearby bent tree. One moment you're enjoying the shade, the next you're falling. Then something transpired. You jerked in the air, something white clinging to the front of your shirt. You felt your body floating in the air, legs thrashing in fear when your body conceded it was in mid-air.

You must have fainted because you have no recollection of what transpired next. What you do remember was watching through bleary eyes as four strangers hovered over you clearly disputing. Currently, you know them by Jessica Drew, Peter B. Parker, the iron spider, And Miguel O’Hara.

The accountability for your well-being somehow landed in the hands of Miguel. In the beginning, Miguel had such a short patience for you, not that he didn't possess an attitude with anyone else, he just happened to have a really short fuse with you.

His explosive temper with you was undeserving. You hardly gave him any reason to blow up. Your presence alone just pissed him off, at least it appeared so.

You avoided him as much as possible; Departing a room when he entered. Ensuring any errands were accomplished before he arrived home, so you didn't have to leave your room to aggravate him.

Then he began to seek you out; popping up wherever you were in his apartment. Alone watching television on the couch? Not anymore. Miguel joined you on the other side silently watching as well. Sitting silently in the dining room eating lunch? Miguel enters with a bowl of cereal, starting a conversation about the day’s news. Enjoy video games and decide to play by yourself? Miguel grabs a controller and questions the rules and certain controls.

For someone who was as snappy at you as a feral dog, he sure did like to invade your solitude.

By the second month of staying at Miguel’s, he found solace in your presence. He became relaxed. Nice even. And then by the fourth month, you became friends. You never visualized being anything other than friends, but unbeknownst to you, Miguel did.

When you first caught the news of Peter figuring out what universe you belonged to, you were ecstatic. After all, the mystery of your universe's number had been the sole reason for crashing with Miguel and not immediately returning home.

You turned to Miguel, asking when was the appropriate time to drop you off. To your astonishment, Miguel’s brows furrowed, and his lips morphed into a grimace, “you will not be returning.” he affirmed.

Miguel shocked not only you, but everyone witnessing the scene. A gauche silence conquered the atmosphere.

You and Miguel stared at each other for a beat, then you voiced your perplexity. “What do you mean “I will not be returning?” Miguel, I need to go home.” you took a step closer to Miguel.

Miguel gazed at you with an uninterested stare. “What I say goes, (Name). And I say you're staying here.” he spun around, returning to whatever he had been working on before. “We all have a busy schedule and dropping you off will only alter it.”

“It’s not worth it,” he said like he was ending the conversation.

“Okay, then Peter can take me home when he needs to drop off Mayday.” you insisted, looking over at Peter to see if he’d be alright with your plan.

No expression was needed for you to catch on to the attitude Miguel began to gain. “(Name), I won’t tell you twice. The answer is no. Now, Peter take her back to my apartment. We’ll speak about the matter later, at the moment there are more important issues happening.”

You found it laughable. To think the minute you stepped into the man's sight he wanted you gone, but now Miguel was fighting you to stay with him. Ironic, isn’t it?

That night you and Miguel, the very moment he came inside his apartment, quarreled for an hour in a half. Your argument being you did not belong to him and could do whatever you pleased. Miguel’s argument was the insignificance of the matter to him.

You detected Miguel’s temper was starting to get out of hand. The way his fists began to clench, the way his brows creased, and the frown deepened after every sentence he uttered. You’ve seen his strength. His fierceness. And you’d rather leave than have any of his tantrums directed at you. Doing what any rational person would do, you attempted to leave the room. You advised him to de-stress before speaking to you again.

Miguel was having none of it. Not even a second passed before you were yanked back by the forearm.

You’re face-to-face with Miguel. Miguel towered over you, looking down at you with his signature red piercing stare. He bends down, momentarily staring at you until he finally speaks. “I can't allow you to leave.” The way he talks is low and if the room weren't already quiet, you wouldn’t have heard him. “I love you,” he confessed, voice cracking, closing his eyes as if it pained him to say it. He opened his eyes again. “And I won't allow myself to lose any other person I care for.”

Pulling twenty dollars out of the torn-up wallet you found on the side of the road, you slide it forward on the mahogany brown table. The fatigued receptionist glances at the money, then gazes at you with an irked expression.

“This isn’t enough.” She states matter-of-factly. She slides the twenty back to you.

You purse your lips, staring down at the cash. Twenty dollars is all you had. What were you to do now? The next nearest motel could be miles away; it was a miracle you made it to this.

Your eyes flicker back to her. You take two fingers pushing it back to her, giving her your best puppy eyes. “Please! I don't have anywhere else to go tonight. If I can’t stay here I’ll have to sleep on the streets.”

You were lying. You would’ve taken off by dawn, needing to be on the move after getting rested.

Her hardened expression softens. She takes a deep breath, eyes studying the money. Shaking her head, she takes the cash. “One night only, alright?”

You propose to her a smile, nodding with gratitude. She allotted you a key. A small golden-greenish key, with the number five engraved on the head. Tonight you’d sleep on the grounded floor of the motel.

The inside was decently prepared, having a dingy tone that gave off a haunted vibe. You hum in displeasure. Two queen-sized mattresses are positioned on the right side of the wall. They appeared stiff, and the blankets laying upon them looked thinner than a sheet of paper.

Sighing, you softly booted the door shut. Flopping down on the nearest bed, you groan at the sensation of the rough mattress.

When tomorrow comes you’d have to find a fresh location. Miguel could continually find your locale, thanks to not only Lyla but the whole Spider society. Perhaps you postponed his search this time. His watch or gizmo- whatever the hell it was- rests on your wrist.

Shifting your head to the side, pulling your hand out of your pocket, you glance at the gizmo.

Tightly clutched in Miguel’s hold, you stare quietly at the ceiling. You debate acting on your next actions. There were times Miguel slept lightly, aroused by creaks in the floorboard. Other times when the sound of glass shattering did not bother him even a little.

Glancing down at the arm wrapped securely around your midriff, you endeavor to gradually lift his arm up. He unconsciously retaliates, arms consolidating, resulting in a small gasp slipping from your lips. You’re quick to rub his arm, to offer him comfort, and to calm him.

It works. Miguel grumbles, his grasp faulting. You carefully move his arm aside, then unhurriedly get up from the bed.

Before leaving the room you observe Miguel. Miguel sleeps soundly, an angry expression inscribed on his face. But he is asleep, so you take your chance while you are able.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, you immediately spot the gizmo on the marble counter. Compared to the technology you have at home, it was top-notched, a huge improvement. Of course, he lived in the year 2099. Obviously, there would be a difference in technology.

You grabbed the gizmo, examining the complexity. From monitoring the spider people using them, you know it’ll take you wherever universe you request. Great. However, you weren’t a spider person. If you teleported in the middle of the air, you couldn't grapple on the closest object with a web. Or claw your way down a building

Fuck it.

If dying meant escaping him, then so be it.

You didn’t really mean that. Every time you went to teleport to a different universe, you cringed retreating your hand.

“Jesus! Alright, I'm doing this!” you softly berated yourself. Bracing for the impact of the possible fall you might face, you shut your eyes tight and twisted the gizmo. “Please be on the ground, Please be on the ground, Please be on the ground!” you cried.

How long would it take them to find you? How far could you get?

God, being on the run was stressful.

Your eyes flutter closed, plush pillows luling your tired mind. ‘I should get some sleep’ you thought. Warmth spread throughout your numbing body, as you finally permitted yourself to sleep.

When you awake gasping for air, almost as if you’d been suffocating. Instantly you arise, a hand rushing to your chest confirming it still thumped with a beating heart. Your skin is sticky with cold sweat, making your clothes uncomfortably cling to your body. “What the fuck?” you barely uttered, mouth arid.

Suddenly you had a gut feeling to check the window. You stand, groggily walking toward the large window adjacent to the front door. Pinching the hem of the curtain, you haul it aside.

The night is still pristine, the stars glowing in the dark sky. Nothing seems out of place. And yet you continue to have that gut feeling. Look outside, there’s something outside. Your eyes move to the parking lot.

You see it.

Blue and red. Something blue and red is making its way toward the motel. Squinting, you can make out what it is. Miguel. It's Miguel!

“Oh, shit!” you expressed, dropping the curtain. Wasting no time you locked the bottom and top locks. You veered around, frantically searching for a place to hide. You are no fool. Locking the door was simply a distraction; Miguel would tear the door off its hinges in a second.

Hiding underneath the bed is a childish strategy. That and hiding underneath the covers. Still, you drop to your knees, squeezing underneath the bed, using the blankets to cover any spaces revealing you. Pressing the palm of your hand against both your mouth and nose, you listen closely to everything around you.

At first, all you hear is the air conditioning blowing cool air, and the people next door’s baby weeping. Then you hear it. The doorknob oscillation. Your eyes widen, fear causing your breath to hitch. When the door refuses to open, the person behind the door commences kicking in the door. One kick achieves them access to the room. The door slams against the wall, shaking the ground, sending a vibration under you.

“¿Qué carajo?” you know that voice anywhere. It’s Miguel speaking in his native language. A habit Miguel has when he’s angered or stressed. “¿Dónde está ella?” Miguel snaps, striding into the room with anger-powered steps.

You can see through the tiny slit in the blankets, Miguel turning to the table where you placed the gizmo. Miguel picks up the gizmo, putting it back on his wrist.

He shifts his concentration to finding you. He calls out your name, malice dripping from the way he shouts it. He disappears from sight, presumingly moving on to the bathroom. Many things are heard being tossed around. Miguel probably was looking for evidence of you staying here, apart from the gizmo.

You gather the courage to, oh, so carefully stretch your leg out, then proceed to quietly shuffle from under the bed. You waste no time, rushing out the door, feet bare without socks or shoes. The gravel burns the soles of your feet, scraping and imprinting on the skin.

You practically succeeded in leaving the lot until you caught a glimpse of what stalked behind you. On all fours, Miguel sprinted at you, claws scuffing the concrete, like a predator running after its prey.

“Holy shit! What the actual fuck!” you panic aloud, taking your eye off what was in front of you, your mind solely focusing on the man hunting you. Big mistake on your part. A concrete parking block is in your way, but you don’t see it. You jolt forward, tripping over the block, your other foot catching you before you hit the road.

Just when you thought you still had the chance of running away, you’re sorely mistaken. Miguel pounces on you, and the clash of your bodies colliding results in Miguel tumbling down the road, you secure in his arms.

The tumble ends; you’re struggling not to vomit, head resting on Miguel’s firm chest. The world spins. It’s easy to forget your position when the urge to throw up is fresh.

Miguel holds your head, pressing a myriad of kisses on every part of the skin visible, muttering with his eyes closed. “Gracias a Dios que estás bien.” He sounds so frantic, reciting those same words, his tongue stumbling over the utterances.

His eyelids raise, uncovering his red orbs. He presses his forehead against yours, staring deeply into your eyes. It’s a domestic stunt that makes your stomach churn. “Debería estar furioso contigo, pero no lo estoy.” he huffs, then continues, “I’m happy you’re alright. I don’t know what I'd do if I lost you, mi alma.”

Taking your hand, he places a soft kiss on the back. “Had an anomaly harmed you, I would have ripped their fucking throat out!”

————————

Translations

- “¿Qué carajo?”/ what the fuck?

- “¿Dónde está ella?”/ where is she?

- “Debería estar furioso contigo, pero no lo estoy.”/ I should be furious with you, but I'm not.

- “Gracias a Dios que estás bien.”/ thank god you’re okay.

- mi alma/ my soul

[lilacs-stars]

aiming for your heart

this is part 1, read part 2 here! pairing: james hook x fem!reader (requested) (note: reader is glinda the good witch's daughter) SUMMARY: you agree to a tutoring session with your pirate classmate, but things end up taking an...unexpected twist. GENRE: pure fluff, a bit of banter CW: nothing much, just mentions of societal pressures WC: 7.9k (they just keep getting longer...)

A/N: I decided to finally do something cute and fluffy after days of working on dark angsty stuff and this felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air. it was so fun to write, so thanks to the anon who requested this for the fun idea! <3 please give me feedback and suggestions, I'd love to know your thoughts!

Up, swish, circle, flick. Up, swish, circle, flick. Up, swish, cir—

“Ahh, oww!” you cry out as a very solid metal object collides with the side of your skull. Your hand instinctively goes up to the spot on your head—which you can already feel starting to swell—as you wince in pain. 

You’re supposed to throw the ring in the basket, not at my head, idiot, you think to yourself as you grimace. 

“Oh my gosh, Y/N, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit you, I swear!” you glance around the room, locking eyes with your classmate just a few tables away, whose wand is still poised in their hand and a bewildered expression planted on their face. “I just can’t seem to control…this gosh darn wand…”

You let out a little sigh, trying your best to not be impatient. After all, you couldn’t expect everyone to be as experienced in this field as you are. 

You glance back at the student, who’s rereading their textbook pages for what’s probably the tenth time. As you watch them struggle, a pang of guilt hits you for being so mean and irritable. It’s not like they were trying to hit you, and even though it was just a thought passing through in the privacy of your mind, you still feel as though thinking something mean like that is wrong. 

You push your chair back and rise from your seat, wand tightly gripped in one hand. Walking over to your classmate’s desk, you give a small smile as you ask them, “Need any help?”

They look up at you with wide eyes. “Oh, yes, please! Enchantment of Magical Objects is literally the hardest class ever!”

You grin again, keeping your demeanor light and friendly, like always. “Okay, so first, you go up, then swish, then circle your wand back around, and finally flick, and then…”

You copy the movements with your own wand as you speak, small magical sparks flickering off it at your gestures. After you complete your little demonstration, you both watch as a hand-sized sleek metal ring, somewhat resembling a circular horseshoe, levitates off the desk and neatly lands in a bucket in the center of the room. 

Today’s assignment in your Enchantment class is to use the Aiming Spell to throw the rings into a bucket. Safe to say, it wasn’t really going well for most of the class. 

“Wow, that was amazing! You’re so good at this Y/N!” your now starry-eyed classmate exclaims. “And I can barely get my rings off my desk…”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get there,” you smile reassuringly. “After all, I’ve had a lot of experience around wands and enchantments.”

“Yeah, I suppose that is right. I guess not everyone can be as talented with magic as the Good Witch’s very own daughter.”

A small laugh escapes your lips, and you bid farewell to your classmate as you make your way back to your seat. They aren’t wrong, after all. Your mother, Glinda, taught you how to use a wand as soon as you could walk. You’ve been watching her use magic for ages, so it’s not a surprise to anyone that you’re top of your class. 

You sit back down, getting back to work. Even though you know you’ve already mastered the spell, you still have some class time left, which you decide to use wisely and continue practicing the spell. 

Staring at the pile of metal rings in front of you, you take a deep breath and begin the task of making each one levitate off your desk and make a perfect arch towards the basket. 

Up, swish, circle, flick. Up—swoosh!

A flying ring shoots straight past your face, barely missing you by only a few inches. You stumble backwards in your chair, quite startled. Still, it isn’t unusual to see objects flying around the classroom, or rather, objects flying where they’re not supposed to.

A moment later, another one whizzes past you again. Then a third, which gets so close to your face that you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Annoyed, your head snaps to your right, trying to figure out who keeps nearly decapitating you. 

You glance around, finally locking eyes with what seems to be the culprit. Chair leaning against the wall, tipped back on its hind two legs, sits a figure with deep brown eyes and smokey eyeshadow look to match. A smirk is planted on his face, a mischievous glint in his gaze. He wears a dark red jacket on top of a black dress shirt, the collar disheveled and his tie loose around his neck. Contrary to his tousled outfit, his medium-length brown hair is neatly slicked back. One of his hands leisurely holds a wand while the other rests behind his head, and combined with the way he has a leg crossed over the other, one would think he’s enjoying a nice day at the beach instead of sitting in class at one of the most prestigious academies in the land.

You fix him with a look, your gaze subconsciously morphing into a glare as he jerks the wand up, causing one of the metal rings in front of him to levitate a few inches off his desk. With a flick of the wrist, he sends it flying across the room once again. Having learned your lesson, this time you duck down, eyes following the disk as it soars across the room. You watch as it shoots straight towards its target, who expertly crouches as the metal ring hits the wall behind him with a thud, falling to the ground and joining the previous disks.

The target of these attacks is a boy you recognize to be a good friend of the ring-throwing troublemaker, with light brown hair brushed away from his forehead and dressed in a dark green shirt with a black choker around his neck. Morgie le Fay shoots a glare across the room to his perpetrator, making a face that could only mean “You’ll pay for this later.”

Another disk comes shooting at his head, and he ducks down yet again. This time, the metal hits the wall so hard, you worry it left a dent. Unable to take their child-like behavior any longer, you get up from your seat for the second time and stomp your way over to the disk-thrower.

“Hook!” you say as you reach his table. The man in question tilts his head towards you, looking up with an amused grin.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, lassie?” he replies, his accent crisp and unmistakable. 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at him, knowing it would be terribly rude, even if he was getting on your nerves like no other. You settle for fixing him with another look. “Could you please stop hurling those disks around? It’s not the assignment, and you practically hit me!”

“My apologies, love,” Hook replies, still peering up at you, unbothered. You honestly doubt he means it, so you frown and try again. “I’m being serious, Hook.”

“As am I,” he replies, making you want to smack that stupid smirk off his face. Deep breaths, deep breaths, you remind yourself. Violence is never the answer. You find it funny how you can almost hear your mother’s voice as you repeat those words in your head, the ones she always tells you.

“So you’ll stop?” you ask, raising a brow and putting your hands on your hips to show him you’re not messing around.

“Ah, well, you see,” Hook starts, and it takes every ounce of benevolence in you to not internally combust at whatever excuse he’s planning to come up with. “I’m having a tad bit of trouble with this spell, love. No matter what I do, I simply can’t seem to lock on to the right target.”

At this, you raise your eyebrows again, disbelief laced through your every cell. “Why don’t you give it a go,” you say, jerking your chin towards the basket in the middle of the room. “You never know until you don’t try.”

Hook leans forward in his chair, righting it again so it stands on all four legs. He raises his wand, and if you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s actually concentrating on the task at hand. One of the metal disks rises into the air, levitating a meter above the floor.

Hook flicks his wand forward and the disk sails away, missing the basket in an almost laughable attempt at execution. Instead of the proper target, it lands on the edge of a file cabinet in the far corner of the room. You pray for the poor soul that will inevitably open one of its drawers, only to be smacked in the head by a piece of solid steel.

Eyebrows raised, Hook unabashedly turns back around to face you with that grin of his. “So how was that, love? Satisfied?”

“Not quite,” you huff, shaking your head at him. “Honestly, I haven’t seen anyone make such a…uh, interesting attempt at this assignment.” Deep down, a little part of you really wants to say much meaner things, but you bite back your words, knowing that showing contempt never did anyone any good.

“Interesting, eh?” Hook’s smirk grows, and you can see him already scheming inside that villainous little mind of his. “Say, Y/N”—he uncrosses his legs, leaning in your direction—“you’re the top student of this class, are you not?”

You narrow your eyes at him, but refrain from saying anything you know you’ll later regret. “Yes, and?”

“Well, as you can clearly see here, I require a bit of assistance with this assignment. After all, not everyone grew up waving wands like you,” he quips, flourishing the wand in his hand as if it were an ordinary stick. Abruptly, he stills his movements and drops the wand on his desk, before turning to face you directly, locking eyes. “Would you be so kind as to teach me a few things?”

You quirk your brows, albeit attempting to keep a straight face. “Are you asking me to…tutor you?”

Hook grins yet again. “This evening, 7 o’clock, the common area in the East Wing.” He puts his hand on his knees as he gets up, now leering a few inches above you. Still holding your gaze—although he has to tilt his head down to do so—he asks, “I’ll see you then?”

You blink twice, mind replaying the events that led to you getting yourself stuck in this situation. On the one hand, you definitely don't want to have a one-on-one study session with a villain—and an annoyingly smug one at that. Honestly, the few interactions you are forced to have with him in class are far enough for you. 

But on the other hand, he is asking for help to improve his grades…after all, it’s not every day someone the likes of him shows interest in learning. Plus, you know that it’s not right to turn away a person in need of your help, no matter how insufferable they are. Especially if they’re always flashing you a smile filled with shining white teeth and full, plump pink lips.

A sigh escapes your mouth before you can stop it as you resign yourself to your fate. “Alright, I guess. But come prepared to learn. That means you need your wand, your textbooks, notebo—”

He cuts you off with a passive sweep of his hook, much to your annoyance. Leaning in just a little closer to you, enough to make your palms slightly sweaty, his face tilts down even nearer to yours. “It’s a date, then,” Hook says, his voice soft but still with that teasing tone it always seems to carry.

“It’s not a date!” you call out as the bell rings, but he’s already making his way out of the classroom, sauntering off to do who-knows-what.

Heavens, what have I gotten myself into, you think, placing a hand on your forehead as you breathe out a long, heavy sigh.

The evening rolls around far too quickly for your liking, and before you know it you’re making your way out of your doom room and up a set of stairs.

You keep on thinking about how you had ample time to back out of this arrangement; plus, you would be lying if you said you didn't consider it a number of times. But each time, you remind yourself that you are doing a good deed for someone obviously in need of a good influence. That you have to be selfless and put aside your personal feelings to serve a good cause, as all heroes do. That your opinions don't really matter—after all, the best heroes are the ones who make the deepest sacrifices, right?

So that’s how you find yourself dragging heavy feet across a corridor, a tiny voice in your head begging you to turn around, as you finally reach the common area set as your meetup spot. You glance at your wristwatch, which reads 6:55. You had decided to leave a bit early so you could arrive with a few minutes to spare. As your mother always reminds you, “It’s better to be an hour early than a minute late.”

Pulling out a chair at a nearby two-person table, you sit down, plopping your bookbag next to you. You had stuffed it full of your personal notes, your wand, and several textbooks you thought could help Hook. 

Tapping a pencil on the wooden desk, you sigh, glancing at your clock again. 6:57. Thinking back on your previous decision, you wonder why you left so early. After all, you have Hook down in your mind as the type to be extremely unpunctual. Leaning back in your chair out of sheer boredom, you start to clearly picture Hook showing up a good hour late. Heck, you’d be surprised if he even shows up at all. 

The clock hits 6:59, and you begin to debate how long you’re willing to stay here before giving up and returning to your dorm. Would ten minutes be enough? Fifteen? Thirty? The more you think about it, the more you can imagine this being some sort of elaborate prank to trick you. After all, why would a delinquent villain like Hook ever be interested in planning a tutoring session?

You sigh once again, angry at yourself for being so naive as to fall for his little trick. Drumming your fingers on the table as you put your head down, you mentally punch yourself for your gullibility. 

Which is why you nearly jump out of your own skin at the sound of a loud thud sound from in front of you. You jerk back into your chair, arms flailing as it tips, causing you to nearly topple backwards. With your reflexes kicking in, your hand latches onto the edge of the table—thankfully—and you manage to pull yourself back to a more stable position.

Hand clutching your pounding heart, you roll your head back to be greeted with that stupid little smirk that haunts your thoughts. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright, love. After all, we were planning to meet up, were we not?” Hook says, tone extremely smug and a tiny bit pitiful at your frightened state. 

You raise your arm and flick your wrist, reading the time displayed on your clock. 7:00. He…he showed up exactly on time, you think, praying that your shock isn’t displayed on your face.

As if he can read your mind—and in all honesty, maybe he can—Hook says, “You didn’t doubt me, now, did you, darling? How could I skimp out on our little date?”

“It’s not a date,” you tell him once again, not even trying to hide the annoyance in your voice this time.

“Whatever you say.” Hook gives a little grin as he raises his eyebrows for a second. Before you can continue to argue, he pulls out the chair across from you and sits down. You eye a small black leather satchel that dangles from his hook as he drops it down on the floor. Huh, he even came prepared.

He leans in, arms resting on the table, as he fixes you with a sly grin. “So, Miss Teacher, what are you going to teach me today?”

You hate to pass on the opportunity to make a snarky remark, but you know that rubbing Hook the wrong way is not going to make these next few hours any less sufferable. Instead, you simply go for a “How about you start by getting out your materials?”

“As you wish, m’lady.” An irritated sigh escapes your lips, and you realize you’ve been sighing a lot more than usual ever since you got in this…predicament. You watch, somewhat impatiently, as Hook reaches down and draws a single notebook and his practice wand out of the leather satchel. Glancing at his materials, then back at yours, you realize that you came a lot more prepared than he did, even though you’re not the one trying to learn here. Well, I guess him putting in some effort still better than nothing.

You pull out one of the thick textbooks from your bag, the used animal skin cover peeling at the edges and the pages yellowed from the wear of time. 

“First, we’re going to get started with the theory of enchantments and spells.” You flip through the pages until you land on the first of many detailing the basics of spellcasting. “Even though we’re going to be focusing on the Aiming Spell, the underlying principles are pretty much the same for all spells you use. Now, you see here, highlighted in the chart are the five main…”

You chance a glance over at Hook, voice trailing off when you realize he isn’t listening. In fact, he's not even looking at the textbook placed in the middle of the desk. Instead, his gaze is fixed on…

…you?

“Hey! Why are you staring at me like that, you weirdo!” you exclaim, pulling back from the table. Hook remains unflinching, his chin in his good hand as he stares up at you with a sparkle in his eye. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it, love. You’re just so…so entrancing.”

You blink hard, recoiling at his words. He’s not flirting with you…is he? No, there’s no way. Don’t be overly arrogant, you convince yourself. This is just his personality, how he usually acts. The same way he calls everyone “love” and “darling.” There’s absolutely nothing more to it than him saying anything he can think of to fluster you and throw you off track.

…Right?

You ignore the stupid little flutter your heart does at not just being called pretty, or beautiful, or any of the normal compliments. No, you aren’t normal, you’re entrancing…

Snap out of it! you internally scold yourself. This is just another one of his little antics. You’re just letting him win by getting in your head. 

“Look, I didn’t come here and set aside this chunk of my valuable time to tutor you, only for you to not listen. If you came here to mess around—” you rant, but you’re cut off before you can get everything off your chest.

“I apologize, lassie. I promise, I’ll focus from here on out,” Hook vows. You eye him with a glare, feeling very distrustful, but you’re only met with his rather sincere gaze.

You let out another breath, once again regretting agreeing to this. “Fine. Get out your notebook. You’re going to want to take notes on this.”

Hook nods and reaches into his satchel, which is still lying on the floor. “If I’m being completely honest—which I assume you must hold in high regard, being a hero and whatnot—I really didn’t expect you to be so…irritable.”

You shoot Hook another glare, before realizing that you’re just proving his point. You give a brief roll of your eyes as you attempt a smile. “I’m not usually like this,” you say, fighting to keep a decently pleasant expression on your face. “You just really find a way to, how should I put this, you really—”

“Push your buttons?” Hook finishes for you, raising his eyebrows.

“I was going to say you really find a way to get on my nerves, but that too,” you respond, with obviously forced cheerfulness. “Whatever, we need to get back to studying. For real this time.”

Hook replies with an “Of course, m’lady,” before you begin your lecture again on the foundation of enchantments. This time, he makes sure to periodically glance down at the textbook pages and occasionally nod or ask a question, all to ensure that you don’t catch him staring at you again. Unbeknownst to you, adoration shines bright in his eyes as he studies your features, committing them to memory every time you’re not looking his way.

You spend some time going over theory with Hook, until you can feel him growing restless, causing you to start wondering if people like him have a capacity for how much information they can absorb at one time. Deciding that theory is no good if it’s not put to practice, you slam the textbook shut once you reach the end of a page, standing up.

Hook looks up at you, a slightly startled expression on his face. “Come on,” you say. “Now we’re going to see how much you paid attention by putting your lesson to good use.”

You hope to see a look of fear flash across his face, but his demeanor stays completely even. Feeling a bit let down, you remind yourself that he still has to actually cast the spell. Watch him mess it up, you think. Let’s see how smug he is then, huh?

Reaching down into your bookbag, you pull out a small bundle wrapped in a piece of cloth. You open it to reveal a handful of metal disks, similar to the ones you had used earlier in class. You empty them out on the table before walking over to the middle of the room and placing the cloth down on the floor, a good number of meters away from your table. “This is your target area,” you explain. “Stand by the table and get those rings to land within the borders of the cloth.”

Let’s see how well you fare now, pretty boy.

“Aye, that’s not fair,” Hook says, scrunching his brow as he gestures towards your setup with his hook. “That cloth’s much smaller than the basket we used in class. And the distance is far greater.”

“Well, if you learn how to get the spell right with tougher constraints than the requirement, you’ll be sure to do great for the real thing.” You flash him a wink as you watch his jaw part slightly, an incredulous expression painted on his face. “That’s how I always ace my exams.”

Hook draws in a breath, putting his ever-famous smirk back on his face, although you can feel his unease this time. He picks up his wand, turning around to point it at disks on the table. 

Up. He rolls his hand upwards, and one of the disks starts to levitate a foot in the air.

Swish. Hook jerks his wrist to the side, causing the disk to start gently vibrating with potential energy. 

Circle. He rotates his hand counterclockwise, drawing a circle with the tip of the wand.

Flick. You watch with bated breath as Hook flicks the wand towards the cloth in the middle of the room. 

Both of you follow the disc’s arc through the air with tense anticipation, as it soars, soars…

…and ends up missing the cloth by a good three feet.

Hook gives a small, halfhearted laugh, trying to keep up the suave facade. Yet you notice the way his shoulders slump forward, the way his body stiffens in an embarrassing shock. 

Part of you feels a wickedly twisted satisfaction at his failure—but as soon as you recognize it for what it is, you shove it away, repulsed at the thought of you even coming close experiencing such an emotion. Plus, the majority of you feels rather disappointed at the undesirable outcome. Whether it’s Hook’s chagrin rubbing off on you, or the voice in your head whispering that you, as his teacher, failed at your job, you can’t help but feel a bit let down at his messing up.

“Hey, it’s fine. Let’s try again,” you say softly, your usual eager-to-help manner coming back at the sight of someone needing comforting.

And so, Hook tries again. And again. And again.

Finally, after the seventh or eighth try, he puts the wand back down on the table. “I don’t know what to tell you, love. No matter how hard I try, it’s simply not working.” You sigh, looking at the floor before you, which was now littered with disks. “Hey, at least you got closer each time! That’s still progress.” You attempt to raise his spirits a bit, but he just fixes you with a look that tells you he’s not one to fall for your false positivity.

“Uhm…” You hesitate, not quite sure what to do next or how to fix this. “How about you see how I do it, and try to copy that?”

Hook gives a small nod and you fish out your wand, pulling up your sleeves and taking a deep breath to prepare. Focusing on one of the disks on the table, you start the particular movements. Up. Swish. Circle. Flick!

Both of you watch in somewhat astonishment as the ring curves perfectly through the air, flying with grace, as it lands directly in the center of the cloth.

Hook looks at you with raised eyebrows. Although that little part of you wants to rub it in his face, the fact that a hero, out of all people, bested him, you decide that torturing him with your teasing is only going to make him less likely to get the spell right.

“You see that? Now, try to copy it yourself,” you instruct.

And so, Hook makes a few more attempts, landing closer to the cloth each time, now only a couple inches away—yet never actually making contact with it.

You study his movements carefully as he casts the spell, trying to figure out what he’s doing wrong. After a few more of his failed attempts, you decide to try a different approach.

“Okay, watch me do it again, but this time come hold my wand from behind so you can get a feel for how I cast it,” you say, glancing up at Hook. “After all, it’s all in the wrist.” You recite a line your mother always says, one that often replays in your mind as you cast a spell. In your opinion, her guidance is the main reason that you’re so good at spells.

You’re still sitting down in your chair, pushing it in a little to provide room for him to come up behind you and reach your wand. 

You were expecting Hook to get rather close; after all, there aren’t many ways for two people to hold the same wand in the position you were in without a tight proximity. What you weren’t expecting was the way he comes up from behind you leisurely, deliberately. The way his chest presses into your back as he leans in, arm brushing against yours as he extends it towards the wand. The way you can feel his exhales on your skin, breathing down your neck—literally—causes goosebumps to rise up and down your arms. The way his natural aroma engulfs you completely, overwhelming your senses all at once. How his large hand feels on yours as he places it on top, curling his fingers around the wand—and yours, as well. The way you can feel the smirk dancing on his face, looking down at you with what you expect to be half-lidded eyes. 

And the way your heart races, good heavens. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought you just ran a marathon. Your body simultaneously heats up and freezes at his touches, no matter how small, your mind becoming overly aware of every point of contact you have with him. You fight against the overstimulation flooding your senses, resisting the urge to wipe your sweaty palms on your legs, while hoping that the wand doesn’t slip out of your hand as perform the incantation. 

Truth be told, although you definitely won’t admit this to anyone: you really haven’t had much experience with romance, or anything of the sorts. All your life, you’ve focused on doing good deeds and keeping up with your studies, aiming to be the best of the best in the hero world. Which is probably why no boy has ever taken interest in you; instead of going to dances or out on dates, you've always spent your Friday nights locked away in your room, studying hard to make sure you ace your exams. Plus, with your goody-two-shoes streak, you aren't exactly the most sought-out person in your class.

Which is why with the way Hook flirts with you, and now, the way you can feel his inhales and exhales against your skin—subconsciously trying to match the rhythm of his breathing—your brain is short-circuiting. The lack of romantic attention you’ve received your whole life is behind why you don't know how to react to Hook's antics, while still internally freaking out at his movements and words.

You inhale a shaky breath, trying to steady your quivering hand and hope that Hook doesn’t notice your reaction. But after the amused little hum he gives, your embarrassment grows by the second. Trying your best to focus on the task at hand, you say, “Okay, here goes.”

Up. You feel Hook’s grip tighten around your hand, just a little bit but still enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Swish. The disk vibrates with extreme intensity, to the point where you’re afraid it’ll break apart, despite the metal structure.

Circle. As you circle your wrist around, you feel Hook’s arm rub against yours even more, causing your breath to hitch in your throat. Gods, the things this man is doing to you.

Flick. You flick the wand towards the cloth yet again, jerking your head sideways to follow it as it flies across the room. Agonizing in how it ignites every nerve in your body, you feel Hook’s head brush against the top of yours as he follows your movements, watching the disk soar.

It seems, for a minute, as if it’s going to land right on top of the previous one. But to both your shocks, it falls just outside the borders of the cloth, barely touching the edge.

Your face absolutely burns in embarrassment, palms dripping with sweat now. Hook tilts his head towards yours—which you feel all too well—as he says, far closer to your ear than you would’ve liked, “Well, it seems like even the master makes mistakes, love.”

Fuming, you finally give into the urge and drop the wand to wipe your hands on your clothes. Screw him, you mentally curse. It’s all his fault. I’ve never messed up this spell before.

And as much as you want to blame him, you know that it’ll do you absolutely no good to tell him the fact that he was so close to you made your brain short-circuit to such an extent that you messed up a spell you could do since you were five.

You shake your head, refusing to accept your failure. “No, I…I don’t know what happened. It must have been a faulty disk. Just…I’m going to try again.”

Hook raises his eyebrows at you—or at least, you’re pretty sure he does, as you can’t see him from behind. You grab your wand again, and without even telling him to do so, Hook leans in and places his hand back over yours, your fingers trapped between his and the wand.

Internally, you find yourself growing impossibly more annoyed at him. Honestly, did he really have to go back to that position, the one that made you mess up the spell in the first place? You take a deep, steadying breath, forcing away all thoughts of Hook and how his dark brown eyes, beautiful and rich like the bark of the trees back in Oz, are boring into your skull right now. You simply can’t afford to get distracted again. Messing up the spell once is one thing—sure, everyone makes mistakes, don’t they? But twice? It would be absolutely inexcusable.

Twice would mean that you are not as adept as you thought you were, not talented enough in the one thing that you've been sure of for your whole life.

Remember the words.

Up, swish, circle, flick!

Fueled by your self-directed rage, you ensure that every movement you make is precise, sharp, and without a single tremor going through your hand. This time, the disk slices through the air with a clean, aerodynamic curve, and lands…

…right on top of your first one.

You beam, regaining your former confidence in your spellcasting abilities.

“The master may sometimes make mistakes, but they’re still the master,” you gloat. “Now come on, you need to practice till you get as good as that.”

You and Hook spend quite some time on practicing the spell, with you giving him pointers and him—surprisingly—improving. It seems as though your hands-on demonstration really helped him, as his skills greatly improved. 

Soon, in every set of ten rings he practiced on, he was consistently getting six or seven of them within the boundaries of the cloth, with one or two more landing on the edge, half-in. 

After one round where he managed to get nine of the disks touching the cloth—his personal best so far—you decide he needs something even more challenging.

“Woah, that was a really good round,” you praise. Hook turns to face you, and if you didn’t know any better, you would say that his normal smirk seems a little less snarky and a little more…genuine. 

“Still not as good as you, though, love,” Hook replies. You can tell he’s trying hard to maintain his nonchalant front, especially when it comes to academics, but the pride in his eyes and the earnest grip on his wand tell a different story. Honestly, you like him better this way. Less of him pretending to be a bad boy villain, and more of his real personality.

And in this moment, as you subtly study his features and think about his change in behavior over the past few hours, a thought that’s never even come close to crossing your mind suddenly pops up. What if villains, just like heroes, feel pressured to uphold a certain facade? The same way that you’ve always felt like you just have to be good, no matter the cost, no matter how hard it is for you, maybe villains feel the same way. Maybe they believe they always have to be bad, troublesome, and cruel. Even if that’s not who they truly are.

And through the lens of your new insight, you start seeing Hook in a different light. Just like how you feel as if being good and helpful and cheery all the time is a burden, how sometimes you wish you could just let loose and be selfish, maybe villains feel like being evil is a burden. Maybe Hook feels compelled to act smug and suave, even though that isn’t who he truly feels like being all the time. 

You begin to feel a deep sense of guilt for judging him based on his demeanor and criticizing his performance in class. Reflecting back, you realize that you had been unnecessarily harsh on him for something that is likely beyond his control. Gosh, I'm such an idiot, you think, shame burning your cheeks.

Shaking off your remorse, you put on another bright smile and try to respond as cheerfully as possible. “Hey, it’s still a huge improvement from sending the rings flying on top of a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. Or at innocent bystanders’ heads!” This time, you don’t encourage him because you feel pressured to do so, or because that’s who you know you’re supposed to be. You do it because deep down, in your heart, it’s what you feel like saying.

“Hmm, true,” Hook replies, angling his head to the side as he considers your point, the smallest of smiles still dancing on his lips.

“Now, for your final test.” At your statement, Hook raises a brow. “You need something different, something truly challenging. Something to prove your mastery of the Aiming Spell…”

You rack your brain for ideas, but nothing comes to mind. After a moment in silence, Hook speaks up. “I may have an idea.”

Glancing over at him, rather surprised—you were the teacher, after all—you gesture for him to go on. 

“Go stand over there by that wall,” he instructs, motioning with his hook to the wall opposite you two. “And put your hands up.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, fixing him with a look of wariness and doubt. You don’t move for a second, still too distrusting of him as you try to imagine what standing in that position has to do with casting a spell. Noticing your hesitation, Hook nods towards the wall again. “Well, go on, love.”

Still suspicious of him, you cave in and walk over to the far side of the room. Pressing your back against the wall as you raise your hands up, the position makes you feel as if you've just been caught red-handed in the midst of a crime. Hook still stands by the table, waiting patiently. You try to think back to the textbook pages you went over with him, wondering if you had accidentally taught him some sort of attack charm that he was planning to use on you.

Feeling your anxiety build, you wriggle your left fingers, wrapping your thumb and middle finger around the base of your pointer. You always wear a special, very pretty ring on that hand, a gift your mother gave to you a few years ago. Fiddling with it while twisting it around and around helps to soothe you, especially when you feel nervous.

But this time, when you go to repeat the same movement you always do, you feel the absence of the familiar metal surface and engravings etched into it. Glancing up at your hand, you confirm that your ring is indeed missing. The only trace of its former presence is the two parallel, circular indents in your skin from wearing it for so long.

Your panic skyrockets now at the loss of one of your favorite possessions, practically forgetting about Hook and the unease that accompanied his bizarre request. That ring had come with a special message; the night you got it, your mother had told you, “Remember when you were younger, and I told you that people are either good or bad? Well, that’s not quite true. No one is really black or white. We’re all just shades of gray. Some people are lighter gray, and some people are darker gray. And although we might be different shades, we all fall under the same color. Remember that, Y/N.”

And you have remembered it. Every time you go to toy with your ring, those words echo in your mind. Your mom had embedded the ring with a marble featuring a swirl of many different shades of gray, a reminder of the message that came along with it. You were too young to truly understand her words back then, but now, especially in these recent moments, you think you’re starting to fully grasp what she meant.

Snapping back to the present, you realize the serious problem you have at hand. “My ring!” you cry. “I could have sworn I had it when I came here…”

“Looking for this?” Hook’s smirk is back in full force. His left arm is raised, and on the crest of his polished metal hook, your precious ring glimmers under the golden lights projected from the ceiling.

“You…! When did you even…” your voice trails off as your mind catches up to your mouth. It must have been when he leaned in, while you were demonstrating the spell. That was the only time he had gotten close enough to you, although you don’t know how in the world he nicked it off your finger without you having the slightest hint.

Then you remember, quite painfully, how flustered you had been in that moment. If you were so distracted that you couldn't even cast a simple spell right, then you certainly wouldn’t have had enough brainpower to notice a skilled thief steal from you.

“Hey! Give that back!” you exclaim, huffing angrily, a frown etched deep into your face.

“I will, darling,” Hook replies smugly. “Now, raise your hands up again. And don’t wiggle your fingers around this time.”

“Give me my ring back first!” you demand, your previous annoyance towards him coming right back.

“Let me do this first, and then you’ll get your ring. Hands up.” At your glare, Hook tilts his head to the side and gives you a look. “Don’t you trust me?”

Well, of course not, is the first thought that pops into your mind. You’re a liar and a thief, and above all, a villain.

But then you remember your mother’s words, your earlier revelation and how, just for a moment, you glimpsed Hook through a different light. So, although you definitely won't go as far as saying that you trust him, you still empathize with him enough to give in to his request.

Wordlessly, you raise your hands back up to your sides, palms facing in front of you, while fighting the urge to fidget again. You debate whether or not it’d be best to close your eyes for this, but you ultimately decide that if Hook does try to pull any more of his little tricks, all your senses should be sharp and aware.

And so you stand, frozen, as Hook raises the wand. For a second, you think he’s going to cast the spell on you. But instead, he uses his good hand to remove the ring from where it’s stuck in his hook, instead placing it dangling from the tip. He points his wand at the ring, repeating the maneuvers you two practiced so many times.

Up. The ring lifts off his hook and levitates just in front of him.

Swish. It starts vibrating like the disks, but due to its small size, your cherished ring begins to rotate on its axis.

Circle. With Hook’s circular movement of the wand, the ring’s spinning accelerates, locking on to its target—whatever that is.

Flick. For one final time, Hook flicks his wrist, this time towards you.

You watch, your heart pounding as fast as ever, as the ring—your ring—curves through the sky as it falls, getting closer and closer to you. You slam your eyes shut for just a beat, unable to bear the anticipation, before remembering your earlier rationale again.

Eyes flying open instantly, you regain your vision just as the ring falls, falls, falls, landing…

…directly on your finger.

But not the finger that you previously wore it on. Your eyes widen again in disbelief as it slips perfectly around your ring finger.

“Uh…I…uhm…” you stammer, confused and shocked and overwhelmed with far too many things at once to form a coherent sentence. How in the world did he cast such a precise Aiming Spell, in a situation where it wouldn’t have succeeded had he been even a centimeter off? And if he was so precise with his location pinpointing, then why in the world did he put it on your left ring finger??

“Come on, spit it out, love,” Hook replies teasingly. “You can say it, don’t be afraid.”

Your mind is working far too hard for you to shoot him a glare, but you mentally do it anyway. “That was…impressive,” you finally admit, although you wish you didn’t when Hook’s smug grin grows twice as wide. Ugh, his ego is already big enough. I did not need to inflate it like that.

“Could you always cast the spell that well?” you ask, still stunned at his precision. You honestly couldn’t see how anyone who had been sending disks flying all across the room a mere few hours ago was now casting spells with the accuracy of someone who had been doing this for years.

“Why, of course not. You saw how I was earlier.” Hook’s grin grows even wider as he adds, “It’s all because I had a wonderful teacher.”

You still frown at him skeptically, walking back towards the table where he stands. “I highly doubt it’s because of that. I mean, I don’t know if even I could pull something like that off with such little practice.”

At this, Hook gives a little laugh. “What do they say, the student exceeds the teacher?”

You roll your eyes at him. “No, they call it ‘beginner’s luck.’ You should be happy you got it right this time, because you might not get so lucky on your exams.”

Hook grins again, and as much as you detest the pleasure he gets from teasing you—and though you’d never admit it—a small, dark gray part of you enjoys the playful banter between you two.

“That’s why I have you, darling. If I ever need more help, I’ll know who to run to.” He leans in close to you, so close, until his mouth is right next to your ear. You start having flashbacks to your previous experiences with Hook being in a close proximity, and the combined feelings from both your memories and his current actions causes your body to heat up in a way you didn’t even know was possible. 

He tilts his head down ever so slightly towards you, his lips feathering across your ear. “And you won’t be able to get out of helping me, my little goody-goody.”

Your mind is absolutely spinning at his words, his touch, his presence, his everything. You desperately struggle to formulate some sort of response, but just as you open your mouth, ready to question his choice of ring placement, a deep, low horn sounds, reverberating off the walls.

Curfew.

Hook breaks away from you as you glance down at your wristwatch. The clock shows exactly 10:00. Gods, how did the time pass by so quickly?

You glance back up at Hook, deciding to ignore the way he so alluringly whispered in your ear just seconds ago. “Well, uh, we have to get going, then,” you awkwardly say, scratching at your neck.

Hook stands there for a moment, staring at you whilst completely motionless, making you wonder what he’s thinking and what he’s planning to do. Just as you’re about to bid him a goodnight and turn away, he reaches his good hand out, grabbing your left one. He holds it delicately in his hand, his palm cupped upwards with your fingers resting gently on top.

Slowly, and while keeping his head up just enough to maintain eye contact with you the entire way down, he bends into a bow in front of you. Only does he avert his gaze when he finally reaches your hand, looking down at your ring, which still sits on your ring finger, as he places a kiss on the bright stone.

He peers back up at you, deep brown eyes wide and expressive.

“Until we meet again, m’lady.”

on to part 2! ->

taglist: @4ng3l-ch1ld @astrynyx @0strawberrysorbet0

just leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist!

a/n: the demons I had to fight to not name this "if you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it" haha. anyways thanks for reading!

do not plagiarize, translate, remake, or copy my works, including my writing and images, in any way.

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

Prince Malleus Draconia vs Human Pettiness

So we’ve all heard about the trope of angry humans doing petty stuff to avoid their supernatural s/o’s. Like dating a werewolf and wearing silver, or dating a vampire and eating Italian (or entering a house that they haven’t been invited to) or dating a demon sitting in a salt circle or even dating a fairy and wearing iron.

So let’s say you’ve had an argument with your unfairly handsome fae boyfriend and later, being the stubborn-as-a-mule human you are, realise that even though you’ve somewhat calmed down, you’re still very cross with him so you decide to get back in your own way. You may have come into Twisted Wonderland with no magic but you did possess the stories and folklore of your non-magical world. You grew up with the tales of the men and women of yore that whispered horror stories of curses, kidnappings and enchantments, fairy rings and changeling children - and it’s time to put your childhood fascination of the once-fictional-but-now-part-of-your-reality to shine.

Of course, you started with the iron jewellery; any type of bijouterie in your possession that you could possibly wear, you did. Rings, necklaces, bangles, anklets, earrings, chains, studs on your clothing, the prong of your belt, even the clips in your hair - all made out of pure iron (most of them a gift from Leona for reasons you weren’t too sure you wanted to know). You even managed to replace the buttons of your school blazer for shiny new metallic ones.

Next, you fortified your stronghold to ensure that any pesky fairies wouldn’t be able to enter. You hung up an iron horseshoe onto the door of Ramshackle and sprinkled salt all around its perimeter. You found some of your old clothes that were no longer in use and turned them inside out before placing them both inside Ramshackle and outside. Next you hung up bells and deep-toned wind chimes on as many places on Ramshackle’s exterior you could find. Then, after marvelling at your handiwork, you went to your bedroom and relaxed.

*Insert a pouting Malleus sulking ten feet away from you, physically unable to come closer, mentally debating whether or not he should be impressed by your commitment*

[too-deviant]

jackie and wilson.

previous | next series masterlist.

summary: you haven’t been given a quest, but you have made it your personal mission to make luke castellan smile.

paring: luke castellan x unclaimed!reader

word count: 4k

content: luke is still a moody teenager, reader is still the fly he cant get rid of. does he really want to, though?

notes: these first two parts feel very introductory but it gets juicy as we dive a little further in the next parts hehe. also who do we think readers godly parent is?

PART II — and lord, she found me just in time 

For a hotshot lawyer, your mom couldn’t lie for the life of her. Every time you brought it up, she’d always quip that she didn’t need to be a good liar to be a good lawyer, since all new evidence is legally required to be disclosed to both parties before they are presented in court. Therefore, there is no lying, only brief twisting of the truth. She was good at that — clearly. 

“You said you didn’t want me to leave you!” 

The wooden floor of Chiron’s office wasn’t the most comfortable of lounging places, but you’d accidentally kicked the radiator after tripping over a horseshoe and Mr. D — who had escorted you there when you’d asked about speaking to your mom — had just sighed and told you to use the mist currently spraying from it as a form of communication. The whole Iris Message thing was still unusual to you, but at the same time, you’d tripped over a horseshoe because the owner of the office was half-horse. Does it get weirder than that? Probably not. 

You leaned back on your haunches, disbelief written all over your face at the scene you…walked in on? Called in on? Iris Messaged in on? Whatever — you were more worried about what you were looking at than the right terminology to describe it. 

“Oh — sweetie!” Your mom was quick to hop down from the kitchen counter, pushing the man who had been standing between her legs away from her so forcefully he fell back into the living room. 

“What was that?” You heard him ask from afar. Your mom chuckled, buttoning up her blouse. 

“The answering machine.” She excused, “I completely forgot I was supposed to call back my daughter. Would you give me a minute?”

The man agreed with a huff and your mom pushed the kitchen door closed with a click before looking at you, narrowing her eyes and crossing her arms, “I didn’t. I sure do now!”

“I’ve been gone for, like, two days!” You exclaimed, “And you’re already inviting your boyfriend over? How old are you?”

“Oh, let it go.” The woman chastised, shaking her head and attempting to push down her amused smile. “I was bored.”

“Bored.” You chuckled, “Of course.”

“But I miss you.” She said then, smiling sweetly and leaning her hip on the island, “How’s camp?”

“It’s great.” You grinned, “The people are great, the food is great. Turns out, I am super with a spear.”

“A spear, huh?” Your mom nodded, “No surprise there, you’ve got a hell of an arm.”

You hummed excitedly, the previous event long forgotten as you filled her in on your first few days at camp, “One of my friends in cabin nine offered to make me a personal one.” Your mom furrowed her brows, “Children of Hephaestus. Blacksmith guy.”

“Right.” She nodded with a click of her tongue. “Well, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.” You smirked cheekily, ignoring the scoff and evil look she sent you in response. 

“Alright. I best go.” She interrupted just as you went to make another comment about her guest, “I will see you at the end of summer. Okay?” 

“Okay. Love you.” 

Truthfully, you were happy to spend the rest of the day talking to your mom — it was so hot that morning that you’d thought about sacrificing your breakfast to Apollo in hopes that he’d ease up a little. You decided against it and just sent your prayers to each of them in general, hoping maybe your dad could fess up to actually being your dad. 

Clarisse had suspected you would soon join her in the Ares Cabin — something about your skills with a spear and the swift right hook you sent Chris when he made one too many comments on your form during your training session with her. You weren’t even sure why he’d been there, but you could probably fathom a guess if you judged by the looks he sent her whenever she wasn’t looking. 

After the exciting discovery that yes, you were good at something, Mr. D had come by to say you could either call your mom now or never. You chose the former option, obviously, and you only regretted it slightly as you heaved yourself up from the ground — already missing the sound of her voice. 

You didn’t let it linger, instead you pushed the creaky door of the Big House open as gently as you could, even though it still swung back against the wall, and nodded at the pair sitting on the porch, currently in a heated card game you couldn’t recognise. They didn’t look at you for long, Chiron muttering something about meeting the Demeter kids by the fields to test your gardening skills before putting down a card that made Mr. D grumble in his seat. 

You were trudging through the grass, huffing when the longer bits tickled your legs and made you go all itchy, when you spotted a body sat by the hearth in the horseshoe of cabins. You lit up, changing course and jogging over to them, “JoJo!”

Luke looked up at you, frowning, “What?”

His curls fell over his eyes and he shook them away, only to squint at the sun that shone into them. You sidestepped, your shadow proving ample shade so he could focus on you, and you stammered a bit when his face fell into focus. He was pretty. 

You let out a breathless chuckle, folding your arms, “From Horton Hears a Who.” He shows no signs of recognition, “You’ve never seen it?” Again, his face did little to answer you, so you shrugged, “Whatever. I’ll get an answer out of you one day, I’m sure. We’ve made steady progress.”

“Have we?” He hummed, picking at the worn sleeve of his hoodie. 

“Of course we have, ya’ nutmegger.” You quipped with a short chuckle, grinning when his eyes snapped back to yours. 

“You still haven’t told me where you’re from.” 

You tutted, “Where’s the fun in that? You gotta find out.”

He huffed, “Whatever.”

Since his outburst about New England the day before, Luke had done a considerable job at avoiding you. Well, you didn’t think he was doing it on purpose — he just wasn’t obligated to spend time with you anymore now that you were cleared to roam camp on your own. You’d seen him at breakfast, perched silently on the end of the bench and staring sadly at his soggy oatmeal, but then Clarisse had whisked you off to the training fields with Chris hot on her tail and you hadn’t seen him since. 

You weren’t completely sure why you were so determined to break his shell. Maybe it was because you knew he never used to be this way — that underneath the deep frowns and annoyed huffs, was a happy boy who would spend days in the sun with his teeth bared in a wide grin — and you yearned to get a peek of who Luke Castellan used to be. To bear your eyes on the side of him he kept away and to find out why he did so, to understand him on a level deeper than anyone around you did, or even deeper than you understood yourself. 

Or maybe because he’s hot. 

Either way, you weren’t letting him slide away that easily. No sir. You straightened your back, “Going to the gardens.” 

No reply, as usual. 

A huff, “Mind walking me? I don’t wanna get lost.”

He looked at you, brown eyes flitting over your expression, before licking his lips and standing, “Fine.”

You grinned then, wide and sunny, “Great.”

You knew where the gardens were — hell, you could see them from where you stood, the two teenage sons of Dionysus chasing each other with sticks while the Demeter kids scowled at them. But you were new, and Luke was ‘the guy’ for all the new campers, so really he wasn’t allowed to say no. 

You were desperate to know more about him; his favourite sport, movie, colour. Anything irrelevant that you could see in public and think: Luke. You just didn’t know where to start — he could shut down at any given moment, so which question was more fitting to ask before he built up his walls and fucked off? 

You settled for something easy — something subtle that wouldn’t hint towards you asking about him. An easy question that any reasonable tour guide would have to answer. 

“So, do you guys host any…mortal activities?” Looking up at him in question, brows raised as he once again made no indication that he’d even heard you speak. 

But he had, “Not usually. Sometimes on weekends we’ll play volleyball on the beach, and I think Lee Fletcher has a soccer ball he kicks around but…” He shrugged, “No. Not really.”

You hummed, “You said we. Do you play volleyball?”

Nice one. 

Luke stiffened a little, sort of appalled that you’d swerved the question on him so easily, but he answered with a grumble, “Not anymore.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, “Grew out of it.”

“Huh.” You said then, facing forward with a nod and continuing your trek through the long grass, occasionally reaching down to scratch your calves, “I don’t think I’ll ever grow out of baseball.”

Come on, Castellan, take the bait. 

“Baseball?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed, a little too excitedly for it to be a simple answer to a simple question. You lowered your volume and gave a more collected nod, “Yeah. Yes. I’ve played since I was old enough…little league.” You let out a weak chuckle, suddenly shy about the subject. 

Luke nodded at you, “First base?”

“Left field.” You corrected with a proud smile, “I got legs.”

“Oh.” He replied, a little caught off guard at that. Although, he was also caught off guard when you said you played baseball. 

You were debating whether or not to press when a gangly blonde boy with dark purple eyes jogged up to you and held out a wicker basket, “You’re the new kid right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before thrusting the basket to your chest, “I’m Pollux. We’re picking strawberries, c’mon, I’ll show you the best way to get ‘em.”

You weren’t sure there was a specific tactic to picking strawberries, but you stepped to follow him anyway. Turning your head to send a thankful smile to Luke for walking you down, you spotted him looking between you and Pollux with furrowed brows — then he noticed your stare and swallowed, nodding, “Uh, see you later.”

“Bye.” You replied, slightly starstruck. He walked off, but he did it slowly as if he was unsure of where to go next. You were positive he had somewhere to be — big shot counsellor and all — but as you stood, one foot in front of the other, face turned back to watch him go, he seemed to stutter in his steps at the top of the hill, deciding where to turn. His beaten converse led him west, and Pollux yelled you out of your stupor so you could help him and his brother pick strawberries. 

As suspected, your strawberry-picking skills were pretty much the same as everyone else’s — really, how can one person be any better at picking strawberries than another? It’s a very simple task. Either way, Castor and Pollux didn’t envision you as their long lost sister, and the Demeter kids apparently couldn’t smell it on you that you were one of them, whatever that meant, so you were back to your search for daddy dearest — at this point, you weren’t even sure if you wanted to find out anymore. All this hassle and for what? It’s not as if he was going to attend the daddy-daughter dance with you, no matter which god he might be. 

“So, do you, like, know Luke or something?” 

Henry Furstatt was a Demeter kid a couple of years younger than you, who had been set the task of walking you to the lake where you would rejoin the Hermes cabin on their canoe lesson. He wasn’t very talkative until you’d put some distance between yourselves and the strawberry fields, where he posed his question. 

You glanced at him with a thoughtful frown, “I mean, he’s been showing me around the past couple days, so…I guess —“

“I meant like,” He swallowed, waving his hands around, “from before. Did you know each other before you came to camp?”

“Oh.” You responded, tucking a loose hair that had fallen in front of your face away, “No. Why’d you think that?”

Henry shrugged, his loose-fitting camp shirt doing wonders to hide the movements, “Dunno. He just hasn’t talked to many people since he got back from his quest…but he’s talking to you.”

“Well.” You were suddenly a little sheepish — were you pushing Luke too much? Was your constant questioning making him uncomfortable? You were only on a mission to find out more about him because he interested you, but did you interest him, or was he ready to boot you as far as you’d fly? “He has to, doesn’t he? He’s still a counsellor, even if he does hate everyone here.” 

“True.” He settled with a nod, fiddling with a daisy he’d picked while you were walking. 

You breathed a content sigh when you finally stepped out of the grass — the summer blooming made it slightly unbearable to walk through, tickling at your legs the whole afternoon. The beating sun didn’t make you feel any nicer, but you just wafted your shirt a little as you walked past the Hermes cabin and towards the dock. 

Camp was always noisy; something you’d grown accustomed to the longer you stayed there. You never really noticed it until you were alone, but the chatter of the kids filled the air the whole day and only really faded out when they all went to sleep. It was slightly unnerving to sit in the silence, and the loud murmurs often comforted you — made you feel less suffocated as the new kid. Less eyes on you, the better. 

You were so used to the noise, in fact, that you almost completely brushed past the argument that was brewing outside the Ares cabin just a few metres away. Fortunately, Henry spotted the commotion, and pulled you to a halt in favour of staring at the ever-growing crowd. 

You followed his eyeline and spotted a burly looking boy with black hair — when he moved his head and the sun hit the right spots, you could see dark red highlights swimming in his locks. You thought that was a little bit much, but you forfeited commenting on it considering the giant machaira that hung on his back. 

The boy in question was sneering at someone in front of him, but the corners of his mouth were perked up in an amused smile that made you think he wasn’t angry yet, but he sure was getting there. You couldn’t see who he was talking to, but as Henry ventured closer, you were forced to follow and eventually his words reached your ears. 

“—big shot golden boy finally got himself a quest and doesn’t fancy sharing the details.” He laughed, deep and low in his throat. 

Henry patted someone on the shoulder, and they stepped aside to let him into the circle. You stayed behind him, watching over his head and finally checking out the opponent. Your eyes stopped on the familiar figure, and his familiar curls that hung over his eyes — eyes that were glaring daggers in the Ares kid’s direction, casting shadows over his cheekbones and making his scar look a little menacing. 

The boy continued after Luke showed no signs of replying, “We get it, Castellan. You failed, but that doesn’t mean you get to gatekeep the whole thing.”

“Dean, man.” You finally noticed Chris, standing off to the side of Luke and glancing at his brother in apprehension at the boy's words. “Back off.” 

Dean just snorted, “Don’t defend him, Rodriguez. We let him mope, now it’s time for him to spill the beans.” He took a step closer to Luke, “What happened on your quest?” 

You had only known Luke for two days. You weren’t sure if he was the type to fly off the handle, swing before reasoning, but you suddenly became aware that neither did anyone else. Sure, these people had known him for years — but you’d heard it from enough people to know that he was a different person these days. After his quest a couple of weeks ago, people had been walking on eggshells around the boy. Maybe a month ago, he would’ve calmly walked away and let Dean simmer in his anger. But now? Nobody could be sure, but judging by the look in his eyes, darkening by the second, you might be able to fathom a guess as to what he’s going to do with his hands now that they were rolled into fists. 

“I mean, is this about glory? Because you won’t exactly be sharing it — ya’ can’t share what you don’t have.”  Dean let out a chortle at his own joke, looking between his friends around him and grinning with them. 

Luke stepped forward. And — you couldn’t blame anyone, really. After that last comment, you were all expecting fists to be swung. It was only reasonable. Maybe the old Luke wouldn’t have done it, but this new Luke was looking increasingly more angry at the world as the days went by, so when he took one measly step forward, the crowd around him let out a collective woah! and put their hands out to stop him from lunging. Including yourself. 

Only he wasn’t about to punch Dean. His hand stayed dormant at his side, the only clear movement was the single step closer he’d taken to match the one the Ares boy had made earlier. He was only really stepping forward so his next words would hit harder — that’s all it was, words. They died on his lips when he realised the implications of his actions, looking between the outstretched arms and tense faces. 

He looked at Dean, “We can discuss quests when you get your own.” 

Then he walked off, past the crowd that didn’t bother stopping him. Looking around, you saw the looks on their faces — shame, from assuming Luke would evoke such violence off the sparring mat. You definitely felt it, but you didn’t stick around long enough to confirm that with anyone else. Instead, you left Chris to berate Dean in place of the head counsellor and followed the boy in question as he huffed up the hill towards the edge of the woods. 

“Hey!” You said, breathless (you were not an uphill climber). “Hey, Luke!”

He hesitated in his steps like he did earlier, but he didn’t turn around. His head twitched a little, like he wanted to look but was holding himself back, but you simply rounded him until you were face to face. The anger had long since dissolved from his expression, replaced with soft confusion. 

“Hi.” You huffed, still recovering from that incline, “Are you okay? That guy’s a dick.”

“I know.” He replied, short as usual. 

You licked your lips, still catching your breath, and nodded. He remained silent, looking around you like he was just waiting for you to leave. You decided to take the hint, muttering lowly, “Okay, sorry for bothering you.” 

But his hand reached out, circling your wrist just as you passed him. You looked at Luke, raising your eyebrows, watching as he stammered on his words, “I, uh, you aren’t bothering me. I just…”

He let go of you and you stepped back to your precious spot. Behind him, the crowd had dissipated, Dean long gone. Chris remained, staring up at the pair of you on top of the hill. You couldn’t pinpoint his expression, but he seemed to hesitate before turning his back. You looked up at Luke. 

“Why did you…come after me?” 

You scoffed a laugh, “What? Anyone would’ve, it’s like…common decency.”

He twisted his expression, looking amused and devastated all at the same time, “But they didn’t.” 

He was right; before you’d set off up the hill, everyone had just been watching him walk off. It seemed a little out of character, but then again, you didn’t know these people as well as you thought. Luke let out a sad chuckle, shaking his head, “Everyone’s sorta given up on me now that I’m…”

“Moody and depressed?” You finished, raising a single brow. You smiled at him, and it lifted into a grin when he smiled back, albeit only slightly. But you’d take it. “I just think that they’re a little unsure.”

“They’re scared, is what they are.” He said firmly, staring at the ground in mirth, “Their precious golden boy won’t clean up all of their messes anymore and they’re scared that they’ll have to start looking after themselves.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” You said, even if you didn’t believe it. How could you? You didn’t know these people, Luke did. “They’re just worried about you.” 

He scoffed, finally moving his head up and meeting your eyes. He went to say something, presumably another quip about the campers, but stopped himself. Backtracked. Instead he said, “Aren’t you angry that you haven’t been claimed yet?”

That was a deep question. You sat on it for a couple of seconds, reeling at the sudden shift of conversation, until you finally let out a low puff of air and shrugged, “I don’t really know how I feel. Why? Should I be?” 

“This camp, it’s —“ He huffed, “It helps you, sure. But it also forces you to…mould yourself into the perfect kid for — for a parent who doesn’t care enough to watch you grow up. Help you live, use their divine powers when a dragon is clawing your fucking face off!” 

He’d stepped closer to you, unknowingly, that final shout making you wince a little at the volume. He stopped then, evening his breaths and stepping back with an apologetic expression. You brushed it off. 

“A dragon clawed your face off?” 

“Yeah.” He chuckled weakly, “Tell anyone and I’ll kill you.” 

You smiled at him, shamefully admiring his face. Now that he wasn’t glaring in anger, and his face was more relaxed, you could see the whites of his eyes. His lashes, unreasonably long, and his lips that were so plush you were close to asking him if he took a trip to see Dr Miami while he was on his quest. 

“Gods.” You murmured under your breath, “You’re so pretty it sorta pisses me off.” 

Luke laughed then — a genuine chortle that shook his chest and made passers by glance in his direction. His grin was uncharacteristically wide and for a second, a brief moment, you saw it. Luke Castellan, the one everyone looks up to. The one they turn to in times of peril, the one they giggle and gossip about under the shade of the fir trees. 

Then you knew your answer to Luke’s question. No — you weren’t angry that you hadn’t been claimed. In fact, you didn’t think you’d care even if you were so long as he was smiling at you like that. 

He calmed down, catching his breath, his face relaxing back into that cool expression he’s always got on. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you, but you were sure he looked a little less tense than before. He nodded, waving a hand, “Alright, Sunny. Let’s go canoeing.” 

“Sunny?” You asked, walking alongside him. 

He clicked his tongue, glancing down at you, “If Apollo won’t claim you as a child of the sun, then I will.” 

“Alright.” You smiled softly, looking forward so he wouldn’t see it and run off. You picked at your nails, “So long as I can call you JoJo.” 

“Let’s watch that silly movie it’s from and I’ll decide if you can call me that.”

“Deal.”

🏷️ @katherines-imagines @lovingjasontoddmakemewanttocry @jennapancake @cobaltskiez @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @m00ng4z3r @mischiefmoons (comment to be added/removed!)

[brujahinaskirt]

WAIT A SEC. I want to cut some credit to player drunkenness in rdr2 and how it works as a vehicle to reveal something about the main character of this story.

Usually drunkenness in games is played off for cheap laughs, and there are plenty of slapsticky drunken antics in rdr2 (LENNAY). But happy-drunk Arthur gives SO MUCH INSIGHT into his real personality, too -- even when he's being a giggling, property-damaging, cancan-dancing terror. When he's drunk, he forgets a little of his mean bastard enforcer mask, the primary role he must play in the gang, and his loving nature becomes laughably obvious.

[spoilers under the cut]

From his sudden determination to teach Jack mathematics to his declared affection for Hosea; from his worrying about Susan getting a break to his insistence that newer gang members are "one of us now"; from his innocuous little compliments tossed around thoughtlessly ("Mary-Beth! Sweetest outlaw in the West! Javier! Best-dressed outlaw in the West!") to his more genuine praise for Abigail's inherent goodness, drunk Arthur is a fuzzy but honest look at a truer Arthur, one who is not thinking about the part he must play in a criminal outfit. Strip that awareness of his station away, even if just for a while, and we wind up with an Arthur who is surprisingly fun-loving, sometimes downright silly, and who lives to fuss over and dote on the people around him.

My favorite moment, perhaps, is a tipsy interaction with Sadie in Horseshoe Overlook during Sean's welcome home party. Arthur meanders over to her, this woman who is not a gang member or a close friend at the time, but simply a grieving widow he doesn't know very well. And he and asks, loudly: "MISSUS ADLER. DO YOU NEED ANYTHING MISSUS ADLER. DO YOU WANNA DANCE WITH ME MISSUS ADLER."

And she just sounds so tickled when she says no thanks to this goofy-drunk gunslinger. And I think maybe, just maybe, watching big bad gang lieutenant Arthur slamming a couple bottles of whiskey and so transparently doting on everyone gave her some of the first laughter at the world she had in what must feel like a very long time.

In Chapter 6, Arthur can again approach Sadie while drunk, and he encourage her to smile. Sadie hisses you're drunk; no woman likes being told this, and on the surface, this seems like a proper Antagonize line. But then Arthur -- who knows he is dying -- says, blearily, to this friend he met at her lowest point of grief and who seems to be in danger of plunging even lower in rage, "I just want you to be happy."

Drunkenness is not a liquid clarifier. Often times, alcohol garbles and distorts a person's personality. But with a character like Arthur, whose heart is so poorly matched with his 20-year lot in life, drunk-writing becomes a powerful tool. It's a quick, non-transformative way to believably peel off the snarl he wears around for a while (without him knowing it), letting players access an easy, silly, soft interior that sober Arthur is much more guarded about showing the gang.

[zorciarkrildrush]

@grupusdestroyerofworlds-blog saying that isn't Nazi behavior, of course it's not Nazi behavior.

But you don't have to look hard for examples of Nazi behavior, I'll help:

1. There are 5 current "Major wars", as well as several dozen other ongoing wars. Each one has tens of thousands of fatalities, if not hundreds of thousands (with particularly high counts in Syria, Russia/Ukraine, and Africa). There is also the Uyghur genocide in China, which is not classified as a war because there is no armed resistance against it, but is very well documented by actual investigative journalists. You wouldn't post about any of that, or go into random posts to start talking about it, because the only thing that matters (apparently) is one (1) conflict, the one with the Jews.

2. Your blog does not advocate for peace in Sudan, or freedom to the Uyghurs in China (who you might say are also tens of thousands - many more actually - of civilians brutally murdered by a brutal racist state), or any of that. No, you are much more comfortable sharing this:

On Oct 9th. 2 days after mass slaughter, rape and kidnappings of primarily Jews (and not only Jews), the absolute majority of them civilians, it was high time to signal to your lovely followers you support this 'resistance'. Hamas does not represent the PLO, by the way - that will be Fatah, part of the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian peace process and the government in the west bank. Hamas started a civil war against them, because establishing a Muslim-arab ethnostate in Israel/Palestine is their goal and soft-hearted concepts like peace and co-existence are laughable to them. But, pish posh, facts shmackts.

3. Finally, on a post about antisemitism in the US, which is surging by every possible metric, you decided to hijack the post and make the antisemitism something righteous which is actually related to Israel-Palestine, when it is not. It's about people of every political alignment in the US and worldwide feeling more comfortable to be antisemitic, including you, and using Palestinian liberation as a comfortable guise.

That is Nazi behavior, and you can get fucked. Fuck you for proving horseshoe theory is right, so long as hating Jews is involved.

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Rye Whiskey

♢ Summary: Celebrating Sean's return to camp includes a drunk Arthur, which allows you to discover this whole new side of him. ♢Words: 2057 ♢Warnings: None except for the whole alcohol/drinking theme, basically it's just a one-shot of a fluff idea I had watching the video of drunk Arthur saying nonsense to Saddie. ♢a/n: I recommend reading it with the mindset that Arthur is in the same state as in "A Quiet Time" and listening to Rye Whiskey to put you in the mood! Wrote a little sequel for this! Read it here. ♢Credits: These gorgeous dividers are from @cafekitsune!

♪ "O Mollie O Mollie, it's for your sake alone,

That I leave my old parents, my house and my home!" ♪

Even if one didn't know Sean had returned to the gang, they could have noticed it right away hearing his cheerful singing, his thick Irish accent rolling the words even more musically. As the main entertainer of the gang, he was absolutely delighted to have a party thrown for him, and honestly, his big toothless smile made your heart feel warmer. Tonight, in the fresh air of New Hanover, it was only laughter, guitar notes, and drunken sounds that were echoing through the camp, everyone finally having a real good time since they had settled at Horseshoe Overlook after such a long period hidden in the ruthless cold of the Grizzlies.

You were sitting around one of the campfires, with Javier, Sean, Uncle, and John. Karen had also joined, gladly sitting on Sean's lap with a bottle in her hand; you were sure there was something between them, and the poor man probably deserved some sweet time after what he had been through. Talking about bottles, the floor was flooded with a large amount of them around your little singing group, almost like a big pond of green shining glass you all fed every few minutes when someone would empty one.

You had your fair share of drinks already, a slight blush burning your cheeks, the alcohol keeping you warm under the night's cold breeze and happy despite the gang's precarious situation. Funny, how whiskey would make everything easier and more entertaining, no matter who or where you were looking at.

Alright, you had to admit it, maybe you were a bit tipsy, but so were John, Javier, Sean, and Karen, their happy faces softly lit by the golden flames. But Arthur, -Oh Lord, Arthur was far beyond drunk, he was wrecked. Looking at him from where you were sitting and singing along, you could see just how much of a mess he was; at least three of his shirt's buttons were undone, said shirt opened messily; his hair scattered under his hat and looking a bit sticky, almost as if he had put his whole head into a barrel of beer; he had a constant smile on his face, and his body was swaying slightly as if he was an unstable bottle being tossed around by the waves of a tormented sea. You chuckled to yourself; he was quite a sight to see, and you wondered if you actually had ever seen him that drunk. A few weeks back, Lenny had told you about the wild night he and Arthur had at Valentine's saloon, but the man in question had slept in jail and came back to camp completely sober, which made you unable to see his incredibly drunken state and made you wonder what the hell he must have done to end up in said jail.

♪ "If the Oceans were whiskey, and I were a duck, -Quack quack !-

I'd dive to the bottom, and get one sweet sup !" ♫

You chuckled at how Arthur had added the quacking part, finding it quite endearing. It was almost as if it was a whole new side of him, and you couldn't stop watching. His deep voice sounded surprisingly good as he was singing with the others, and you caught yourself liking hearing it. After all, you always had a sweet spot for him, so you wouldn't complain about having the opportunity to look at him as much as you wanted without him noticing it (or at least, being too drunk to understand what exactly was happening). His bright blue eyes, sparkling with the orange ashes of the fire, along with his light brown hair and stubble, his black opened shirt, his thin lips curled into this big stupid smile... It was all making your heart melt more and more. You almost lost it when he started drinking again, roughly grabbing a nearby bottle, probably without even knowing what it was containing, and bringing it to his mouth, the golden liquid sliding in his throat, making his Adam's apple bob, some glistening drops of it flowing from the bottle all the way down his scarred chin, then his throat, ending up lost in the dark hairs of his chest.

You're suddenly pulled out of your starring trance by his loud voice cutting through the song's lyrics: "Lenny, mah boy! Come and sing with us."

"Arthur... You had too many drinks again..." Lenny answered with an amused giggle as he was passing behind him, catching his inebriated eldest as he had got up to greet him, but ended up stumbling on the way and almost tripped on him, it only made Arthur laugh at himself.

There was no need to specify that Lenny had trouble holding him upright, Arthur being under normal circumstances quite a weight to carry, and even more so when he was in such a state not making any effort to prevent his face from kissing the ground. Quickly, you got up yourself, and took a few steps towards the men, helping Lenny on his difficult task.

"Look who it is... Miss Y/L/N !" Arthur greeted you with foggy eyes and a wide grin as if you two hadn't seen each other for years when you had talked only a few hours ago. He instantly put one of his arms above your shoulders and the other around Lenny's. "C-come ooon, let's dance !"

Lenny sighed before laughing a bit, letting Arthur bring him into his drunken enthusiasm; you chuckled along with him, not complaining about being so close to the handsome cowboy you had your heart and eye on for a while, even if he was barely able to register what he was actually doing and with whom. As Javier started playing a lively song, Arthur, Lenny and you were throwing your legs up in the air; you laughed some more noticing how your favorite cowboy had a hard time actually following the rhythm. You couldn't believe just how euphoric he was tonight, almost as if the bottles had turned on a switch in his mind, making him go completely wild without any of his usual gruff restraints. Maybe that was what the alcohol did to everyone. Maybe that was what it was doing to you right now but you couldn't be sure if it was, precisely because you were happily drunk and carefree.

The night continued and you blushed realizing Arthur hadn't let you go, his arms always ended up around your shoulders or on it as he was sometimes leaning against you. His manly scent, a sweet mix of smoky tones brought by tobacco and gunpowder, and woody ones, supported by pine and leather traces. Your head was starting to feel dizzy just by smelling it, your mind even more intoxicated by it than the alcohol you had been drinking all night.

"Maybe..."

You brush away your thoughts, he was really drunk, and he could have been like that with anyone. You spent the rest of the night having fun, drinking some more, laughing, singing, the whole gang having more and more fun as everyone had loosened up thanks to the booze. However at some point, the main man of the party, Sean, disappeared with Karen, and people started going to bed. After all, it was almost morning already, the stars of the night not as bright anymore as they were around the middle of the night, subtle sun rays making their presence known behind the outlines of the mountains, but not appearing just yet.

It was now only you, John, and Arthur left around the campfire, the dark-haired man looking down at his brother at heart, an amused grin on his face. Arthur was half asleep at you and John's feet, bottle in one hand, his other arm curled up around your leg. With all the proximity and physical contact he had given you through the whole night, your heart and body had gotten warmer, and you had to make enormous efforts to keep your thoughts in line, not wanting to have any false hope about him and his behavior.

"He's so goddamn drunk... " John sighed.

"Clearly."

"Come on, let's carry him to bed." John said to you, getting up with difficulty from the log you both were sitting on.

"Aah, you guys are no f-fun!" Arthur protested, his voice even hoarser than usual due to his intoxicated self. "Come on, one more drink!"

"Nope, you're going to bed." John's own croaky tone answered his partner. He then looked at you while bending down, expecting you to help him lift Arthur's poor body.

You leaned over, helping John. Arthur was barely able to walk, leaning heavily on you and John, one of his arms above John's shoulder just as earlier with Lenny, but his other one around your waist. Your cheeks burned. Even if it was just drunken attention... You liked it.

The three of you started to walk to Arthur's tent, as fast as you could considering his feet were more brushing the ground than actually stepping on it. You just weren't capable of having any coherent thoughts at this point, your whole being living for the warm sensation of his big palm on your waist, feeling how his fingers were gently rubbing against your clothes.

"You two... Are the b-best..." Arthur slurred out in a rough voice when you had reached his tent. As gently as you both could, John and you were trying to lay him in his cot.

"Yeah, yeah. Goodnight, Arthur." John answered with an amused chuckle, placing one of his legs in its rightful place on his bed.

"Y/N, you're beautiful..." Arthur added in an almost unintelligible rumble, as you were pulling back from him. "I l-love you."

Your jaw dropped. What did he say? Did you hear that right? You froze, eyes glued to the outlaw, who was already turning around to sleep on his stomach, lips parted, a light snore emerging from his noose; he had instantly fallen asleep as if he had permission to now that he was in his cot.

John looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't take it seriously, Y/N." He advised you. "He already told that to Abigail and Karen before, even Saddie if I reckon right."

"Oh, erm... Alright, I won't." You answered your friend. Honestly, you probably would have slept better not knowing that; a sharp little sliver of disappointment subtly piercing through your heart. "Goodnight then, John."

"Goodnight, Y/N, thanks for the help." The scarred man greeted you before heading to his own tent. It was so late, you were sure Abigail would reprimand him for that tomorrow morning.

But that was John's problem, and you already had one yourself.

You took a last look at your sleepy cowboy before walking off to your own tent. He looked cute like this, hair messy, clothes completely disheveled; even his snoring was pretty endearing to you. You reluctantly turned your back to him, resisting the urge to actually lay with him in his cot. After all, he wouldn't have complained, wouldn't he? He probably wouldn't even have noticed... These thoughts got stuck in your brain as you lay in your own cot, pretty tired yourself after partying all night, your spirit slowly drifting away in the realm of dreams, sleep troubled by blurry visions of what had happened during the night, a beautiful, charming, stupid smile keeping on reappearing from time to time in your slumber.

Arthur opened his eyes. "It hurts"; were the first words that came to his mind. His back, his neck, his goddamn head, everything was hurting him. Getting old was definitely not a piece of cake. He rubbed his eyes, which felt dry and burnt, just like his thorny throat, even if a slight string of saliva had slid from his mouth. Getting that drunk was definitely too frequent for him lately, the other night with Lenny still engraved in his memory and his tired body, fed up with his poor drinking decisions. He slowly got up, rubbing his face, carefully avoiding his gaze from looking at the sun, its light way too powerful for him in this hungover state.

Looking around the camp, he smiled internally seeing Karen emerging from Sean's tent. Little bastard had gotten himself a good time last night. While thinking back about what happened, he had a hard time remembering all of it, as often when he was that drunk. Maybe it was better that way, considering his impressive capacity to get in trouble and make a fool of himself in those kinds of situations. However this time, something was lingering in the back of his mind.

You.

Your delicate smell, how the soft fabric of your clothes felt under his fingers, how your voice sounded into his ears, how smooth and mellow your leg was. How the hell did he knew about all that? He focused, frowning, trying so hard to remember what had happened, but all he had was these sensations, those pleasant, haunting sensations. He couldn't help but feel flustered all by himself, sat on his bed, cheeks getting slightly flushed, just imagining the reasons why he suddenly knew so much about the grain of your skin and the warmth of your body against his;

He prayed deeply he didn't do anything stupid with you; Lord knows how important you were to him. Hell, he had thought about you a lot already, thought about offering you flowers or maybe a nice jewel, something that would be as pretty as you even if to him, no physical object could ever compete with your astonishing beauty and your adorable, sweet, sunny personality.

But before all that, he needed to have a few words about last night with you. Probably would stumble on his words, look like an idiot again, but at least he would be able to be close to you, just like in those sweet lingering memories in his head.

Sequel here.

a/n : Alright so... Here it is! My first one-shot ever. Please, if you notice anything, any mistakes, or a weird-sounding sentence: let me know! English isn't my first language and I'm actually anxious as hell to publish this! Anyway, thanks for reading this until the end and take care <3

[theoutcastrogue]

Cold Iron in folklore, fiction, and RPGs

'Gold is for the mistress—silver for the maid! Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.' 'Good!' said the Baron, sitting in his hall, 'But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all!' — Rudyard Kipling, “Cold Iron”

Folklore

Drudenmesser, or "witch-knife", an apotropaic folding knife from Germany

The notion that iron (or steel) can ward against evil spirits, witches, fairies, etc is very widespread in folklore. You hang a horseshoe over your threshold to deny entry to evil spirits, you carry an iron tool with you to make sure devils won't assault you, you place a small knife under the baby's crib to ward it from witches, and so on. Iron is apotropaic in many many cultures.

In English, we often come across passages that refer to apotropaic cold iron (or cold steel). "All uncouth, unknown Wights are terrifyed by nothing earthly so much as by cold Iron", says Robert Kirk in 1691, which I believe is the earliest example. "Evil spirits cannot bear the touch of cold steel. Iron, or preferably steel, in any form is a protection", says John Gregorson Campbell in 1901.

Words

So what is cold iron? In this context, it’s just iron. The “cold” part is poetic, especially – but not only – if we’re talking about either blades (or swords, weapons, the force of arms) or manacles and the like. It just sounds more ominous. There are “cold yron chaines” in The Fairie Queene (1596), and a 1638 book of travels tells us that a Georgian general (in the Caucasus) vowed “to make the Turk to eat cold iron”.

Green’s Dictionary of Slang defines “cold iron” as a sword, and dates the term to 1698. From 1725 it appears in Cant dictionaries (could this sense be thieves’ cant, originally? why not, plenty of words and expressions started as underworld slang and then entered the mainstream), and from ~1750 its use becomes much more common.

NGram Viewer diagram for 1600-2019.

In other contexts, cold iron is (surprise!) iron that’s not hot. So let’s talk a bit about metallurgy.

Metals

In nature, we can find only one kind of iron that’s pure enough to work with: meteoritic iron. It has to literally fall from the sky. Barring that very rare occurrence, people have to mine the earth for iron ore, which is not workable as is. To separate the iron from the ore we have to smelt it, and for that we need heat, in the form of hot charcoals. Throwing the ore on the coals won’t do much of anything, it’s not hot enough. But if we enclose the coals in a little tower built of clay, leaving holes for air flow, the temperature rises enough to smelt the ore. That’s called a bloomery.

clay bloomery / medieval bloomery / beating the bloom to get rid of the slag

What comes out of the bloomery is a bloom: a porous, malleable mass of iron (that we need) and slag (byproducts that we don’t need). But now we can get rid of the slag and turn the porous mass to something solid, by hammering the hot bloom over and over. And once the slag is off, by the same process we can give it a desired shape in the forge, reheating it as needed. This is called “working” the iron, hence “wrought iron” objects, i.e. forged.

a blacksmith in his forge, with bellows, fire, and anvil (English woodcut, 1603)

This is the lowest-tech version, possibly going back to ~2000 BCE in Nigeria. If we add bellows, the improved air flow will raise the temperature. So smelting happens faster and more efficiently in the bloomery, and so does heating the iron in the forge, making it easier to work with. And that’s the standard process from the Iron Age all through the middle ages and beyond (although in China they may have skipped this stage and gone straight to the next one).

If we make the bloomery bigger and bigger, with stronger and stronger bellows, we end up with a blast furnace, a construction so efficient that the temperature outright melts the iron, and it’s liquified enough to be poured into a mould and acquire the desired shape when it cools off. This is “cast iron”.

a blast furnace

So in all of this, what’s cold iron? Well, it’s iron that went though the heat and cooled off. (No heat = no iron, all you got is ore.) If it came out of a bloomery, or if it wasn’t cast, it’s by definition worked, hammered, beaten, wrought, and that happened while it was still hot.

Is there such a thing as “cold-wrought” iron? No. In fact, “working cold iron” was a simile for something foolish or pointless. A smith who beats cold iron instead of putting it in the fire shows folly, says a 1694 book on religion, so you too should choose your best tools, piety and good decorum, to educate your children and servants, instead of beating them. When Don Quixote (1605) declares he’ll go knight-erranting again, Sancho Panza tries to dissuade him, but it’s like “preaching in the desert and hammering on cold iron” (a direct translation of martillar en hierro frío).

Minor work can be done on cold iron. A 1710 dictionary of technical terms tells us that a rivetting-hammer is “chiefly used for rivetting or setting straight cold iron, or for crooking of small work; but ’tis seldom used at the forge”. Fully fashioning an object out of cold iron is not a real process – though a 1659 History of the World would claim that in Arabia it’s so hot that “smiths work nails and horseshoes out of cold iron, softened only by the vigorous heat of the sun, and the hard hammering of hands on the anvil”. [I declare myself unqualified to judge the veracity of this statement, let's just say I have doubts.] And there is of course such a thing as “cold wrought-iron”, as in wrought iron after it’s cooled off.

Either way, in the context of pre-20th century English texts which refer to apotropaic “cold iron”, it’s definitely not “cold-wrought”, or meteoritic, or a special alloy of any kind. It’s just iron.

Fiction

The old superstition kept coming up in fantasy fiction. In 1910 Rudyard Kipling wrote the very influential short story “Cold Iron” (in the collection Rewards and Fairies), where he explains invents the details of the fairies’ aversion to iron. They can’t bewitch a child wearing boots, because the boots have nails in the soles. They can’t pass under a doorway guarded by a horseshoe, but they can slip through the backdoor that people neglected to guard. Mortals live “on the near side of Cold Iron”, because there’s iron in every house, while fairies live “on the far side of Cold Iron”, and want nothing to do with it. And changelings brought up by fairies will go back to the world of mortals as soon they touch cold iron for the first time.

In Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword (1954), we read:

“Let me tell you, boy, that you humans, weak and short-lived and unwitting, are nonetheless more strong than elves and trolls, aye, than giants and gods. And that you can touch cold iron is only one reason.”

In Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn (1968) the unicorn is imprisoned in an iron cage:

“She turned and turned in her prison, her body shrinking from the touch of the iron bars all around her. No creature of man’s night loves cold iron, and while the unicorn could endure its presence, the murderous smell of it seemed to turn her bones to sand and her blood to rain.”

Poul Anderson would come back to that idea in Operation Chaos (1971), where the worldbuilding’s premise is that magic and magical creatures have been reintroduced into the modern world, because a scientist “discovered he could degauss the effects of cold iron and release the goetic forces”. And that until then, they had been steadily declining, ever since the Iron Age came along.

There are a million examples, I’m just focusing on those that would have had a more direct influence on roleplaying games. However, I should note that all these say “cold iron” but mean “iron”. Yes, the fey call it cold, but they are a poetic bunch. You can’t expect Robin Goodfellow’s words to be pedestrian, now can you?

RPGs

And from there, fantasy roleplaying systems got the idea that Cold Iron is a special material that fey are vulnerable to. The term had been floating around since the early D&D days, but inconsistently, scattered in random sourcebooks, and not necessarily meaning anything else than iron. In 1st Edition’s Monster Manual (1977) it’s ghasts and quasits who are vulnerable to it, not any fey creature. Devils and/or fiends might dislike iron, powdered cold iron is a component in Magic Circle Against Evil, and “cold-wrought iron” makes a couple of appearances. For example, in AD&D it can strike Fool’s Gold and turn it back to its natural state, revealing the illusion.

Then Changeling: The Dreaming came along and made it a big deal, a fundamental rule, and an anathema to all fae:

Cold iron is the ultimate sign of Banality to changelings. ... Its presence makes changelings ill at ease, and cold iron weapons cause horrible, smoking wounds that rob changelings of Glamour and threaten their very existence.... The best way to think about cold iron is not as a thing, but as a process, a very low-tech process. It must be produced from iron ore over a charcoal fire. The resulting lump of black-gray material can then be forged (hammered) into useful shapes. — Changeling: The Dreaming (2nd Edition, 1997)

So now that we know how iron works, does that description make sense? Well, if we assume that the iron ore is unceremoniously dumped on coals, it does not. You can’t smelt iron like that. If we assume that a bloomery is involved even though it’s not mentioned, then yes, this is broadly speaking how iron’s been made since the Iron Age, and until blast furnaces came into the picture. But the World of Darkness isn’t a pseudo-medieval setting, it’s modern urban fantasy. So the implication here is that “cold iron” is iron made the old way: you can’t buy it in the store, someone has to replicate ye olde process and do the whole thing by hand. Now, this is NOT how the term “cold iron” has been used in real life or fiction thus far, but hey, fantasy games are allowed to invent things.

Regardless, 3.5 borrowed the idea, and for the first time D&D made this a core rule. Now most fey creatures had damage reduction and took less damage from weapons and natural attacks, unless the weapon was made of Cold Iron:

“This iron, mined deep underground, known for its effectiveness against fey creatures, is forged at a lower temperature to preserve its delicate properties.” — Player’s Handbook (3.5 Edition, 2003)

Pathfinder kept the rule, though 5e did not. And unlike Changeling, this definition left it somewhat ambiguous if we’re talking about a material with special composition (i.e. not iron) or made with a special process (i.e. iron but). The community was divided, threads were locked over this!

So until someone points me to new evidence, I’ll assume that the invention of cold iron as a special material, distinct from plain iron, should be attributed to TTRPGs.

[dutiful-wildcraft]

Pack 141 - Fae!Soap Headcanons

Tags: monster au, Fae!Soap, poly 141, sfw, fluff, general lore, Soap's mom? for a minute at least, fae lore I roughly researched.

-Soap's mother was a stubborn and superstitious woman. When her baby boy was born with a caul over his face, her heart seized with dread. She had been told stories, how it was lucky to have a child able to see beyond the veil. How the caul signified a great power, coveted by the people of the forest. Her only babe, marked as Fae. 

-They would come for her child, steal him in the night and replace him with another. And it would be a cold day in hell before Jill Mactavish let anything touch her son.

-She slept with the bundle clutched tightly in her arms, refusing to sleep until she left the hospital. Left him wrapped snugly to her front as she hammered iron railroad spikes into the corners of her property; hung horseshoes above her doors, sprinkled fine lines of salt around every doorway and window of her home. 

-She thought it had worked. At least for a while. But the Fae are persistent if nothing else. Jill began to notice strange flowers pop up around the foundation of her home, odd tapping rhythms heard in the night. Would she know? Would she know if the lamb in her arms was replaced with another?

-She was so exhausted, worn thin from paranoia. Yet Jill Mactavish was no quitter. Under the light of a pale full moon she marched to the edge of her property. Her blue eyed bundle cooing and gumming happily at his fingers as he wriggled against her chest. With a final look to the boy she faced the forest with a stern resolve, “You won't take him! But I'll share him! Leave us be or help me raise him right!” 

-The winds rustled, branches creaking ominously. Leaves gathered and spun into a tornado of color in the chill autumn air. Jill would freeze in place as the leaves fell away, revealing an ethereally beautiful creature before her. All high cheekbones and sharp eyes surrounded by inky black sclera. 

-Ordinarily the Fae would swap out changelings, snag the babe once it was the right size and replace it with one of their own. Considering the wee one was already Touched….perhaps a swap would be unnecessary.  Human mother's were coveted. The milk of human kindness and all that, and the babe was truly beautiful, destined to be strong. The fae had looked Jill up and down with a calculating look. Yes. A deal could be struck. They would raise the baby together.

-And thus Soap spent his time in equal parts amongst the Fae and humans, learning to socialize with both, though he didn't completely fitting in with either. Soap was hell on wheels. Rambunctious and equally curious, constantly nosing or getting into things he ought not have. Not that he was ostracized by either group he was just..*odd.* Unable to find his footing or close friends.

-You could say that Soap has many siblings, though this term is used liberally.  By human technicalities Soap is an only child (his mum's baby boy). His mother, through the nature of her bargain,  was brought into the fold with young John. Helping to raise and nurse her own gaggle of fae children of differing bloods. Other children Soap would call family.

-Fae don't have strict family dynamics, it's certainly a community effort to rear little ones. Fae children can be produced in a myriad of ways, with no one way being seen above another, p in v? that works. Born from a flower? Sure why not. Throw some herbs and intent together until a wailing babe sounds from the cauldron? That works too.

-Soap naturally inquired about this, as any kid would. “Ma? Did I come from a flower?” “You came from my belly wee one” Soap had squinted at her, eyeing her belly incredulously, "but how?”

-It took several conversations to get the toddler to understand that the other children in his human primary school were not in fact his brothers and sisters. 

-As humans are fascinated with the Fae, the Fae are equally as fascinated by humans. As John grew into a young man he would see the differences. The Fae courts had long fallen into a peaceful rhythm. The humans? Hardly. With a powerful knack for chaos, among other abilities. Soap threw himself into the army. Keen to help as many as he could, and perhaps even find his own way. 

-Soap is a marked child. He is more resilient on average than most Fae, and shows no obvious limitations in what disciplines he can learn. However, as marked he does have particular dispositions toward the following.

-Tongues, the ability to speak any language at will. Sometimes without thinking about it. For Soap this isn't automatic, but after a few days of listening or studying he's fluent. (Albeit with the accent). This gives Soap a peculiar edge when working with varying communities, elements, and other critters/creatures.

-Glamour, a sophisticated illusion, these may allow for invisibility or changes to appearance for a brief time (upwards to an hour but possibly longer depending on the severity of the change). Living amongst the Fae made permanent changes to his body. The sclera of his eyes had shifted inky black. His teeth and nails razor sharp. There is an ethereal beauty to all Fae as well. Naturally Soap uses this ability to cover some of the obvious issues.

-Soap knows he's distracting. He's a proud thing, and rarely bothers shifting that. He's damn good at what he does and looks damn good doing it. Hshows off his muscles/skills/looks without shame. 

-Shapeshifting, self explanatory, but only works proportionally give or take a few inches. He may take on the appearance of another person or creature, briefly. But once again, only appearance. Mimicking voices is another skill.

-Sight or Clairvoyance, this ability's range depends on the court or bloodline. In Soap's case, his visions will occasionally come to him in dreams, these being more sophisticated visions or events far in the future. These visions are generally more detailed.  He is typically privy to smaller prophecies,  glimpses of events happening minutes before him. These are typically vague, but have consistently been enough to save his and his teammates asses numerous times in the field.  The Infamous Mactavish Intuition ;)

-Soap is one hell of an alchemist, and can make due with most natural items at his disposal. Poisons, potions, explosives, you name it, Soap can make it. He excelled remarkably in the maths and sciences in school, and it’s why he was also quickly assigned to demolitions so long ago. 

-Soap has a very noticeable smell. One that isn't exclusively detected by other supernatural beings. Any human standing beside him would notice it. Lemon and shortbread, with a warm curl of rose.  Clean, green and vaguely sweet. People wonder if his callsign was from this fact rather than his prowess on the field.

-Nudity has no taboo with the Fae. Raised as such, the man has literally no shame. Soap Mactavish has been naked since he was a child in the woods, and will continue to proudly do so. Does not understand why everyone else is so uptight about it. Will bust in on someone in the shower without a second thought. “Stop screamin’ it’s just me”

-Fae are very partial to music, and Soap is no exception. He is so easily captivated by the sound, swaying slightly, almost as if hypnotized. Soap isn’t as in tune with artists and genres as Gaz is, but he keeps a hoard of songs on his phone. Gaz is his main contributor, keeps him well fed with playlists he makes. Playing new records for Soap as they bop around the kitchen together, playfully dancing or headbanging together.  Soap was once pretty proficient with piano and guitar at his mam’s encouragement. His singing however, nearly got him killed in basic. 

-Many animals are the watchdogs of the Fae. Soap has been seen having conversations with himself, unknowing to onlookers that a little frog or squirrel was sitting beside him. Someone swears they saw a mouse crawl out of his tac vest once. He whistles with the birds, scoops up bugs and plops them back into the weeds.  He unfortunately doesn’t know the language of the shower spider. He doesn't bother to learn, he thinks he prefers the silence in this instance. 

-Soap can be attracted with a myriad of things just like any other fae. Music as mentioned above is one. He is also partial to pretty chimes and bells, running water, shiny and/or colorful displays, as well as anything sweet, candies or sweet creams/milks/liquors.

- Too much contact with iron on his bare skin will poison him.  Fortunately most weaponry constructed now is made of more synthetic material. It can be noticed that Soap is very particular about his gloves, and is rarely seen without them on. Iron on properties or above doors won’t exactly stop him, but it is incredibly uncomfortable and will lead to sickness if he is trapped within such a ward for too long. 

-Fae, like crows, are enamored with jewels and other shiny objects, less of a weakness really and more of a distraction. Soap, prior to his enlistment had several piercings, such as his ears, and brow…among other things. He was very fond of the adornments, and easily captivated by the shiny displays on others. (This also extends to his intense love of blowing shit up and watching the sparks fly, big ole hearts in his eyes as the colors dance)  In the event the team goes out for something special Soap will throw on a few pieces for fun~ 

-Soap can not lie, at least not directly, however Soap is a very sharp lad, and has learned to cleverly navigate around this by either not telling the whole truth, letting others assume, or simply not correcting misconceptions. He is a Fae afterall, being clever is his specialty.

-Customs of love and marriage vary among the Fae. Many Fae interpret strong love as variations of servitude, especially towards human mates.  Soap has gotten himself tangled between both of these versions of love. For Soap love is servitude. Not something to be expected of his lovers, but from him. Soap gives himself to his lovers willingly, He wants to be good, give them anything they want and let them take what they need. Love is worship, and Soap is a very devoted man.

-Soap and Gaz had bro’d up as soon as they spotted each other. Having seen through each other's glamours, they became fast friends. Two oddballs fighting side by side. Which would turn into playful banter, and kips on the helo leaning against one another. Then to wandering hands and desperate kisses, having found comfort and fondness in each other after years of hiding themselves among humans. Soap and Gaz are the most cuddly. Johnny likes to lay sprawled in his Sphinx’s nest, his arms curled around his middle, face buried against Gaz's stomach. Both of them absolutely hate to sleep alone. 

- Soap had a knack for getting into trouble. Disregarding orders to do what needed to be done. Had nearly been kicked out had his skills not saved his skin (and countless others). It was Price who sniffed him out, offered to take the man on loan for a bit. Soap's former CO was happy to be rid of him and hopeful that the notoriously stern Captain would knock some sense into him. Price, however had no such plans, he cut Soap loose, full authority, and watched the man bloom. Price did not anger at Soap’s decisions, didn’t flinch at his savagery in the field. In fact, Price had looked upon him with fondness (and a fair amount of exasperation). He kept Soap warm with lovely praises and a regular morning coffee, plus a heavy splash of sweet cream, for good measure.

-Simon had been more difficult, adamant on giving the Fae a hard time. Having seemingly been put off by Soap ever since he bounded off the truck and fist-bumped his arm on the tarmac. But Soap was determined, chatting and teasing, unphased by the lieutenants' icey behavior. They fell together in no time. Soap nestled to his chest, lips brushing over Simon's slow beating heart. Soap would never admit it. Never admit that he knew it would be like this all along. That Soap had seen him in his dreams.

[sushisocks]

Thinking about Lenny and Sean.

Thinking about how Sean, representing the liveliness and optimism of the gang, has to be unavailable in Colter, just so that we, upon arrival in Horseshoe & his return to the gang, can really remember Colter as a dour opposition to the light, fun, easiness that is Horseshoe Overlook.

Thinking about how Sean is the last to be introduced and the first to die; how he HAS to be the first to die, as the most light-hearted, easy-going, fun-loving one of them. Every camp after Clemens Point is decidedly more dour, less light, mirroring what they have lost with his death. Even the two parties are noticably different, from Sean's party in Horseshoe being genuinely fun and full of hope, to Jack's party, while starting as well as one could hope, being marred by anger and sorrow; fights, and sadness, and quiet. It ends in a storm which cuts the party off; sends everyone inside and to bed, where Sean literally stays up singing and drinking until light. The game is telling us that things are no longer the same, through the environment. Things have changed, irrevocably, and they will only get worse from here on out.

Sean dies at the game's halfway point; end of chapter 3 of 6. He is the first to die of the gang members we truly get to know. It is surprising and jarring and grotesque. The effect is IMMEDIATE, although subtle, but absolutely there. Sean dies, and the dread starts creeping in. His death is the underlining of Arthur's kidnapping; Arthur might be fine for now but that doesn't mean things aren't getting worse.

Then Lenny, who alongside Jack represents the future, and the gang's hope. Note how they're both acknowledged as exceedingly smart; Jack for his age, and Lenny just in general (though he is also young by everyone's standards), and that Hosea is fond of both of them. The critical difference is that Jack represents youthful innocence in a way Lenny doesn't; Lenny is fully aware of what the gang is, what it does, and why it exists. He is seen talking about and understanding the societal factors that have led him to this way of life; specifically pointing out the impact of slavery and its abolishment on his quality of life as a black man.

Lenny is the only one who can be seen challenging Dutch at an intellectual level. Lenny dies, and there's little rationale left in the gang. And we are immediately treated to watching the start of Dutch's more rapid decline in Guarma. Lenny is buried next to Hosea, the (arguably) oldest gang member, with the most experience to guide them. There goes the future and past of the gang; the only voices which arguably could've made a difference.

He is also, notably, the only death who is not given a cutscene. Blink and it's done, and you're left in shock and disbelief, watching Arthur stay until the last second to not let the youngest member of the gang die alone.

So what's my point here? Well, I think it's worth pointing out that these two, alongside Molly, are the ending notes of chapter 3,4, and 5, all setting the tone for the chapter to come. Each signify the further detoriation of the gang -- they lose something with each death; a life and gun, sure, but also what that person in part represented. Optimism, reasonability, compassion. And each death is brutal; sudden; jarring, in distinct ways. Then, at last, Arthur is the final death, at the end of chapter 6. The gang is already done, by that point.

I also in part think it's interesting that part of the reason Sean and Lenny die is their own flaws. Sean's easy-going inattentive nature leaves him wide open, too busy making a quick-witted quip to keep an eye out -- even when Arthur, the most senior member among them, makes it clear something is wrong, which SHOULD put one on guard in that situation. Lenny, who believes himself lucky and intelligent, also has a sense of arrogance and recklessness which has him running headfirst into danger without looking.

I love them a lot, but I think their survival inherently would mean a very different story from the one RDR2 is. Also think they absolutely would have sided with Arthur in the end, but those are both completely different rants I'll save for another time :'^)