#i swear ill get better at drawing him soon

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[junebugdunes]

hi did you know that I love him

[turrondeluxe]

oh my god I am screaming biting kicking I LOVE YOUR GABRI SO MUCH he's so silly!!!

THE SILLY

[physalian]

Your colloquialisms are ruining the immersion (or, non-contemporary dialogue)

I am no expert here! Whenever I wrote historical fiction it was anachronistic historical fiction. This advice is from a reader’s perspective and from my experience writing high fantasy.

So what’s the deal with immersive dialogue? I’m going to ignore writing dialects and accents and so-called “old English” with the thee, thy, thou and such. Solely focusing here on the narrative telling me this isn’t set in present times, and yet the dialogue being painfully colloquial like present times.

This is coming from a book I had to read set in HRE times. In it, characters were spouting modern curse words, tacking on verbal tics and crutch words like “or something” and “um” and drawing out words like “daaaamn” and “nooooo”. Rip out the dialogue and toss it in a script with zero context and it would read like two high schoolers from 2009, not two adults from the Holy Roman Empire. Which is a problem, because it completely shattered the immersion. —

1. On so-called “formal writing”

Everybody knows that nixing contractions doesn’t do a damn thing to help your writing look more “formal”, it just looks robotic and stiff, right? We’ve gotten past this as a society? There’s a time and a place for replacing contractions with the full words, but not for every single sentence.

I swear this show keeps creeping into my writing advice but here we go. Transformers Prime. The context for Optimus’ dialogue has a lot to do with his aging voice actor, Peter Cullen, and the perception of the character over the decades from the corny 80s paragon hero everyman type leader to the grizzled and wizened old soul type leader. Optimus isn’t “one of the guys,” he’s old. Very old. He’s the dad of the group (one dad, his grumpy medic is the other dad).

So he gets lines like:

“I fear Megatron’s ambition is at its zenith.”

“But if his return is imminent as I fear, it could be a catastrophic.”

“I bore Skyquake no ill-will.”

He doesn’t curse like the other Autobots. His voice only raises in surprise, horror, or rage. He doesn’t go “um/ah/so/but/eh” and always thinks about what he’s going to say well before he says it. Despite him, Ratchet (the dad medic), and Megatron all being very old, Optimus is the only one who’s “proper” and collected and dignified with his lines. The writers didn’t achieve this simply by omitting contractions, he gets them where necessary and removes them when effective (e.g “We do not.” / “We don’t.”)

2. Thesaurus Rex

Continuing with the Optimus example, no other character in that show would use “zenith” unironically. Or “ill-will”. This doesn’t mean crack open and abuse a thesaurus but there’s a huge divide between:

“Megatron’s gone crazy and he’s going to implode soon” and “Megatron’s ambition is at its zenith”.

I can’ think of a better word to use than dignified, perhaps distinguished to describe his dialogue.

He doesn’t say “what?” when he’s confused, he pauses and says something like “please elaborate”.

This is both word choice and a syntax issue so if you’re struggling to fit a non-contemporary vibe for your work, pay attention to both.

3. When to abstain from cursing

There’s something very special about the dialogue in the Lord of the Rings movies: It’s PG-13 so they can’t curse, but if they had, it would have probably ruined the trilogy. These characters are able to yell in rage and anguish, spit vicious insults at their enemies, and stare down armies that are determined to kill them, all while never breaking the immersion.

Insults like:

“Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear.”

“Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth, you witless worm.”

“Your words are poison.”

And all three were said by or about Grima Wormtongue.

Characters aren’t dumbasses, they’re fools, with the exception of Gollum’s insults toward Sam, the “stupid, fat hobbit”.

Even devoid of name-calling, Denethor absolutely trounces his second son by asking (and I’m paraphrasing) “Is there any man here willing to do his lord’s bidding?” right after Faramir expresses some apprehension about a suicide charge with his remaining soldiers, completely ignoring him and implying that he’s not a real man.

LOTR is full of juicy lines beyond curse words, too. One of my absolute favorites is: “Dark have been my dreams of late” as opposed to “I’ve been having nightmares lately.”

Do you see?? It’s poetry. The motif of Shadow and Darkness as if they’re real, physical things, all the lines of poetry pulled straight from the books like Theoden’s “where is the horse and the rider” monologue just before Helm’s Deep.

It’s dignified.

—

This one was a bit harder to, ironically, put into words without doing a full-blown case study into either franchise’s ability to write dialogue and monologues. I didn’t even talk about Ratchet’s several monologues (one of which was done perfectly in the sound booth on the first take) because Jeffrey Combs has a voice like ambrosia.

TLDR: Immersion goes far beyond your vivid setting descriptors and the clothing or the names and languages. I mostly write fantasy and sci-fi and whenever I read or watch fantasy and sci-fi that isn’t meant to be a world different from our own, or about characters who don’t speak modern English, and they go off with modern slang, syntax, and verbal tics, it just feels sloppy and weak. Pay attention to the following:

Syntax

Modern slang and jargon

Filler words/verbal tics

Curse words/curses

Flat, unmotivated vocab

*All of the quotes were from memory because I watch both of these franchises way too often. So apologies if I got any wrong.

[benedictscanvas]

pretty boy, pretty girl - jamie tartt x reader

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

a/n: okay yes. it has been six months. which is actually mad to me, but there we are - whoops! i've been off following my dream and wrote this while procrastinating an assignment, so this is by no means a return!! honestly i was just itching to write it, but i don't know how much time i have for more - enjoy nevertheless <3

warnings: just a little bit of suggestion towards the end, reader is referred to as 'pretty girl' as the title implies amongst other pet names, quite a lot of swearing (some things don't change)

---

“Hi love.”

Jamie barely murmurs it as he walks past you, can’t help himself but to drag a palm along your back, one shoulder blade to the other, as he goes. 

He knows he’s bold sometimes, but he swears it’s instinct. He glances back to see whether your expression holds any discomfort, but all he finds is your grin, a tiny wave. He continues on his path towards the canteen, knowing that your corridor conversation with Rebecca is probably important.

Somewhere between here and there, he decides to get your lunch, your usual, and sits alone on a table until you appear.

You do, three and a half minutes later. As soon as he sees you, the irrepressible urge to make you grin again is back with a vengeance. He waves you over to his table with a gesture to the food he’s got for you and- there it is again.

If he was a slightly smarter man, maybe he’d consider why all it took was the sight of him to draw your lips upwards, set your eyes alight.

“Thought I’d save y’ from the queue,” he speaks, still soft, in a tone he feels he only uses with you. You match his unnecessary low volume.

“Thanks, angel,” you say easily, and you must not see his stomach doing flips, “Too good to me, you are.”

“Shut up,” he deflects, wonders if you can see him fluster at your nickname for him, “Are you still coming tonight?”

You groan. He frowns, and you quickly correct.

“Sorry. It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, you sound proper convinced, an’ all.”

You chuckle, taking a bite out of your sandwich and taking a pause to chew. Jamie eats too, content to let you think before you speak. It was slowly teaching him to do the same.

“I’m just boring, Jamie. My favourite people are all under this roof, but usually they’re sober, you know?”

He often forgets you don’t really drink. Your friendship (however sour that word feels in relation to you) usually confined to these halls, to the pitch, to various football stadiums up and down the country. When they all get a chance to let loose, you’re very quick with the excuses, but he’s believed them blindly until this moment.

“Shit, y’ don’t drink, right? I can’t imagine that’s much fun in a club. I won’t tell anyone if you happen to come down with an illness or somethin’ this afternoon.”

You’re grinning at him again, all bright and sunny. It’s downright infectious, so Jamie nudges your foot with his on purpose and then apologises like it’s an accident.

“You’re alright,” you reassure, “I will join tonight. Even if it just proves to myself I’m not missing out on anything. Maybe Colin’s not as bad a drunk as I’ve been led to believe.”

Jamie winces.

“No, he is pretty bad,” he admits and then finally comes up with something to make you more comfortable, “Hey, what about this? I won’t drink either and we can spend the evening laughin’ at everyone else.”

You poke his hand and he tries not to drop his crisp packet.

“It’s everyone’s ‘relax and recharge’ night, Ted said. We both know you relax much easier with a few drinks in you. And I’d never judge anyone for that, I really hope it doesn’t come across like I’m judging any-“

“It doesn’t, sweetness,” he cuts in, “But actually, I’ll relax better if I’m one hundred percent positive that you’re relaxing too. What better way than judgin’ everyone else, together like?”

You purse your lips thoughtfully, mid-chew. He feels like he’s holding his breath, like he’s underwater and you’re in charge of the oxygen tank.

“Well, see how you feel when we’re there. It sounds lovely but only if you’re still up for it when we’re right next to a bar,” you say, still unconvinced. He wants to convince you fully, but he can’t decide if he should argue with you or kiss you silly before you speak again, “Hey, if not, I’ll buy you a drink?”

“Pretty sure that’s my line, love.”

“I said it, I meant it. Girls can buy drinks for pretty boys, you know.”

He thinks you might have removed his oxygen tank now. There’s some cruelty in that sentence but you don’t know you’re wielding it. He wills himself to flirt back even though it’ll only make him feel sick.

“Okay, pretty girl. One passionfruit J2O, please.”

Another grin. He’s so fucking fucked.

---

He’s been waiting for you for around forty minutes. He doesn’t know if that’s the normal amount of time you take to get ready, even if he wishes he knew, so he just waits, leaning against his car.

After fifty, he decides there’s no harm in just checking you’re alright and haven’t slipped on a sparkly floor that an evening cleaner has done a number on.

You mentioned going to the kit room to get changed, and he meets Will on his way there.

“Hey mate, you seen Y/N?”

Will looks paler than he’s ever been. Guilty. Jamie narrows his eyes and waits.

“Kit room.”

It’s all that Will says. When Jamie doesn’t walk off immediately, still waiting for an explanation for Will’s strange demeanour, Will turns around and legs it all the way down the corridor, turns left at the end and never returns.

Jamie shakes his head and continues in the direction of the kit room. The closer he gets, the more he hears. Muffled banging, shouting. He picks up the pace.

“Y/N? Love?”

“Jamie! Jamie, in here!”

Your voice floats out from the kit room and he hurries over. Still very confused, Jamie turns the door handle and finds the door won’t budge, however hard he shoves his shoulder against it.

“It’s locked, babe. Did you lock it?”

He hears your exasperated sigh and feels a little embarrassed.

“No I didn’t bleeding lock it! Well, I did, when I was getting changed, but then when I unlocked it my side it had been locked from the outside.”

Jamie struggled to put the dots together. Had Will locked you in? Judging by the running, he had… and he’d done it on purpose. A spark of anger shot down Jamie’s spine but he tried to convince himself there must be a reason.

Before he could, there was a hand on his on the door, pulling him away. It was being unlocked by another hand and then he was being shoved inside, hard enough to stumble against one of the benches. A piece of paper was thrown at his face and Jamie groaned as he heard the lock click back in place.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as he stood up fully, more dazed than angry now as he stared at the locked door.

“Jesus, Jamie, are you alright? Who the fuck was that?”

“I dunno,” he says, staring at the door as if it might have answers. Your hand on his face wakes him up, his eyes shifting to yours where you look him over with concern.

“You’re alright, though?”

You ask it like you need the answer, and Jamie needs you to stop trailing a finger along his hairline either way.

“Fine, love,” he assures you, patting the juncture between your shoulder and neck gently until your hands drop to your sides. Then he raises his voice, and he’s not really talking to you anymore, “Whoever’s locked us in here as some kind of joke won’t be fuckin’ alright though!”

No answer. He picks up the small piece of paper from the floor and reads it in his head.

Tell her, you prick.

He’s actually going to hit Roy with his car. Lightly, definitely not enough to damage him, but enough to really, really piss him off.

This was all some ridiculous attempt to make him tell you how he felt about you? Absolutely not. Never. He wouldn’t be coerced into something so delicate, so important.

“What’s it say?”

You’re peering over the top of the paper, but he folds it in two before you can read anything. His chuckle comes out strained.

“It says: Get fucking pranked. Must be Roy, he’s probably scared Will into helpin’ him, the fucker. I’m afraid it’s payback for putting all his socks on the ceiling last week, babe, an’ you’ve been caught in the middle.”

You pause, staring at your shoes. For some reason, you look far more forlorn than the situation calls for, but it’s gone before he can think about it further.

“On the ceiling?”

He nods and you giggle. It’s only as you step away from him in your laughter that he realises how close you had been. He should’ve savoured it.

It’s also only as you step away that Jamie finally gets a glimpse of your outfit and nearly reaches out to the nearby bench for strength. He’s never seen you in a v-neck anything before, let alone a dress, and he thinks it might do him in.

“You look good,” he says lamely, then tries again, “Great. Fan-fuckin’-tastic, I mean.”

“I like that last one,” you smile, ducking your head. He thinks, or rather hopes, you’re a little flustered, “Fan-fuckin’-tastic happens to be what I was going for.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, words gone as soon as he’d found them. And now he was staring. Shit.

“I like your suit,” you say, maybe breathless yourself. It must be his ears. You reach up as if you might fiddle with his lapel but just point towards it before your hand drops again. You practically fall down onto the bench you’re both stood beside and he follows, ever obedient, “Shame no one else will ever see it. How long do you think we’ll be stuck here?”

The suit isn’t for anyone except you. That’s what he’d say if he had any stupid bravery. He’s an awful coward, he thinks.

“Until Roy gets bored or Keeley finds out I reckon,” Jamie guesses, “Y’ wanna play I-spy?”

You sigh, but when he peeks at you out of the corner of his eye, you’re grinning your silly, lovely grin again.

“I spy with my little eye…”

---

It is around 11pm, when Jamie has not long fallen asleep against the jacket he had scrunched behind his head, that he feels your hand on his ankle. He can tell, as he wakes without opening his eyes, that you’re not trying to rouse him. The touch is light, feathery. Maybe an accident.

No, not an accident. It wouldn’t have lasted this long, and your thumb is drawing absentminded circles into his ankle bone. You think he’s asleep and you’ve reached out to hold him anyway.

He opens his eyes but doesn’t move. His legs are stretched out on the bench in front of him and you sit upright next his sock-clad feet, one hand on his bare ankle. You’re staring at a piece of paper so intently he wonders what could possibly be so interesting.

“This doesn’t say get fucking pranked, Jamie,” you murmur, and his hand flies to his jacket pocket. It must have fallen out when he slumped into a slumber. He’s sat up in a blink, watching the hand that had been so soothing, fall back at your side suddenly.

“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

“No, don’t,” you insist, still staring at the piece of paper. Instead of whirling on him for answers, you reach calmly into one of the boot cubbies beside your head and pull out a piece of paper from one of the boots. You chuck it at him without looking.

He unfolds it with careful, if shaky, hands.

Tell him, you silly shit.

It takes him an absurdly long time to understand what the hell this second piece of paper means. Later, when the two of you look back on this moment (and you do so often), you’ll wonder how he could have been so dense and he’ll spin you a line about how too good to be true it all felt. But in the moment, he has no lines and no words, until your hand lands heavy on his knee this time.

“Jamie,” you say softly, through a grin that is so different from your usual that he could pass out. It’s so beautiful and so strikingly lovesick that he thinks he might actually be sick, “What do you have to tell me?”

“What?”

He feels dumber than he’s ever felt. But your hand is still on his knee and now you’re shuffling closer to him on the bench.

“What do you have to tell me?” you repeat, then you poke his chest playfully as you add, “You prick.”

He still looks confused, so you clearly decide the best way to catch him up is to kiss him.

You pull away after a moment, a moment of pure heaven, because clearly you don't want to kiss him fully until he's all clued in.

"Come on, pretty boy," you say, teasing, "Figure it out. I was going to buy you a passionfruit J2O. It's the sign of all signs."

He should be laughing at your joke, but all he really wants to do is kiss you again. And again.

Maybe again.

"Oh pretty girl," he says, and he feels the rumble of his low tone in his chest. He places a hand on your face, fingers itching at your hairline, "I'll tell you anything ya wanna hear, I swear. Anythin'."

He hears your breath hitch, but he feels it too, where the meat of his palm is covering your neck.

"Anything?" you answer back, "I could have a lot of fun with this."

You scrunch up your brow like you're thinking and he's so stupidly in love with you that he just tells you. Too-soon be damned.

"Smooth talker," you laugh, giddy, and you kiss him again. And it's so good that he doesn't even remember you didn't say it back until hours later.

(at which point, you say it back so many times and in so many ways, Jamie is certain that he's the luckiest man in the world. he might not hit Roy with his car after all)

[oceaneyesinla]

I feel crappy so of course I have to make a character infinitely soft and Shoto is the blorbo I have chosen. He might be too soft but honestly I'm happy with how this turned out

CW: themes of mental illness (none explicitly stated but implied)

Divider by @/cafekitsune

Shoto knows something is wrong as soon as he lets himself into the apartment. The lack of you at the door, fluttering around him with your wide smile and cheerful chatter only makes the quiet of the apartment louder, and he's worried. Your texts throughout the day had been missing that usual spark, and had stopped all together as the day progressed.

He has a feeling he knows where you'll be, so he sheds the outer layers of his hero costume, leaving it all neatly by the door. He shucks off the rest in the laundry room, swapping into sweats and a t-shirt. If he deliberately picks the one with a stupid design that he knows always makes you giggle; well, that's between him and the washing machine.

The apartment still looks the same as when he left, and the observation only makes that little knot of worry tighten in his chest as he makes his way to your bedroom. A peek into the kitchen as he passed had already told him you probably hadn't eaten.

He pushes the door open and he finds you exactly where he expects to - a little ball, curled up on his side of the bed, wrapped around the plushie he won for you back when you were still just friends pining desperately for each other.

You're facing the door and when you see him, you try so hard to smile, but he knows you better than that. He knows the way your eyes crinkle and the shape of your lips and the sunshine that he swears he can feel when you look at him. This isn't that smile. It isn't even the smile you throw his way in the tenderest of moments; the one that melts his heart and makes him wish he was better with his words because you deserve nothing short of masterworks to describe his devotion to you.

No, this is the smile for when you're trying to reassure him. Trying to hide your own pain or worry or heartache for his sake. It's a valiant effort, but one he picks apart in an instant. Your lips don't turn up as much as they should, and the light of your happiness is absent from your world weary eyes.

Just as he knows your smile is a mask, you know he's already lifted it away to uncover what lies beneath. He watches as your smile falls away and the tiredness in your eyes spreads across the rest of your features. Crossing the room takes seconds and he kneels next to the edge of the bed, smoothing your hair away from your forehead with one hand and reaching for yours with his other. As soon as he laces your hands together, you're holding on like you're scared he'll leave. Never. Not when you're the brightest star in his sky, even on your darkest days.

He's not sure what's triggered this and he's almost certain you don't know either. He leans in to press a gentle kiss against your forehead and when he pulls away, he catches the sheen of a tear making its way from the corner of your eye.

"Bad day?" He keeps his voice soft and his hold on your hand tight. His words seem to shake something loose in you and more tears begin to fall as you nod. He brushes them away with a thumb before he moves, shifting you so you're sitting up and he can wrap his arms around you, cradling you against his chest.

You don't cry for long, but he makes sure you're settled, relaxed into his hold with one of his hands stroking up and down your back before he speaks again, murmuring his words against the crown of your head, "You need to eat. Do you want to stay here or come with me to the kitchen?"

Your arms tighten around him and when you pull away to meet his eyes, there's a hint of a pout on your lips. That draws a little smile from him; a hint of sunshine peeking through the clouds of your sadness. You always want him closer; never shying away from open adoration and he would never get tired of your hands and your eyes and your lips finding him in every room and every lifetime.

Lifting you up into his arms is easy, and your legs settle around his waist like they have a thousand times, your head resting against his shoulder, "Okay. We'll eat, then we can talk."

This time, your smile is barely there, but there's a flicker of your usual light behind it, "Okay." You fall silent as he carries you to the kitchen and he's caught off guard when your lips brush against his jawline, "I love you, Shoto."

Your murmured confession is soft and sweet and only reinforces what he knows in his soul, "I love you too."

He sets you on the counter and begins to move around the kitchen. He can feel your eyes on him and when he looks at you, he knows you'll be just fine - because he will always be there to soften your fall.

@pixelcafe-network

[rainderthesomeone]

Make way for Mr. C master list

content warning, swearing and cartoon violence

[welcometoneverland-98]

Stormbound 𓆉 1 ⋆｡˚𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆟  // obx

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

A single drop of sweat rolled down my forehead and decided to land on top of the page that I had so fondly been drawing on for the last couple of minutes. 

It was windy but apparently not enought to mask the hot weather that was sorrounding us. My feet kept dangling from the balcony where I had been sitting for the last minutes, my hand coming to sweap away the loose strands of my dyed blonde hair and I tried to clean any remains of sweat out of my forehead dropping the pencil on my open sketchbook. 

The drawing wasn't terrible at this point but it would be better if my model wasn't swinging from side to side as he stood on top the roof, a beer in his hand that he ocasionally brought to his lips.

"That's what? A three story fall to the deck?" Pope asked as he toyed around with a nail gun, his eyes looking up to my brother as he kept swinging his foot of the edge "I give you about a one-in-three chance of survival" 

John B hummed, his finger going in between his lips and then turning against the wind to see where it was pointing towards "should I do it?"

I took the pencil in between my fingers again and went back to shading the curls on his head "please do jump, I always wanted to be an only child"

I felt a nudge agaisnt my shoulder, making me lift up my eyes from the paper to meet the blue eyes of one of my best friends. He was smiling at my remark. It had been at least an hour of goofing around the house before they turned to drinking beer and playful banter. 

"Ill shoot you on the way down" Pope spoke again, this time holding the nail gun and pointing it towards my brother. 

"You're gonna shoot me? Make Ana's dreams come true?" he played around on top of the roof. 

I shook my head from side to side as a faint smile making it's way to my lips as I kept shading his sim burnt curls. I could feel JJ as he took a sip of his beer and leaned down to see how my drawing was coming along.  This had become a bit of a habit lately, coming to this side of the island and seeing what they're building. Seeing the contrast of the two sides always made me realise how lucky some people are just born and just as these thoughts popped into my head Kiara stepped outside ranting about how this house was going to have fancy Japanese toilets and how this once used to be a turtle habitat. 

She was almost a paradox.  Born with so much money and power on this side of the island yet, here she was. She chose to hang out with us despite what her parents thought of us. She was a kook but in her mind she was born to be a Pogue. She had the power of choice and it baffled me that she would use that to hang out on the side of the island where everyone seemed to struggle. 

"Can you please not kill yourself?" She asked as she looked up to my brother who was still on the roof.

"Don't spill that beer. I'm not giving you another one" JJ said aloud from where he stood next to me, his eyes never leaving the page that I had been drawing on.

Just as he said this I heard John B curse soon followed by the sound of his beer can crashing down on the ground below him making me sigh and shake my head. 

"Hey, ah, security's here. Let's wrap this up" Pope was near the balcony looking outside making me look towards where he was standing. 

Sure enough we started to hear the far away shouts of the cops who had probably been warned of our traspassing. 

"Boys are early today" JJ shugged the last of his beer before reaching a hand out for me to grab "let's go DaVinci"

We quickly made our way down. John B slid of the roof without harming himself and gently squeezed my shoulders jumping up and down as if he was excited about this whole ordeal. 

JJ was taunting the police men as usual as we took off running through the house and running towards the road where the twinkie was parked.

I jumped in after John B. as he took the drivers seat and quickly turned on the van. 

"I swear that one day I'll let them get caught" I spoke as I looked around and didn't see JJ and Pope anywhere, spotting only Kiara as she jumped in the back keeping the door open as we waited for the boys to pull up. 

My brother laughed and Kie soon followed with the same amused laugh as I just shook my head, a faint laugh crossing my lips as well. 

When the boys finally arrived they decided they still werent done with taunting the police that kept chasing us and that was just a reminder of my daily life with the pogues. 

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟

My feet were swinging as I sat on the hammock that was hanging outside by our big tree. The sun had come out hours ago and I couldn't sleep all that well so I decided to get outside and try to sleep out here. It used to work when I was a kid. My dad would swing both Jonh B. and I and soon enough we would both be sleeping in this same hammock, but now nothing seemed to help me relax. 

I knew the reason why  coulnd't sleep today tho. We had a meeting today that could very well end our happy times and get us into some shit foster system.

"Penny for you thoughts?" I looked to the source of the question finding my brother looking at me with a beer in his hands. His shirt was nowhere to be seen and he still had traces of sleep all over his features. 

"The meeting is today bird" my hand came up to my eyebrows as I rubbed them trying to get some frustration off. 

He cursed under his breath, his eyes locking on his bare feet as he sat next to me on the hammock. We stood like that for a while, just rocking back and forth and looking ahead of us into the water. 

Dad had been missing for way too long now, presumed dead after only 3 months and the only adult who was supposed to be responsible for us, our uncle, was to busy living his own life to look after two kids who lived in the wrong side of an island. 

"What if-" I started gently shaking my head at the thought that was about to come out of my mouth "what if they split us up?"

My brother stopped slouching. His eyes went wide as he took my head in between his fingers making me look at him.

"Hey! Don't even think that okay?" I tried looking away from him but his fingers that were still holding my chin brought me back to him "I mean it! No one, and I mean no one is ever gonna split us up!"

[scaryxkerry]

A chance encounter.pt 1

Jeff the killer x reader

Content warning. Graphic depictions of violence,blood and injury.

A/N i wrote this at 2:00 am. Im splitting it into two parts because i can barely keep my eyes open rn and if i write anymore ill die. If you see some mistake point it out and ill fix it at some point probably.

You check the time on your phone: 4:30AM.

You have to be awake at this ungodly hour because you work at a gym. You needed to be there extra early to cater to the so-called "early bird customers" as your manager had called them.  The people who worked nine-to-fivers and wanted to get a good workout in before going to work, or the gym bros who practically spent evrey waking moment pumping iron.

It worked well enough for you, you love the city at this hour. The transitional time between being completely barren and being full of the hustle and bustle of people going about their daily lives.

There are several other people about,some are early morning joggers trying to beat the heat, and others you presume are people who need to be at work early, just like you.

Jeff wipes the blood from his face,his own blood. The girl whom he'd been intent on making this mornings victim had been more tenacious then he expected, but that was just fine. Those who would not give their lives so easily always made for the most satisfying of kills.

He found those who went too easily to hardly even be worth killing. The worst were the ones who put up no fight at all,those who died long before they were even a twinkle in his eye. Absolutely no sport in it. None at all. He tries to avoid them when he can now.

But not this girl no,she would be well worth it.

Currently she had a gun pointed at him and boy did she look ready to use it. Jeff knew the glare of a person ready to kill better then any one else. Oh yes she'd fight him to her dying breath and that excited him deeply.

You are busy texting your friend when you hear a woman shouting for help from up ahead you pick up the pace, someone is in trouble.

Jeff inches his way closer to the girl with both hands up. He is careful to make no sudden movement. He knows if he did anything to startle her she could end up shooting him even if she didn't really mean too. Most models of pistol only took a few pounds of pressure to pull the trigger after all,more then sensitive enough for someones startle response to make the gun fire.

You hear a woman shout "im warning you! Get back i will shoot i swear to fucking god." 

In a burst of motion Jeff lunges for her gun and forces the hand that holds it upward into the sky. She  inadvertently squeezes the trigger and fires a couple shots into the air. She reacts quickly and grabs hold of the hand he holds his knife in.

You hear gunshots. You tap the little green phone icon on your screen and prepare to dial 911.

She isn't able to out muscle him, he yanks his arm lose. Jeff jams his blade into her belly and twists with a satisfying squelch. Her  screams where sweeter then candy but he had to shut her up lest she draw to much attention to herself.  He releases his grip on the knife lodged in her stomach and coverd her mouth with one of his hands to silence her.

She bites down and gets a mouthfull of his blood.

You hear a gut wrenching scream as you punch in the number, you hear the operator ask "911 what is the location of your emergency?"

The girl knees him in the crotch and he stumbles back. she fires two shots.but only one meets its mark,the bullet embeds itself somewhere in his abdomen.

"You bitch!" Jeff growls.

"Somewhere between Willow street and Bleasdale Avenue,i heard a woman screaming and gunshots!"

You say as you grip your phone tightly.

Jeff grabs the girl by her hair and yanks her head back to allow easy access to the throat. He slits her neck from ear to ear, blood spurts from the gash in rythm with her heart.

Soon hes met with the familiar feeling of a body going limp in his arms. Though even now she weakly claws at his face before stareing off at someone in the distance at first Jeff pays this no mind. Many people seem to see the ghosts of loved ones or deamons as they die. Hes a little bit surprised she did not cry out for her mother. Many of his victims cried out for ther mothers, though some cried out to God. Those few who put up little or no fight would rarely cry out at all.

It isn't until the girl reaches out a hand that he bothers to look  behind him, and he sees that she isn't seeing ghosts. Shes seeing a very real person.

..."shit."

[whyiseverynametakenpls]

I never asked for this

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

Genre : angst

Tw : swearing at the end

Pairing : Brother! Vox Akuma x male reader ( platonic )

Characters : you, vox, random bulter

Story : you think I asked for this?

A/n : prince au of some sort, and since it was about being in line for the throne I made the reader male 👁️👄👁️

"Brother, brother! Look at what I've just made!" you exclaim, enthusiastically waving the drawing you had just completed to catch your brother's attention.

Despite being occupied, Vox glances up and spots you, responding with a smile.

"What do we have here?" he inquires, accepting the drawing from your hands.

"Look! I drew us together—me, you, Mommy, and Daddy!" you eagerly explain.

He takes a moment to examine it before emitting a chuckle.

"Hey! Are you laughing at my drawing?" you pout, slightly offended.

"No, no, not at all," he laughs.

"Hmm! You better not be!" you retort, lifting your head high and crossing your arms.

"I promise I'm not," he teases.

However, before you could retaliate, a knock interrupts the exchange.

"It's me, your majesty. I have something to deliver to you," announces the person outside.

The individual enters, holding a stack of papers. Vox glances at it and lets out a sigh.

"All right, I'll attend to it," he sighs once more.

"(Name), why don't you go downstairs and show this drawing to Mommy? I need to complete some tasks before I can join you in playtime," he suggests.

"Ah, okay, brother! Don't forget to join us later!" you reply.

As soon as you leave the room, Vox's expression turns sour. "Must I really handle all of this? I haven't slept since yesterday..."

"I apologize, your majesty, but as the crown prince, it is your responsibility," the person explains.

Vox waits for a few minutes before responding.

"You may leave now," he states sternly, irritation evident on his face.

-----------------✧------------------

Meanwhile, you were walking around the halls, looking for your mother.

As you strolled down the second-floor hallway, you overheard muffled voices. Being the curious child that you are, you decided to eavesdrop and gather some information.

“I heard the second prince is dumb. He’s almost 5 and hasn’t even started learning yet!” One says, a laugh following suit.

“I know right? I can’t believe we have to serve someone like him!” Another says, making you mad.

As you listened to their conversation, your anger grew and grew. Getting more and more fed up with their derogatory remarks, you burst into the room and let out a scream.

"I am not stupid! Speaking ill of the royal family is considered treason, and it could cost you your lives!" you assert, pointing at them.

The maids swiftly fled, wanting to avoid further trouble.

You grit your teeth in anger. However, deep down, you acknowledged that they had a point. You indeed haven’t started on your studies, unlike your brother who started way before you.

Although you were still a child, you understood that, regardless of your intelligence, you would always be looked down upon in this environment. As long as your brother remained the crown prince, the perception of you would remain diminished.

That realization brought a tinge of sadness to your heart.

Biting your lip, tears began to stream down your face. Swiftly, your hands rose to wipe them away.

-----------------✧------------------

With anger fuming in your body, you went back to your brother’s room you were previously in. Your hand knocked on the door furiously.

"Come in!" your brother's voice beckoned from within.

You turned the doorknob forcefully, swinging open the door, and there you stood, pointing directly at him.

Vox tilted his head to the side, puzzled. "Is this a challenge?" he questioned.

Still pointing, you vigorously shook your head and proclaimed loudly, "You have to become the king when Daddy retires."

"Eh?" your brother responded, taken aback.

He starts and you, blinks and laugh. “Okay, okay, I will.”

Vox stood up and approached you. Slowly, he scooped you up into his arms and gently patted your head.

"Yeah! That's right. I'll be the younger brother of the world's greatest king!" you exclaimed with enthusiasm.

He laughed once more, eliciting a playful "Hey!" from you.

-----------------✧------------------

As the years passed, it felt as though a growing chasm separated you from everyone around you. Even your own brother seemed distant. First, it was your parents, consumed by their own responsibilities. While you understood that they needed to spend time together, it still stung that they couldn't find moments to share with their own child.

And your brother, though burdened with his duties, couldn't he spare even a fraction of his time for his own sibling?

A sigh escaped your lips for what felt like the seventh time that day, prompting concern from the maid who attended to you.

But suddenly, an idea sparked within your mind, bringing a glimmer of hope. A smile blossomed on your face.

"I'm going to visit my brother!" you exclaimed with newfound determination.

The maid could only nod in surprise, captivated by the unexpected change in your demeanor.

-----------------✧------------------

A smile adorned your face as you approached your brother's room, anticipation fueling your steps. Upon entering his study, however, his expression of anger immediately caught your attention.

"At least knock before entering. What are you? A commoner?" he remarked, his tone laced with disdain.

His comment swiftly soured your mood, but you reasoned that he might not be feeling well that day. Hastily, you offered an apology and approached him.

"Brother! You remember when you promised that you would become the king one day—" you began, only to be cut off.

"If you're here just to talk about that, then you should leave. I have more important things to attend to," he retorted, his annoyance evident.

Now, anger surged within you. The frustration of feeling consistently ignored by your family members reached a boiling point, compelling you to raise your voice.

"What is your problem? Why does everyone in this family seem to hate spending time with me!? Why do you always do this? I'm just trying to talk to you!" you exclaimed, unable to contain your emotions any longer.

"You know nothing," he retorted sharply.

"Yeah? Well, if you never communicate with me, then how am I supposed to know anything?" you fired back, your words tinged with a mix of defiance and hurt. “Oh, you want to know? Okay, I’ll fucking tell you. You’re the reason why I’m always SO stressed out. It’s because of that one fucking promise I made to you years ago. Every time I slack off even just for a bit, I would feel terrible. Fucking terrible. All because I made a promise to you. Is that what you want to know? HAPPY NOW?” he screams.

You widen your eyes and bit the inside of your lip.

“YEAH? YOU WANT TO KNOW WHY I TOLD YOU TO MAKE THAT PROMISE? BECAUSE I KNOW WELL THAT NO ONE WILL EVER SUPPORT A PRINCE LIKE ME! I KNOW WELL HOW PEOPLE THINK OF ME! IF I COULDN’T BE KING MYSELF, THEN I WOULD SUPPORT YOU. THAT’S WHAT I TOLD MYSELF. BECAUSE I KNOW. I FUCKING KNOW THAT I WILL NEVER BE KING, WETHER I WANT IT OR NOT.” You retorted back, tears now streaming from your eyes.

“YEAH? BUT WHAT DO YOU KNOW? I NEVER ASKED TO BE CROWN PRINCE, YOU THINK I WANTED THIS POSITION? I NEVER ASKED FOR ALL OF THIS! DO YOU THINK I’M HAPPY WITH THIS? WELL, I’M NOT!” he argues.

Overwhelmed by the weight of disappointment and sadness, you found yourself outside your chamber, unable to enter.

Collapsing to the ground, you slid down against the door, your body trembling with sobs. Each tear that fell from your eyes carried a profound sense of frustration and longing.

The hallway became a backdrop to your anguish as you unleashed your pent-up emotions, the sound of your cries echoing through the empty corridor.

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

<- MASTERLIST

-> second part

-> Some people might find the fact that the reader keep arguing is weird but I think it's kinda realistic 🤷‍♀️

-> Might be a little weird for some though 😃

[emma-cantmakeuphermind]

Just A Project | V

Nathan Prescott x Reader

Masterlist

Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Warnings: swearing, pretty chill

Words: 655

I dramatically fell onto my bed after I got changed into some comfier clothes. I let out a huge sigh ready for sleep. I sit up and pick up my phone to check the time. 6:12. I gently toss my phone down and lie back down. I close my eyes, trying to fall asleep, but then my mind wanders, thinking about everything that happened today. With Nathan. And then I remember that we're meeting tomorrow at lunch and a new burst of excitement fills my chest. I give a huff trying to clear my mind. I feel myself drifting off into a dream state, when all of a sudden-

*knock knock knock*

I shoot up, startled, like one of those dreams where you’re falling. I let out a groan of frustration into my pillow. I begrudgingly get up and shuffle to the door, quickly composing myself for whoever is on the other side. I open the door and I’m faced with Max Caulfield. A small smile appears on my face, Max is a good friend. “Oh, hey Max.” I greet her. She smiles and says, “Hey Y/N, I was just wondering if you had a copy of the reading material Mrs. Hoida gave us yesterday? I guess I left mine in the classroom.” I think about it for a moment and tell Max to wait for a second, I walk over to my desk and sift through some of my school work. I find what Max is talking about and I bring it to her. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You’re a lifesaver! I’ll bring it back tomorrow!” I smile just glad I could help. “Yeah, drop by whenever.

We say our goodbyes and throw myself back onto my bed. Just as I’m about to close my eyes again I feel my phone buzz with a notification. I grab my phone, frustrated, and read the notification. ‘Notification from Instagram: nthn.prsct started following you’ I blink for a moment going to Nathan’s page. He has a few posts, mostly his work, the occasional Vortex Club flyer. My eyes flicker up to the top of his page. ‘Following: 5’ My eyebrows draw in confusion tapping the following count to see who the five people are. Kristine Prescott, I’m guessing that his sister, Victoria Chase, 2 professional looking photography accounts, and me.

I go back to his page and hit the follow back button. I put my phone down and think about the fact that I’m 1 of the 5 people he's following. I know it's stupid, it's social media, it doesn't matter that much, but I can't help the fluttering feeling that swirls in my stomach at the thought. I finally close my eyes in peace and fall fast asleep.

—————————————————————

Buzz…

Buzz…

Buzz…

I grumble awake at the buzzing. I unwillingly grab my phone to check the time, 8:52. I sigh and then I see the 3 notifications from Nathan. My breath hitches for a moment tapping on them. Our texts open and I see the new messages.

N: “what r u doin nrd” 8:26

N: “u better not have fallen asleep on me” 8:38

N: “ansr me or i kik ur ass” 8:50

I smile a bit at the messages texting him back.

“chill, haha, im awake” 8:54

N: “good, cuz 2 b honest, i dont rlly wanna kik ur ass” 8:55

“aww, why? you like me too much?” 8:55

N: “hell no, im jus 2 lazy” 8:55

“the way you type infuriates me” 8:56

N: “so ive been told but idc” 8:56

N: “deal wit it nerd” 8:56

“no <3” 8:57

N: “whatever dummy. ill see u tmr” 8:57

“goodnight nathan.” 8:58

I shut off my phone, place it on my nightstand and roll over. I close my eyes with a smile on my face, hoping tomorrow comes soon.

[legitimatesatanspawn]

Star Wars EU question: what's going on in the creche?

Okay so I never watched the Clone Wars series and my knowledge of the EU is rather... scattershot. I read a good chunk of the Jedi Apprentice books as a kid (and its been a while). Obi Wan is treated like trash there, I swear. Like constantly facing Soap Opera level problems from around 13/14 years old right up until Qui gets killed off when he's around... 26?

Anyway. If anyone has read the Jedi Apprentice books, you know how Obi Wan was almost "aged out" of the Jedi Temple and got tossed to the Farm sidegroup instead of staying in the temple. This was actually part of a scheme by Yoda to get him paired up with his favorite grandpadawan Qui Gon for... uh... basically child-as-therapy. You can boo Yoda for this. I know I boo Yoda for this.

The reason why Obi Wan was nearly tossed was because of anger issues. Anger issues that were because he's a human kid in a stressful position knowing he's gonna be Too Old soon and he lives with a huge bully who keeps goading him into fights.

The bully is Bruck Chun by the way and he is salty about "Oafy Wan" and just...

So there's this wild theory I have as to why this sort of thing was allowed to happen in spite of the Creche masters having the Force on their side and should've been on the ball about the Baby Jedi in spite of narrative convenience making them ignore the bullying and be unable to see the truth.

The two main ideas: one/some of the Creche masters are at the tipping point of Falling from sheer stress, because let's face it young kids are HARD even if you have the best intentions and burnout is real and Force Sensitive kids would probably be both easier and harder. Or... the Sith plot that we vaguely saw revolving around hemming the Jedi in and manipulating the Senate to make things Actively Worse all around had a part in it.

If Creche Masters are known to be more likely to fall from constant stress then there'd be a better watch on the creches so unfortunately it's likely to be the Sith Plot. Which actually makes sense!

The Jedi have been purposefully or not reacted hard against being anything like their Sith counterparts in the wake of the Ruusan Reformation. Their Code while good in itself is imperfect and the way things have built up, there's a huge misunderstanding in how the Jedi are perceived versus how the Jedi are intended. The Senate limits what the Jedi can do and in some cases the Jedi are treated more like Space Attack Dog Cops.

But...

What if there was a subtle shift in how the Jedi babies and Initiates are treated because of the Sith Plan? It's not intentional on the Jedi's part as a whole but there's a slight bend to how the Baby Jedis are handled. Even in IRL bullies are given more leeway and bullied kids are judged harder but a Jedi should be able to tell who really started things and who's lying.

The arrogance, pride, anger issues, and even issues with self-confidence (some Knights/Masters might be less willing to take on someone who doesn't properly display their skills with the saber) cause more would-be knights to phase out of the Temple whether they are like Bruck or like Obi.

The would-be Padawans either find better lives outside of the Temple or they possibly become bitter. The ones who WANTED to be Jedi Knights but were seen as being bad or wrong or ill-fitting. The kids who become Padawans could be too good at hiding their negative feelings, some peacock about, and some of them are mostly good until they reach a tipping point and become Worse. (A canonical example of someone known to be a jackass but trusted until the reveal: Krell).

The colder Jedi and the ones who come off as douchebags and dicks feed into the cultural perception of Jedi as Aloof Asshole to be feared. We straight up see people in Coruscant react to "Jedi Business" in Episode 2 like cops: don't get closer, don't draw attention to yourself, the person getting their arm lopped off did something but you Don't Know and Don't Want To Know, and one Absolute Idiot just moments before tried to sell drugs to a Jedi only to get Force Mind Tricked "I don't want to sell you Death Sticks, I want to go home and rethink my life".

And then of course we get Episode 3 with the Jedi as "war mongering people" who fight in the "civil war" against Ex-Jedi Dooku only to get thrown under the bus by Sidious who claims that they tried to kill him and now the Galaxy will be safe from the threat they pose. 3 years could be enough to make a shift but... considering all the faff about the "grand sith plan" then it'd make more sense than it's been centuries of prep and getting everything Just So not only for taking over the galaxy but RUINING how the Jedi are seen and how the Jedi raise people trusted to them.

Deliberately sowing discord not merely among the various planets but also setting the Jedi up to Fall or be crushed no matter what happens? That'd definitely take generations of Sith to get right.

(Partially inspired by a discussion with @evilminji .)

[akaakeis]

oh nooooo i tripped and fell for u into ur ask box

eating ny ice cream rn ;; strawberry is such a weird flavour like if i had to choose and get one i would not get strawberry but if irs rhere at home im finishinf ALL of it

ALSO, DRAWING ON PEOPLE'S HANDS 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

anyways about the iwa smau!!! genuinely have no motivation rn #tweaks BUT i would like to say that the yn is shamelessly based off me like i have consumed acrylic paint on multiple occasions (today) (with ice cream)

ILYT!!!!! IM WRITING THIS RN SO I CANT RESPOND (CRIES)

lost a mark in my chem test today im tweaking

BUT THE FREAKY ENGLISH TEACHER SAID IM ON THE RIGHT TRACK AND DOING GOOD AND AN ATTENTIVE STUDENT AND LIKR????????? ERMMMM SHES INSANE BUT FHE ACADEMIC VALIDATION GOES SOOO HARD

also like lowkey icl i was hanging around ur blog again rn and thats why i decided to send an ask !! ur blog is so pretty rrrrr

I ALSO BASICALLY JUST PEAKED IN HS CUZ THE LIBRARIAN RECOGNISED ME AND GAVE ME A BOOK RECOMMENDATION AND LET ME TAKE IT EVEN THOUGH IT DIDN'T HAVE THE PROPER STUFF TO BE FILED AS BORROWED (like each book has a code and this one didnt and she STILL gave it to me) SO LIKE BASICALLY SHE TRUSTS ME BC IVE BEEN OVER HERE FOR LIKE A YESR AT LEADT TAKING A BOOK THEN COMING BACK 1-2 DAYS LATER CUZ I FINISHED IT LOLOLS

also about OUR iwa fic i was js thinking like,, fake dating this dumbass b word ushiwaka and hes like ?? why me ??? "ur names rhyme kind of" ?? wth ??

lowkey think im immune to anything thats in acrylic paint now bc i have Eaten So Much Of It

anyways the book is lowkey good i havent finished it YET but irs called the girl on the train and like woahhhhhh smth like that at our super conservative school is iNsane

i hope u feel better soon!!! if u dont ill fly over and idk. magic

i have a maths test tmr rjejsjskssk the topic is fun but I Don't Know what if i Fail

OSHIT I WAS SUPPOSED TO LOCK IN AND DO HW OOPS ERM HRU TELL ME AB UR DAY ETC ETC and also any sav x yaku tidbits youd like to drop <- forgot the ship name AND AND AND THE ANONS THINF IS SO REAK KMFG

ok byebye ily xx

ah thats a shame 😞😞 hope your knee or whatever u banged on the way in heals up well lina 😞

yum yum yum ice cream!! i hope ur enjoying it!! also thats so real i feel like strawberry ice cream is just an odd flavor... but true that i always eat the strawberry ice cream in the freezer just to spite my other roommate (with love!!!) LMAO

also real 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i adore when people draw on me or let me draw on them it js makes me so happy <3

DONT FEEL PRESSURED TO WORK ON IT!! BE SPORADIC!! DO IT WHENEVER YOU GET IDEAS!!! WE WILL STICK AROUND TO READ WHENEVER U DECIDE TO WRITE

NOOO NOT THE CHEM TEST IM SORRY LINA :((( ITLL ALL WORK OUT THO

NOT THE ENGLISH TEACHER. IM SORRY SHES MY OPP FROM WHAT IVE HEARD ABOUT HER SHES FREAKY I FEAR. BUT FOR THE ACADEMIC VALIDATION I SUPPOSE I GET IT...

HELP i didnt ever realize how much time you spent on my blog like genuinely 😭 BUT THANK YOU SM!! im super proud of this theme even tho its not the most intricate <3

WOOOW THE LIBRARIAN RECOGNIZED YOU AND TRUSTED YOU W AN UNFILED BOOK??? i aspire to be you but i never step foot into my school library i much prefer my public library... there's sm more books that i read there!!! BUT THATS GENUINELY SO COOL WTF

bro that fic will genuinely be so funny 😭 like the quote we were yapping ab earlier "ushijima?? the hell?? you don't even go to the same school as him?? 😨" iwa would be more confused than anything at first AND I THINK THATS HILARIOUS!! and pls ushijima just AGREEING hes a closeted himbo i swear i swear i swear

alina im genuinely concerned over the fact that you CONSUME acrylic paint? but whatever? i guess? please dont eat too much that's definitely not meant to be consumed 🧍‍♀️

im gonna add that book to my tbr list!! i read the synopsis and it sounds pretty good tbh

THANK YOU!! my roomie is taking care of me so i'll probably be fine within the next few days 🙂‍↕️

AND GOOD LUCK!! im sure you'll do amazing dont even play w me rn alina YOU WILL DO SO SO SO WELL YOU LITTLE MATH NERD (affectionate)

OH YEAH GO DO HOMEWORK WTF 😭 IM GOOD! I FEEL BETTER TODAY <3 IVE BEEN IN BED SINCE I WOKE UP SO THERE ISNT MUCH TO TELL YOU ABOUT BUT UHHHH LAST NIGHT I WATCHED HOWLS MOVING CASTLE WITH MY ROOMMATE!! SAV X YAKU IS SAVORI!!! COURTESY OF BAKERY ANON MY LOVE 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ UMM I DONT HAVE TIDBITS RN BUT ILL DM YOU WITH RANDOM ONES SOMETIME DURING THE DAY TRUST!!

bye bye!! ily ily <3

[tameodesza]

Househusband AU: Headcanon 3

masterlist

a/n: I swear I have drafts written that are unrelated to househusbands AU, but I can’t get this AU out of my head 😭. Hopefully, I can get back to writing prompts soon, but here’s some more HCs (got carried away with writing, so it’s longer than I intended…oh well!)

Who’s the most romantic?

💍 Bret, most definitely. He usually goes the extra mile to show Shawn how much he cares about him. He’s really good at planning date nights and remembering the little things, often gifting Shawn sentimental and thoughtful gifts relating to something Shawn may have mentioned to him prior

💍 Bret sometimes surprises Shawn with secret outings, nothing too extravagant. It’s typically something as simple as driving to the countryside, walking hand in hand along a trail as they talk about whatever’s on their mind, simply enjoying each other’s presence

💍 Shawn swears the number of times his heart melts has to be at least three times a day

💍 Shawn’s favorite moment has to be when Bret took care of him when he was ill one week

“Shawn, wake up. Babe, you’ve gotta eat”

“Come on, let’s get up and brush your teeth”

“Let’s put on some clothes so I can take you to the doctor, ok?”

💍 It was sweet more than romantic, but it warmed Shawn’s heart every time Bret doted on him

💍 Bret thinks Shawn’s pretty romantic as well, though Shawn would beg to differ. It’s not in the traditional sense of candle-lit dinners or chocolate and roses for Valentines Day. But it was in Shawn’s way – learning how to cook Bret’s favorite childhood meal, making a bracelet for Bret from scratch, and attempting to draw a portrait of Bret for Valentines Day (and failing miserably)

💍Bret appreciates anything Shawn does for him

 Who’s more emotional?

💍 Shawn, and he knows it. He has no shame about it. He’s pretty sure it stems from him being the baby of the family (and he may or may not have been spoiled by his mom as a child)

💍 Bret’s childhood was pretty rough compared to Shawn’s. Being raised in a house with 11 siblings oftentimes felt like a warzone. It also didn’t help that his dad had a bad temper and was really tough on the boys

💍 Bret had learned at a young age that it was best to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself, especially when a few of his siblings would make fun of him for crying. Or the time one of his siblings told his dad something Bret had told them in confidence, with the goal of getting him in trouble

💍 So he was kind of taught to hide his emotions

💍 Shawn’s seen Bret cry only a handful of times, but Bret’s gotten better at expressing his emotions to Shawn. Shawn always makes it a point to ask Bret how he feels about things, whether it’s a tough decision or something as simple as Bret’s thoughts on a movie they’d watched. He wants Bret to know his feelings, opinions, and emotions are valid and that he would always be there to listen

 What facial features do they like the most?

💍 Easily for Bret, it’s Shawn’s blue eyes. They were just too pretty not to gawk at

💍 For Shawn, it’s Bret’s eyes as well. People always talk about Shawn’s eyes, but Shawn often finds himself getting lost in Bret’s hazel eyes

💍 Shawn also loves Bret’s smile. He loves that he’s one of few people Bret genuinely smiles for, and it showcases those adorable dimples. Bret has to reiterate to Shawn that he in fact does not have dimples, just deep smile lines. But Shawn’s convinced that it’s dimples and nothing’s changing his mind

 What are their friendship dynamics?

💍 Shawn’s the closest with Hunter, of course. He considers him as his brother more than a friend. Hunter’s family accepted long ago that Shawn was part of their family. And the same goes for Shawn’s family to Hunter. Shawn has no idea where he’d be without Hunter in his life

💍 Aside from Hunter, Shawn’s closest friend is Kevin, much to Bret’s dismay. Neither man could explain it, but they just got along so well. There was never a dull or awkward moment between the two despite the fact that they had a brief fling when they first met

💍 Kevin does still find Shawn attractive, though. Who wouldn’t? And if Shawn were to come onto him one day, he’s not confident he’d exactly tell him to stop. Not that he wants that to happen though, contrary to Bret’s belief. Despite Bret’s tension with Shawn’s friends, everyone in the kliq hopes things work out between Shawn and Bret because they know Shawn would be devastated otherwise, and they’d be left to clean up the mess

💍 After getting to know Goldust, Shawn considers him a close friend of his. He loves whenever Goldust makes the trip to Calgary to keep him company. The two also hang out backstage whenever they’re on the road at the same time with their significant others. It feels nice to talk to someone else who could relate to being a husband, married to a wrestler, and living such a crazy lifestyle. Plus, Goldust always has great gossip to share

💍 Bret’s relationship with Shawn’s friend group is complicated. He doesn’t have a problem with Sean. He actually finds his company quite enjoyable. Hunter? He was forced to tolerate. And Kevin and Scott? He’d rather not be anywhere near them. He’s met a few of Shawn’s hometown friends, and they were more a lot more pleasant to be around

💍 Out of all of Bret’s friends, Shawn gets along with Steve Austin the most. They met backstage one night at a house show. Shawn was bored with no one to talk to – Hunter wasn’t on the program that night and Bret was busy most of the night. Shawn had been getting antsy, ready to go back to the hotel with Bret. He was pacing the hallway backstage when he bumped into Steve, desperately asking “hey, do you know where I can find a beer around here? Budweiser?” to which Steve responded with a grin “no, but I know where you can get a Steveweiser” and the rest was history. While waiting for Bret, Shawn hung out in Steve’s locker room. The two quickly clicked, both relating to being beer-loving southern Texans with attitude

💍 Bret found the pair odd at first, caught off guard one day when Shawn entered his locker room saying “Hey, I’m going to go hang out with Steve tonight. Wanna come?” Shawn usually did leave Bret at night to hang out with the kliq, but not Bret’s own friends. He didn’t join Shawn that night, but when one night turned to two nights, which turned to the Texans hanging out that whole week, Bret had to see what the hype was about

💍 He joined them one night, and it wasn’t much. The night consisted of the blond in Steve’s room, drinking beer, playing cards, talking about whatever, but Bret could barely keep up with the conversation. It seemed like Shawn’s southern drawl deepened around Steve, and their Texas lingo left Bret feeling like they were speaking a different language

💍 As odd as he found it, he was relieved that Shawn found someone to hang with that wasn’t the kliq. Although Bret was weary of the drinking, Steve was a whole lot better of company and more responsible than Shawn’s friends. He trusted that the man would look after Shawn

 How well do they get along with each other?

💍 Their relationship is pretty healthy. Bret considers Shawn as his best friend and Shawn the same (aside from Hunter, of course). There are no secrets between them. They tell each other everything, even if it hurts the other person. They both agreed early on in their relationship that its best to be honest and upfront with each other

💍 They don’t fight often. It’s more of light bickering or small disagreements between them, but it’s not usually anything that’ll cause alarm. There were a few times Shawn picked fights with Bret in the early stages of their marriage when Bret was away on the road, especially when Bret didn’t call him. Shawn was still getting adjusted to being a househusband and not having Bret around, so his decisions weren’t the wisest around that time. But he’s grown from that, especially as their trust in each other built over the years

💍 They have really great communication with each other. Unless Shawn’s really pissed, in which case Bret knows he must have really fucked up because Shawn gets really quiet when he’s upset. Bret would rather have the man yelling at him than ignoring him, not knowing what Shawn’s thinking

💍 Both have their flaws but they both equally put in the effort to make their marriage work

 How well do they get along with each other’s family?

💍 It took some time for Shawn’s family to come around to Bret. Shawn’s mom and sister loved him instantly. It was hard not to with how charming, polite, and sweet Bret was.

💍 Shawn’s brothers were a little skeptical at first (who’s this guy wooing our little brother?) but they were still welcoming. Shawn’s dad, on the other hand, was the wild card. He was very weary of Bret, wondering how someone who’s on the road all year could have a successful and faithful relationship with his son. To him, actions spoke louder than words, so he kept a watchful eye on the two. It took a few years and a few awkward family dinners, but Shawn’s dad did eventually accept Bret into the family

💍 Bret’s family was a bit more welcoming of Shawn. Shawn didn’t know what to expect when meeting the Harts, but Bret’s parents were so kind to him. Shawn’s very close to Bret’s parents. With his own parents being so far away in Texas, Helen and Stu were his home away from home. He calls Helen ‘mama Hart’ and Stu ‘papa Hart.’ It was originally ‘daddy Hart, but Bret expressed to Shawn how uncomfortable it was for him to hear Shawn call his dad ‘daddy’. Shawn’s undoubtedly their favorite son-in-law 

💍 Shawn was loved by most of Bret’s siblings, which is already an accomplishment within itself. And of course Shawn’s favorite Hart sibling is Owen who loved Shawn almost as much as Bret. However, with there being so many siblings, there was bound to be a few Shawn wasn’t too fond of. Bruce and Elizabeth were the main ones that came to mind

💍 Shawn had a verbal spat with Elizabeth once, the blond man taking up for Bret when Elizabeth started throwing low blows Bret’s way in an argument, such as discrediting his wrestling ability or commenting on how she didn’t see what Shawn saw in Bret. Bret had to hide the proud smile on his face at how Shawn didn’t back down and wasn’t afraid to go toe-to-toe with her

💍 However, that was nothing compared to Shawn’s issue with Bruce who’d called Shawn a gold digger at a family dinner. It became a whole thing: Shawn freezing at the word, truly shocked that he would be accused of that, Bret taking up for Shawn, Bret and Bruce almost getting into a fist fight, Shawn having to hold Bret back and guide him outside towards their car, Bret threatening to never come around again if that’s how they’re going to treat Shawn. Bret’s parents begged them to stay, but the night was already ruined, and Bret just wanted to get Shawn away from the situation

💍 Family gatherings are still a little awkward, but there’s not nearly as much tension now that years have gone by since the incident

💍 Shawn’s saving grace has been his close relationship with the other in-laws: Jim, Davey, and Martha. He felt like they had their own support group, there for each other when the Hart family got wild

 Thoughts on kids?

💍 Shawn’s really great with kids, but they’ve both agreed that they don’t desire to have children of their own. They have plenty enough nieces and nephews to keep them busy

💍 After getting married, they felt the pressure from Bret’s family. They were constantly getting asked about their thoughts on adoption or if they considered getting a surrogate. It even got to the point of Bret’s mom saying she knew a girl who’d carry their baby….weird

💍 Everyone eventually backed off once it was evident that the couple wasn’t going to budge. They were perfectly happy just having each other

💍 Besides, tending to their flower garden and watching their flowers grow was like raising kids in Shawn’s opinion

 Any tattoos/piercings?

💍 Shawn has two lobe piercings in his left ear and one on his right. And he also has a belly button piercing (both his and Bret’s favorite)

💍 Shawn has multiple tattoos including: the state of Texas on his calf, a Canadian leaf on his thigh, a heart with a dagger on his arm, a wedding band with the letter B in the middle on his ring finger, and Bret’s favorite, a heart on his ass cheek 

💍 His most recent tattoo was the one he got on their first-year wedding anniversary. It was a tattoo on his rib of Bret’s name in cursive with the hitman logo to the right of it. Hunter argued up and down with Shawn to not get someone’s name tatted on him. It’s the cardinal rule! But Shawn didn’t care. He loved this man and had no doubts they’d be together forever

💍 A little-known fact is that Bret’s afraid of needles, which is one of the reasons why he went the longest time without having any tattoos or piercings. He did eventually get a matching tattoo with Shawn, getting the same wedding band tattoo on his ring finger, but with an S in the middle instead

💍 Shawn held Bret’s other hand the whole time, allowing Bret to squeeze his hand whenever the pain became too much. Bret’s love for Shawn grew tenfold that day

 Any pet peeves?

💍 Shawn hates when Bret doesn’t tell him ahead of time that they have guests coming over. Shawn usually walks around the house with as little clothes as possible, whether it’s him walking around shirtless or wearing a silk robe with nothing underneath. Bret was lectured by Shawn to give him ample warning after a particularly embarrassing moment when Owen and Martha showed up unannounced, rounding the corner into the living room to see Shawn only wearing his favorite booty shorts, which were so tight they left nothing to the imagination

💍 Shawn calls Bret ‘Bretford’ or ‘Sergeant’ when being a smart ass. Bretford’s not even his real name, but Bret finds it entertaining when Shawn says it. However, he does not find being called Sergeant entertaining. Shawn usually says it when he’s pissed or feels like Bret’s bossing him around, insinuating that Bret’s treating him like a drill sergeant. Whenever he tells Shawn to stop, Shawn just innocently says “What? It’s your name, right?” and that always grinds his gears

💍 Bret also hates when Shawn walks away from arguments. It’s not like Shawn’s one to run from an argument. Lord knows he’s argued with Hunter more than enough. But he knows how he gets when he’s heated. When it comes to Bret, he doesn’t want to say something he’ll regret

 Insecurities?

💍 For both of them, age is an insecurity, but for different reasons. For Shawn, he wonders if he’s mature enough to be with Bret. Although he’s definitely grown as a person since being married, he still has issues with his attitude. His patience isn’t as great as Bret’s, sometimes leading to him snapping at the man. His biggest fear is Bret getting fed up with him one day and leaving

💍 For Bret, sometimes his mind drifts to if Shawn finds him boring, if he’d be happier with someone his own age. Shawn’s friends are pretty wild and Bret’s nothing like them. But Shawn promptly reminds him that there’s nothing out there better for him. “I’ve dated men my own age, Bret. And look where it led me…to you”

💍 Bret’s sexuality has also caused self-doubt in Shawn. While Shawn’s strictly dickly, Bret identifies as bisexual. Shawn sometimes wonders if Bret would ever chase after the traditional life and leave him for a woman. It was silly, really. But when he’s left all alone in an empty mansion for months at a time, it’s easy for his thoughts to run wild. Bret eases Shawn when he tells him that if the traditional life doesn’t include him, then he doesn’t want it

💍 Money has also been a topic of discussion. Shawn isn’t a materialistic person, but Bret introduced him to the finer things of life (expensive watches, necklaces, earrings, rings, etc.). He appreciates it, but he wants to be able to do the same for Bret. The couple shares a bank account, but it’s mostly Bret’s money. Bret tells Shawn he can buy whatever he wants with it. “What’s mine is yours.” But Shawn still wrestles with the fact that he’s not contributing financially to the marriage

💍 In the beginning stages of dating, Shawn was insecure about his body hair. He’d never been self-conscious about it before until he started dating Bret, noting how well-groomed the older man was. He wondered if he should make more of an effort to be hairless, but it was more work than he was willing to put in

💍 He’d gotten a full body wax once…sort of. He was too embarrassed to go to a professional. So, unfortunately for Hunter, Shawn enlisted the help of his best friend who wished he could wipe his memory of the experience.

“I’m not going anywhere near your dick!”

“Oh don’t act like you haven’t seen it before. Now help me wax my legs!”

💍 Hunter was still traumatized

💍 Fortunately for Shawn, and inadvertently Hunter, that was the first and last time he had to go through that experience. When Bret seemed indifferent to Shawn waxing, noting that he didn’t have a preference on the blond’s body hair, Shawn felt instant relief, “Oh, thank god. I feel like a naked mole rat!”

 Extras

💍 Shawn’s very protective of Bret. Everyone sees Bret as this big tough guy with no emotions, but Shawn knows Bret’s really a softie. He’s a very sweet, sentimental guy and tends to take things to heart more than the average person. Shawn coddles him, Hunter sometimes having to remind Shawn, “he’s a grown ass man, not a baby” whenever Shawn freaks out over Bret getting the slightest scrape from wrestling. Bret must be protected at all costs

💍 It still baffles Bret how much of his life he spent without Shawn being in it. Saying he depends on Shawn for survival wouldn’t be an exaggeration. Shawn reminds Bret to eat, remembers appointments, makes sure bills are paid on time. You name it. Plus, he’s a great cuddler. Bret’s dubbed Shawn as his support human

💍 Bret’s really talented at drawing, and he often uses Shawn as his muse. Shawn loves laying on the couch, sprawled out like Rose from Titanic as Bret draws whatever his heart desires. Bret repeatedly has to tell Shawn to sit still, the younger man incapable of staying in one position for more than a minute

💍 Shawn has a binder full of Bret’s art, most of it consisting of portraits of himself. Hunter called him conceited for it, but it’s not Shawn’s fault that he’s the inspiration for most of Bret’s drawings

💍 Although Shawn’s a country boy, he’s a total disco queen. More often than not, Bret would return home to Shawn blasting classic 70’s and 80’s disco throughout the house, unashamedly gyrating his hips to the beat. Abba, The Bee Gees, and Earth Wind & Fire were stuck on repeat 

💍 There was a point in the beginning stages of their relationship where they almost broke up due to Shawn’s drug use. The last time he used heavily was in college. However, he picked it up again and it slowly became a normal part of his routine whenever he hung out with the kliq, taking an unknown amount of somas or whatever was being offered at the time. Bret quickly became concerned when Shawn would come stumbling into his hotel room, clinging onto Hunter as he guided him to the bed, so incoherent that it was impossible for Bret to have a conversation with him. When it became a frequent occurrence, Bret adamantly told Shawn he needed to stop, to which the blond agreed. But it didn’t last long. It never did

💍 However, the final straw came when Shawn got so fucked up to the point of needing to be rushed to the hospital. Bret gave Shawn an ultimatum: either cut it out or they were done. He wasn’t going to sit by and watch Shawn ruin his life, especially when the blond was not making any efforts to better himself. It wasn’t a tough decision for Shawn. Just the thought of Bret leaving him shattered his heart. He wasn’t about to ruin what he was building with Bret. He’s never touched drugs ever since. Alcohol was another story, but Bret would rather deal with that than Shawn’s reckless drug use

💍 Shawn’s invite to the Slammy’s as Bret’s plus one was a huge deal.  Only their close friends and family knew of their relationship. Shawn was worried, asking Bret if them showing up together would be too obvious. “Well, maybe it’s time to make it obvious” was Bret’s reply

💍 Owen’s their unofficial marriage counselor, both men often venting to him about their light annoyances. For Bret, it was usually him complaining about how annoying Shawn’s friends were. He couldn’t exactly complain to Shawn about that as the younger man always took up for them. For Shawn, it was whenever he was frustrated with Bret and needed to be reminded that not all Harts were insufferable. Owen tries hard to act as a neutral party, but there are times where he picks sides, and more often than not he sides with Shawn, oop 🫢

💍 Bret likes playing in Shawn’s hair. Whether it’s running his hands through the soft blond hair or attempting (and failing) to put it in a ponytail. Shawn let’s him do whatever style he wants, just loving the attention Bret gives him

[stxinedpxges]

▹You will find something more in woods than in books. Trees and stones will teach you that which you can never learn from masters.

The school day was drawing to an end, a lull had settled in the classroom, the clock ticking seemed to get louder with each movement of the hands. His students stared at him blankly, all interest that had in the lesson waining as only a few minutes remained of the day, of the week and then they were free to enjoy their weekends unburdened by the need to learn in a stuffy classroom. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, drawing his attention away from the board. He ignored it, he couldn't exactly ask his students not to use their phones and then get his out, even if there was only a few minutes left. He finished writing the assignment up and then turned to the class. ❝And the moment you've all been waiting for, class is dismissed. Assignment is due in two weeks and I you have any questions, you know where to find me ❞

The classroom filled with murmurs and the sound of chairs scrapping agains the floor as the classroom slowly shuffled out, eager to be free from the college if only for the weekend. Devin let out a sigh and returned to his desk, organising the mess that had accumulated throughout the day. It was a habit, he'd finish the day tidying up his mess and swear to himself that he'd not let it get so out of hand but at the end of the next day he'd be doing it all over again. As he shuffled his papers into a more presentable stack he remembered his phone had buzzed earlier and he had yet to check his messages. Discarding all thoughts of tidying up, Devin flopped into his chair and pulled out his phone. He was expecting a text from a friend, maybe his sister or some kind of promotional spam but his brows furrowed at the notification from a blocked number.

He opened the message, curiosity would never allow him to ignore something like this and was surprised by the invitation that now flashed onto his screen.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 . . . presented by...

He read the first part out loud, but the information on who was hosting was missing and only added another question to the many that where forming in his mind. He read on, his voice echoing around the empty classroom.

 ❛ come celebrate with us on the TWENTIETH OF JUNE as we welcome the 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐥𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞. follow the lit path into the woods at 4:50PM to the bonfire in the clearing. there will be vendors, food, and drink provided. music, fun, celebration, and prayer for the better, warmer, and longer days ahead. this is a private invitation. join us. ❜

His curiosity turned to a feeling he couldn't describe. Intrigue? Unease? Both perhaps?.The words themselves held no ill meaning, it was a pleasant invitation that in any other situation wouldn't even raise eyebrows or questions. But this was Helltown and nothing here went without a questioning look, nothing here was done without a reason. He stared at the screen, reading and rereading the message the words soon memorised so he know longer had to look at the text, yet he couldn't take his eyes away. This wasn't being held by the town, he could deduce that much by the anonymity but any clues as to who was organising it were not inherently obvious. In terms of the private invitation part, that had baffled him more than the invite itself. Why had they invited him?

Whatever the reasoning behind him receiving an invite, whoever had orchestrated this, Devin knew the answers may be at the event itself. He's spent months investigating on the side, deep in town history and books as he tried to answer the questions that haunted the town. But could it really be as simple as joining whomever it was, in the woods, to celebrate the solstice?

[toraochi]

valentines day headcannons with the glamrocks! + william afton and henry emily!

warnings: swearing

notes: happy valentines everyone!! this is just a short drabble so bear with me !! i love you all guys for 300 followers !!

Glamrock Freddy - ♡

He is nervous as fuck

This is his first time too, being an animatronic in pizzaplex is kinda hard for him.

He tried to ask Vannessa on what do to in this so called celebration

Vannessa just said "treat them or whatever."

So he did it!

Tons of hugs! This lovely bear is the best hugger you'll ever have. And oh! He even carries you everywhere! Our old fashioned lover boy will treat you anywhere!

This bear will even give you handmade love letter, with a little drawing of him and you holding hands.

You found it oddly cute and adorable, you complimented him and his wires and cheeks erupted a soft hue of red in them

Cuddles while talking! He is a big spoon! He loves cuddling you and hugging you from behind.

"Superstar? Mind if I kiss..you?"

This adorable bear even asked for your permission!! How cute !

You giggled. "Of course sweetheart!"

Expect more cuddles this night

Montgomery Gator -♡

"What the fuck is Valentines."

This aligator don't even bother until you came into the picture.

He immediatelt proceed to Chica and Roxy on what the heck is that.

"Oh those heart and shit? This is easy."

"This is not easy." Monty said, scared to approach you.

He literally trembles if you are ten inch away from him. He is gonna lose himself and bang his head on the wall on how mesmerizing you were.

"I can't do it fatbear, they were an angel you dimwit." He sulked, Freddy patting his back and Roxy laughing at him

"If you wont do it, Ill have them instead." Roxy finished and is going to meet you.

"Try me bitch."

He approached you, his eyes trying not to make contact at your sweet eyes

"Y-You! " he started, knees shaking.

You beamed at him. "Yes? You need something love?" You cooed.

Monty stopped working because of the nickname you gave him just now.

Vanessa called for a maintenace because of Monty.

You tilted you head, wondering what did happened to the gator. Vanessa rolled her eyes at your obliviousness. "He wants to go out with you dumbass."

"Oh." You covered your face, but the red shade is still visible under it.

You asked him after his 30 mins of repair

Oh boy this gator is gonna go cloud nine.

"You better because I'm the good ole Monty baby."

The date was in his Golf course ♡

And you always loose.

Glamrock Chica

She literally sang you a love song with her electric guitar, oh its was so romantic

Tons of kisses and hugs, this chick likes to spoil you with those

"Want to go into the prize corner babygirl?" Oh yes, she will give you her plushie and more merch of her

You baked peppeponi pizzs for her; and she demolish it with one gulp! "This is so good!!!!"

100 percent , you and Chica is gonna have a karaoke night at her room, singing Dancing Queen, Papparazi and Careless whisper.

Chica also likes to play makeup with you, she will make you the most beautiful thing ever

And also, painting you nails!

"I love you so much y/n!!"

"I love you too chic!"

Roxxane Wolf

"Literally? I dont need that type of celebration, I know they love me."

And her she is, dying to talk to you and celebrate the Valentines with you.

Her ego is getting in the way, she really wants to say I love you and give you one of her plushies as a gift.

"Get together Roxxane, You will give it to Y/N as soon as possibl-" She stopped at her tracks.

"What will you give it to me?" You chirped up, looking at the wolf.

"JESUS- Stop sneaking a-around!!" She yelled at you , making you jumped.

"I just..want to see how you were doing.." You soften your voice, with a hint of hurt in it.

'Shit I fucked up.'

You were about to walk away until her clawed hands grab you and pulled you to her.

She took a heavy breath. "O-Okay,look Im so sorry, its just- just take this!" She shoved you her plush with a tint of red in her face.

You giggled. "The Roxxane Wolf is asking me on a date? I'll be glad." You smiled at her, hugging the plush.

She rambles on Chica about it later

"OHMYGOD,OHMYGOD." she repeated and yelled at the pillow like a teen girl.

William Afton

This man is a busy as heck, he literally forgotten about this dear day for him and his dear wife.

Michael barged into the door, making him stumble.

"Mike, how many times did I tell you to knock into the damn doo-"

Michael cutted him off. "What day is it."

"Its Monday."

Michael facepalmed himself. "Dad, Its literally Valentines. Mom is waiting on you at the hous-"

William slamed his hand on the table and yelled. "FUCK." He immediately took his coat, and rushed at the door.

"Tell Henry I'm going to take a half day."

This man rushed into the grocery store, taking all the brands of chocolates in panic. He dont want you to be sad at this so called day.

When he reached the house, he barged, starling you while you sew Evan's shirt.

"Dear, why so early?" You asked, putting down the cloth and rushing on him while taking his coat.

"Im so sorry love, I brought you chocolates-" He give you the 30+ brands of chocolates and some of them had fallen into the floor.

He tried to picked the fallen ones but you reached it first.

"Dear, you didn't have to do that." You helped him settled the chocolates in the kitchen table.

"As long as I'm with you, I'm okay Will." You smiled at him.

He hugged you, his head rest into the crook of your neck. "Oh , I'm lucky to have a wife like you."

You giggled, hugging him back.

"Say, why don't we head into the bedroom. Hmm?" He cooed, his crooked teeth showing

"William !" You slapped him playfully.

extra:

evan: hey lizzy, look they're some chocolates on the table..

elizabeth: i see it, i like it, i want it, i got it.

Henry Emily

Oh this man is the most romantic ever, Flowers and Chocolate is always left at the table whenever you wake up.

Your twins, Sammy and Charlie is helping their papa to set up some love notes all over.

"Be quick, before mama hear us!" Sammy whispered yelled at his twin. "

"Be quite too!" Charlie sushed.

Little did they know you were eavedropping. It makes your heartmelt that your little ones are making an effort for you.

Henry got home, and he immediately walk up to you. "You look so stunning honey." He complimented you, kissing your forehead.

"And so are you, darling." You leaned at him

He stand up, playing an audio through the dvd player. "Let's dance."

The dance was smooth and short, you and him are giggling like you guys did back in high school.

and you guys shared a sweet kiss.

extra:

charile and sammy: eww yuck.