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mypoisonedvine · 4 months ago

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𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱𝔰 (part III) | frater imperator x reader

(part I) (part II)

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶 | your first trip together ends on a sour note as some of your suppressed concerns about your relationship begin to show, but a delayed wedding reception might turn it all around.

𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 | 6.7k (fucking hell)

𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 | jealousy/insecurity, MORE heathers references for some reason???, alcohol consumption/slight intoxication, nothing too bad but I swear the slowburn is almost... burnt, or whatever just bear with me

The next day of your visit to Brussels was mostly boring meetings; you almost wanted to ask him why you both had to travel all this way to do the same things you always did, but ultimately you did understand the value of this trip even if it wasn’t especially exciting. And though you weren’t really capable of assisting with any of the business side of things, you figured out after a while that you were mainly here just to be here— because it would be weird if you weren’t. Because it would be, for lack of a better word, suspicious if a newly-married couple were traveling separately.

So, you were here, sitting beside him as he and the clergy of the local church discussed various important topics— mission work, ministry, how best to spread the message of Satan and bring in the age of the antichrist… you know, the usual.

His hand rested on your leg again— maybe a little higher than before? You weren't certain, but it made you smile to yourself as you tuned out the boring conversation going on around you.

You glanced down at the leather-covered hand by your knee, his fingers moving slightly; the silver grucifix embossed on the back shined in this light. Absent-mindedly, you traced it with one finger, not even noticing that it made him look over at you— not even really appreciating that his hand was still under there, and could probably feel you drawing shapes over his skin.

“Frater,” a clergyman interjected sternly, “do you have a response?”

You'd both totally zoned out, and were quickly brought back to reality; Copia jolted in his chair and cleared his throat as he sat up straighter. Worst of all, he took his hand off your leg to clasp them both together in his lap. “I-I’m sorry?” he coughed. “I fear I lost my train of thought, could you repeat the question?”

“Don’t ask Frater Imperator so many complex things so early in the morning,” Comis scolded his fellow cardinal, “he didn’t get much sleep last night— non?”

He wore a lopsided grin as he playfully elbowed Copia in the side, who nervously reached up to run his fingers through his hair. “Oh, well— eh— I just lost focus for a moment, is all…”

“Sure,” Comis agreed sarcastically. “Maybe we should take a break, anyhow. Give us all a chance to stretch our legs.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed quickly, mainly just jumping on any chance to get out of this stuffy room and personal conversation.

The meeting room had a sort of lobby outside— or maybe it would be called a parlour? A sitting room? You weren’t really sure, but it was fancy; there was tea and little cakes and things, the whole place was so detail-oriented like that.

Copia was busy making small talk with some clergymen and women, while you were nursing a cup of lemon-water just to have something to do with your hands.

You heard someone coming up the stairs but didn’t think much of it at first. “Sister Imperator,” a Sister greeted you— though you didn’t really process it until she reached out and touched your shoulder, making you turn around.

“Consortia,” you added once you realized she was addressing you. “Sister Imperator Consortia. Sister Imperator was my mother-in-law.”

“Oh, yes— I’m so sorry for your loss,” she offered gently.

You realized they were under the assumption that you knew her much better— maybe you would’ve if you’d been dating Copia before marrying him like, you know, most people do. Instead of trying to explain, you just accepted her sympathies with a nod; it was a loss, after all, just not as personal as she might’ve imagined.

“I thought you might want to visit our convent,” she suggested.

“O-oh, um,” you stalled, nervously glancing over your shoulder at Copia as he sipped on a glass of water, “I—”

“He’ll be just fine,” she promised, leaning into you and lowering her voice. “He knows meetings like the back of his hand.”

And he’ll probably fare better without me touching the back of his hand…

Nodding in agreement, you slipped out of the sitting room and followed her.

The woman introduced herself as Sister Nomina and guided you through the winding halls— Cardinal Comis had shown you the wing that housed the convent the night before on his tour, so you knew where it was, but you hadn’t been inside yet.

“We keep a garden,” Sister Nomina explained, “and we have some outreach programs— an orphanage, a literacy program. But nothing compared to what your church is doing!”

“Oh, yes,” you replied, “I suppose our reputation precedes us…”

“It must be very exhilarating, being in the Church of Ghost,” she presumed with a wide smile.

“Well, I wish I could take more credit for all the work that's been done,” you

The two of you arrived at the convent; visually it was similar to the one you'd been living in up until recently, but the inhabitants were quite different. For one, they dressed a bit differently, and seemed to be more lenient with uniform (Sister Imperator would've never let that fly back home…). And for another thing, they were much more excited to see you than anybody in your convent would've been on any given day.

Actually, a group of nuns flocking to you excited reminded you of that day of the fateful clergy meeting— it felt like a lifetime ago already.

“Ladies, Sister Imperator Consortia from Linkoping,” Nomina introduced you to the group of women surrounding you, before reversing to introducing all of them to you. “Sisters Mila, Lascivia, Camille, Perita, and Triette.”

“Lovely to meet you all,” you nodded, smiling warmly.

“Give her some room, ladies, please!“ Nomina scolded gently, shooing them back with her hands until they took a few steps away from you. Admittedly, you appreciated the extra breathing room.

“Everybody's been looking forward to your visit immensely,” Nomina justified. “I hope you don't mind answering a few of their questions.”

“Of course not!”

Sister Camille piped up quickly: “As Sister Imperator Consortia, what responsibilities do you have?”

“W-well, I'm not qualified to serve on the clergy,” you explained, “because I wasn't nominated by the clergy— I was nominated, well, by my husband. So, mainly my job is to support him…”

“Did you grow up in the church?” Sister Perita asked politely.

“Well, yes and no,” you replied. “I wasn’t raised a Satanist, so not in the traditional sense— but I ran away to join the church when I was still just a teenager… ever since then, up until rather recently, I was living in convents much like this one.”

That seemed to surprise Sister Triette. “You really were another Sister of Sin, just like us?” she observed.

It wasn’t until then that you realized they didn't just find you interesting, but that they looked up to you— a role model of sorts, a Sister like them who was perceived as achieving some kind of greatness; it was sweet, even if you felt their admiration was misplaced. “Yes, I was,” you nodded.

“Did you work closely with the Papa?” Sister Mila asked.

“No, my role mostly involved stewardship, administration, occasional gardening—”

That seemed to confuse them. “So, then, how'd you fall in love?” Sister Perita wondered.

Your eyes widened; maybe you should've seen some of these questions coming and had answers prepared, but you were completely caught off-guard in that moment. “O-oh, um, it's not a very interesting story…”

“No no, please! We've all been dying to know since we heard you two were coming!” Camille insisted.

The Sisters leaned in excitedly in anticipation; you hadn't realized the news of your marriage had so much impact. Then again, Copia was technically a celebrity— you just weren't used to his popularity outside of your own church. “You're not all just trying to get pointers to seducing clergy so you can get a promotion, right?” you wondered with a frown.

“No! We just want to hear how you two met,” Perita explained, “and how you realized you loved each other— and how he proposed!”

They all clapped and giggled excitedly, but all you could manage was a nervous grin. The real story was definitely not going to satisfy them; you felt guilty imagining disappointing them with some clinical explanation of it all. “W-well, how we met is sort of… obvious, I guess. We met in Mass, when he was the Papa— he served me communion. I didn't know him as a cardinal, I hadn't moved to his church yet, but he… well, I was pretty intimidated by him. You can't blame me— it's the Papa, after all…”

Up until then, you had told the truth— but you started, for lack of a better term, winging it at that point.

“The first time we spoke— it was an unexpected thing, you see. We bumped into each other, literally; I wasn't paying attention and he was rushing to get to a clergy meeting— I helped him pick up some books he’d dropped.”

Clichéd? Absolutely, but you felt like that was ultimately what they wanted to here: a too-good-to-be-true story about how an ordinary Sister was swept off her feet by such an important man. Why the Papa would be running around carrying a stack of books is an absurd question for another day…

“We got to talking… we had more in common than we expected. We bonded over—” you fought back a smirk as you figured out an easy lie— “slushies, actually. He said that traveling with the band meant hardly ever being in the same place, but that there was almost always a convenience store with slushies wherever he was. They became a comfort, I suppose.”

You decided not to go on and say that the two of you had played strip croquet together… probably too obvious of a reference.

“We were just friends for some time, but eventually we started to grow real feelings for each other,” you concluded simply.

They broke out into a collective aww; “What's he like? You know, when he's not in front of so many people.”

“Um… he's not that different, I guess,” you mumbled, “maybe not as dramatic. But he's so sensitive, too, and gentle…”

“I’ve always thought he would be that way,” Sister Lascivia agreed, “but intense, too, you know— like, dominating.”

You choked on your own throat for a second. Why were you thinking about him at all? “U-um, what makes you say that?” you wondered.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, biting back a grin, “he just seems that way.”

“Y-you mean, on stage?” you pressed, but the line of questioning shifted suddenly when Sister Perita interrupted.

“And the proposal? It must have been some fantastic gesture!” she assumed. “Only fitting for a rockstar, right?”

“You’d think, but he doesn't really act like that… he's so humble. Actually, it was very intimate,” you decided. “He knows I can get a little overwhelmed with those big crowds, so instead we went out in a— um, little rowboat onto the lake nearby our church, right around sunset, and watched the stars come out… he played a little guitar for me, just to be nice because he knows I love how he plays— and then under the full moon, he told me that, uh…”

Why was your heart racing? Why could you picture it so clearly in your mind, as if you weren’t just making it all up as you went along?

“That meeting me had made his heart whole,” you concluded. “That he couldn't go on unless he knew we were going to spend the rest of our lives together… and he showed me the ring and— and, you know, all that. Of course, I said yes right away.”

“Oh wow,” Sister Mila cooed— she looked as close to having heart-shaped irises as you’d ever seen anyone in real life.

But of course, another had to chime in as well: “And you don't get jealous, knowing how popular he is? Plenty of people would kill for your spot, you know.”

You willed your eye not to twitch. “He's, um… he's never given me any reason to be jealous,” He's loyal, he always has been, even when we were just dating. B-but we didn't date very long before we married…”

You realized you couldn’t retroactively ascribe some kind of fidelity to him— after all, he’d been a rockstar (as Perita had put it) on tour…

And he’d been to this church before. Your heart almost stopped as the sick thought entered your mind that he could’ve, potentially, hooked up with any of the people in this room; certainly Sister Lascivia would’ve probably jumped him if she got the chance, but she was far from the only candidate. Come on, he was Papa fucking Emeritus the fucking IV, he had his pick of the litter if he so desired.

You knew it shouldn’t make any difference to you, you knew it was none of your business and you had no right to worry about it— but just the idea of him with one of them— with anyone—

“I guess he married you so quickly because he loves you so much,” Sister Nomina smiled.

You smiled back, even if you felt like you were still trying to keep bile down. “Yes, I guess so.”

“And now you’re married to the head of the clergy; it’s like a fairytale or something!” Sister Mila beamed, clutching her hands together.

What kind of fairytales is this girl reading? “It all really has nothing to do with his status— Frater, Papa, Cardinal, he could be a janitor for all I care,” you assured her. “I married him because he's the most patient, talented, generous man—”

You noticed the way many of them seemed to straighten up suddenly, the way Sister Perita’s eyes widened, and you spun over your shoulder to see Copia sauntering up behind you. He had a good poker face, but there was an obvious smugness to it. “What’s that they say? Speak of the devil?” he mused as he leaned against the doorway.

“Oh, hello… dear,” you blurted out— seems you’d used up all your creativity on that fake meet-cute and proposal, didn’t have any left for a good term of endearment.

“You’re not telling stories again, are you?” he asked, approaching you slowly, the slightest swagger in his step.

“Everyone’s very curious about you,” you explained.

“No, I don’t think so,” he denied, “they already know about me— they’re curious about us.”

Us sounded so nice when he said it like that. He touched your shoulder for a moment, sliding his hand down to clasp at your upper arm. Paradoxically, he acted more confident with an audience; you couldn’t tell if this was for your benefit, or theirs.

“Don’t go running off without me, hm?” he scolded sweetly.

“Yes, Frater,” you answered politely, wondering afterwards if it was too formal.

It didn’t seem to deter him: he brought his hand to your chin and held it delicately, keeping your head tilted up towards him. “I worry when I lose sight of you,” he explained. “We have to get ready for Mass soon, will you meet me at the chancel before the service begins?”

“Of course,” you agreed, smiling a little as he looked down at you so… lovingly? Could that be the word?

You wondered if he would kiss you right then— you hadn’t kissed in public since your first kiss, and you thought you wanted to keep it that way… but wouldn’t it be a little fun, to show him off just a bit in front of these ladies? Wouldn’t it be the best way to rub it in that he chose you?

Instead he only stroked your jaw with his thumb for a second, before letting go of you and stepping back. He gave only one moment of attention to the women around you— with a quick bow of greeting and a polite “Sisters” — before spinning on his heel and departing.

You pressed your lips together and kept your eyes on the door even after he was gone; there was a heavy silence until the echoes of his steps down the hall faded. Then they all broke into the squealy, girlish reactions you were expecting.

“Great Belial below!” “He’s so sensual!” “You can tell he’s completely enamoured with you!”

“O-oh, enamoured?” you repeated sheepishly. “I don’t know, he’s just— like that…”

But your face warmed and you had to reach up to partially cover it with your hand— you didn’t want them to see your growing smile, in case someone asked why you were so giddy over a small interaction with your own husband.

You departed from the convent not too long after that, knowing you didn’t have much time before Mass began and wanting to give yourself time to navigate to the chapel. A walk through the church alone would’ve been a nice opportunity to clear your head, if your head was actually capable of clearing— but no, instead it was swirling with memories. Memories all the way back as that first time he served you the body and blood, when he’d apparently taken an interest in you which eventually lead to this; memories as recent as the way he’d touched you just before.

Did it still make you feel a little nauseous knowing Sister Lascivia— and likely tens of thousands of other people— were somewhere out there thinking about how dominating he must be? Yes, but you also felt a little proud of yourself… because that’s all they had, their thoughts. You actually had a shot at finding out for yourself.

If you ever found the nerve, that is; regardless, you tried to push that thought process aside and actually listen to the priest as he officiated Mass that evening. Of course, you really weren’t able to do that until being mentioned by name got your attention.

“And we have some visitors this Mass!” the priest announced. “Frater Imperator and Sister Imperator Consortia—they’ve come all the way from the church of Ghost in Sweden! Give them a warm welcome, will you?”

As the congregation applauded, Copia stood up; you followed suit quickly, getting a good look at the sea of people in pews all looking at you both. You hadn’t seen a crowd like this since your wedding.

Your smile was genuine but flustered when Copia placed his decorated hand on your shoulder; it already made your heart tremble when he did it in front of a few Sisters of Sin, this was on a whole new level. He guided you a little closer to him, tucking you into his side, and you looked out over the massive crowd before glancing at the glove on your shoulder— namely, the wedding ring on it.

Then you looked at his face, at how polite and distinguished he looked standing before all these people. “What do I do?” you asked your husband in a whisper.

“Hm?” he pressed, only briefly glancing at you.

“With all this attention,” you clarified, “what am I meant to do?”

“Just smile,” he encouraged. “All they want is to see you. Just give them a smile, maybe a little wave if you’re feeling generous.”

He was a showman, he knew what he was doing— you tried to copy him, with moderate success. It was comforting, somehow, to see him in his element. Unfortunately, how comfortable he was here only served as kindling for the flame of insecurity in the back of your mind. Because he’s him, and you’re just… you.

And there in that sea of congregation members were plenty of those people you’d had mentioned to you before: the ones who would kill to have your spot.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he grinned as he took his seat across from you on the jet once again— it felt like so much had happened since the last time you were here. “You shouldn’t be so adverse to social engagements, you’re a natural.”

“No, definitely not,” you laughed a bit, “but I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would. You made it easier for me.”

“They love you already, darling,” he promised, and the casual affectionate name made you smile even more, though you tried to hide it from him. “So does everyone back at our church— anyone who knows you would, really.”

Your heart swelled, but you just hummed and looked away in lieu of responding.

Of course, as soon as your heart was happy, your brain had to pop in and ruin it: that smile on Sister Lascivia’s face, the way she was so clearly picturing your husband in some kind of compromising way. And the horrible, sick idea that maybe she didn’t have to just imagine it.

Copia was already prepared for a quiet flight— he had his legs crossed and a book open in his lap, his chin resting on one of his hands as he read. You looked at him for a moment, appreciating how calm he seemed to always be; sometimes it was hard to believe he was the same man with that rockstar reputation, but you knew it was too naive to assume just because he could be quiet that he must not have lived to the fullest in his time as the Papa.

You managed to distract yourself by watching out the window as the jet took off, but once you were high enough to break through the clouds, the view was basically just white light and was not nearly interesting enough to keep your mind occupied.

It shouldn’t have even mattered! So what if he was a bit more intimately acquainted with someone you’d met on that trip? It didn’t make any difference now. Yet, it was all you could think of, and even knowing it would only bring you pain, you compared yourself to her— she was quite pretty, after all, even with that habit covering up most of her. Maybe she was more his type… maybe she was exactly his type.

By that point you’d basically convinced yourself it was true, without any evidence at all.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, but for some reason you couldn’t seem to hold back the words forming there. “Do you know any of the Sisters there?” you heard yourself ask before you could stop yourself. “I-I mean, did you know any of them before today...”

“Eh… no, I don’t think so,” he mumbled.

“But you’ve been to the church before,” you recalled, “you know Comis.”

“Well, yes, he’s their main ambassador— Sisters come and go, you know.”

You nodded, and he looked back down at his book. You let the moment rest for a few seconds that felt like an eternity. “It’s just that—”

He sighed a little and shut his book.

“They seemed to be so fascinated by you,” you explained. “I think you had quite a few fans there.”

“Fans? You mean, the band?” he raised an eyebrow, and you nodded. “Then that’s not me, is it? I just sang for a while— I’m interchangeable, by design.”

“But still— you were, are, so popular.”

“Eh… if you say so…”

“Come on,” you tilted your head, a bit of frustration leaking into your tone, “don’t be like that— you know what you’re doing.”

He looked a little confused, if not almost hurt by the implied accusation of deceitfulness. “What are you asking me about?” he pressed, narrowing his eyes.

“Did you fuck any of them?”

Your eyes widened when you heard yourself say it— you really couldn’t believe you’d just word-vomited it out like that. He seemed a little shocked, too, but much more amused than anything. You didn’t like it at all, the way he smiled; it made you feel even more stupid for asking it, for thinking it even.

“I’m sorry,” you said instantly, “I shouldn’t have—” I shouldn’t have started this conversation while we’re trapped together for four hours, for one thing— “it’s not my place. Forget I asked, it doesn’t matter.”

“Now now,” he cooed, “if it concerns you, then it matters.”

He was teasing you— dangling it in front of you. “It doesn’t concern me,” you assured, “in every sense of the word— it’s none of my concern.”

“You look concerned.”

“Yes, but… that's my problem, not yours.”

He sighed, looking at you as if he were a little disappointed for some reason. “Do you remember our vows, tesoro?”

You swallowed thickly. Not really, I'm pretty sure I was in the middle of an anxiety-induced blackout. “Uh…” you stalled.

“We agreed to care for each other, to share our hearts forever,” he reminded you. “That means that if something upsets you, then it upsets me. Even if you think it's silly— and from what I can tell, it's not.”

“Of course it is,” you rolled your eyes. “It's silly to ask a famous musician if he slept with any fans— of course you did.”

“I did,” he admitted, “but surely not with the frequency you're imagining. And not with anyone in Brussels, if that's any comfort.”

You crossed your arms over yourself self-consciously, looking out the window even though the cloudy scenery hadn't changed much.

“Of course I've had lovers before— you have too, I know. I hope we won't hold that against each other.”

“Yes, of course,” you sighed. “Obviously I never expected, or even wanted, either of us to be virginal or something, Satan forbid. And there's nothing wrong with you meeting women on the road, either… it's just… is it wrong that thinking about it makes me kind of want to strangle someone?”

He laughed; “No,” he assured, “I don't think so.”

Unfortunately, he was right— that talking about it made you feel a little better.

“Is it wrong that I think you're especially sexy when you're jealous?”

Your throat caught and you looked away from him quickly, holding your face in your hand as an excuse to cover it, but he obviously noticed the way you crossed your legs tightly. His eyes raked over you, you could feel it somehow even when you were refusing to actually look back at him.

“I don’t think you have much right to be so shy, after asking me such personal questions,” he purred.

“I-I’m not being shy,” you denied in a mumble, “I just didn’t expect you to say that.”

“I hope it doesn’t offend you—”

“No! No,” you assured quickly, letting go of your heated face to look down into your lap. “You’re being sweet, thank you.”

“It’s only the truth,” he insisted. “Let’s always tell each other that, alright? Just the truth.”

You nodded in agreement, finding the strength to meet his gaze again; the look in his eyes was just like the one he’d had when he found you in the convent. It must not have been just for show, then…

“Promise you’ll get some rest while we fly,” he sighed, “we won’t be landing until the late evening and we have quite a day ahead tomorrow.”

You only remembered it right then: your wedding reception. As if you hadn’t had enough excitement for a lifetime in this week already.

It was a unique reception in a number of ways, probably too many to count. First of all, most receptions happen right after the wedding, of course— but late night Masses left little time for that. Secondly, receptions usually have speeches and sentimental things for the families of the betrothed; while Copia’s family of phantasms were in attendance, they didn’t have much to say, and what could they say? They didn’t even know you. So, instead, your reception was much more of the good stuff: dancing, eating, drinking, and good old-fashioned partying.

And then there was, you know, the demonic statues and sacrifices. But that, to you, wasn’t so out of the ordinary.

You were seated at the head table with him, watching the crowd in all their merriment, feeling an odd sense of pride— of responsibility for all this joy. It wasn’t like you’d planned this, it was a gift from the clergy who had done the work of putting it together, but technically you were half of what was being celebrated.

Maybe it was just appreciation for home, after your trip to Brussels. It was always nice to see familiar faces filled with joy.

He leaned in closer to you so you could hear him over the music as he spoke, and you felt his breath on your shoulder. “I'm sorry we didn't have time for this sooner,” he said.

“Oh! I wouldn't have known what to do if we'd done it any sooner,” you admitted with a laugh. Not that you especially knew what to do now— but you at least, by now, knew how to fake knowing what to do.

“And I’m sorry we couldn’t do something a little more traditional,” he added.

“Traditional?” you repeated with a laugh.

“What’s that American thing, where they feed each other the wedding cake?” he raised an eyebrow. “Maybe we should have done that… I’ve always thought it looked sweet.”

You had no idea he had any opinions about things like that; it was endearing to imagine he ended up watching wedding videos at some point and wanted something like that for himself. “Well, we can still do that another time,” you offered, “when there aren’t so many people watching.”

Again, you didn’t quite put together how that sounded until he cleared his throat and his cheeks pinkened at bit; of course it sounded suggestive when you phrased it like that, how could you have not seen that coming?!

Before you could correct yourself, though— or decide if you actually did need to correct anything— the ghouls on the chancel began playing a familiar song.

It didn’t sound the same, of course, with another singer filling in, but you could so easily hear Copia’s voice in those words: You'll soon be hearing the chime, close to midnight…

He stood up suddenly, and you looked up at him. “May I have this dance, cara mia?” he asked with an extended hand.

You took it with a smile; “I think one of the privileges of marriage is that you don't have to ask me that.”

Guiding you to the dancefloor, it felt like one of those movie scenes with the way the crowd parted for you on their own. Was there a spotlight on you or was that just your imagination?

One of the few things you'd known about him before marrying him was that he was quite a dancer— what you hadn't known until now was how much you enjoyed dancing. He made it easy, guiding you through the moves so well that people would probably think you had more experience than you did.

You had every right to be nervous, and you were, but for the first time it felt sort of… good? Surely the alcohol in your system was aiding you, but it wasn’t just that. Your heart was racing but you didn’t feel the urge to run and hide; he was smiling at you, he was pulling you closer, and for just a few moments you were suddenly fearless.

I just wanna be, wanna bewitch you in the moonlight

I just wanna be, wanna bewitch you all night

He spun and dipped you, making you laugh with exhilaration. When he pulled you back up, the look in his eyes almost took your breath away… so determined, yet romantic and vulnerable. A look you felt like only he could pull off.

If the song’s lyrics were some sort of manifestation, then it was working: you were totally bewitched by him. It was just the two of you and the music playing, it was just his hands holding and guiding you, it was just this perfect moment that you could hardly believe was happening to you. Weren’t you just an ordinary Sister this time two weeks ago?

You knew when the song was nearly over, and when he spun you one more time and pulled you into him, your hand came up to the side of his face, your leg lifted to slightly straddle his side… your eyes drifted down to his lips.

Just one more split-second and you would’ve kissed him. Not just any kiss, you would’ve kissed him like you never had before— like nobody ever had before.

But the crowd of people around you instead began to proudly clap and cheer, and it tore you out of the moment; honestly, you’d sort of forgotten you were surrounded by all the guests. You looked away from Copia and smiled at the people who had watched you dance, hardly even noticing that he never stopped looking at you.

It went by too quickly— not just the song but the whole night. All too soon, you were back in your room; ears still ringing, heart still thumping, and (less enjoyably) feet still a little bit sore from dancing in new shoes despite having changed into your night clothes and comfy socks already.

As Copia walked to his side of the bed in his own signature embroidered pyjamas, you fell back on the bed limply, laying your arms out wide and staring up at the ceiling with a sigh— a happy sigh of course, a does this night really have to end? sigh. “That was wonderful,” you announced with a beaming smile. “I didn't think I'd enjoy it so much, but it was perfect.”

“I hoped you would,” Copia agreed. “You've seemed so tense— I'm not sure I ever saw you looking so relaxed, and joyful… you look so beautiful that way.”

“Y-you don't have to flatter me,” you mumbled, pulling your arms back in towards yourself as tilted your head back to look at him— upside down, but still at him.

“Of course, I never would,” he assured, laying down carefully on the bed beside you. “It's just the truth. I bet everyone was as taken with you as I was… but only I got to dance with you.”

You smiled a little more softly, admiring how sweet he could be— a side of him you felt privileged to see so close. You wanted to say something, but you really had no idea how to respond to a statement like that, or even how to just take the compliment.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked quietly.

“O-of course,” you answered, “you can tell me anything.”

“I-I'm a little embarrassed,” he admitted with a soft laugh, “but I… I've seen Heathers.”

You tilted your head, laughing in confusion.

“I don't know why I lied to you before,” he shook his head, “I know it quite well— I saw it in theaters when it was released! I just— I thought— I'm not sure. I guess I liked you explaining it to me.”

Your heart jumped, and you looked down at the bed under you sheepishly, as if your finger tracing the pattern on the quilt was fascinating all of a sudden.

“I wanted to give you an excuse to talk to me,” he added.

“You… you could've just… talked,” you told him quietly. “It wasn't like I would've ignored you.”

“Yes, I know,” he sighed, “but the moment never felt right.”

“How does the moment feel now?” you asked shyly.

“Oh, tesoro, everything about tonight feels perfect.”

Your heart skipped a beat; everything?

You wondered, of course, if he would try something again; it was hard not to imagine that, since this was such a similar set of circumstances to that very first night. But it felt so different, too— it felt less terrifying, for one thing, and less confusing.

But instead of letting yourself wonder about that for too long— afraid he’d somehow see it on your face, and know what you were picturing— you sat up a little bit and propped yourself up on your elbows.

“I asked why you chose me already,” you began, “but I never asked the bigger question, did I? That is, why you got married at all.”

He sighed shortly before he answered. “My mother, she asked me to get married. At first, I thought it was just the will of the clergy. I understand now it was much more than that.”

“She wanted you to be happy,” you assumed.

“Yes, yes…” he trailed off, looking to the side. “She knew I didn't want to be alone anymore.”

Your heart twisted a little; “I figure the Papa himself never has to be alone,” you mumbled through a sheepish smile. “You could take anyone to bed you wanted, a new companion every night.”

He chuckled a little. “I think you know that's not what I mean— I learned better than anyone that being by oneself and being alone are different things,” he explained. “Even if I did find the time and energy for a thousand lovers, I would've still been lonely without a real partner… something to call my own. But I never had the time— or, I told myself that, to justify why I didn't have anyone.”

You understood that better than he could know— better than you wanted to realize.

“My parents loved each other, but spent most of their lives apart,” he explained. “I don't want to be like that. I don't want to have something beautiful and let it go to waste.”

He looked at you right then, and it seemed like it meant something but you wouldn't let yourself imagine what.

“Could I kiss you again?” he asked softly. It sort of completely caught you off-guard, not what he said but the way he said it: the unsureness in his voice, the slight flush on his face.

You didn't answer with words, you simply reached up and brushed your fingers through the hair at his temple, where it was turning silver— another reminder of how long he'd been alone.

You moved your hand in to cradle his face, leaning closer.

There was something shockingly comfortable about it, like you'd known each other for years. You had grown to care for him, you couldn't deny that, but you surprised even yourself by how you pulled him closer as he kissed you.

It brought back memories of your wedding night, of course, and you couldn't decide if it felt like just yesterday or months ago. All that fear and anxiety you'd been nearly crushed by then— it was only a distant memory, to the point that it was almost hard to believe you were the same person who had felt all that.

In some ways, you weren't.

His hand gently rested on your side, before carefully moving around to your lower back to keep you pressed against him. Why did that feel so perfect? His head tilted a little more, his kiss deepened a little more, you sighed a little heavier.

As he pulled away, he looked into your eyes; you saw something new and totally indescribable in them.

If he kisses me again, I won't be able to say no to him, you realized.

He only smiled at you gently, his fingers brushing over your cheek. “Goodnight, darling,” he offered quietly.

You were still in shock just a bit as he kissed your temple softly, before pulling back and turning to face away from you as he climbed under the covers. Blinking quickly, you wondered if you would've asked him not to stop if he'd given you a chance.

Slowly laying down yourself, you faced towards him and sighed a little as you looked at the back of him.

You stared at him for so long that night, watching him sleep, willing yourself to just reach over and wake him; to run your fingers through his hair until he stirred and turned to face you. And then you wouldn’t have to say anything, you could just kiss him and he’d understand. All you had to do was lift your hand and touch him… then his arms would be around you, his lips would be on you, his weight would press you into the bed…

You fell asleep before you ever found the nerve. But that’s not to say you fell asleep quickly; no, not at all.

#frater imperator x reader #cardinal copia x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #ghost bc fanfic

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coltermorning · 9 months ago

Text

Of Love and Loss Ch. 11 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: After narrowly escaping with your lives, the trip goes on without further trouble as the weeks begin to add up. To pass the time during a snowstorm, you and Arthur exchange questions over a bottle of gin.

Author’s Notes: Nothing like a little alcohol to make you admit your feelings to yourself :) Arthur and reader both get drunk in this one. Chapter eleven of this one.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence

AO3 Link

Of Love and Loss

Eleven: The Gentle Act of Teaching

Word count: 5574

It has been a month since we started this journey and, as I assumed it would, it has come with no shortage of setbacks. Rambling like we do, I have seen a lot in my time and maybe even grown used to the pointless violence of it all. The wilderness is unkind and man more so, but I haven’t given it much care or thought until now. Now it seems I’m only leading a woman just to show her how cruel this world can be. That haunted look on her face will stay with me for the rest of my days.

Arthur rolled his shoulders, trying to undo the persistent ache that tightened them. Riding three days without much of a break to speak of had worn on his body, his mount, you and yours. In fact, it was so wearying you hadn’t said a word to him since the night before.

Your grief seemed to come in waves. This time it was pulling you back down into that shell of yourself you had been, unspeaking, unreacting, seemingly doing all you could just to make it another day. It was tough to watch, but Arthur didn’t have it in him to cheer you up. He was too worn down himself. That, and there was another nagging reason in the back of his mind he hardly let in for fear of letting it eat at him—that this was all his fault. He couldn’t do a thing about what else had happened to you, but he’d lost his head in that town. The mere thought of that slimy bastard calling you out like that had him bristling even now, fingers twitching with the need to shoot something. That nasty little look in his eye had been why Arthur had drawn iron in the first place, so fast it was more instinct than any sort of decision. That same look that had said plenty without words, that said the man felt he was owed something from you which warranted him following you out of town. Arthur didn’t care to ponder whether the man would have followed had he not threatened his life. It didn’t matter now anyhow. He had killed them all, exposed himself for what he really was. All because he saw red at the mere suggestion of someone wronging you. For protection’s sake, he had done his job. But it was obvious that you needed more from him than that. Your near silence since his shooting those men was plenty proof of that.

The truth was, Arthur suddenly felt that the side of him that town had revealed was glaringly wrong. It was a strange feeling, like denying the truest part of himself. But it gnawed at him now, that who he was did not have to be defined by his talent with a gun, but by the possibility of being something more. That the man he wanted to be became something he actually pondered. Things used to be about survival, about protecting those he held dear and nothing else besides. When had that changed?

As Arthur looked sidelong at you riding beside him, the empty stare on your face like that of a corpse, he knew. He had never had someone pure-hearted enough to warrant the believability of some better version of himself. With the gang, with Mary, there had only ever been a separation of good and bad, white and black, and he was always caught on the latter side of those things. But you made him think he could push beyond that, into some unknown middle ground. That look on your face was making guilt curl low in his gut for the first time in a long time at the act of taking lives. So he would push, do his best to shield you from it all. For you were good, and you deserved to remain so, lest he die trying to make it truth. If he didn’t try, no one would. Then you would be left like this—empty. And he knew enough about that to be determined to keep you from it.

The fourth day riding away from that terrible place and those terrible people, Arthur finally relented his pace. You had stopped here and there in the meantime, but never for a full night. The tiredness threatening to roll your eyes shut was testament to that.

Before the sun had even set and Arthur had finished with the tent, you laid back on the hard, thankfully snowless ground and fell asleep, the empty bliss of it like a gift.

When you woke, the sky was already lightening above you. You’d slept the whole night through, mercifully dreamless.

You looked down, curious over the warmth surrounding you despite the cold air, then remembered the bison coat. It was doing its job. The wind could hardly touch you with it on despite your poor judgement in sleeping outside the tent. And, like a pair of fools, it seemed Arthur had done the same. He sat against a nearby tree with his knee up, a gun in his lap and his head lolled down in sleep. Like he had every intention of standing guard but had let his exhaustion get the better of him. You couldn’t blame him.

No, the past few days had been anything but easy. You had been so plagued with guilt and worry and shame and regret the whole time it was a wonder you hadn’t given up. Given Arthur your mule and laid down and died right there in the dirt. In fact, the mule had been the only measure of happiness tethering you to the world at all. She still was. Though, sleep had helped clear your helplessness some. Instead, you were left feeling like you could go on but that there wasn’t much point in doing so. There was only brutal, unknown life ahead of you. And just like every interaction with strangers on this trip, that terrified you. The only comfort you’d known since losing your parents had been Arthur’s steady company. But that wouldn’t always be there. And, it seemed, you weren’t cut out for simple comforts anymore. It was time to grow up and see the world for what it was—unforgiving.

After plenty of rest, the pair of you packed back up and set out again. This time, you went two weeks without a break in routine. You passed over into Nebraska in the meantime, plenty of snow and cold following you in. You finally admitted to Arthur just how far you had left to go, nearly midway into the state, with no small measure of annoyance resulting on his part. But he agreed nonetheless, saying he had come this far. At least the railroad would tie into the trail soon, and he could take it back down to Denver instead of riding all the way back alone to join up with his gang.

His gang—you still hadn’t grown used to that. You hadn’t brought up the subject of his killing those five men, though it often crossed your mind to. The only thing stopping you was the fact that he didn’t owe you a thing, squeaky clean reputation included. In fact, his killer instinct had probably kept you alive thus far. Your judgement would be no help. If anything, it would just set you two to arguing again, as you often found yourselves doing. And the fact of the matter was you were tired of arguing. You were tired of a lot of things.

When the trees finally seemed to give up their steady growth, leaving behind nothing but wide open plains and brutal cold, Arthur stopped midday for the first time in a long time. The snow was blowing in sideways, and you nearly groaned in relief when he stopped his horse and swung off of her, saying, “Forget it. I ain’t freezing my balls off just to wait ‘til nightfall to do it again.”

You gave a pitiful laugh and dismounted, your legs like ice picks themselves when the pain of reaching the ground shot up them.

You and Arthur cleared a circle of snow for your camp, then built the tent and the fire. Arthur had been carrying kindling and a bit of wood for miles considering there wasn’t much of it to come by anymore, and you were impressed with his campfire skills when he got the thing burning despite the pelting snow. He had built it on the far side of the tent so that the canvas was blocking the weather, and when the flames began small then built, it took all you had not to shove your gloved fingers and your booted feet right into them.

You were both huddled close enough to the fire that Arthur suddenly took to laughing, calling you both idiots for being out in this kind of weather.

You managed a faint smile. “Montana got a lot colder than this, but…cold is cold.”

“Cold is cold,” he agreed. “How was it up there anyway? In the winter.”

“Brutal,” you admitted. Lots of days spent inside, chores finished as quickly as possible, week-long stretches where you didn’t know if the food would last. But it always did. Lucky you and your father were good hunters, your mother a good motivator.

“It wasn’t always like this,” you went on, having to raise your voice to talk over the wind. “It was sunny and pleasant some days. But still cold. The snow never left.”

Arthur just hummed his acknowledgment before holding his hands out to the fire, black gloves and harsh light eating up the reflection of the flickering flames.

After long enough, he reached around to his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Not a day went by he didn’t do this, whether for habit or enjoyment you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the experience of smoking one to know. But when he lit one, the butt smoldering to life beneath his inhaled breath, it suddenly seemed like just the thing to warm your bones. So when he offered, as he always did regardless of how many times you turned him down, you took one.

“Well,” he said with a drawl. “Finally become a bad influence, have I?”

You didn’t respond, sticking it in your mouth, rolling it over your tongue. It was faintly earthy. Bitter.

You watched him light another match. He brought his hands over to you, cupping them around the flame to keep the wind from snuffing it, touching the match head to your cigarette.

You didn’t know what you expected to happen, but nothing did.

He grinned at you. “You gotta breathe in. Just- small breaths-” he added, but too late. You had taken in such a large breath that your lungs crumpled beneath it, burning from the inside out. You took the cigarette away and coughed and coughed, the feel of it like hellfire trapped inside your chest.

He was laughing at you, but you couldn’t quit coughing enough to berate him for it. You did hand it to him, the disgusting taste and the horrible feeling enough to convince you that it wouldn’t be your new pastime. Then the cold set back in, frosting over your throat and combining with the burning feeling in your lungs. All in all, it only served to make you feel worse.

Arthur’s chuckling finally tapered off. “At least you didn’t get sick on yourself.”

“Does that happen?” you asked, hoarse.

“Sometimes.”

“Lovely.” You wrapped your hands around your knees, scooting closer to the fire, glad for your shaggy coat. It was nearly unbearably cold, but your only other option was inside the tent, and without the fire it would only be colder.

You watched Arthur smoke both cigarettes with ease, one after the other, like he needed their smoke to breathe.

“Why do people do that anyway?” you asked, still miserable from the rawness in your throat.

“What, this?” he said, putting the one that had been yours to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew out of his nose like a dragon would, smoke billowing out of both nostrils.

You didn’t answer, knowing he was just trying to show off or work you up or both.

He finally turned to you. “Calms you down. Takes the edge off.”

The first time he’d offered you one, he’d said the same thing. What edge had he been so desperate to dull back then? And each day since? It wasn’t hard to figure now—cold like this could drive any man to madness. It was certainly making you want to run circles around the camp like a crazy person.

“Same as anything I guess,” he went on, blowing more smoke. “Why does anyone do anything? Alcohol, sex, drugs, they’re all the same.”

You didn’t quite understand the sex part but let it pass. One conversation with him about it was enough to last you a lifetime. But the mention of alcohol had you suddenly desperate to try that too. You had before, what little you’d been able to get your hands on up in the mountains, but it was never enough to take much effect.

“Would alcohol warm me up?”

He eyed you, that boyish gleam returned. “Not necessarily. Though it can make you too busy thinking about other things to remember how cold you was before.”

Anything would help at this point. “You got any?”

He huffed a laugh and stood, walking over to his horse. The poor animals were both standing with their backsides to the wind, close enough to share body heat. Arthur pulled a small glass bottle from his saddle bag and shuffled back over, kicking snow as he went. He tossed you the bottle, and you caught it, flipping it. It had no label.

��What is it?”

“Gin. ‘Fraid I drank all the whiskey.”

You eyed it. “How can you tell? There’s no label.” The liquid was clear, tinged green due to the tint of the glass.

“I can tell,” he said with amusement. “Can’t afford the labeled stuff.”

You eyed him for that, wondering about your saddle and bridle and the mule standing beneath them. He was either exaggerating, or you owed him more than you thought you did if one bottle of good gin would put him out. He just inclined his head toward the bottle in your hand with a slightly upturned mouth, not giving whatever worry you had about owing him a moment’s thought.

You uncorked the top with stiff, numb, gloved fingers then lifted it to your lips. The burn of it was immediate. Almost as bad as the cigarette. You forced yourself to drink it down but let out a wincing cough after you did.

“Christ. Are all the vices so terrible?” you asked, wiping the excess off your mouth and handing the bottle back to him. It had to be a punishment, for people to drink that. Addiction born of the need to punish one’s self.

Arthur was snickering again, but this time you joined him in it.

“Tastes smooth to me,” he said, lifting it to his own mouth. You watched him drink it down with near reverence, his eyes half-closing as he did. Savoring it. He brought the bottle down and examined it. “Shitty, but smooth.”

You leaned over and snatched it from him. Like hell was it smooth. It was as cutting as swallowing ice. But the aftertaste wasn’t near as bad as the cigarette had been, so you took another sip, letting it cut all the way down.

Arthur took it back. And after some back and forth, minutes passed and enough swallowed to dull its burn, he stopped you from taking it again. “Slow down there, or it’ll come right back up. I ain’t letting you put out the fire with your own sick.”

You cringed at the thought but felt that familiar defiance within you stand up at the challenge. You went for the bottle, but he snatched it away before you could grasp it.

“Don’t be dense,” you spat, going for it again. He again held it out, far enough you couldn’t reach it. And the resulting smile curving across his face was making you mad enough to tackle him for the damn thing.

You were about to lunge for it when he stopped you with a hand held out. “All right, all right, quit it. I’ll make a deal with you.”

You already didn’t like where this was going. To hell with the gin. Now you were just angry. You crossed your arms at him.

He grinned then said, “You answer a question, I’ll give it back.”

As annoyed as humoring him made you, you just shrugged.

“Agreed?”

“Go on,” you snapped. Better to get it over with, get the bottle back and walk away so as not to have to deal with him anymore.

He thought on it a moment, taking another sip as he held your gaze, an amusement lighting his eyes you didn’t much care for. Then, “What’s something you never told anyone?”

That you still wished you had died with your parents. That life didn’t feel like it had much meaning after their deaths. That one of the sole reasons you went on was because the man staring back at you had given a damn at the right moment. But you didn’t want to go down that slippery slope, not right now and not with him. So you reverted back to your younger years, to the girl who was full of life and grit and the ability to get her way. What had you kept hidden even from your parents?

You landed on it then hesitated, heat staining your cheeks from embarrassment.

“Spit it out,” he said accusatorially, sensing that hesitation.

“I…” How to word it and not sound ridiculous? “When I was a kid I…fancied the postman.”

Arthur burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” you said miserably.

“That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”

The deepest, maybe. Certainly not the darkest. But his laughter was slightly contagious given how stupid the confession had sounded, so you just said with a laugh, “I was little! He was handsome!”

“I’m sure he was,” Arthur said, tilting his hat to you in obvious sarcasm, his grin never leaving.

“And I never got to go to the post office,” you went on, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “So when Pa let me come with him, the hours that it took to get there, it was…it was just nice to see the man is all!”

Arthur was veritably howling with laughter now.

“Shut up!” you said, leaning over and shoving him. “Like you never had an infatuation with a girl.” This did seem to sober him some, and that gave you an idea.

“Give me that,” you snapped, yanking the bottle away. “And it’s your turn for a question.”

“Well, I never said-”

“Yeah, and I don’t care. You’re answering one.”

He settled back with a sigh but didn’t protest. So you took a swig of gin for courage and looked him straight in the eye. “Who taught you to shoot so well?”

Surprise crossed his face, lining every inch of it. He had obviously assumed you were going to ask about said girl, whomever that may be. But no, you wanted to know how he had taken down five men in a matter of seconds.

His face turned contemplative. Then, “No one, I guess. I always had a good eye. Good aim.”

“That aim was better than good,” you admitted. And the reference to what had happened back in that town seemed to sour his mood. He snatched the bottle back and took a long pull from it.

“Yeah, well, you’re either a decent shot or you get killed pretty quick in my line of work.”

His line of work. On the opposing side of the law, where bullets were aimed at you as often as a dirty glance.

“Do you ever get scared?” The question pushed out before you could stop it.

Arthur just looked at you, face tinged with mild curiosity.

“Not really,” he said. “Not anymore. But—” He tipped the bottle at you. “It ain’t your turn.”

You rolled your eyes and sat back, looking into the flames instead, knowing he would fire off another stupid question whether you got on to him for it or not.

Sure enough, he spoke, the amusement in his tone not lost on you. “You ever get into trouble up in them mountains?”

“What kind of trouble?”

You shouldn’t have asked. The smirk he shot back was enough for you to know he didn’t mean the kind where you got lost in the snow, where your life was in danger.

When he didn’t answer, you sighed like he usually did, drawing it out. “A few times. Once for this,” you said, taking the gin from him.

“What, getting drunk?”

“No, they caught me before it got to that point. I raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t much, a bottle of whiskey and some wine. But I was trying both when Momma and Pa came back from town early. They gave me hell for it.”

Arthur snickered. “How old were you?”

“Twelve,” you answered. “But it’s not your turn,” you said sweetly, making him shake his head, though his smile never left.

You took a sip of gin, wondering what it took to be drunk. But you wouldn’t waste a perfectly good question asking Arthur about it. Instead, you asked him something you had wondered since the night after leaving that trading town.

“Why didn’t you buy another bedroll? At that trader stall.”

Again, Arthur seemed surprised by the question. He took some time to answer, gesturing for you to hand him the gin. You did so, and he took another long pull of it. Long enough that you wondered how often he did this, drinking his thoughts away.

“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I was trying to keep an eye on you when I was talking to that old croak. Weren’t thinking about it.”

You let out a breath of relief at his response. You had assumed he’d spent all his money and resources on you, that he couldn’t afford one. And, as it stood, he had been using the very edge of your bedroll ever since, both of you colder than you cared for but too prideful to cling together for warmth like you had that night after the wolves. So you had thought all this time another bedroll had been neglected at the cost of the coat on your back. But now that you knew otherwise, you didn’t feel quite so shameful. And you were grateful, too, that it had been because Arthur had kept such a watchful eye on you.

He took another long drink from the bottle, and you watched him, watched his throat work and his mouth purse with the harsh liquid. This man who you thought you knew—you didn’t really know him at all.

Arthur looked over and caught you staring.

“What?”

You shook your head, pushing the thought from your mind. Not because it scared you, but quite the opposite—you always assumed he was bad, that he was the low-down outlaw, and at every turn, he proved you wrong.

“Nothing.”

He chuckled lowly. Then, “You ever kissed anyone?”

“Excuse me?” It was all you could manage through your embarrassment. Not this again.

“Couldn’t ask it any clearer,” he said, about to take another drink. But you snatched it away before he could, taking a long pull yourself. Drunk. You needed to be drunk.

“How much of this do I need before it blocks out the sound of your voice?”

“So, no then,” he said with that god awful smirk.

You drank again.

He laughed. “Easy there.”

“I told you,” you said, voice hoarse from the harsh liquor. “There wasn’t anyone up there to kiss.”

“Not even the postman?”

You could have hit him. Instead, oddly enough, you laughed at that stupid smile on his face. “No, not even the postman. He was twice my age. Maybe more.”

“Hm.”

“What?” you fired at him, the bottle clutched tightly in your hands.

“Nothing, just…” He smiled again, his teeth showing. “Imagining it, is all. That life you led.” He pried the bottle from your clawed grip, smiling as he brought it to his lips. “Sounds…boring.”

You tried not to think about his mouth kissing the bottle, his mouth kissing anything, as you replied, “It was what you made of it. I enjoyed it.” At your nerves, you reached over and took the bottle away before he was even done drinking. He made a noise of protest, but it didn’t register before you had the bottle at your own mouth, trying desperately not to think of how his lips had just touched the same spot.

When you brought it away, you looked at him. Really looked at him, all notion of it being improper to do so suddenly lost. “There are other ways of enjoying yourself, you know.”

His brows rose high, either at the way you were looking at him or at the implication in your voice.

After long enough, he said, “You plan on enlightening me?”

“I…” Your eyes dipped to his mouth before you took another long pull, the bottle blocking your view of him. Shaking loose the thought that began to plague you. The urge to experience something new, something you were afraid would be addicting in its own right, alcohol aside.

When you didn’t respond, just pulled the bottle back down and looked to the fire, Arthur said, “I can’t imagine it would be much beyond snow sledding or the like all the way up there. You telling me that’s the secret to happiness?”

There it was, an out. A diversion to the path this conversation had led you down. And in anything other circumstance, you would have taken it. But for some reason, you were starting to believe that drunkenness snuck up namelessly after all, a haze of intuition lost.

You looked to Arthur, to the soft amusement on his face, to the casualness that seemed to always weigh on his shoulders and make its way to his mouth.

“You could teach me.”

“Come again?”

Your eyes dropped to his mouth again, seemingly of their own volition. Then words spilled out of you like gin from a bottle.

“Kiss me. Show me how.”

His face softened. Surprise, realization, a bit of embarrassment. Then deflection as he chuckled, his face tingeing redder in the gray light than the cold could account for. “Nah, you don’t want that,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Not your first-”

“Kiss me,” you said again. You couldn’t imagine it being anyone else in the world. There was no one else you trusted. “I wouldn’t ask if that were the case.”

He looked at you then with such raw surprise you wondered when the last time anyone had shown him such affection was.

He stared at you, and you stared at him, and before you could ask if his brain had shut down entirely, he looked to the fire and said defiantly, “No.”

You scoffed. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal. Just think of it as teaching me something new.”

“But it ain’t that,” he fired back. He still wouldn’t look at you. “It’s…kissing someone to learn something and kissing someone because you want to are two different things.”

“Exactly,” you said, taking another sip of gin. “If it‘s just for learning’s sake, what’s the problem?”

He shook his head, disgruntled. “Forget it. I ain’t doing it.”

You groaned aloud, unbelieving he was being the stick in the mud for once. “You know, for an outlaw,” you said, standing, pointing the bottle at him. “You’re awfully honorable.”

He let out a barking laugh like he didn’t believe that in the slightest but still didn’t take the bait. The stubborn fool.

The ground swayed a bit beneath you as you added, “And cowardly.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, the question poised somewhere between annoyance and a threat. But he had finally looked at you at least.

“Woman asks you to kiss her, and you won’t even consider it.”

He stood now, swiping the bottle from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” But you couldn’t have pried the glass from his grasp if you wanted to, your vision starting to swim. “You don’t want to kiss me that’s fine, but don’t tell me what to do.”

He laughed that annoying laugh again. “I ain‘t kissing someone who can barely keep her feet.”

“Oh yeah?” you said, stepping over to him to prove a point. Close. You could have leaned over and kissed him yourself you were so close. In fact, the thought was a breath away from being turned into reality when he lifted the gin to his own lips, blocking you, his eyes catching on your mouth. Or maybe that was your shoddy vision making things up.

When he brought the bottle away, he was grinning. “Real impressive, being able to walk.”

“Shut up,” you said, but didn’t shove him like you wanted to. His closeness was…distracting you. And any forceful movement would likely land you on your backside.

“Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight so that he stood even closer. Not backing down from you in the slightest, that cocky grin lighting his face. “You answer one more question, and I’ll kiss you.”

Your face burned with those words, like your body was realizing this might actually happen.

When you didn’t respond, his grin went wider. Feral. Then, “Tell me your name.”

Damn him. Because he knew it was the one thing you wouldn’t give him.

“That’s not a question,” you said simply, holding his eye.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want me to know it?”

Now it was your turn to grin. “Because they were the last people to call me that.”

Arthur was confused by your smile despite your words, his brows pinching together. And you said without hesitation, “And I just answered your question. So kiss me.”

Realization hit him again, and he immediately let out an unbelieving laugh. “You’re a damn sneak, you know that?”

When his eyes met yours, his gaze shifted the slightest bit toward serious in the harsh daylight. And he definitely eyed your mouth this time. Alcohol or no, you could see it plain as day. Then at last, he groaned his annoyance, or tried to shake how flustered he was, and said, “All right then. You win.” He dropped the gin and stepped toward you.

All you had ever known of this suddenly became futile, juvenile, worthless in the eyes of him bringing his gloved hands to the back of your head. Your scant knowledge couldn’t hold a candle to the gentle way he brought your mouth to his, meeting you at last in a kiss so tender it sobered you. This was happening. Arthur was…

All thought was lost when his mouth pressed against yours a second time. Slow. Caring. You let him be, forgetting entirely what this was supposed to be about, instead navigating the newness that was kissing someone back.

The kiss went on for an eternity, the effect better than any cigarette, any gin, anything in the world. There was no snow, was no cold, was nothing but the way his lips parted. You did as he did, and soon your mouth was at his with a fervor, his tongue warm against yours, the taste of gin and tobacco all you knew and all you ever wanted again.

Then he was stepping away, letting his hands fall, his gaze shy as it hit the ground.

“Was that…what you wanted?” he asked softly, meeting your eye as his hands fell a bit nervously onto his gun belt, fidgeting.

You just stared at him. Dove deep inside yourself to remember your words, to remember your circumstances and who you were supposed to be to each other. Because it was certainly blurring as the warmth of his mouth lingered.

After long enough that he kept shifting his weight, you spoke. “I understand it now. Why people…enjoy that.”

You thought you saw the smallest softening of his gaze before the mask returned, his teasing smirk back in place. “You really don’t know nothing, do you?”

You couldn’t even be bothered to chide him. Not after what he had just given you.

You pursed your lips like you could hold that kiss forever then looked at the bottle at your feet. You knelt and picked it up, pushing it into his chest. He grabbed it. And you wouldn’t meet his eye for fear of wanting him to kiss you all over again as you said with a giddy smile, “Thank you for teaching me,” and stepped around him. Aimed for the tent. Focused on keeping your feet beneath you, keeping your head somewhere inside reality, keeping your thoughts away from the man at your back. Away from just how much you truly felt for him, your fondness veiled like the unfamiliarity of a kiss until now.

_________

Chapter twelve is here.

tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

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doctorgerth · 2 years ago

Text

a/n: Ngl, this piece had me kicking my feet ahhh I’m down so bad for Smoker 🥰 He’s such a grumpy gus when he’s in love <3 Not sure if I really captured Smoker/Tashigi’s relationship well here, my apologies! Read to find out if Smoker gets a lil lip action or not! 😉💕

pairing: Smoker x GN!Reader

word count: 1.6k

candy heart prompt: Miss You — Missing the Other

SMOKER + MISS YOU

You’d been away on your mission for a few days now and Smoker wasn’t handling it well.

The Marines were uneasy, sensing their Commander’s own unease taking over the entirety of the base like a thick fog. Most avoided his presence unless directly commanded by him as they noticed he was grumpier than usual, enforcing mundane tasks out of frustration and rebuking his subordinates for even the tiniest of mistakes. One person was able to place Smoker’s discontent, and she only gently teased him about it.

“It seems a little gloomy without (Y/N) around. Don’t you agree, sir?” Tashigi spoke up in the quiet office as she organized a drawer in one of the filing cabinets.

He only grunted, not even bothering to look up as he continued scanning documents, scribbling notes, and signing his name. Tashigi spent a lot of time organizing papers that could keep her superior distracted enough to lessen his fussing at Marines undeserving. He preferred seclusion anyhow, that much she understood. What she failed to understand was that she was encroaching on said seclusion. Especially as she kept pushing the subject of you. Wasn’t the point of all this to keep him from thinking of you?

“I hope (Y/N) is okay. I wonder how the mission is going. Do you think they’ve met any interesting people?”

The idea of you meeting people, both dangerous and friendly, left a bitter taste in his mouth. He was fully confident in your capabilities, he wouldn’t have signed off on your mission otherwise, but the fact that he was not there to ward off anybody with any sort of ill intentions towards you made his gut twist. Smoker didn’t even want to think about the friendly ones. Who was making you laugh, keeping you company, who you might be interested in. He’s always felt a sense of protectiveness towards his subordinates, but there was something entirely different in his sense of protectiveness towards you. He’d never felt jealous in regards to his other subordinates, to put it plainly.

Tashigi was rambling while Smoker’s thoughts were once again riddled with you. Your name curved easily along a signature line meant for him as your name slipped past his mentee’s mouth in every other sentence. He mentally cursed and balled up the paper, throwing it at Tashigi’s forehead to shut her up. She gasped as it bounced off her glasses, making them crooked in the aftermath, and landed on the floor with a soft thud.

“What exactly are you trying to do here, Tashigi?” he growled. If she said your name one more time…

She glared at him as she straightened her glasses and picked up the paper, unfurling it much to his horror but he remained stoic as her eyes lit up with pure amusement upon reading his penmanship of your name, “Just trying to get you to realize that you miss them. That’s all, sir.”

“And what good do you think that will do?” he barked out. He was painfully aware that he missed you from the moment you stepped off base. It wouldn’t bring you back any sooner, and it wouldn’t make him feel any better by coming to terms with it.

“Have you told them how you felt?” she pushed. Always pushing.

Could she see the red heat he felt creeping up his neck? “I’m not having this discussion with you. You can either leave my office or I’ll have you fired for inappropriate conversations in the workplace.”

Tashigi pursed her lips, muttering under her breath, “Well, in that case you should be fired for having inappropriate feelings in the workplace.”

“What was that?” Smoker bellowed as he stood from his chair, nearly biting his cigars in half. He felt his right eye begin to twitch and he had half a mind to throw another paper ball at her. Maybe enough paper balls from the entire stack of the piss-poor distracting paperwork.

Tashigi waved her hands in front of her in surrender, “Nothing! What I meant to tell you is that (Y/N) is…”

“Stop saying their name!”

“I’ve only been gone for five days and you two are already bickering?” Your voice echoed down the hall and he wondered if was imagining your voice again. Yet there you were, standing in his office, not a scratch on you as you sported that comforting smile on your face he’d missed so much. He felt his shoulders relax as he exhaled the breath he’d been holding since you left.

“Returning today,” Tashigi finished, turning to you with a salute, “Welcome back, Captain.”

“It’s great to be back,” you grinned, keeping your eyes trained on the tall, speechless, white-haired Marine officer standing stiff behind his desk, “I missed the G-5.”

After a quiet moment of longing stares, his body finally began working as he discarded his cigars in the ashtray and his boots echoed heavy as they approached you. Such a simple thing, but you missed the sound of them. Now that he was standing before you, towering over you, you realized you missed the smell of smoke too, along with the warmth he constantly radiated when standing so close. Your body reacted to every sense of him. You missed him dearly.

Tashigi quietly slipped out, gently closing the door behind her as she left to finally give her superior the privacy he’d wanted.

“Didn’t miss me too bad, did you, Commander?” you teased, stepping closer, an unseen force pulling you closer to him. That same force tugged consistently at your heart for the five long days you were away.

He smiled, a notion reserved only for you, as he pinched your chin between his thumb and forefinger, “Only a little, I suppose.”

There it was, that tension between the two of you that only grew stronger with each moment you were alone. It felt near suffocating after your time apart. You knew he didn’t speak to anyone else like this, didn’t stand so close to anyone else like this, didn’t look at anyone else like this. You were something else to him, and he to you. Something beyond Marine rankings and camaraderie. As shameful as it was for a Commodore to pursue his subordinate, you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold your feelings back. You’d hoped your mission would have cleared your head, but it only drew you closer to him. Made you crave his affections even more.

Intimate touches have been exchanged in secrecy between the two of you as feelings were realized, but you needed to feel his lips against yours. To know for sure that he wanted this too. You wanted so desperately to make this agonizing yet exhilarating tension tangible. The way he continued to hold your chin up, brown eyes reflecting the loving stare you offered him, forehead colliding softly with yours, it felt as if the pieces were finally falling into place.

His eyes were first to flutter close, making your heart do somersaults in your chest, and as you followed suit, you felt the ghost of a kiss along your lips before the echoing purururu of his Den Den Mushi made the two of you jump.

Smoker’s eyes opened, staring down at you as if he was seeking your approval to ignore the call. He could care less if the entire world was ending. All that he wanted was standing right in front of him. He didn’t want to lose this moment.

“You’d better answer that.” Your hand caressed his cheek, thumb grazing across his stubble as you reassured him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

He groaned loudly, like a child throwing a tantrum, and stomped over to his desk, answering the phone with distinct annoyance, “What the hell do you want?”

Silence. His furrowed brows softened, face slackened.

“Yes, sir. I understand. Thank you.”

You grew a bit worried, unable to read him as he hung up the receiver with a quick gacha. Smoker ran his fingers through his hair, making you feel overwhelmed with adoration and anxiety as you waited with bated breath.

“Is everything okay?” You were almost afraid to ask.

Another long beat of silence. You were sure you weren’t breathing at all, until he finally relayed the message with a smirk on his face.

“I got promoted to Vice Admiral.”

The happy sound you emitted was sure enough to alert the whole base as you threw your arms around his neck and squeezed him tight. Smoker squeezed back eagerly, cherishing the feeling of having you in his arms. He was unable to express it, but he hoped you knew that he was glad you were the first person he got to tell; that you were by his side when he got the news. Climbing the ranks to increase his ability to act freely has always been his goal, but the promotion felt a bit sweeter having you to celebrate with.

Tashigi returned to the room out of concern, coughing awkwardly when she caught the two of you still locked in an embrace. When Smoker shared the news, passers-by overheard and entered the office with almost hesitant congratulations. Soon enough, his entire office was full of subordinates all congratulating their new Vice Admiral. Pride swelled in your chest as he shook the hands of his subordinates and offered light smiles of thanks. So many smiles in a day — was it possible to fall even harder for him?

When everyone was preoccupied in their own conversations, Smoker bent down and whispered in your ear, “They’re hosting a banquet for all who received promotions at Headquarters. I want you to come with me.”

As if your heart couldn’t feel any fuller, you were sure to burst as you grinned from ear to ear, whispering back and squeezing his hand discreetly, “I’d be glad to.”

a/n: Soooo close! But still some happy moments here! This ending was almost entirely different (and lamer tbh) but the idea of Smoker finding out he was promoted to Vice Admiral with reader seemed like such a special moment to me and one that doesn’t *entirely* ruin the missed smooch moment. That’s another one safe until Round Two! Perhaps our next character won’t be so lucky…or will, if you consider a kiss pretty lucky. ❤️

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rohirric-hunter · 26 days ago

Text

Angstober Day 01: Again

I wrote this on the first but decided to leave it to the weekend to edit. And then I had to shove a ton of context into it so it would make sense to people who aren't in a specific discord. Split down the middle because here's some more context in the author's note:

My first concept of LotRO fanfic came to me as I was exploring Angmar, and it was something something dealing with the remnants of Angmar post-war. Mostly just a loose idea, but one that stuck with me and slowly developed as my OCs developed. When LotRO released a quest pack dealing with that very thing, I was pleased to discover that it wanted very little adjusting to fit in with my own ideas. Basically, those adjustments are: the events of the Return to Carn Dum questpack take place over the course of several years, rather than the couple of weeks that it seems to take in canon, and without the intervention of any Player Characters. (The PC only got involved because of LotRO's improbable mail system anyway. Skyrim Courier eat your heart out.) As a result, certain things turn out differently, some worse and some better, and no one outside of Angmar really gets involved until around S.R 1425. This oneshot takes place early in the inevitable conflict. The remnants of the Angmarim garrison at the Ironspan aren't really representative of Ásachal and the other Angmarim still holding on to Carn Dûm, but they are empowered by knowing that Carn Dûm is still in Angmarim hands.

Warning for non-explicit mentions of torture.

~*~*~*~

Not again, you think.

You know very little of what happened to Lothrandir during his imprisonment in Isengard. If Léonys is recalcitrant about her time there, Lothrandir speaks of it both more and less. He mentions it often, but carefully skirts around any actual detail, a habit, you think, that tells a clearer tale than he would like.

Not that the little band of Angmarim remnants who inhabit the tower along the Forodwaith road a few leagues east of the Ironspan could hope to compare to a Wizard. Still, Lothrandir looks eerily similar to how he had in the flooded depths of Isengard, head bowed in exhaustion or pain, knees pulled to his chest, skin covered in bruises and lacerations. The little cave, or more accurately the crevice, that your rescue party had found and made camp in between two great sheets of stratified stone is warmer and homier and definitely safer than the caverns beneath Saruman's tower, but it feels all too similar, seeing him in drafty, damp half-light.

He looks up at your approach, and despite everything offers a thin smile — much as he had for Léonys when she had at last wrested the door open and run to his side, so many years ago. "Hathellang," he says. "I thought you told me you hated it this far north."

Aragorn steps past you and kneels beside Lothrandir, opposite Radanir, who holds Lothrandir's left hand with a grip that speaks of no intention to release any time soon. You can hardly wonder at that, for of your little group only Radanir had ventured into the tower through the gap in their defenses you had found in their primitive and ill-kept sewers and seen Lothrandir in his prison. Perhaps you might have been better suited to the job, for you are more skilled than Radanir at getting into places where you are not wanted and staying hidden, but after having witnessed Lothrandir captured on what should have been a routine patrol of the westernmost side of the Ironspan he would not be kept away from his kinsman for anything. And you had been of more service of a distraction, anyhow, for the scattered remnants of Angmar have not soon forgotten the names and faces of those who were most instrumental in bringing it down. In any event, what you can see of Lothrandir is bad enough, his clothes more tattered than they ought to be after little more than a week, and the worst of it likely hidden by the cloak wrapped about him. You hardly dare to think what Radanir saw. You have been in enough Angmarim dungeons to guess at it.

"Yes, well," you say. "Maybe there's a reason for that. It's always something up here."

You had planned on stuidously avoiding the topic of Isengard, but Lothrandir saves you the trouble by bringing it up himself. "Oh, come now," he says. "It's not so bad. They haven't even got a wizard here, and only one troll."

"No trolls, now," you say. Your gaze falls to the shackles around Lothrandir's ankles, and without thinking you kneel before him, hand fumbling in your pocket for your toolkit. "May I?" you ask, and Lothrandir hesitates the barest moment before nodding.

Like most Angmarim locks, it is not difficult to pick and requires no finesse. This one uses four pins instead of the usual three, but your biggest difficulty is in keeping yourself from disturbing the surrounding bruises and cuts on his legs and bare feet. But you are not unpracticed at this, and pin the shackle tightly between your right knee and the end of your right arm, pin the tension pick against the back of your elbow, and then with your left hand insert a serrated jiggling tool. It is only a few moments of jiggling before the lock pops open and one of Lothrandir's legs is freed.

As he stretches it out, Lothrandir speaks to you again. "I am glad you came," he says quietly. "You traveled far to help me."

You look up from where you are positioning yourself for the second shackle. Really, it would be easier if you would just use your right hand to pick it, but that would require getting into your bag and finding the tool you had made yourself for such purposes, attaching it to your arm, and then putting it away when you are done. It's not worth it, not for this lock.

Lothrandir is not looking at you. His head is turned downwards, as Aragorn runs his hands along Lothrandir's scalp, searching for head injuries, you assume. His face is obscured by hair pushed forward. You put your tools down and reach out, taking hos free hand in yours and offering an affectionate squeeze. "And I'll do it again," you say.

#lotro #lotro fanfic #lotro oc #angstober2024 #day 01 #oc-tober #my writing #the wind will set me racing #i went out of my way to not fall into the trap where i never specify whose pov im in for this one #specifically because hathellang thinks of aragorn as 'aragorn' and not 'elessar'#in most of the post war stuff ive written from hathellangs pov he very carefully thinks of aragorn as 'elessar'#hes got this thing about names and name changes and the things people want to be called #but this is years later and hes developed a bit and specifically his relationship with aragorn has developed #i dont know quite in what ways #but he thinks of him as aragorn now #thats what my sources tell me #source: the voices in my head #so i had to make sure someone called him by name at some point #because i assume people have picked up on that particular name habit of hathellangs #this is chronologically later than anything else ive written i think

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pepperf · 23 days ago

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Sending this ask to a few tua accounts!

Diegolila is probably my favorite ship in the show, but I've been thinking about this a lot lately. What would you change about their relationship in season 4? Obviously they're not in the honeymoon phase anymore, and they have three kids, so I feel like naturally they would go through a rough patch. But what made me sad in season 4 was that none of it got fixed. The five/lila relationship aside, it was weird to see Lila be just completely disconnected from Diego and not come to any realizations about her relationship with him, especially because she IS a deep character and she really does love him. Plus, I don't completely agree with her being a housewife either. It hurts to see them fight and stuff because I feel like they're 2 characters who are really in sync with each other and who make each other better people, but it hurt a lot more when their arcs ended in them basically not really loving each other anymore.

TLDR how would you rewrite their relationship in season 4? Would Lila still be a housewife/Diego a delivery driver? Who would try to fix the relationship first? Why would the relationship go through the rough patch in the first place? Is it because they're both just tired of each other/suburban life/kids? Or is it something else? Would they try to fix it in the first place?

Sorry this is a really long ask, but I love all your tua takes and I feel like they ripped off Diego and Lila in the worst way this season. Would love to know your thoughts.

Extremely belated reply to this, because @lochrannn answered it so well and I couldn't think of what else to add at the time - but I've been thinking about this recently, and now I do have some thoughts!

Honestly, I'd like to rewind the show back a bit further, to the start of s3. I wouldn't have had the pregnancy plot for Lila, I am not a fan. Love it in fanfic! Have written it myself! Came around to it for those two because they were just that chaotic! But as a canon plot, I think it both limited them, and also cemented their relationship too soon. I wanted them to have a lot more uncertainty for longer, more back and forth. I would have had Lila gone for longer - Diego hadn't even changed his clothes by the time she came back! He needed more time to fret/pine/let all those stupid emotions come to a nice simmer, and then Lila returns (her time apart from him was excellent, on the other hand, no notes). Then - conflict, sex, reconciliation, surprises, reconciliation v2, etc.

And then in s4, I would still have had the time jump, for practical (Aiden) reasons, and still have had the D/L kids - but giving them a little while to just live their lives together, child-free. And I would have kept the fact that their first kid was totally unexpected, lol. And all of that could happen off-camera, it doesn't need to be filmed, just there as backstory. Then I would have started s4 in a sort of similar position, in that they would be having some problems (these two are MEANT for conflict lbr), but they would both be sneaking out to do vigilante/spy type stuff. I'm neutral on whether they both have shitty jobs, but I wouldn't have Lila as a full-time stay-at-home mum. And then, plot stuff happens, and they learn lessons, and reconcile by the end of the season - although preferably in a more interesting way than just "talking to some guy" or "being stuck somewhere", something more in keeping with their chaotic natures and weird priorities. And they would adore their kids, this wouldn't even be a question.

Anyhow, that's my take. I don't think it needs to majorly alter the overall story (although I also hate the ending - but that's a separate issue!), but they could've done so much more exciting and unexpected stuff with those two characters, and the actors were wasted on the duff material they were given in s4 especially.

Thank you for the question!

#diego hargreeves #lila pitts #diego/lila #dielila #dilila #tua #the umbrella academy #tua s4

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falconearring · 2 years ago

Note

goood day! hope you're doing splendid

if you have the time, would you mind explaining a bit of the lore of your au so far? I'm very interesting in lot of mechanics of aus, and apart from whatever bits you've dropped about the gang and what they're upto, is there any specifics you'd like to add on as a note? this isn't about spoilers, and if doing so might reveal some then it's completely understandable!

I'm really interested in how your story progresses and if not the above, id love to hear what you think so far about it and what you think of the thoughts of people, like their interpretations if have any! thank you for taking the time for this and its completely fine if you don't want to answer

apologies if I came off as rude or too assuming, and for the rather long ask ahah

thank you again! have a great day or night ahead! take care

Hey thank you so much for dropping this in my inbox!! You taking interest warms my heart!

I'm gonna use this ask as a means to drop these headshots and notes. Below is every person who currently resides at the repurposed logging yard. They call themselves the Hermits. All of these people will appear at least once in the comic, and I'm going to do my best to include these little bits of info within the actual story too!

Other members of traffic/life smp will also appear, they just aren't associated with the group established here. So Scott, Lizzie, Jimmy, Martyn, Bigb, Scar and Grian are going to make an appearance later.

As for the setting, we're 2 years into the apocalypse at this point. There are safe guarded cities, but these places are far away from where the story is taking place. The Hermits have pretty much been living their lives completely isolated from other people as a means of keeping safe.

Weather in this universe can be a bit extreme, as the world faces an imminent climate crisis a few years before the zombies start appearing inexplicably. Space stations were in the midst of being established before the apocalypse, with hopes that humanity could reestablish itself in outer space. When it hit, much of the remaining human race was evacuated from the planet as a last ditch effort. The status of the shuttles that were sent up is unknown. The stations being set up really weren't ready to be inhabited so soon, so its kind of iffy whether or not things are going much better up there.

Early into the apocalypse, helicopters would fly overhead looking for survivors and escort them back to safe zones and launch sites. This stopped not long after though, and whether or not they're going to start looking for survivors again is unknown.

As for the zombies themselves, the 'science' behind them is beyond anyone's understanding. Upon being bitten, the body instantaneously progresses through the stages of decomposition and takes on a sickly kind of bruised look. As far as any one can tell, there is no brain activity beyond this point, but the bodies still move inexplicably. Kind of a night of the living dead situation. Important to note that much like a human, if the heart or brain is destroyed they will die, despite not having a functioning nervous or circulatory system. I'm taking a distinctly supernatural approach to them because I just think it's cool.

I have no clue what year this is set in, but the Hermits are residing in the wilderness somewhere in Canada. I'll touch on pretty much all the above within the comic as well, but I thought there was no harm in sharing anyhow because you asked so nicely!

As for the second half, people have said a couple interesting things. Sadly I can't comment on a lot of it because it dips into spoilers! Somebody said they find it funny that Bdubs is probably freaking out while Etho is just chilling and that's absolutely spot on and made me laugh.

Thanks for such a detailed ask, anon! And thanks for your patience, I had to think about what I wanted to say ^_^ Hopefully this is what you were looking for, hope you have a fantastic day!

#asks #falconearringzombieau

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lollystocks · 4 months ago

Text

Therapy for the Dead and Buried, Chapter 2

Chapter one here

Masterpost here

AO3

A Danny Phantom x The Bright Sessions Crossover for @dp-crossover-angst-week-event

"Patient 17-X-2, session two. Any abilities unconfirmed, though suspected. At the end of last session, he became spooked at my questioning, and left early. His school has made him come back, and I imagine he won’t be happy about it. A gentler touch is probably required, here.”

They sat in the same arrangement as before. The doctor had made a note of it in her book.

"I must say James, I'm glad to see you back."

Danny couldn’t help but scoff. "That’s sort of hard to believe, Doctor Bright."

"Why is that?"

She looked pretty genuine, in a carefully neutral kinda way. Her eyebrows were raised ever-so-slightly over her dark, square glasses, her mouth was relaxed, and brown eyes were making full, unflinching contact with his own. None of the tensed shoulders and muttered asides he was used to from adults these days.

She wasn't totally at ease though, obviously. Her right hand gripped her expensive fountain pen a little too tightly, her irises had contracted. Her nostrils were slightly flared.

These were all the things he'd grown used to seeing, though he had no baseline for the doctor. Then again, he had no baseline for anyone.

The eye contact was incredibly uncomfortable, and he broke it, opting for the window behind her instead.

"No one's ever glad to see me, Doctor Bright. Not really."

She let the silence stretch out. Fucking shrink. Relying on the human instinct to fill the silence.

It was working, unfortunately.

"So I. Uh. Don't really believe you. I think that's a nice thing to say, 'I'm glad to see you', it's a nice segue into talking about me storming out last time, and like, I guess in some way you are glad to see me 'cause then you don’t lose out on a payment, and this is your job, but I think you're uncomfortable. To see me. Which is fine, I just. I wi- I’d rather that people were honest about that."

"Are people not typically honest about that with you?"

"Well they are, eventually, but only after they have some stupid thing to blame it on. Like the way I said or did something, so then they can justify not liking me. I’d rather people be honest that they got the heebie-jeebies from the moment they clapped eyes on me, but that would involve…” He trailed off. “I dunno. Something."

"Do you think this immediate prejudice you feel from people is the reason for your problems at school?"

Danny considered. "Maybe. It's hard to ‘apply yourself’ when everyone at school hates you."

And he’d been trying, he really had - he had more time than ever to work on assignments and projects, and actually read ahead in English, and he didn’t have to stay up all night finishing his homework. It all should have been so much better.

In truth, it was, marginally - better than his last year at Casper, anyhow. But that was a low, low bar.

But no matter how hard he worked, it wasn’t enough. Essays came back with low marks and no comments, his classmates refused to work with him on projects, and presentations were cut off after thirty seconds because no one could stand to listen to him talk and despite the hours of research he’d be given a D-minus and expected to be grateful for it.

And he could never argue, or call it unfair. He’d be put in detention, or even seclusion, for threatening behavior. And now, sent to outsourced therapy with an inscrutable woman who’d probably have him committed.

Her head tilted a fraction. "Before, you said 'uncomfortable' and 'heebie-jeebies', now you say 'hate'. Which is it, do you think?"

"Well, one leads to the other, right? Like, hate is just a way of directing fear? Or something like that. People are scared of me, and they hate that, so they hate me."

The doctor wrote all this down.

“Is this something you experience from everyone, James? Or does it change from person to person? Do you have many friends, at school?”

“Nope,” Danny said, popping the ‘p’. “No friends. There are people who… dislike me less, I guess. There’s this one guy who goes out of his way to be like, sweet. Asks me how I am and stuff. I think he feels sorry for the fact I’m such a visible loner with no friends.” The doctor nodded. “And have you tried pursuing a friendship with this young man?”

“Not really, I can tell that he’s super scared of me too. But he’s nice, so I try not to overstay my welcome. Plus, his friend is like, super freaked out by me. Like way more than normal.” The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed just a little, at that. “How do you know someone is scared of you, James?”

“You think I’m projecting.”

“Not at all. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I’m just wondering what it is exactly that you’re picking up on. Is it people’s behavior? Their words? Something you can see, or maybe just… feel? Innately?”

“‘Cause if it’s something I just ‘feel’ then it’s in my head, right?”

“Not at all. The human brain is very good at pattern recognition, even on a subconscious level. What we may sometimes experience as ‘just a feeling’ or a loosely defined ‘sense’ can actually be the result of our brains performing complex analyses on our surroundings, and gaining something meaningful from the smallest details. It’s a fascinating area of study.”

“And you think that’s what I’m doing?”

“It could be. What do you think?”

Danny didn’t need to ‘sense’ his effect on individual people, of course. Or intuit, or whatever else the doctor was talking about. It was just a given - one that had only gotten worse since he’d come here.

He didn’t want to sit here and tell a therapist that he had a terrifying, supernatural aura. He didn’t want to tell her he was dead. He wanted, desperately, to tell someone that his control was slipping - had slipped - and he was fighting for command over his body again, here in a world with different physics and no discernible magic.

But he couldn’t, obviously.

“I’ve learned to spot the body language,” he said. “Fast breathing, tense muscles, wide eyes and blown - or constricted - pupils, clenching, flushing and sweating, et cetera et cetera. It helps if they call me a creep, a freak, or a psycho too. That normally informs me pretty well.” “Do you study people’s body language a lot, James? Would you be able to spot other emotions as easily?”

He shrugged. “Only as well as anyone else, I guess. I don’t think I have much of a talent for it. I can just spot the fear ‘cause I cause it. Like, I googled how to spot it once, after it started happening.” “And when did it start?”

He didn’t hesitate the way he should have. He didn’t check himself or hold his tongue. So he simply said, “Second semester of freshman year, when I was fourteen.”

Which entirely went against his plan of 'keep it vague, dumbass.’

“-I mean, uh, I think it was around then. I guess.” If the doctor was suspicious, she didn’t show it - she just jotted it down in her book. And underlined it.

“So you’ve had this discernible effect on people for three years now, more or less, and your experiences and research have provided the tools to spot it, if not understand it, correct?”

Incorrect. He understood it perfectly.

“Correct,” he said.

“Was this a problem at your old school?”

“Sure.”

“To the same degree?”

No.

“Sure,” he said instead.

“How have you found the transition to your new school? For obvious reasons a lot of your file is sealed, but I can see that you have no official guardian and are living independently. That must be tough, at seventeen.” “Mm-hm.” The doctor sat back, waiting for her first question to be answered.

There was a tree outside the window, its branches bare and dead. A crow hopped around the naked boughs, minding its business.

There was very little else of interest in Danny’s sightline.

“I can see that this is a topic you’d rather not discuss, James. We can talk about anything else you’d like to.”

Kudos, Doc.

He shrugged. “What do people normally talk about in therapy?”

“Anything and everything, I find,” she said, with the slightest smile on her lips. “We’re still very early on, so I’d like to get to know you a bit more. I’d love to know more about your hobbies, your interests - where do you go, mentally, to feel assurance, or peace?”

“Space, I guess.” She did smile now. “Poetic. Tell me more.”

So he did. He started with the Mars rovers, their names and their aims. And eventually Martian geology. Then deep space probes, then the Hubble telescope, then stellar spectroscopy, then the MoonBase updates-

“I apologize. Moonbase? I was unaware of any ongoing lunar occupation-”

“No, yeah, you’re right, um. I meant. The plans. There might be plans for one. For growing ecto-fungi. Nothing happening yet. No one here lives on the moon. You know I think I just heard it on a documentary, actually. Maybe it was bullshit. I mean bullcrap. I mean. Nonsense.”

“Of course. There’s no need to panic James, I’m not here to judge you for making mistakes. Though I’m curious - what was that word you said? Ecto-fungi?”

“Hm? Don’t know. I just said ‘regular fungi.’”

“Of course. My apologies.” She re-crossed her legs and stretched her spine a little. Her eyes were a bit more relaxed around the edges, and her grip on her pen looser. “I must say James, your passion is encouraging. For the last…” she checked her watch. “Forty-five minutes, you’ve been a very different young man. Do you find talking about your passions comforting?”

Yeah. They made him complacent.

“Sure.”

“If you like, James, going forward, we could start our sessions with a quick chat about anything along these lines. It might help you feel more at ease. Would you like that?”

No. It was a dumb idea and was likely to make him slip up about inter-dimensional differences.

“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”

Chapter 3

#dp #dp fanfiction #danny phantom #the bright sessions #dpcaw24 #my fanfiction #lolly talks #tftdab

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queer-ragnelle · 15 days ago

Note

Huh, I wasn't aware the creator of Jeeves and Wooster wrote a Arthuriana. This is so cool!

On the other hand, what are the highlights you loved from the story? Any favorite quotes?

So many parts in Sir Agravaine to love! First of all the author name dropping Malory and Tennyson to call them out for only writing about supposedly handsome knights so so funny.

I had been under the impression, like, I presume, everybody else, that every Knight of the Round Table was a model of physical strength and beauty. Mallory says nothing to suggest the contrary. Nor does Tennyson. But apparently there were exceptions, of whom Sir Agravaine the Dolorous must have been the chief.

Get their asses!! Where my ugly boys at?! I also like that Agravaine feels melancholy sorry I do believe in my heart he's pathetic little soggy doggy who would be transformed in the right environment.

Handicapped in this manner, it is no wonder that he should feel sad and lonely in King Arthur's court.

His physical description is 10/10 but it's long so I'll just call attention to these parts. I HEART SHORT MEN WITH IMPERFECT TEETH!!!!!!!

Agravaine was a good deal better equipped than his contemporaries with grey matter, but his height in his socks was only five feet four ... his chin receded sharply from his lower lip, as if Nature, designing him, had had to leave off in a hurry and finish the job anyhow. The upper teeth, protruding, completed the resemblance to a nervous rabbit.

And he's got anxiety?? Perfect characterization no notes.

Sir Agravaine gulped. He was feeling more nervous than he had ever felt in his life.

I adore the lady Yvonne she's just existing and Agravaine is already worried about her impression of him and making up some bullshit in his head. We respect insecure characters in this house.

...he thought he had observed the damsel Yvonne frown as he rose. He groaned in spirit. This damsel, he felt, wanted the proper goods or none at all.

Then this right after made me chew a hole through my wall /pos

The fact was that Sir Agravaine had fallen in love at first sight. The moment he had caught a glimpse of the damsel Yvonne, he loved her devotedly. To others she seemed plain and unattractive. To him she was a Queen of Beauty.

"Love at first sight is bogus." WRONG!!!! It really does happen my buddy Agravaine is proof!! But seriously sometimes it really is like that two people are just drawn together and make a perfect match that nobody else could have been a replacement for one of them. It's delicious narrative frankly I'll hear nothing against the tried and true romance tropes they're beautiful. Now, without spoiling the full story, this might be one of my favorite lines in the whole thing because it's just so....knightly. Whereas Lancelot or Gawain might say they're not afraid as they charge into battle or whatever, Agravaine is very much afraid to fight this dragon. But he's going to do it anyway.

Then he looked at the damsel, and his mind was made up. What did death matter if he could serve her?

Brilliant. Spectacular. Show stopping. Wodehouse, I'm blowing you endless kisses. And Arthurian authors? More Agravaines like this please and thank you.

#arthuriana #arthurian legend #arthurian mythology #arthurian literature #sir agravaine #sir agravain #p g wodehouse #quotes #ask #anonymous

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keep-the-wolves-close · 9 months ago

Text

Steady Heart

Chapter 14: Hollow Crown

* Pairing: Slow-burn Kayce Dutton x OFC Stella Daniels

* Rating: M? (Still figuring out the rating system) (might eventually be M anyhow)

* Warnings: language, brief violence between John and Jamie, brief wound tending

* Word count: 4,038ish

I would love to give credits to @dameronscopilot and @deanscroissant for being sounding boards for me during this whole process, giving outsider insight, being cheerleaders, and allowing me to screech at them about things that have happened during the writing process. I seriously couldn't have gotten this far without y'all

Author's note: Oof this chapter was a piece of work. I hope everyone is enjoying so far! I hope you love this chapter as well!

The pair trotted for another 10 minutes and on the horizon there was a rifle bang that cut through the air. Stella sagged in her saddle at the sight of her brother, Jimmy, and Walker riding out to meet her. She waved her hand at the bunch.

They met each other. In unison Ryan slipped off of BJ and Stella off of Abigail. Her brother called out to her and cleared the last few feet of space between them. “Stella! Are you okay?!” He jogged up to her wrapping her in a hug so tight, air rushed out of her lungs at the impact, a soft oof escaping.

She hugged Ryan back. “I’m fine. The officer got hurt, not me.”

Ryan started to check her over. Looking for any sign of injury. “What happened to your hands?”

“I got cut on barbed wire trying to untangle Snoopy. Is he okay?”

“Yeah he’s fine.” Jimmy said.

“Nothing some docterin’ and silver spray won’t fix.” Walker offered.

“Oh good.” Stella caught her breath. “The noises stopped not long ago. I don’t think she’s following anymore.”

Ryan stood back from inspecting his sister. “Where was the den?”

“Somewhere by pasture 11, I think? On the outside of the fence.”

“We’ll probably have to get them relocated.”

“If she doesn’t do it first with all the hoof traffic coming through there over the last few days.”

Ryan nodded at his sister's assumption. “Yeah that’s a fair point. Or maybe she was in the process of moving them already.”

“Yeah,” she looked down. “Thank you for coming to me.” She glanced at Jimmy and Walker. “All of you.” Walker tipped his hat and turned around to go back to the barn.

“What were you doin’ by yourself? Why didn’t you go with them?”

“There wasn’t enough room. And someone had to come back and tell John. It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She brushed loose hair away from her face.

Jimmy smiled and came up to her and wrapped his arms around her. A startled noise left Stella. “I’m glad you’re okay. When we heard the call come through and then your horse didn’t show up we thought you were dead.”

Stella thought, ‘ah what the hell,’ and returned the hug. “Thank you, Jimmy. Really.” Ryan cleared his throat next to them. Stella pulled back and scowled at her brother for a split second. “I’ve gotta go talk to John. I was supposed to be back like an hour ago at least. I’ll meet y’all down at the bunkhouse in a bit.”

Ryan hugged her as Jimmy rode away. “Don’t get into any more trouble on the way to the house please?” He tapped her nose. “Matter of fact, I’ll come with you until you’re at the house.”

Stella wanted to argue, but thought better of it. Ryan was still coming back to earth. She would humor him today.

Stella and Ryan came loping into view of the ranch from the far side archway closest to the house. She came to a stop and Ryan waved at her as he headed to the barn. She turned her horse to slope up the big hill to the house. Abigail’s long legs made short work of the hill. Coming up on the big house, Stella could just barely make out someone on the porch in the dim twilight. Getting closer she could see it was John.

She slowed her mare to a stop at the trough by the driveway. She swung her leg over and dropped gracefully out of her saddle. She stroked Abigail’s neck and tied her to one of the few hitches at the house. “Catch your breath girl. We’re safe now. Get some water.” The mare was already halfway there by the time she finished her sentence. Stella could feel eyes on her and knew John was patiently waiting for her to come report to her.

Making her way to the bottom, she smiled sheepishly up at the man lounging at the top. “Just the man I hoped to find,” she joked breathlessly. John waved at her to come join him. She climbed the stairs. “Have you heard anything from Rip?” She went to take a seat next to her best friend’s father.

John shook his head. “No, should I have?” He was testing her. That was the thought that first came to Stella’s mind. He was seeing if she would lie at all. The tone he used gave him away. He knew already.

She bobbed her head. “Well he was supposed to call you, but he might have gotten held up. Taking that officer up the mountain turned into a shit show to say the least, sir. She was uncomfortable on Snoopy from the get go, which I thought was weird considering she most likely has to ride a horse quite often, but what do I know.”

Stella settled back into the chair with a quiet groan. “She fell off the horse after it got bit by a horsefly and got, forgive my lack of tact here, skewered on a fence post. Rip called Viggo and got her out to the hospital. I was to come back here and tell you. So here I am.” She raised her hand from the arm rest. “A little later than I planned, and more cuts than intended, but I’m here.”

“You forget who my daughter is. I would be shocked if you’ve been around this long and didn’t have something like that in your arsenal.” They smirked at each other. “Rip will be home soon. I think I hear the chopper now. He did call me a little while ago.”

“Oh good,” Stella listened intently and sure enough she heard the blades as they sliced through the air. In the distance a very distinct Rip shaped silhouette walked out of the darkness.

“She gonna make it?” John asked, getting up from his seat on the porch.

“Yeah. She's tough as a mule, that one.” He gazed at Stella when he said that. Stella stood and caught up to the patriarch, meeting the foreman at the bottom of the steps. He switched his stare to John. “They're sending another ranger out tomorrow.” Rip put his hands on his hips as they came to meet him.

“See if you can keep this one on a horse.” Rip chuckled. John pointed to her. “And Stella, I don’t think you should go this time. We’ll decide tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Both she and Rip answered in unison.

Rip took in Stella’s appearance. “You okay, Stella-belle?” John watched the interaction quietly.

Stella sighed and took her glasses off. She outstretched her hand and Rip grabbed them with a frown. The men shared a glance. They let Stella take her time. Taking out her hair, she ran her hands through it shaking it out. It went back up into a less fuzzy bun. She held out her hand for her glasses and Rip placed them gently on her palm. Placing them back on her face, she finally answered.

“Well I doctored my hands up after you left. Ran into a mountain lion den about halfway home. On the outside of the fence. I’m pretty sure mom stalked us most of the way home.” Rip opened his mouth, but she held up a hand to stop him. “Yes I called my brother in on the walkie. They came out and met me. He made sure I made it most of the way here. I told John about what happened. Just later than planned.”

“Sounds like you had a busy night.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

John interjected. “We’ll revisit the mountain lion near one of my pastures later. You forgot that little detail, kid.”

“Sorry sir. Ryan was already talking about relocation or something. If she wasn’t already in the process when I stumbled across her.”

A car pulled up and caught their attention. “Wow, I can't wait to see which disappointment this is.” The three of them watched Jamie get out of the car. John roared, “where you been? I needed you!” Stella and Rip stepped back.

“I was campaigning.” He stated like it was obvious.

John growled. “You been gone two fuckin' days, Jamie. You can't make one phone call? God knows I've been calling you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Sorry? Hell, you don't even know what you're sorry for.”

“I'm sorry. Christina has my phone.” Stella raised her eyebrows at his admission.

“Christina has your phone. God damn it, Jamie.” John wiped his mouth. “When Rip takes Fish and Wildlife out tomorrow, I need you with them.”

“Okay. Why is Fish and Wildlife coming tomorrow?”

“Shit.” John muttered. The evidence was clear that Jamie hadn’t even bothered to check his phone before he got to the ranch.

“I have campaign stops in Helena and Great Falls…”

“No, you don't, because the first thing you're doing tomorrow is withdrawing from the race.” John made his word final.

“What? I'm doing this for you.” Jamie sounded hurt and confused.

“No, you're doing it for you, and now you're not doing it anymore.”

Rip and Stella looked at each other. They didn’t think they should be here for this conversation. Stella wanted to slowly slink away to her horse and go find her brother.

Jamie tried to stand his ground. “Hey. I won't quit. My entire career is based around this. I've earned it.”

“It's not your place to decide what you've earned.”

“Don't take this away from me. I've earned this! After everything I've done for you, after everything I said…,” Jamie begged.

John wheeled around and advanced on Jamie.“What have you done for me, Jamie?” John shoved him. “What have you done for me besides help me build the empire that you stand to inherit? Sorry, son, I just don't see the sacrifice.”

“Don't you take this away from me.” Jamie grabbed his dad’s coat and started shoving him.

“You took it from yourself.” John dismissed.

“After everything I have done for you? I have earned this!”

John launched his fist squarely against Jamie’s jaw. He fell to the ground and groaned. Embarrassment and pain all wrapped up into one. “All you earned today is that.”

As much as it pleased Stella that someone else shared the same thought about Jamie needing to be hit, she didn’t think now was the time. “Mr. Dutton!” John took his son to the ground, trading blows the whole way.

Rip jumped in. “Hey.” He pulled John off of Jamie.

“I swear to God, I never met a man more in need of a beating.” John paced as Rip got Jamie up off the ground and started marching him away from John. Stella put herself in between John and the other two men. She hoped that her presence in the middle would keep him from bowling her over if his anger rose again.

“Jamie, you touch me again, and I'll give you one.” He stood up straight and stared down his son. “By this time tomorrow, Attorney General Stewart's gonna announce that he's not stepping down. So if you want to run against the candidate I'm supporting, you be my guest.” He caught his breath just long enough to weave around Stella and up to Jamie and Rip. “Until you're ready to put this family first, you don't step foot on this ranch, you understand? You're not welcome here.”

Rip caught Jamie as he went to go back at his father for more blows. “Hey, hey, hey. Listen to me... Whoa. Easy now.”

“This is between family.” Jamie said hotly. Stella made a face at him not recognizing the foreman as family at this point.

“You're gonna fight yourself right out of it.” He patted Jamie’s chest. “Now, go get a hotel, okay? And then calm down.”

Stella herded John to the porch. He bent down and picked up the papers that had blown off the table with the breeze that had settled in. “You okay?” She heard Jamie’s car peel off and felt Rip come up behind her.

“No, Stella, I don't know that I am.” He sniffed. “Hundred and thirty-two years this ranch has been in my family, and I'm the one to lose it.” He stood from picking up the papers. “To be honest, I don't even know who I'm trying to save it for, anymore.” He looked at his employees. “You both go. I have a lot to think about.”

She gave him a bittersweet smile in response and watched him go inside. Rip went to go stand at the top step and Stella asked softly as she joined him, “penny for your thoughts?”

Rip shook his head. “Not much going on except, what a fuckin’ day.”

She hummed in response.

“You go to your brother. Have Lloyd look at your hands.”

“Yessir.” She jogged over to Abigail. The bay roan nickered at her. She smiled lovingly at Abigail, gave her a pat and climbed into her saddle. “Come on sweets. Let’s go put you to bed.”

After she got Abigail settled in, she chose to go find her brother and see what shenanigans everyone was up to. Coming up on the bunkhouse the sounds of a good time echoed into the night. She smiled feeling at home and swung the door open.

The men were in the middle of a poker game. Her brother goaded everyone. “Oh this is dangerous for you boys. I would stay away if I were you.”

The smile remained on her face and she walked up behind her brother and gave his shoulders a hug. “Oh hey Stellee. Kinda busy right now.” He squeezed her forearm that was around his neck quickly.

“Yeah yeah. Just wanted to say hi.” She chuckled standing back up. She noticed Jimmy was searching for something all over the back of the house.

Lloyd caught Jimmy pacing and gently directed him. “Jimmy, sit down. You're making us all fucking sea sick.”

“All right, where is it?”

“Where's what?” Stella and Ryan asked. They looked at each other in amusement.

“You guys know what.”

Stella scrunched her face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got here.”

“We don't know how to help you find what we don't know you're looking for, Jimmy.” Colby said.

“Where's my fucking hat?”

Ryan looked directly at Jimmy. “Oh, that.” Ryan tapped on his cards. “Yeah, we got rid of that.” He explained simply.

Stella’s eyes widened. “Y’all did what!”

“Stupid scarecrow ain't a good look, Jimmy.” Colby smiled.

Stella swore she could hear a mouse fart out in the barn from how quiet it got in the house. All the men started smiling before Lloyd reached underneath the table and pulled out a brand new black hat. He tossed it at Jimmy who juggled it and caught it.

Ryan laid out the rules. He sounded like he was talking to 15 year old Stella the way he explained it. “Cost us each a weeks' pay. You lose it, pay us back.”

Lloyd smiled, delighted. “It ain't a damn soup bucket, try it on.” He tried to convince Jimmy.

Jimmy looked at it, almost as if he was making sure there wasn’t a catch. He flipped it up over his head and carefully slipped it on.

“Yay!” Stella yelled and everyone started clapping and congratulating him.

“You were in on this, too?” He asked Stella and then Walker, who had just walked in on the celebration.

Stella laid her arms on her brother and Colby’s shoulders. “Oh, look at him, honeys. Our little Jimmy's all growed up.” She playfully sniffled and wiped a fake tear away. Colby and Ryan played along and consoled her. “Also somebody call the academy. I deserve an award for the performance.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy smiled at the guys trying to forget his annoyance. The wranglers went back to their poker game, pleased with the turnout of getting Jimmy a hat.

Jimmy stepped up to Stella. “Thank you.”

“Of course Jaybird.” He smiled at the nickname. “We’ll get you fitted up right if it kills us.” She leaned closer to him and whispered, “I told you they’d come around.” She smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

Jimmy walked over to his bunk and everyone including Stella screamed. “No, no, don't put it on the bed!”

“Jesus fuck.” Ryan exclaimed.

“That's bad luck, Jimmy.” Lloyd explained.

“You can't give him anything.”

“Is there any way to undo that, or…,” Jimmy sounded worried he asked Walker.

Walker sighed and laid down. He seemed bummed. “Hell, Jimmy, if you cowboy into this outfit, you're already cursed.”

Stella glanced at him. “You good?”

“I guess.” He replied curtly.

Stella frowned but figured it would be best to walk away. “Hey Lloyd? Can you look at my hands? Rip wasn’t sure my docterin’ was good enough.”

“Of course lil’ bit. Here and take my seat. I’ll get the first aid kit.” He traded spots with her. He left to go to the bathroom and grab the kit.

Ryan watched as Colby leaned over and started gently taking off the medical tape Stella had put around her hands and fingers. She hissed as the tape caught some skin from her right middle and ring finger. They were the gnarliest.

“Damn girl, what did you do?”

“I was panicking trying to get Snoopy loose from barbed wire.” She laughed through the pain that emanated from her hand. “Didn’t know Rip had cutters.”

Colby whistled. “You sure know how to have a good time don’t you?”

“If that’s what you wanna call it, sure.” She chuckled stiffly. Lloyd came out of the bathroom hallway and came back to the table.

“My god, Stella.” Her eyes widened because it was rare that Lloyd used her actual name.

“I know it looks bad, but once I get it washed off it’ll be better.” She stood and made her way to the bathroom sink.

“Why’re you going there?”

“I’m not gonna have my blood in the sink we all use for food and dishes. That’s gross.” There were certain lines she wouldn’t cross. That was one of them.

Looking in the mirror, she could tell the day had been rough. The past few days had been rough. Hell, the whole last week had been. She turned on the water and examined her face while she waited for it to get warm. The dark circles on her face carved a wide path underneath her eyes. It looked like she’d been punched.

Stella flicked a finger in the water to test the temperature. It was warm enough so she grabbed the soap and gently scrubbed her hands. It started stinging and she grit her teeth. She washed the last of the soap and blood off and looked around for a towel. She found a wash rag and figured it would do.

She walked back out to the leader of the pack and held out her hands. “Okay so it’s still not great, but I don’t need stitches. So that’s a plus.”

“Sit.” Lloyd pointed to the chair. “Colby get up.” Everyone but her brother quickly skirted to their respective spaces.

“Ryan, you get her other hand.”

Stella laid her left arm out for her brother. The cut across her left palm wasn’t as bad as the ones on her fingers on the other hand. Both men got to work. Neither of them talked to her in their concentration. Looking around the room she looked at Jimmy. As they locked eyes she winced at a particularly tender part of her fingers.

Jimmy meandered over and took a seat across from her. “Need a distraction?”

“Probably. You got anything good to talk about?”

“So,” Jimmy tapped the table trying to come up with something. “Snoopy is doing good. He was still a little spooky when I checked on him.”

“He’ll settle out over the next day or so.” She smirked. “Also look at you using me and Kayce’s lingo!”

“You might have rubbed off on me.”

She looked at her brother. “I told you I could get through to him.”

Ryan looked up at her under his eyebrows with a scowl.

“What?” She made a face at her brother.

He looked at her hands and back at her. Stella instantly knew he was pissed she tore her them up. More so that she got hurt in general. Her shoulders dropped when she realized. She felt Lloyd wrapping the last one of her fingers and Ryan let go of her hand as he finished. Jimmy watched the whole silent conversation in awe.

“None of it was intentional, Ry.”

“I told you to be careful, and you said never before you left.”

Stella grabbed his hand. “I was joking when I said that. Out of everyone here, well except maybe Jimmy, I’m probably the most cautious. I panicked because Rip was considering shooting Snoopy so when he caught his breath he didn’t drag the officer all to hell.” She let go of his hand and put hers on her chest. “A horse I helped train with Lee and Kayce. I couldn’t let him do it. I didn’t know he had cutters, otherwise I would have used them first instead of trying to untangle him with my bare hands.”

The vibe in the room shifted. The mention of Lee sobered everyone up really quick.

“Snoopy is one of the things I have to keep him alive. He’s proof that I learned something and made a friend while I was at it.”

Ryan sat back in his chair with a sigh. “We’ve gotta work on your self preservation, but I understand why you did it.”

“We’ll get somewhere one day. I gotta go find Rip. See what he wants me to do.” Stella stood and walked over to Jimmy. She squeezed his shoulder. “Thank you for taking care of Snoopy for me.”

She came up to the lodge pleased to see that the lights were still on. Her hand raised and she thumped the door a couple times and stood back. A couple coyotes could be heard way off in the distance. They were far enough away that Stella didn’t worry. And if they suddenly came up on her she would just barge into Rip’s house and apologize later. She was sure that he didn’t lock the door. Knocking was just out of respect and common courtesy.

The door opened, Rip looking irritated as ever. “Woah there grumpy Gus. It’s just me.” Stella snorted. When he realized who was at his door, his face softened.

“Everything alright?” He asked, looking like he was preparing for more headache.

“Oh yeah, everything’s fine. I just wanted to see what you wanted me to do.”

Rip’s eyebrows dropped. “Meaning?”

Her face scrunched up in question. “Meaning should I stay at the ranch tonight to go in the morning, or?”

“Oh yeah you probably should stay. I know John said you weren’t going, but I’m sure he’ll want you there.” He stood back and waved her into the house. “You left your stuff here during your great escape this morning. I put it on the table.”

Stella stepped into the lodge and spotted her orange book bag and key lanyard sitting where Rip said it would be. She gripped it up and swung the strap over her shoulder.

“You can stay here again if you want?” Rip offered.

Stella laughed, turning around to head back out the door. “I’ll let you have some peace before tomorrow morning. Plus I have a couple extra things at the bunkhouse.” Remembering she had been banned she stopped and spun back to him. His eyebrows were raised. She scratched her head and looked down. “I mean if that’s okay.”

Rip was quiet. The silence made Stella rock back and forth on her feet. Monica called it the “mom rock”. He sighed and shook his head. “Okay I’ll let it slide tonight. Once this situation is taken care of, no bunkhouse still, but you can hang around.”

“Eeee,” Stella squealed and ran over to him. She jumped just high enough to be able to grab his shoulders and hug him tight. He hugged her back holding most of her weight, allowing her feet to swing back and forth. She dropped down and backed up. “Thank you. I’ll try to be on my best behavior.”

“You better be,” he swatted at her shoulder as she turned around to leave. He called out to her as she left. “I’ll come get you in the mornin’!”

A faint, “okay,” floated back through the door. He smirked to himself and shook his head at the soft spot he had for her.

#yellowstone #kayce dutton #yellowstonetv #luke grimes #ian bohen #ryan #kayce dutton fan fiction #yellowstone fanfic #yellowstone fanfiction #rip wheeler #kayce dutton fanfic

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maelstrom-of-emotions · 1 year ago

Text

Make sure to read Part One before this, or it won't make sense. Huey took a solid thirty minutes to concoct a meticulously crafted, step-by-step plan. Meanwhile, in Dewey's world, he'd already played bodyguard for Louie against the likes of wrecking balls, piranhas, booby traps, a sneezing house, a cursed medallion—you name it. Had adventuring always been this dangerous? He's sure his past self would probably through a fit at the mere thought of it, but, frankly this was just ridiculous.

The thrill of adventure used to be about adrenaline and excitement, but now, with every close call Louie had, Dewey felt like wrapping him in bubble wrap and calling it a day. Seriously, had Louie always danced on the brink of death like this? Dewey made a mental note to have a few words with Uncle Scrooge about it later—once he confirmed with Huey that, yes, this had always been the case, that they had been in this level of danger all the time.

Dewey used to love adventure for the sheer rush, but watching his younger brother take hit after hit made him contemplate putting a permanent pause on the whole adventuring gig. Oh, if Uncle Donald could see them now. His uncle would probably keel over from a heart attack.

He found himself deep in the throes of a debate, caught between the options of buying bubble wrap or investing in a full-fledged plastic bubble, scrolling the website and contemplating which one would offer greater protection for Louie when Huey strolled up, a weary grin on his beak, and declared, “I have a plan.”

"Your plan better include enough bubble wrap to fill a swimming pool," Dewey grumbled, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "This is getting ridiculous."

Huey's gaze shifted to where Louie was hunched over, cradling his wrist. Dewey hadn't noticed when he'd managed to sprain it, missing the moment it had happened. "Tell me about it," his older brother mumbled, scrutinizing the bandages around Louie's wrist, undoubtedly analyzing and critiquing the way they were tied. "Has he always gotten hurt this much?"

"You tell me," Dewey said, frowning at Louie, who was hunched over. He fought the urge to go and wrap his younger brother in a blanket, knowing that it would spook Louie and draw attention, something Louie probably wouldn't appreciate. "You're the one who keeps a tally on these mishaps. Though, if the answer is yes we're having a serious talk with Scrooge."

"Agreed," Huey said, finally tearing his eyes away from scrutinizing the bandages. Dewey was willing to bet that the second they touched down—or well, crashed would be the more appropriate term, Launchpad was the one flying the plane, after all—and reached home, Huey would be on a mission to rewrap that bandage.

"Anyhow," Dewey chimed in, a tad bit impatient. He'd been clocking Louie's weird vibes for days now, only finally concluding that whatever Louie was feeling way beyond ‘just a bad day.’ He couldn't stand another moment not actively fixing the glitch.

"Right," Huey straightened up, whipping out his notepad like they were gearing up for battle. Granted, their luck often dipped into the wild side, but Dewey was really hoping it wouldn't come to that. "Post-bedtime's the prime time to make moves. Fewest interruptions, and any potential disruptions can be dodged. Plus, Louie's been pulling an all-nighter marathon for what seems like eons, so let's kick off with tackling that snooze situation."

Dewey shot a quick glance at his younger brother, but there wasn't a hint of panda resemblance. He looked up with a questioning expression. "Concealer?" he asked, well aware that Louie could be meticulous about his appearance.

"Yep," Huey confirmed, offering a sad smile. "Only found out last night. Got up to use the bathroom, and there he was, just lying on the floor, staring blankly at the wall. His eye bags could rival moon craters, Dewey."

Dewey cursed internally. Man, he hated how deep he slept sometimes. They were all light sleepers, but lately, after exhausting adventures, they practically collapsed into their beds.

Louie struggled with sleep, often settling for short naps during the day. That's probably why he seemed so lethargic on certain days. Usually, he'd sneak into one of their beds, snuggle up, and maybe manage a short doze.

"I reckon the best approach is to ease into it," Huey suggested, snapping Dewey back to the here and now. "Stick with those little gestures; they seem to be comforting him. We'll start with a light topic and then gently steer the conversation—no bombardment. He's, well, he's fragile right now, Dewey."

Dewey glanced at their brother once more, small and hunched, almost fragile. He resembled how they'd all looked when Uncle Donald lost his job during a bad time, and they struggled to make ends meet. Dewey could vividly recall that period—the stormy weather, turbulent waters, and the days when cereal was the only meal on the menu. Fear had gripped them all, but Louie had borne the brunt of it. If Dewey closed his eyes, he could see Young Louie in his mind's eye, small and clutching his stuffed rabbit. Those same hands had scoured the house for spare change hoping to help the bills, the very hands Dewey had held.

"Yeah," he mumbled, hating the way his voice cracked. Huey reached up to give his shoulder a comforting pat. "I know. God, do I know."

At that moment, Louie looked up, and Dewey met his brother's tired, scared eyes. It felt like encountering a stray cat in an alley, trying to coax it gently while it watched you warily, aware that you were a stranger.

And that's what stung, didn't it? They were the Duck Boys, brothers with inside jokes and embarrassing memories no one else knew. They were the ones who'd drawn a mustache on Uncle Donald and stitched his new uniform. They had history, and yet, it felt like they didn't know each other anymore.

He mustered a hopeful smile, small and gentle, and felt something in his heart mend as he received one in return. Fragile, like the delicate strands of a spider's web, but it was a start, and it was better than nothing.

#louie duck centric #louie needs a hug #huey dewey and louie #big brother dewey duck #big brother huey duck #ducktales 2017 #ducktales

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elder-dragon-reposes · 2 years ago

Text

The Very First Night (Spent In Your Arms)

Pairing: Kynadora/Miraak, Pre-Relationship

Summary: A night at Candlehearth Hall has the potential to change everything, but will it?

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46654078

Notes: Thank you to everyone that helped convince me to post this! Let me know if anyone wants to be added to a tag list!

She was going to kill him, and the worst part of it was that he doubted that she was even trying to. This was just her. The small smiles and touches, the way she looked at him to get his opinion about a decision before she made it. But by Aetherius itself did they make his heart flutter when she interacted with him like that. And he sees it with other people, the way that she seems to influence everyone she meets in some life-altering way, and the eyes which follow after her in the same way that he imagines his do.

Which is exactly why this set of pajamas would actually be what kills him. Not a dragon, not Mora, not anything else. The barely knee-length shift that she is currently wearing to sleep next to him. For the first time. In a completely platonic fashion. May one of the gods choose to strike him down now so that he doesn’t have to accidentally wake up sleeping next to her and confess to something he knows that she would never accept.

“I can hear you thinking Miraak.” He hopes not. He really, truly hopes that she cannot hear his thoughts at this moment. The wall of blankets and clothes he built wasn’t enough. Would never be enough to make both this moment and the morning less awkward. Less like his heart would beat out from beneath the skin of his chest.

“Oh, really Little Dovah? What am I thinking of then?” She chuckles and from the sounds that follow flops over onto her back. He held back a gasp as her knee appeared, the material slipping down due to her position. She had too much power over him. She could ask him for anything and the only question he would have for her was about any time constraints.

“Hmm… clearly you’re thinking about that stew we had for dinner.” Good. She can’t read minds. Yet, a part of his mind supplies. He doesn’t like that part of his mind. That part of his mind is giving him very bad ideas that he should not act out on at this moment in time. Like how nice it would be to lean over the wall he built between them and kiss her. Or just touch her. Her hands were soft. Her lips and skin had to be too.

No. “Not quite, try again?” She flops more, and then her hand comes over the wall. She invades his side. And grabs his hand. And then pulls it towards her side. This is dangerous. He built the wall to avoid this. But he’s not taking it back now. She can have it as long as she wants it, longer if she’ll allow it.

A giggle, her voice is soft and something he can only describe as sleepy. Good. She’s never gotten enough sleep as long as he’s known her. “Is it some kind of secret knowledge? Something you’re hiding?” Fuck she’s good. His Little Dovah is dangerous. But her voice is tired. And he can use that.

“Maybe. If you sleep now I’ll tell you about it sometime.” Never. He will never tell her about it. She wouldn’t accept it anyhow, and this way- he can keep her here. Keep her next to him. Touching him. Laughing at him. Shining those flame-blue eyes at him.

She drops his hand and he almost dies. It lands fairly dramatically on the soft satin that is her slip and he’s almost certain that it’s her stomach, and it takes all of his self-control to pull his hand back over the wall and back to his side. And not further up to rest on her neck or her arms. Fuck he wants her to touch him more. “Fine, you can keep your secrets for now.” Her leg disappears next as she flops back on her side and he only now realizes he’d been staring at it the whole time.

“Goodnight Little Dovah.” He could get used to saying that, here in her bed. And not at dinner when they say their goodnights. Maybe, maybe, if they both sleep better than they have in most of their lives she’ll agree to do this again. But that’s dangerous, a far smarter side of his brain supplies. She laughs again.

“Goodnight Miraak.” The magelight spell she cast is dropped, and he is left in the dark. Listening to her breathing as it evens out. Once she is letting out little sounds, so soft, that indicate she’s asleep, he finally closes his eyes and far faster than he has in centuries, falls asleep.

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Light is shining through the small window and sounds are beginning to come from the upstairs of the inn when Miraak awakens. He’s not used to that, and the pillow he’s on is far softer and more comfortable than he remembers it being. He moves slightly, adjusting to try and begin getting ready for the day when he realizes her arm is around his head. And that his pillow is no pillow.

His head is on her chest. Fuck. This is what he was trying to avoid. This is a bad idea. His eyes open and look around. The soft light is enough to take in the surroundings and his heart rate picks up when he looks at their legs. At his arms. Her arms. Their legs are entangled. Under the sheets, he can’t quite tell where his legs begin and her legs end. His arms are wrapped around her, and he can’t help but take in just how soft this all feels. It’s almost too much, makes him want to scream. But he can’t. She’s still sleeping. He can hear her heart’s beat from where his head rests and it’s… steady. Lulling him to just go back to sleep. To forget this. He wants to listen, eyes drooping back closed. It can just be a problem for later.

And then she stirs, one of her hands moving from his shoulder and into his hair. She scratches his head, and if he were a cat he was certain he would purr. She adjusts one of her legs, her ankle rubbing against one of his calves and he lets go of a breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

Her voice is quiet and still sleepy. For a moment he isn’t sure she spoke at all. But she does, “Go back to sleep ‘Raak.” He can do that. Will do that. He falls back under the spell of sleep with her heart under his head, not noticing the sleepy smile that had been plastered on her face.

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When Kynadora awakens, it's far later in the morning than she is used to. They’re still entangled, legs and arms wrapped around each other and Miraak has returned to his back. The wall is gone, and it seems that both had migrated to the middle of the bed sometime in the night. The sun is shining through the window and she’s surprised that the noise from outside didn’t wake them earlier. Candlehearth Hall had been full of noise last night, and it appeared that it would be full of noise tonight as well.

She adjusts her head, looking up at his still-sleeping face. She fights the urge to move her hand from his chest to cup his face, the soft smile present on his face making it even harder. His breathing is still steady, and Kynadora could probably fall back to sleep now but she’s far more well-rested than she remembers ever being. And today has to start eventually. Maybe they can not talk about this. And just continue it. Sleep had been rare and hard for her since childhood, but here she was. Well-rested and having slept through the night.

She’s memorized his face at this point, but this is a version of it that she is not yet used to. There is none of that worry or stress that decorates it on a normal day, no lines on his face from glaring at the world. Part of her misses those eyes on her. They always feel like they’re on her, following after her in a way that causes her face to redden when she catches him watching. His breathing is steady, and if it were not for the fact that they will need to pull themselves from this bed eventually, she would allow those steady breaths to lull her back to sleep. Her heart picks up its pace when he shifts, arms pulling her tighter to his chest. He’s soft and strong and he probably could envelop her in his robes and his arms if he wanted. She wants him to.

As if he can read that she is thinking of him, Miraak finally stirs, his eyebrows coming together and eyes squeezing tighter. The calmness from his face drops and she wishes she could call it back. Keep him in this place of safety and quiet forever. But that’s just not possible for them. His breathing changes and Kynadora is met with the dark brown of his eyes. They’re an almost inky black, and they are still sleepy-soft. He’s not awake yet, and a plan formulates. The gears of her mind turn, and it might be in a rather dangerous fashion. But she doesn’t think she could survive without waking up like this again.

“Good morning Miraak.” She has to work quickly. If they don’t talk about it then there can’t be an agreement to find separate beds. So she just won’t. She begins to untangle herself from him, careful not to jostle him too much.

“Good morning?” He sounds confused, still lost to sleep in a way. She’s out from under the covers and adjusts to finish crawling out of bed. Due to her rush, she slips slightly. Her hand catches on Miraak’s thigh and the sharp intake of breath and the way his whole body tenses shocks her so thoroughly she vows never to do it again. Even if it was an accident. She hears him curse under his breath and nearly runs out of the room to change into her day clothes.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Miraak has only just woken and has already gone through more emotions than he did during most of his stay in Apocrypha. And he isn’t quite sure what emotion he’s on right now. Right now his brain was still stuck on the fact that she’d just touched his thigh. Fuck. And then she’d nearly teleported from the room and the bed. Well, at least she didn’t mention the position that they’d woken up in. Again. Memories of the point in the night when he’d awoken come running back. At least he hadn’t said anything damning. Hadn’t confessed anything that could ruin them, ruin her. His Little Dovah had not mentioned it, and he took that to mean that everything was fine. She’d never avoided speaking if she was uncomfortable before, and he doubted that she would avoid it this time. Maybe if they continued to not talk about it, they could do it again. Miraak pulled himself out of bed and went to change into his traveling clothes. The road ahead of them was still long, and the bed was cooling.

#kynadora #tes #skyrim #julia kynadora lastblood #my fanfiction #miraak #miradora #snippet #pre relationship

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mhaccunoval · 11 months ago

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beloveddddd [gently cups your face in my hands] tell me about CIFL <3

HI BELOVED <333

your ticket of admission is a kiss on the forehead <3 as i try to remember what developments have been made since i last talked about it on here...

mmm!!! one that's been haunting me lately (i probably won't actually get around to writing it so i'll share it here): i've been thinking about. well it's an intersection of inspiration from mawce by everybody's worried about owen and a troubled mind by noah kahan but. 22/23 year old maggie (pre-transition donny) going to eli (pre-transition ellie)'s college town— based on the a troubled mind lyrics 'i took a bus out to the city where you live / eaves dropped on strangers' conversations with their kids / in hopes that maybe they'd say something relevant / to ease my worried head'— while in a Weird Headspace (even a manic episode, but more on That later). doesn't get a whole hell of a lot out of it, other than more of The Weird Headspace, especially if (he) sees someone who looks vaguely like eli and/or gets spooked by any deep water around (another point to be elaborated). while somewhat Dissociated in the headspace, makes (his) way down to boston, then to new york, has a mini break in a new york hotel room including shaving (his) head. DOES, then, get home safely and shows up at the hurleys' door— the specificity of new york being important because the shaving of the head leads to (his) hat era and the hat (he) got first says NY on it. marian, god bless her, is a bit shocked at first but. she loves (him) like her own so she fixes the rough/uneven patches of hair, makes sure (he's) well-fed/comfortable, defends (him) when Joseph gets a bit prickly about the whole situation (I HAD ACTUAL DIALOGUE BUT I FORGOR; anyway, i'll elaborate on the prickle AS WELL). lets M— who does want to temporarily go by M since part of the break is gender shit— vent where (he) needs to. and. the part i'm gnawing on the most is, in the morning M's like 'hi annie...' and marian's like 'hi peach :)' because!!! dat baby's a fuzzy little peach right now!!! and. and. joseph, coming to made Some acceptance with the situation, puts a ballcap of his on M's head, probably a chicago cubs cap or something...

ELABORATION 1.) usage of 'manic episode' as i always do, i use the phrasing with careful consideration just because. i know it's not verbage to just throw around. and i use it apprehensively here just because i STILL have not determined whether donny is more bipolar or BPD, but i AM leaning BPD more so. probably in part because of pieces of him that are so very me. but i am also NOT ruling out the possibility just because in some scenes in my head, i can see things that could be a manic or could be a depressive episode. POINT BEING I'M STILL DOING MY RESEARCH AND I'M DOING MY RESEARCH AT ALL, I SWEAR.

ELABORATION 2.) fear of deep water something i really need to do is note all the music inspired lore, particularly the noah kahan inspired stuff. ANYHOW. noah's song fear of water inspired the lore that donny's scared of deep dark water, like any dark parts of lake michigan and for sure the ocean. the other side of the coin (because of course it's a coin) being that ellie was a swimmer in middle school / high school after getting over her own fear of water (inspired by 'you used to be scared of the water / you're safe by the side of your father' from glue myself shut). –– E2a.) naturally, there's a scene in my head related to all of this. in The Awkward Period after ellie moves back— another point for elaboration— what really ends the tension, besides hashing it out, is ellie making him face that fear of the water. not quite fear immersion with, like, going into the depths of the ocean, but taking a dunk in the lake, even against donny's better judgment. and grumbling about it just because it doesn't FULLY reduce the anxiety (just staves it) but he also can't fully complain because if following her word means he's regained some of ellie's trust and bond, then by god he'll do it

ELABORATION 3.) joseph prickliness it prickles me to forget the dialogue i had BUT the main subtext behind it is. prior to donny's transition, he's seen like a daughter to both of the hurley parents, so in some part joseph's always prickly about that, not because he doesn't Want a daughter but because he doesn't know how to have one (not that he knows much about having a son or a kid in general, between him & annie having ellie young-er AND his personality). and it's something he admits to ellie after She's transitioned, saying that he Still doesn't know how to have a daughter. BUT at least he's made an effort in both cases and continues to make an effort for his Blood daughter

ELABORATION 4.) The Awkward Period the awkward period is ALSO music inspired but it's more a conglomerate than anything. like the major components are two song inspired scenes i'll explain in a second but. the general notion with The Awkward Period is that it's a span of a couple months after ellie gets back where things are, well, Awkward. she's trying to handle her grief and readjust to being back home (after four years in vermont, four years in philadelphia) with whatever weird grudge she doesn't understand being held by donny as a cherry on top. and donny's still sifting through said grudge, still compartmentalizing his anger. so it's a lot of tension filled stares and cutting words for a minute –– E4a.) the major component is the Funeral stuff inspired by orange juice... which is particularly the first/last verse with the placing of the setting as a party. in my head it's the wake, everyone choosing to drown their sorrows are drinking, cue joseph & ellie in the kitchen, with donny walking in; the tension is thick as donny and ellie look at each other, and ellie, out of sheer politeness, wants to suggest that there's stuff to mix a drink with. only for joseph to interject that there's orange juice in the fridge for non-alcoholic drinking, which confuses ellie slightly but only because she doesn't know that donny's the lyric of 'and i haven't drank in six months / on the dot'. which does irk donny a bit more in stewing since that means his sobriety is yet Another piece of information that's been withheld from her / that she doesn't know and therefore another piece of him that she hasn't known –– E4b.) the other major component is the hashing out scene. which also has some orange juice inspiration but is mainly homesick (and even a hint of new perspective)... so Given homesick, it's set like two months after the funeral, donny coming over to the hurley (now just joseph's) residence to Try to make some amends, at least lure ellie out to talk some, in the VERY least go on a walk. tries to talk a bit, though superficially, about things she's missed while away, but that sours quickly. sours quickly because it easily falters into orange juice's talking of waiting so long for a homecoming that there wasn't a thought to ask where they had gone (but now asking Why they had gone). and more importantly into the fact of '[doesn't ellie] find it strange that [she] just went ahead and carried on? ... the last time [donny] drank [he] was face down passed out there in [her parents'] yard / are [they] all just crows to [her] now? / are [they] all just pulling [her] down?' WHICH. is where it turns into a hashing out because ellie bites back with the fact that her heart and her soul, more importantly her life, have changed— even the city had changed, but Somehow donny had not. and all of this continues the awkwardness and tension since now they've rubbed salt into each other's wounds, as much as they needed to hear what the other had to say (as general fact And for communication's sake)

because of being on my orange juice insanity, i'm thinking about 'you didn't put those bones in the ground' in relation to how it's worked into the story. and i forgot about 'now i'm third in the line-up to your lord and your savior'... BUT I'VE ALREADY SAID TOO MUCH IN ONE SITTING AS IS (and i haven't even touched other parts of the stick season album, like northern attitude and all my love, or anything else noah-turned-inspiration)... but do tell me if you want more insanity <3 i am willing and able to offer <3

#mhac.txt #beloved tag #CIFL #this took ages because. i waited till i finished schoolwork and THEN spent too long being insane #i'm sorry for all the song links but also <3

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