#int fic

[fortunafavours]

the demo is live! ✨💛

play it here!

thank you everyone for your patience, HELLA appreciate it while I strugglebus my way through learning to code in choicescript, writing a novel length story, and maintaining a coherent and cohesive storyline! finally, having been a dungeon master for the most chaotic but creative group of people ever has paid off (if any of you are reading this, <333333).

this demo is 14.5k words (excl. coding), and will take you through the intro, chapter one, and the first few scenes of chapter two.

you'll meet a couple of the ROs as well as your dad, start defining who you are as a character, and hopefully get a feel for the vibe of the world.

once it gets going, fortuna will move FAST, and does not let up, so I'm looking forward to getting into the meat of it all!

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny: What's that smell? *Deep Sniff* Tim: Excuse me? Why are you in my space sniffing me? Danny: I'm sorry, but are you wearing a unique brand of cologne or something? Tim is proud of himself: I actually made this cologne myself. I used a very special rose to get that more masculine scent you are picking up on. It's sort of my signature- Danny: It's hideous. Take it off. Tim: What? Danny: Smells horrid. Hurts my nose. Makes me want to throw up. Is being a perfumer a dream of yours? Because if so, give up on it. I got to go. You're causing my head to hurt. Tim, watching him leave: Who are you to tell me to give up on a dream I didn't have until three seconds ago? You know what? I will make the most alluring cologne you have ever smelled, and when you're begging me for a bottle, I'll tell you to give up! Tim: *Calls Tam* Give me three more boxes of Blood Blossoms. I'm going to get that man addicted to my signature scent! Tam: What ever happened to "Good afternoon, Tam," "How was your day, Tam?" or even just an explanation of who this "man" you want to create cologne for is? Tim: No time! We must move quickly!

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | INTRODUCTIONS

johnny mactavish x reader

[NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

mild swearing, lots of plot

The farm isn’t just a home—it’s a responsibility, a burden you never planned on shouldering alone.

You left this place once you were fresh out of high school, eager to escape the quiet, the isolation of the small town you grew up in. The city called to you, and you answered. New York City—the hustle, the noise, the lights. It was everything your small-town heart dreamed of. The world felt wide and full of possibility. You imagined yourself growing into the person you’d always wanted to be. College and a future in the city, away from the farm, away from the confines of the life that had always been so familiar, so small.

But then, one night after a bar-crawl with your friends marking the end of your Senior year, you got the call.

Your Ma had passed away. Just like that—no warning, no time to prepare.

You dropped everything. That’s what you do when family calls. You go home. The city and all your plans  felt so far away as you packed your bags and made the drive back to the farm. When you drove up the long driveway, the house sat there in the distance, almost looking the same, but so much different all at once. It felt wrong without your Ma's laugh echoing through the halls, her hum in the kitchen, her steady presence.

The funeral came and went in a blur of emotion, family, and loss. It was all a whirlwind, a blur of faces, of handshakes, and hushed condolences. But when the dust settled, the reality set in. Your Pa needed help. There was no denying it. He wasn’t the same man anymore—not without your Ma beside him.

So, you stayed. You told yourself it was temporary—just a few weeks, maybe a month at most. You’d help him get back on his feet, make sure everything was squared away, then go back to the city. But days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Mere months  turned into two years. One look at your Pa—slow-moving, his back hunched a little more each day, his hands trembled a little more than they used to—and you knew.

You couldn’t leave him.

The farm, with all its heavy tasks and responsibilities, became yours. For a while, your Pa tried to help, tried to keep his old pace. But as time passed and his grief only grew, his strength had faded, and soon, the weight of the work was yours to bear alone. He couldn’t lift the hay bales like he used to, couldn’t herd the sheep the way he had before. And those trips to the farthest corner of the farm on horseback, checking the fences, making sure everything was secure? You reckoned he couldn’t even get on a saddle.

You didn’t mind at first. It was just the two of you now, and you loved this place, loved the land, loved what it represented, It was home. But there were moments—the quiet ones, when everything slowed down—that the weight of it all settled heavily on your shoulders. You weren’t a farmhand. You were a woman who had spent her whole upbringing dreaming of more. A different life. But now, you’re tied to this place. Tied to your Pa. And your Ma's laugh still lingers in the walls, thick and heavy like the humidity that Summer brings each morning. 

You’re exhausted, frustrated—running on fumes. You can’t keep doing it all, but there’s no choice. The farm, the animals, the crops, the house... and Pa. You’re stretched thin, your bones aching under the weight of responsibilities that pile up faster than you can manage. The idea of doing it all alone feels like a cruel joke.

Something’s got to give. 

The help-wanted flyers were your last-ditch effort. You spent the better half of the previous night making them yourself, attempting to make them each as uniform as possible. 

‘FARMHAND WANTED. 

DEPENDABLE WORKERS AND SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. 

CALL XXX-XXX-XXXX FOR DETAILS.’

If you didn’t find someone soon, you didn’t know how much longer you could keep it together. So, as the clock striked 8 AM the next morning, you climbed into Pa’s old pick-up, the engine coughing to life as you made your way into town.

You’d been born and raised here. The downtown—if it can even be called that—of Williston is small, everyone knows everyone, and most folks are working-class, middle-aged. The kind of people who offered a warm smile and a helping hand without a second thought. You’d grown up with their kindness, and now, as you hung those flyers in their storefront windows, you could feel the weight of their stares—half concern, half curiosity.

They all know your story by now. They’d watched you grow up, watched you leave, and then watched you come back after everything fell apart. You could feel the sympathy in their eyes, but they never let it show—there was a quiet understanding between you all. Their hospitality was something you could never take for granted.

But no amount of kind gestures could change the fact that you need help. And fast.

You pull into an empty parking space a block away from Main St, quickly hopping out and make your way through town, handing out flyers to shop owners and sticking them to cork boards. It’s routine. A simple task, but the weight of it all makes it feel heavier than it should. The town’s small enough that you’re familiar with most of the faces, and it feels like you’ve talked to half the town by the time the afternoon rolls around. You’re famished—your stomach growling louder than the engine of Pa’s truck as you finish your rounds.

You head into the local bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop, the comforting smell of fried food and coffee hanging in the air. The place is familiar, cozy—its booths all torn leather, worn but inviting. Al—or Crazy Al, as most call him—the owner, gives you a warm smile when you walk in, his graying hair poking out from beneath his old baseball cap. He’s been here longer than anyone can remember.

“Ya look like ya could use a milkshake,” he says, already putting scoops of vanilla ice cream into the blender.

You nod, grateful for the small kindness. Al gestures toward one of the metal bar stools in front of him, you sit and his eyes narrow a little when he notices the exhaustion written across your face.

“What’s got’ya  all wound up, kid?” he asks, pouring the milkshake in a mug and handing it to you

You eye the mug with momentary confusion before you choose to ignore his choice of cups. You take a deep breath, the weight of the day hitting you all over again. “It’s the farm,” you say, swirling the straw in the thick milkshake, not sure where to start. “Pa’s slowing down. I’m running everything from the crops, to the cows, to the house. I can’t keep up.”

Al nods, his expression softening in sympathy as he leans back against the counter. “That’s a helluva load for one person. Yer doin’ right by yer Pa, though, kid. Ya know that?”

You smile faintly, but it fades quickly. “I’m just doing what needs to be done, but it’s just not enough anymore. So I’m trying to find someone to help—a guy, young and strong, you know? I just can’t do it all by myself.”

You slide one of the flyers across the counter to Al, asking him to keep an eye out. “If you see anyone, just... send them my way? I’m desperate, at this point.”

He takes the flyer, his gaze flickering to the paper before meeting your eyes again. “Funny ya mention that,” Al says, scratching his chin. “There’s a new guy who popped up not a day ago. Didn’t think much of it at the time, but he was askin’ around for work. Thought he looked a little outta place for this town, but...”

You raise an eyebrow. “What do you mean ‘out of place’?”

“Just dun’ seem like he belonged, I guess. Looks like he went to Iraq or wherever they’re fightin’ these days.” He shrugs. “But hey, if ya need someone, ya might want to track ‘em down. If I see ‘em again, I’ll send him yer way.”

You nod, feeling a spark of hope. “You’re a Godsend, Al.”

About a week later, it’s a humid Wednesday morning in the heart of August. The kind of heat that clings to your skin, even when the sun’s hiding behind a blanket of clouds. A slight fog lingers in the air, and the scent of sweet grass drifts through the open windows, carried by a lazy breeze. The sun’s rays begin to break through the mist, casting long fingers of light across the fields and trees in the distance.

You finish cleaning up after breakfast, the dishes clinking softly in the sink. Pa’s moved from the dining table to sit in his ratty old armchair in the corner, eyes half-lidded as the local weatherman drones on about tomorrow’s rainstorm. It’s a quiet, familiar morning—the kind you’ve gotten used to in the last couple of years. Your hair’s tied up, a few loose strands sticking to your sun-kissed skin as you wipe down the counter, sweat beading lightly on your neck.

Then you hear it—boots on the porch.

Your body tenses instinctively, the old reflex kicking in. You consider grabbing the shotgun atop the door frame, but a second later, you shake the thought off. It’s overkill, and you’ve got enough sense to know it.

You open the door, not expecting much, probably some girl scouts, or worse, another annoying sales rep. from out of town.

You grasp the handle, pulling open the door, “Look, whatever you're selling, I ain’t buying. I got enough shit to pay fo-”

Standing there is a man, 6 '2 if you had to guess, built like a damn ox, all sharp angles and hard muscle, hair a cropped mohawk that looks like it belongs on someone ten times tougher than him. His eyes are so blue they nearly blind you, but they seem to hold a storm behind them, like he’s seen some shit.  But what really gets you is that smirk. It makes you want to both slap and kiss him at the same time.

And then he opens his mouth, and…

Definitely not American. Not even close.

You blink, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve stepped into some strange dream. You’ve always been more open-minded than most of the people in town, but hearing that thick accent in the middle of your quiet, rural world makes everything suddenly feel a little too strange. Now you get what Al was talking about when he mentioned, “Not from around here.”

He’s dressed in a dark blue flannel, sleeves rolled up to reveal a white wife beater underneath, the fabric stretched tight over his chest. A neat, tiny gold cross between each pec, as if to say ‘Hey! Look at my man-tits!’ His denim jeans are worn, the brown scuffs on the knees looking like he’s been praying in dirt. And those forearms… Thick and muscular, veins running like rivers beneath his skin- stop it.

You force your focus back up to his face, and it’s just as distracting. Soft stubble accented by the sharp slope of his nose. He stands tall, looking at you like he’s waiting for something—oh. He spoke, and now you were supposed to respond. That is how conversations work.

 You’re not the type to generally stare at people, but something about him, something in the way he carries himself. You try not to notice how his broad shoulders fill the doorway like he’s daring you to le- STOP.

He shifts on his feet, a hint of uncertainty behind that cocky grin. You can tell he’s not as sure of himself as he’s trying to appear. Maybe that’s the only thing stopping you from slamming the door in his face.

Still, you don’t trust him. Why would a guy like that want a job on a farm in the middle of nowhere? He looks like he could be doing much more important things—literally anywhere else—but he’s here. Standing on your porch with your flyer slightly crumpled in his big hands. 

“What can I do for you?” You try to sound cool, collected, but your tone comes out a little sharper than you meant.

He tilts his head, the smirk never wavering. “I hear ye're lookin’ for a hand.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That right?”

“Aye,” he answers, his accent thick and heavy, rolling the words in a way that makes the air feel hotter than it already is.

He steps a little closer, just enough to make you take a half step back. “Name’s Johnny-” he stretches his hand out, “Mactavish. I’m lookin’ for work. Could use somethin’ steady.”

You study him for a second, arms crossed, and wonder if you should even entertain this. A man like him could be trouble. Hell, a man like him is trouble. You take his hand in yours, giving it a solid shake.

“Do you know anything about farms?” with crossed arms and raised eyebrows, you don't bother to hide the skepticism in your voice.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’ve done my share o’ heavy liftin’. Hard work don’t scare me.”

“Alright,” you hum, stepping back and letting the door swing open a little wider. “Come on in. I’ll get you something to drink, but don’t think you’re on the job yet. I’m just…” you pause, “Interviewing, I guess.”

He gives you another smirk,more amused than cocky as he steps past you. “Yes ma’am.”

You step aside, letting him in, and the moment he crosses the threshold, he fills the space. It’s not just his size—though, yeah, the man is big—it’s his presence. Something about him shifts the air, like he’s the sun and everything around him are just mere planets, susceptible to his magnetic pull. The house, your home, suddenly feels a little too small.

His smile fades, just slightly, as he takes it all in. Maybe it’s the warmth of the place, the scent of coffee lingering from breakfast, the old family photos lining the walls. Or maybe it’s just the quiet—different from whatever he’s used to.

“The hell is this?”

Pa’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and confused. He’s already halfway up from his chair, eyes narrowed, hands braced on the armrests like he’s about to stand but isn’t quite sure if it’s worth the effort. His gaze flicks between you and the very large, very unfamiliar man now standing in his house.

You sigh, already anticipating the reaction. “Pa, relax,” you say, walking over to him, ready to placate. “I was just looking for some help around the farm.”

Pa squints at the stranger like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s real or just a heat stroke-induced hallucination. “Help? With what?”

“With everything, Pa.” You lower your voice to a whisper-shout, rubbing your temple. “You can’t keep up the way you used to, and neither can I. We need someone else.”

Pa grumbles something under his breath before scoffing. “And how exactly do ya plan to pay ‘em, huh? We can’t afford that.”

You set your jaw firm. “I’ll make it work, I promise”

That makes him pause. He knows that tone. Knows it the same way he knew your mother’s, unyielding and steady, like a tree standing firm against the wind. Your roots bury deep in the ground you walk on, just like her. There’s no use arguing when you get like this, and he’s too tired to fight a battle he knows he’ll lose.

Still, his lips press into a thin line, his weathered hands gripping the armrests of his recliner before he exhales, slow and resigned. “Stubborn like your mother, I tell ya.”

The words land heavier than you’d like. You huff out a breath, shoving it down before it can settle too deep—before your guest gets too curious. You don’t need a stranger poking around and popping stitches.

So instead, you turn away from Pa as he sits back down, still muttering under his breath, and quickly clear the dining table of a few lingering cups from breakfast. The kitchen’s only a few steps away, the open floor plan letting you move freely. You rinse out a glass and fill it with cool, sweet tea, condensation already forming on the outside as the humid air clings to it. It’s an old habit, a simple kindness—making sure guests have something to drink.

When you turn back, you see that Johnny’s wandered toward the wall, where a small collection of family photos are hung in mismatched frames. He’s standing still, his broad shoulders relaxed but his head tilted slightly, studying them. Studying you.

Your stomach twists when you realize which one he’s looking at.

It’s old, a little faded in its frame, but still clear—you, small and bright-eyed, cloaked in your Ma's too-big dress and classy jewelry, drowning in fabric and pearls as you grin at the camera. Your Ma's crouched beside you, laughing, her arms wrapped around your waist to keep you steady. The slight shadow of your Pa holding the camera, capturing a moment frozen in time.

You clear your throat, the sound cutting through the quiet hum of last night's baseball game replaying from the tv. Dave Winfield hit his 400th home run last night against the Twins. Johnny’s attention was pulled back to you. His blue eyes flicker with something unreadable before he schools his face.

You don’t give him the chance to say anything. Instead, you hold up the glass and gesture toward the dining table. “Sit.”

He does, pulling out one of the side chairs and settling into it with an easy, almost lazy confidence. You set the glass in front of him and take the seat at the head of the table, watching him as he wraps his fingers around the sweating drink.

And for the first time since he showed up, he’s quiet. 

You realize, rather suddenly, that you’re not actually sure what to ask him. You’ve never interviewed anyone before—never had to. The farm’s always been run by family.

You clear your throat, shifting slightly in your chair, trying not to feel small under his gaze. He’s watching you—not in a way that feels threatening, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of yourself. Of the way your fingers tap against the tabletop, of the bead of sweat still clinging to your collarbone from the August heat.

You square your shoulders and push past it. “So,” you start, “what kind of experience do you have with hard labor?”

He leans back a little, forearms flexing just enough to be distracting. “Done my fair share,” he says, voice casual, like he’s talking about the weather.

You arch a brow. “Like?”

His lips twitch, just slightly, like he can tell you’re trying to keep up the tough act. “Military.”

That gives you pause. Military. You study him again, looking past his too-relaxed posture. Yeah, you can see it now—in the way he holds himself, in the sharpness of his gaze, in the way he takes in a room like he’s cataloging exits.

“What branch?” you ask.

“UK Special Forces.”

That surprises you, but you keep your face neutral. You wondered what brought him here, of all places. Obviously he wasn’t American, he sounds like Groundskeeper Willie, for Christ's sake. Your fingers tap against the table once before you ask, “What’d you do?”

He hesitates. It’s slight, barely there, but you catch it. His jaw tenses for just a fraction of a second before he exhales through his nose. “Served where I was needed.”

You tilt your head. “Iraq?”

His eyes flicker—not with surprise, but with something else. A shadow. It’s gone just as quickly as it appears, buried under that same easy smirk. “Among other places.”

You don’t push. You just nod, sensing that it’s not something he wants to talk about all that much.

You’re fine with that. Everyone’s got their wounds.

You exhale, shifting slightly in your seat, fingers drumming lightly against the wooden tabletop. “How much can you lift?”

Johnny takes his time answering, reaching for the glass of sweet tea. He swirls it absently, watching the condensation bead and trail down the sides before taking a slow sip. “Depends,” he finally says, setting it down with a soft thud.“What’re we talkin’? Hay bales? Fence posts? You?”

Your lips press together in a flat line. You refuse to bite. “Let’s stick to hay bales.”

His grin is slow and amused, like he enjoys getting under your skin. “Can handle hay bales no problem.”

You roll your eyes and shift topics before he can drag this out. “Ever ridden horses?”

He stretches slightly, rolling his broad shoulders before settling back into the chair. “Aye, a few times,” he says, tipping his head. “No’ often, but I ken how.”

You nod, working through his accent in your head, but ultimately satisfied enough with that. “Ever herded sheep?”

His brow quirks, and he tilts his head just slightly, giving you a look. “Aren’t there dogs for tha’?”

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, shaking your head as you lean forward to rest your elbows on the table. “Yeah, there are. But Dixie’s old now and too nice for her own good. Sleeps with the sheep more than she herds them. Think she likes being part of the flock.”

Johnny’s expression shifts just a fraction—nose wrinkling, jaw tensing like he’s biting back a reaction. Then, casually, like it’s nothing, he mutters, “No’ really fond o’ dogs.”

Your fingers tap against the table once before you hum, neither surprised nor bothered. “That’s fine. Dixie’ll leave you alone if you don’t want to interact with her, she’s a sweet girl though.”

Johnny exhales through his nose and nods, shifting in his chair. He leans back, resting one arm over the backrest like he owns the damn thing, settling into an easy, almost lazy posture. You, on the other hand, are still sitting straight, trying to keep some sense of control in this conversation. You move toward the standard questions—his work ethic, reliability, how soon he can start. Hopefully ASAP.

He answers everything with the kind of confidence that makes it clear he’s no stranger to hard labor, though he keeps the details vague, like he doesn’t see the point in spelling things out to you

Eventually, you sit back, rubbing your hands over your thighs before resting them in your lap. “Look,” you start, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be honest with you. I can’t pay much. It’s a lot of work for a little money.” You’re already bracing yourself for rejection.

Johnny’s quiet for a moment, like he’s really thinking it over. His fingers tap lightly against the table’s edge before he shifts, rolling his shoulders once more before leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I’ll work withou’ pay,” he says finally. “So long as I get a place tae sleep. An’ meals.”

That throws you a little. Your fingers tighten around the fabric of your worn jeans as you study him, searching his face for any flicker of dishonesty. But he doesn’t look like a man trying to con you—just someone who’s already made up his mind.

He watches you right back, head tilted slightly, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll argue.

You think on it. It’d be more cost-effective to add a couple extra eggs or greens to each meal rather than shell out cash on the daily. You don’t particularly like the idea of someone working for free, but if he’s willing, if it helps keep the farm running.

You nod, exhaling through your nose. “That can work.” This time you extend your hand first, across the table and palm up. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Johnny glances down at your hand, then back up at you. Slowly, he reaches out, his grip firm and his hand dwarves yours. Working hands, warm, rough with calluses. The shake lingers just a second longer than necessary before he lets go, settling back into his seat with an easy smile.

“Guess I’m yours then, boss.”

You spend the next few hours showing Johnny around the property, riding side by side on horseback. Before you even get 5 minutes out of the barn, you realize—for all his confidence—he’s not the best at riding. His posture is stiff, his grip on the reins just a little too tight, and when the horse starts to trot, it becomes painfully obvious—he can’t post to save his life.

You bite back a smile, watching as he bounces awkwardly in the saddle, his jaw tight with concentration. Yeah. That’d be a lesson for tomorrow.

For now, though, you make things easier on both of you. You have Johnny dismount the horse and put her back in her stall. He does so with a small huff, rubbing the back of his neck in embarassment, and you gesture for him to get on behind you on Shimmer—your brown beauty with a white patch on her forehead. She’s steady, calm, used to being ridden double.

He hesitates for only a second before swinging himself up behind you, settling in close. Closer than you’d realized he’d be.

It makes sense, he takes up a lot of space compared to you. Granted, Shimmer is a horse for your size, not his. His chest is flush against your back, warm and solid, and suddenly, you’re very aware of just how big he is. His arms rest lightly on either side of you, long enough for his hands gripping the saddle’s pommel as he adjusts. 

You swallow hard, fighting the blush creeping up your neck. Focus.

“You good back there?” Your voice is steady, but barely.

Johnny shifts slightly, just enough that his chest presses firmer against you. “Aye,” he says, low and smooth. “Though, I cannae say I mind the view from back here.”

You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to focus on guiding Shimmer forward instead of the warmth of him against your spine.

Tomorrow, you’ll teach him how to properly ride a horse.

You guide Shimmer across the acres, Johnny still seated behind you, his chest a steady presence against your back. You don’t bother overwhelming him with too much about the animals—there’d be time for that later. For now, you focus on the land itself, pointing out the ins and outs of the property. The best routes to take. The spots where the fence needs checking. Where the land dips and swells, where the ground gets soft after rain. What to avoid.

To your surprise, he doesn’t just nod along like he’s only half-listening—he absorbs everything.

You’d expected some level of attention, but Johnny takes it to another level. He’s perceptive, and alarmingly so. He never asks you to repeat yourself, doesn’t need clarification. His responses are short but sharp, repeating directions back to you with precision, like he’s filing everything away for later.

It shocks you a little. Most people take weeks to learn the best ways around the farm, to memorize which fence posts need reinforcing, which pasture belongs to which animal.

Johnny’s picking it up in hours.

You exhale, eyes scanning the land ahead as you consider it. Must be the military. You don’t know much about what exactly the UK has their Army doing, but you imagine remembering terrain was part of the job. Mapping escape routes, tracking paths, knowing where to move and when. James Bond shit.

It’s a little unnerving, if you’re being honest. But at the same time, it’s... reassuring. If he can learn this fast, maybe he’ll actually be useful around here.

By the time the sun starts its slow descent, painting the sky in hazy streaks of orange and pink, you’ve spent the better part of the day word-vomiting everything Johnny needs to know about the property. He took it all in with that same sharp, unnerving focus, barely asking questions, barely missing a beat. You’d expected him to lose interest, to at least seem overwhelmed, but he never did. It’s strange.

It’s late afternoon. You bring him inside, leading him upstairs to the guest bedroom.

The layout of the house is simple. All the bedrooms are on the second floor. Pa’s bedroom is to the left of the stairs, along with a storage room and a couple of closets down the hall. He’s got his own ensuite bathroom, which is a luxury in a house this old. There’s a small common area at the top of the stairs, more of a nook than a real room, where an old desk and a shelf full of worn books sit untouched most days. To the right of the stairs and down the hall is your bedroom, and next to it, the guest room—now Johnny’s room. Directly across the hall is the bathroom, which, as of now, isn’t just your bathroom anymore.

It’s Johnny’s too, now. You just had to pray he would remember to put the seat down. 

You pause outside the guest room, pushing the door open so he can step in. It’s simple—a sturdy bed, a nightstand, a decently sized dresser. Nothing fancy, but clean and comfortable enough.

Johnny steps inside, tossing his bag onto the bed and glancing around. He gives a small nod, like he approves, before shooting a look over his shoulder.

"Cozy," he remarks, that damn accent making the word sound richer than it has any right to.

You cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “My room’s next door,” you tell him, nodding toward it. “And we’ll be sharing the bathroom across the hall.”

Johnny quirks a brow at that, glancing toward the bathroom before his gaze slides back to you. His lips twitch—not quite a smirk, but damn close.

“Hope ye dinnae take long showers, then,” he teases.

You huff, pushing off the doorframe. “I don’t. I won’t be in your way. Hope you won’t be in mine.”

He chuckles, low and amused, before stretching his arms above his head, the hem of his wife beater riding up just enough to reveal a dark tuft of hair, tastefully accented by a vline and the bottom half of some abs. He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “Well, as long as ye don’t mind m’walkin’ around in a towel,  we’ll get along just fine.”

You blink. Once. Twice. He’s messing with you, but you wouldn’t mind a bit. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing that. “I’ll let you get settled,” you say, tone flat. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Johnny watches you for a second, then grins—a lazy, wolfish thing that makes your stomach flip in a way you’d rather not acknowledge.

“Yes ma’am,” he drawls. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You turn on your heel and head back downstairs, exhaling as you step into the kitchen. Dinner. You’ll focus on dinner. For you, Pa—and now, Johnny.

Like it’s normal. Like you’re not dangerously aware of the Greek God now living just a door down from you.

The sun’s nearly set by the time dinner’s on the table, casting a warm orange glow through the kitchen windows. The air is thick with the scent of home-cooked food—something rich, filling, the kind of meal that sticks to your ribs after a long day’s work. You don’t cook fancy, but you cook damn well, and the proof is sitting right across from you.

Johnny practically groans after the first bite, dropping his fork against his plate and leaning back in his chair like he’s just had some religious experience.

“Steamin’ Jesus,” he mumbles, chewing through another mouthful, shaking his head in near disbelief. “This is th’ best thing I’ve eaten in—hell, I dunno how long.”

You scoff, stabbing a piece of chicken with your fork. “You act like I just served you the cure for cancer.”

Johnny just points his fork at you, eyes damn serious. “Might as well be.”

Pa huffs out a chuckle, though he’s still regarding Johnny with that wary, fatherly suspicion. He’s been watching him since he sat down, not quite unfriendly, but assessing. The kind of look that says ‘I don’t trust you yet, but I’m willing to tolerate you.’

“So,” Pa starts, setting his glass down, “what’s a young guy like yourself doin’ lookin’ for farm work? Dun’ seem like the kinda thing a soldier would go for.”

Johnny doesn’t falter. He wipes his mouth with a napkin before answering, “Needed a change o’ pace,” he says. “Figured I’d try m’hand at something new.”

Pa isn’t impressed. “Ya ever worked on a farm before, boy?”

“No’ exactly, no.” Johnny pops another bite into his mouth. “But work’s work, aye? Ye put in effort, ye get results. Simple enough.”

Pa hums, clearly not satisfied with that answer. “... And where’d ya say your from, again?”

“Scotland.”

“Huh.” Pa leans back slightly, arms crossed. “Ya don’t say.”

Johnny just grins, sensing the old man’s suspicion and, by all accounts, enjoying it. But then he shifts gears, effortlessly steering the conversation in a different direction. “Caught some of tha’ baseball game ye had on this morning.,” he says, casually, like it’s just an offhand remark. “Did nae get tae see th’ end of it, though. Who won?”

That gets Pa’s attention. His eyebrows lift slightly, suspicion briefly forgotten. “Ya watch baseball?”

Johnny shrugs. “Not often, bu’ I like a good game when I see one. And from what I saw, th’ Angel’s were struggling there for a bit.”

Pa scoffs. “Struggling? Boy, they were getting their asses handed to ‘em. Pitcher was all over the damn place. If I’d been on the field, I’d have-”

And just like that, the two are off, talking baseball, going back and forth like they’ve known each other for years. You groan, pushing your food around on your plate as the conversation carries on, completely hijacked.

You should’ve known this would happen. Give two men a sport to bond over, and suddenly, they’re best friends.

You zone out for a while, chewing absentmindedly, half-listening as they talk about batting averages and pitching speeds. You don’t notice it at first—a gentle nudge against your ankle.

You flinch slightly, assuming Johnny just bumped you on accident. You shift your foot away under the table.

He follows with his own. Your brows furrow slightly, shooting a glance at him. He doesn’t even look at you, still chatting with Pa like nothing’s happening.

A moment later, another nudge—softer this time.

You realize he’s doing it on purpose.

You sit up straighter, stiffening as you move your foot again.

Johnny follows.

Your jaw tightens, eyes narrowing. What is he doing?

You flick your gaze toward him again, and finally, he meets your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough for the ghost of a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at Pa, completely unfazed.

You resist the urge to kick him under the table, opting instead to glare daggers at him, your expression screaming ‘What in the absolute fuck are you doing?’

Johnny, the absolute menace, doesn’t react beyond the occasional brief glance in your direction, his smirk lingering like he’s enjoying this way too much.

Meanwhile, Pa’s none the wiser, still going on about how baseball’s gone soft over the years. And you’re stuck sitting there, silently fuming, trapped in a footsie war like you’re in grade school.

Dinner winds down, the conversation between Johnny and Pa finally tapering off. Johnny, mercifully, lets up with the footsie nonsense, though not before giving one last, slow brush of his ankle against yours—like a final, smug little victory lap. You pointedly ignore it, pretending not to notice, even as heat creeps up the back of your neck.

Eventually, Pa calls it a night. He pushes back from the table with a tired groan, muttering about how he’s “too damn old to be up this late,” before shuffling off toward the stairs.

You listen to his slow, steady footsteps as he heads up to his room, waiting for the familiar click of his door shutting. And then—you’re alone.

Johnny lingers in the kitchen, standing near the island, hovering. He looks out of place for the first time since he showed up, like he’s not sure if he should offer to help or just let you do your thing. Instead, he leans against the counter, arms crossing over his chest, his weight shifting from one foot to the other.

It’s awkward—unlike him.

You stack plates, rinsing them under the faucet, letting the warm water fill the quiet. But you can feel him watching you. Not in a weird way—just... observing. Like he’s waiting for something.

And you’re not about to let that something slide.

“So,” you say, voice casual as you scrub a dish, “what was with the footsie?”

Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, amused. “Thought ye’d never ask.”

You scoff, shooting him a look over your shoulder. “Seriously?”

His smirk is pure trouble. “Could nae help myself, lass,” he says, leaning forward slightly, elbows braced on the countertop. “Ye just looked so serious, sittin’ there all quiet, tryin’ not tae react.” His voice drops just a bit lower, teasing. “Was cute.”

Your heart stumbles in your chest, a traitorous little skip that pisses you off.

Because, genuinely, what the hell? Sure he’s probably the most attractive man you’ve ever seen, and potentially your exact type to a T, but you’ve only known this man for a day. There’s no way you could be that desperate, no way you’re already feeling anything. Right?

The thought alone makes irritation creep up your spine. You shut the faucet off with a little more force than necessary, turning away from the dishes completely so you can fully face him.

“What are you playing at?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You fold your arms, leveling him with a look. “Are you actually here to work? Or are you just here to freeload an-”

Johnny pushes himself off the counter, not playing around. He stands up straight, tall, and present. And when he looks at you this time, there’s nothing cheeky about it.

“I’m here tae work,” he says, steady, certain. “Ye need help, and I can handle it. Tha’s why I’m here.”

His smile returns, but it’s softer this time. Honest. He lifts a shoulder in a slow, lazy shrug, his voice dropping. “But you’re gorgeous, and there’s no denyin’ that. Just sayin��.”

Your brain stalls. Stops working entirely. There could very well be steam coming out of your scalp.

He moves beside you, completely unfazed, grabbing a towel like it’s the most natural thing in the world and starting to dry the dishes you had already washed. Meanwhile, you just stand there, staring where he was just standing, still feeling the heat of his gaze on your skin.

You’re in trouble.

[fluideli123]

Sonadow Fic Rec

Okay, before you jump down to the masterpieces listed below, I just wanted to state this:

These authors have given this phenomenal content for free, baked with time and effort. I have never once ignored this, hence why I try and comment on each and every one of these fics. However, my energy and ability to be verbose differs day to day. Some of these fics I have not given proper comments for, despite this, I will be on it the moment I can be. In the time being, (once I am able to find my comments on each of these fics) I will be sharing my adoration for them further in other posts (and most likely link back to this one).

With that being said, please, PLEASE take your time to check each of these fics out. If they're not your cup of tea? Valid! But hands down I have never dedicated myself to making a fic rec like this until now. But I MUST share and spread these works, they are much too dear to me not to, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

(All fics are listed by order saved in my bookmarks, not in the order read)

tangled threads and bite-marked shoulders by @rubyiiiusions

Words: 32,287 | Series | Complete

Shadow hissed in pain. The laser had just grazed him, but it still stung, and he instinctively gripped the wound it left on his arm. “You dare-” He stopped. The laser hadn’t hit him. In fact, it had struck Sonic, right on his lower left arm. So why did his forearm feel like it just got shot? He whipped around, fear climbing up his throat, and he suddenly became hyper-aware of something new. It was like a sixth sense, feeling the confusion that emitted from Sonic’s fur in waves as if it was his own. “What did you do?!” Shadow snarled. or, eggman accidentally soulbinds shadow and sonic, and no one has any idea how to undo it.

Sleepwalking by Tirainy

Words: 22,117 | Complete

'There is a strong arm curled around his torso, the appendage keeping him close to its owner, whose warm breath is ghosting over the back of his neck. Sonic is sure he went to bed alone the previous night, but he isn't worried about the intruder. After all, this isn't the first time this has happened…'

Secret Admirer by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 24,313 | Complete

Sonic understood well what it meant to be loved. He was a world-famous hero, after all; his presence never went unnoticed. For the most part, he lavished in that attention, he soaked it in and encouraged it. But not romantic attention. So, when the blue blur found himself falling in love? Well, the prospect was rather daunting, no matter how easy Amy had made it out to be. So maybe, just maybe, he should just take the easy way out...

Rose Drops Series by @magicstormfrostfire

Words: 122,489 | Series | Complete

Love, Intuition, and a little bit of magic ensues as Amy sends Sonic and Shadow on an unforgettable adventure.

Wolfboy by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 73,856 | Complete

World-famous monster hunter Shadow the Hedgehog has a job to do. It doesn't take long for the one-shot wonder to realize that this job won't be as simple as he'd expected: a small town, rumors of a lone werewolf, and a handsome, green-eyed, chronically-injured casanova who manages to worm his way into Shadow's heart... What starts off as a simple job turns out to be something much more life-changing.

Blizzard Bedfellows by @magicstormfrostfire

Words: 21,294 | Complete

When a rare blizzard takes over the island, Sonic is on the run to make sure a certain angry loner is safe and sound. Y-you know, because...uh that's what heroes do.

We never met but can we have a cup of coffee or something? by @whitejungle

Words: 3,630 | Complete

It's been almost two months since Sonic lost someone he didn't even know, but he can't stop thinking about it.

Clean Slate by nottheweirdest

Words: 155,880 | Complete | Note: Squeal pending and I am cheering you on author!! Whatever you decide I am excited to support you!!

Shadow has lost himself before. He knows what it's like to straddle the line between reality and false memories, but this time, it’s Sonic whose memory has vanished. A premeditated set of circumstances and an accidental injury leave Sonic with no memory of who he is, his life, or more importantly, his painful history with Shadow. It’s up to Shadow to remind the hero who he is in the midst of a global outbreak. It’s a chance for redemption. It’s a chance to right the wrongs of the past. It’s a clean slate.

say i reckon (i love you, for a millisecond) by @redamancering

Words: 30,205 | Complete

There’s a hand on his shoulder, barely making contact. A red gauntlet glows around the wrist. Sonic blinks, the pain having evaporated so fast he feels almost weightless. “Shadow?” Shadow’s breathing heavily. “Problem.” The retrieval of the ancient tech Shadow (and Sonic, in tow) has been sent to uncover takes a turn for the worst. In this case, the “worst” means… becoming physically and inextricably linked to each other. For the foreseeable future. OR: Metaphysical handcuffs, and general gay buffoonery.

Judge my sins, not my feelings by yellothebeeloved

Words: 228,479 | Complete | Note: Possible one-shots pending from the author for the series, I am here to support you author!! What ever you decide I'm here for it!

Maybe he's not meant to touch. It's the newest excuse he thought of in hopes that he could prolong the game a little more; a careful ruse to enjoy the bittersweet torture of seeing the days pass them by, while he pretends he doesn't seek azure blue whenever he's restless. At first, all he wanted to do was watch: but now the desire to touch, to have, to affect is at a point where he's not sure whether reaching for Sonic would truly be fruitless. He wonders that especially when Sonic's eyes light up upon seeing him. When he corners Shadow, when he invades his space and he touches and takes and then excuses it by calling it a fight. Shadow truly wonders then: if only he was brave enough to reach out, what would his grip find? Loose stars or a battle-worn body? Standing up, he glances at Sonic again, whose eyes have now met his own. There's something heavy in the eye contact, something Shadow doesn't dare name. Neither of them say anything, and yet Sonic's eyes move away from him again, like they did. Shadow warps away, hiding from the stars once more.

Child of Prophecy by @trenchcoat-gecko

Words: 139,321 | Completed

On the night the Mobius Castle was ransacked, the Queen received a prophecy. “One of three will not cry; send him down the river, for you can only save your kingdom if he does not grow up royal.”

Coming Home by nottheweirdest

Words: 55,740 | Completed

Shadow's life has been full of mistakes, some worse than others, but admitting his unrequited feelings to Sonic tops the list. He's spent the better part of a decade ruminating on his regret and hiding from feelings he couldn't bear to face. He never thought he'd see Sonic again, and he told himself that was for the best. Until now. At the bequest of his former rival, and in an attempt to finally get closure, Shadow has returned to Central City. The reason? Sonic the Hedgehog is marrying Amy Rose. And Shadow is invited.

[volivolition]

DAY 4: DRAMA - Put on your prettiest face for the masses!

gonna start adding silly captions actually. [POINTS ACCUSINGLY] MELTY FUCK (AFFECTIONATE)!!

[tanoraqui]

For your writing mojo: Finwe, Nerdanel, internal combustion engines, green. :)

September 22, 1913.

Nerdanel surveyed her garage with her hands on her hips. A moment later, she moved them to the small of her back, because sweet Smith, this next (and final) child in her belly was a large one.

The garage certainly, technically contained the fine new Model-T car that her father-in-law had bought them for Christmas. The shiny green hood was right there. The wheels were all over there. The engine and various other mechanisms were...everywhere.

"Fëanáro," she said exasperatedly, "I think your father intended us to drive the car, not dissect it. You know, in order to help us move all the children about?"

"Father knows my hobbies!" Her husband's muffled voice came from beneath the car's undercarriage (if Theseus's ship could still be said to still have a keel).

Fëanáro wiggled out into the open, took the handkerchief from his mouth, and smeared some of the oil on his face around with it, and beamed up at her. Tragically, Nerdanel found this utterly endearing.

"Besides, we have five sons, and a daughter on the way," he said reasonably (albeit with blinding hope re: the results of Nerdanel's sixth pregnancy). "This car would never be enough - we need a horse-drawn wagon to cart them all about."

[lisbeth-kk]

New Fic Alert!

FINALLY! This fic has been waiting such a long time to be shared. Thanks to the amazing bunch of people I met at this year's Writer's Retreat, I got over the major bump in the road and finished it.

Look Me in the Eyes (Chapter 1)

Summary: From an early age, John has been fascinated by eyes. The older he got, the more dangerous that fascination became. It all culminated with a blow that scarred John's soul for life.

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

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @helloliriels @raina-at

@meetinginsamarra @safedistancefrombeingsmart @gregorovitch-adler @topsyturvy-turtely @jolieblack

@peanitbear @phoenix27884 @bs2sjh @brandiwein1982 @meandhisjohn

@a-victorian-girl @221beloved @ninasnakie @shy-bi-letsfuckingdie @lhrinchelsea

@missdeliadilisblog @salmonsown @oetkb12 @jawnscoffee @gay-ass-bitch

@acumberlockedgirl @williamholmeswatson @whatnext2020

(Tell me if you want to be tagged or removed from the list)

[cambion-companion]

"Hold Monster"

Based on this amazing post and artwork. I couldn't help but write something for our beloved INT 8 Tav from 1st POV since that's what I feel most comfortable writing.

Raphael x reader!Tav | Tav thinks the hold monster spell works in a very different way

You certainly hadn't intended to trip and fall into the portal, landing face-first on the polished marble floor of Raphael's entryway.

Your presence had been noticed immediately by Raphael who, upon recognizing you, wore a rather aggrieved expression. He set down his quill carefully and rose to full towering height, a slight twist of bemusement curling his lips. "Here I assumed you could go an hour without indulging in foolishness." He strode toward you and gripped you by the scruff like a wayward kitten. "You just caused me to lose a bet with Korilla."

"I really don't know how this happened!" You protested against his grasp as he dragged you back towards the portal. "I would've knocked if you had a door!"

Raphael released you with a slight push, his wings flexing as he glowered down at you. "Innocent or not, a trespass will be received as such."

"Ah! Raphael, it was an accident!" You began to panic as his eyes glowed a bright gold and flames began to dance upon the tips of his fingers. "Oh, not again." You groaned, wracking your brains for something to counter his retribution."

You withdrew a small amount of silver from your pocket and shrieked. "I cast hold monster!!" Then charged at the cambion head-on.

So surprised was he by your yell and sudden movement, Raphael couldn't react in time before you leapt upon him. You wrapped your arms and legs around his torso and hips, clinging to him like a rabid spider monkey.

The force with which you jumped him caught both of you off guard and Raphael toppled to the floor, his wings failing to catch his weight in time. You felt his grip pierce your sides as he stared up at you in utter shock for a moment. The spell had worked, it seemed.

You panted. "I don't want my bottom singed again like last time. That wasn't very nice."

Raphael grimaced, his face sharpening again as his surprise subsided. Emotions warred across his features. "You are a most confounding creature. If I believed you at all capable of rational thought, you'd be a pile of ash this very moment. Now...get off."

"Sorry, I can't." You shook your head sorrowfully. "The spell lasts a minute."

Raphael growled low in his throat, his wings stretching as he slowly got to his feet. You still clung to him, holding him tightly as you could.

With great care and powerful restraint, Raphael removed you from his person limb by limb.

"Wow, you're strong." You said with awe, panting a little from the exertion. Seeing the look on his face you backed slowly towards the portal. "Okay, I can see you're busy. I'll be going now."

"I should think so." Sparks of hellfire danced between Raphael's fingertips as he looked at you, his expression much like one who is considering how best to skin a deer.

Once you'd disappeared back to the material plane, Raphael grunted and looked around his immaculate manor. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath of the infernal air. "For the crown."

[bulbaderp]

Protective

[delimeful]

WIBAR Intermission: Visiting Home (1/3)

G/T July Day 17: Home

this intermission has 3 parts, taking place during different points in the WIBAR timeline. this chapter takes place before LMMR/Act 2 of WIBAR! baby time :)

shoutout to nyn for inspiring the last scene with Roman at the end! 

warnings: negative assumptions, mentions of blood/hunting/injury, mild fear/nervousness, other than that it's all fluff (literally)

-

Despite the tension buzzing at the back of his skull, Virgil found that being planetside again was surprisingly… nice.

He would have preferred that it was an uninhabited area— or at least, that it wasn’t one of the only places in the universe that had aliens he really, really couldn’t afford to terrify— but he couldn’t deny that feeling the ground under his feet and the sunlight on his skin was soothing, a balm he hadn’t known he’d needed.

It wasn’t the same as Earth, not really, but Patton’s home planet was close enough to familiar that he found tension seeping from his overwrought muscles despite himself.

He shook some of the dazed contentment off, flicking a glance over his shoulder and reminding himself that if any of the locals saw him, it could spell Capital-D Disaster.

His little excursion into one of the less populated natural areas near the little port town was entirely unplanned, and all the riskier for it, but they simply hadn’t had any better options.

Patton had been putting off visiting his family for longer than anyone would have liked— first with the excuse of healing from his injuries, and then with the financial strain that had come from his crewmates dedicating the bulk of their time to searching for him, rather than doing their usual delivery and transport jobs.

(The strain of providing for an entire new off-the-books crewmate, too, Virgil knew. He tried to avoid taking up too much, resource-wise, but there was only so little he could eat before his symptoms went from barely-tolerable to unmanageable.

The adrenaline crash and resulting sprains after he’d intervened in the raiders’ attack had been a painful reminder that most days, his body felt like it was barely holding together at the seams.)

Finally, they’d managed to weave together a cover story believable enough that the trip was set in motion, with the caveat that Patton would go planetside to visit, and Virgil would stay on the ship, up in orbit, firmly out of range of discovery.

Patton hated the idea of lying to his loved ones, wanted more than anything to introduce Virgil and prove he wasn’t the monster the galaxy thought he was, but even his stubborn optimism hadn’t held up under the combined forces of the other 3/4ths of the crew.

It was too dangerous for word to get out about Virgil, especially after the close call they’d already had, narrowly averted thanks to Remyy. Between Logan’s points on the historical government response to rumors of rogue humans, Roman’s assertions that bounty hunters of all kinds would begin targeting them, and Virgil’s own intense discomfort with the idea of his existence being revealed to others when he’d only just gotten free, Patton had conceded, if a bit morosely.

So, things had proceeded according to plan… right up until Patton’s clutchmates commed in, requesting that they bring the Mindscape down so that they could fill Patton’s quarters and kitchen with a variety of gifts and supplies to remind him of home after he left.

Patton hadn’t been informed. A surprise, they’d said, meant to show their love and care for their sibling in a way that would linger as long as possible.

It was a cultural custom, apparently, and Patton’s hard headed tendencies must have run in the family, because they’d refused to take no for an answer without a good reason.

Unfortunately for the reason in question, informing them that there was another crew member onboard who couldn’t be seen by anyone else would only defeat the purpose of staying off planet in the first place.

And so, after very intense sweep of the ship to hide away any trace of Virgil’s presence, he’d swept his old cloak around his shoulders, followed Logan offboard, and let himself be guided to what seemed to be an unoccupied area of the coastal jungle that surrounded the local populace.

Logan had requested he stay in the general area until he returned from corralling the busybody relatives, and then rushed back to the ship where Roman waited, looking more harried than Virgil had ever seen him.

It was an awkward, stressful situation, sure. But he still couldn’t help but marvel a little at the thick, dark fronds of the trees and the almost powdery texture of the grey-white sand beneath his feet.

He hadn’t gotten very many chances to actually appreciate the wonder of being in space, on alien planets, with how much of his stay so far had either been locked in cages aboard ships or on the run, too busy trying to survive to take in the scenery.

Running his fingers over the corkscrew-patterned bark of one of the nearby tree trunks, Virgil didn’t notice the slight rustling of a nearby brush.

—

Marren had thought the alien an intruder at first, had skidded to a halt and narrowly avoided toppling out of the underbrush right in front of them.

Behind her, Robbyn and Denel tumbled against her back with the beginnings of peeped complaints at the interruption of their game.

“Ssst!” Marren made a whistle that was more air than sound, her baby feathers ruffling up in pre-emptive upset. “Quiet, there’s a stranger!”

Unlike any other game, her playmates immediately went silent, eyes growing round and nervous. They all knew better than to catch the attention of a maybe-dangerous unfamiliar alien.

Especially now. One of the older kids had told horror stories about smugglers when the grown-ups weren’t listening, insisting that straying fledglings would get all their feathers shredded off and fed to the horrible monsters at the bottom of the Spacesea, where starlight and ships alike couldn’t reach.

They’d gotten in big trouble for the tall tales, but the story had already been taken up by the waves and couldn’t be squashed, especially with the fearful but dedicated belief of younger fledglings.

“Is it a monster?” Denel asked, already looking more fluff than form.

Marren… couldn’t really tell.

They were huge, even bigger than the Draellex spacefarer who had come to do a presentation for her class last season, but most of their features were also obscured by the long, deep grey cloak that they were swathed in.

“They’ve got hands,” she reported instead, because the stranger was touching various plants and rocks with nubby, strangely smooth fingers. “No claws, though.”

“Maybe a trader ship came early?” Robbyn offered thoughtfully. Their downy soft pink feathers were the least fluffed up between the three of them, their gaze focused on the alien with an intense curiosity.

“We woulda seen it, right?” Marren replied dubiously, before going quiet for a moment as the hooded head of the stranger turned and paused as though listening.

She didn’t continue until they turned back to their slow inspection of the wildlife, letting out a tiny peep-peep-peep of relief. “The only ship that came down is Uptel Patton’s, and he’s only got two playmates.”

She’d only met one of her Uptel’s friends in person, and only when she was a baby baby, way before her first molt, so she barely remembered it, but there were plenty of pictures in her Elder Uptel Farrun’s home. Patton’s parents were always happy to talk about their spacefarer son, and Marren always got a fun trinket from her Uptel when he visited.

Well. Almost always.

He’d seemed very distracted when she’d seen him this morning, enough that he’d barely noticed her amongst the many relatives that had swarmed to greet him after his longer than usual absence.

Something bad had happened to him, Marren had been told, which had made his parents’ home feel all sad-grief-loss whenever she visited, but he was all better now.

She wasn’t so sure. Everyone around him had felt like relief-joy-kinship at the sight of him, sure, but her Uptel had never flinched away from preening before.

“Maybe he got a new one?” Denel asked, still half-hidden behind Robbyn but not quite as frightened.

Marren made a considering chirp, and then began shuffling under the wiry branches as quietly as possible, seeking out a closer bush.

“Where are you going?” both of her playmates asked in very different tones.

“Gonna look closer,” she replied, and then froze as the answer carried farther than she meant it to.

The stranger turned sharper this time, and searched the clearing with tiny back-and-forth movements of their head.

“Patton?” they called after a moment, and Marren almost startled back in shock: the alien had spoken Uptel Patton’s actual name, not the Common version, and sounded uncannily close to an actual Ampen.

If it weren’t for how impossibly big the stranger was, she might have thought it was a simple prank, a couple of older kids stacked on top of each other under a form-disguising cloak.

Her gaze trailed down and finally focused on the familiar glow coming from the shadowed neckline of the cloak. She would know that glow anywhere!

“They’ve gotta special charm!” she crowed, and pushed past the branches to dart out into the open, intent on inspecting her Uptel’s newest friend.

Patton’s friend stumbled back hard with a sharp inhale, and Marren abruptly remembered that it wasn’t polite to startle people, especially strangers, and slowed to a stop. She angled her head up to try and peer into the shadows of the hood, squinting her eyes almost closed in as innocent and friendly a look as possible.

“I’m Marren,” she introduced herself, using the little bit of Common that her Uptel had taught her. “The stars greet you and so do I!”

That kind of greeting was more for actually being up in space with all the stars, but she figured it was the thought that counted.

Patton’s friend muttered something in an unfamiliar language, their tone soft, and then lowered themself to a seated position, much slower than they’d moved before. “My name is Virgil. It’s… nice to sea you?”

Marren let out a peal of chirping laughter, nearly knocking herself off balance with the force of her amusement.

That was definitely one of Uptel Patton’s friends, alright. He was the only bondrelative she had who put silly word jokes in his greetings like that.

“Can I sea you?” she shot back brightly, and when that didn’t seem to make it through, she pretended to move an invisible hood down from her own head.

Friend Virgil went all stiff for a moment, before speaking again. “I don’t think… uh, that’s not a good idea. I’m… I’m shy.”

Marren was distracted for a moment by puzzling through the words; it was an odd combination of Common and Ampen words, some of them a little smushed together until they almost seemed like a new word entirely.

Once the meaning behind the answer registered, though, she made a long, protesting whistle. “I’m not gonna be mean to you! Denel’s shy, too, you guys can get along!”

“Denel?” Friend Virgil echoed, again pronouncing the name eerily accurately, and Marren heard a little peep of alarm from behind her.

Antennae twitching with frustration, she turned and gave the bushes her best irritated stare, fluffing up indignantly. “They’re Patton’s friend! They’ve gotta be nice to me, I’m his favorite telit! Stop acting so new-hatched!”

“You’re his only little cousin,” Robbyn was speaking to her as they hopped into view, but their wide eyes were locked on Friend Virgil like they’d just found a shiny new stone. “Can they talk?”

“Kinda,” Marren chirped back, since it seemed like Friend Virgil knew more of the spacefarer tongue than their native one. “I know enough space words to translate! Probably.”

“You’re going to hurt your throat,” Robbyn cautioned in their best know-it-all voice. Marren was saved from having to answer by the thud of Denel tripping his own way out of the bush.

With his underlayer all fluffed out like that, it was no wonder that he accidentally rolled a few feather-lengths along the ground, squawking in high-pitched, babyish alarm as he tumbled.

Friend Virgil leaned forward so quickly that even Marren peeped in surprise, but all they did was set a humongous cupped hand next to Denel to keep him from toppling any further. Denel pulled all his limbs in with a panicked squeak as he bumped into the helping hand, and turned his head to peer up at Friend Virgil nervously.

“Safe and sound,” Friend Virgil crooned, in the sort of lullaby sing-song tone that was usually used to soothe hatchlings. “Okay, good, okay?”

It took Denel a stunned moment to respond, but when he chirped affirmative, the waver in his whistle had faded to almost nothing. He slowly uncurled, and even reached out for balance as he got back upright, looking absolutely awestruck.

He was way more aether-sensitive than most fledglings, Marren recalled, which meant that Friend Virgil must have been radiating some deeply trustworthy energy. As always, she had been totally right! Of course Patton’s friend was nice!

Marren wasted no time in spinning back around and darting up to Friend Virgil’s legs, giving them her best pleading expression.

“See? We can all be friends, you’re big-nice and nobody will be mean to you! Please please please?”

—

Virgil was not good with kids.

Specifically, he wasn’t good at saying no to kids.

Back home, they’d always picked up on it the moment they saw him, like sharks catching the scent of blood in the water, except the sharks were twelve year olds and the blood was Virgil’s inability to tell them not to draw on him in sharpie.

He’d finally found something that humans and aliens had in common, it seemed, because Marren– the apparent leader of the little group– had immediately figured out exactly how to use the Ampen version of puppy dog eyes against him. It was like nature had designed them as adorable feathery pom-pom creatures as a tactic designed to target him, specifically.

He hadn’t stood a chance.

As such, he found himself seated in the middle of the small clearing, his hood lowered and face exposed for anyone to see, being used as an actual, literal human jungle gym by a bunch of chirping alien fuzzballs.

The playtime racket must have been attracting more, because it felt like every time he looked up, three or four entirely new bundles of fluff had appeared, racing around his feet or climbing up the side of his cloak, chattering between themselves in strings of tweets and whistles.

The namecall they used for him wasn’t quite accurate, sounding more like ‘frrr-kul’ with a rolling trill followed by a chirp that only occasionally resembled the latter half of his name. They seemed to have a much harder time than Patton making the non-bird sort of syllables, which made sense, seeing as they were itty bitty babies.

“Frrrr-kul!” one of them called gleefully, summoning him over to the other side of the clearing for the newest round of whatever it was they were playing.

Virgil wasn’t ashamed to admit that something in his chest squeezed a bit as another fledgling turned dizzying little loop-de-loops in front of him, presumably leading him over to the new spot. For once, the heart palpitations he was experiencing around strange aliens were almost entirely cuteness-induced.

Almost, because there was still a solid chunk of his brain panicking viciously about how tiny and soft and fragile they all were, hence him moving at the pace of a seasick slug.

Marren had put forward a half-hearted complaint about how slow he was moving, to no avail. As it turned out, the only thing more compelling to him than a kid’s heartfelt request was the fear of accidentally hurting one of them.

It had taken him at least fifteen minutes just to stop flinching every time one of them fell or flung themself off of his knee or shoulder or— for one very stealthy candidate— his head, only to tumble lightly back to the ground unharmed, the impact entirely cushioned by their fluff.

He’d caught the first five or six on sheer instinct, which had only prompted even more to partake in the fun new ‘game’, until he gave up and accepted his fate as a living launch pad. Thankfully for his stress levels and long-term heart health, they had moved onto another game quickly enough.

He was slightly less thankful that every game so far had included him being scampered over, without exception, but he should have figured as much just from being friends with Patton, honestly.

His latest role seemed to be a very ill patient, as one of Marren’s friends walked around—and on— him carefully, calling out chirped instructions and sending the rest of the participants scrambling into the nearby brush. Within a few moments, they’d return with leaves, twigs, and other forest detritus, which would then be painstakingly applied to the top of his hand, or his chin, or wherever else the ‘doctor’ gestured to. Half the time, the makeshift bandages would flutter off the moment Virgil shifted even a little, prompting chitters of delight as the kids hurried to re-apply them.

Still better than any healthcare he’d gotten on Earth, honestly.

Seeing as his current job was to lay in place morosely like that guy from the Operation board game, he eventually closed his eyes and let himself relax a little, trying to hide an irrepressible closed-lip smile.

A few rounds later, he heard a chorus of what sounded like Patton’s favorite greeting chirp, but in a range of much higher pitches. He cracked his eyes open, expecting another gaggle of fledglings had showed up, and instead found that Logan was standing at the edge of the clearing, arms all dropped limply to his sides in shock.

Virgil went tense, only managing to repress his flinch because a good portion of his brain was still dedicated to monitoring where all the babies were around him, and currently at least ten were clinging onto his person. “Okay, listen. This was not my idea.”

Logan carefully tucked his hands behind his back in what Virgil first mistook for a polite gesture, only to emerge with what was unmistakably the portable camera he used whenever he was collecting video data for later.

“...Really?”

Whirr-click. Logan didn’t even bother looking apologetic as he began recording Virgil’s pint-sized tormentors. “If Patton didn’t get a memento of this, he would never forgive me, facetiously speaking.”

Rolling his eyes, Virgil slowly shifted up to his elbows, a startling amount of leaves fluttering down from his hair. A tentative hand feeling around in his hair revealed a fluffy stowaway, who peeped in displeasure as Virgil carefully disentangled them.

Talk about having a bird’s nest for hair. That was probably a sign that he needed a trim, but for now he could only laugh to himself, using two fingers to try and soothe the ruffled feathers of the fledgling that had apparently seen his head as prime real estate.

“You’re… very good with them,” Logan commented, shuffling closer with uncharacteristic tentativeness. “Is it normal to take on a parental role for children that aren’t under your care on Earth?”

Virgil snorted, and then leaned forward a little to help keep one of the more tenacious fledglings clinging to him from losing their grip. “It depends on the person, but honestly? A lot of humans are total suckers for anything cute making baby sounds, human or not. Sometimes to the point that the keener wildlife will take advantage of it and lead us to babies that are injured or out of reach because they know that odds are, a human will help.”

“Truly? Non-domesticated species, as well?” Logan replied, visibly distracted from his slow approach by the implications. “Cooperative dynamics between sapient species and local fauna are present on many planets, but for almost all studied Deathworlds, such a thing is unheard of. The risk is higher in harsher environments, where a much more competitive nature is required for survival.”

“Yeah, for real. I used to work as an assistant… uh. An assistant animal-healer, and people were always bringing in abandoned babies they’d found. Sometimes they were actually in need of help, but sometimes they definitely weren’t,” Virgil huffed a little at the memories, holding still as a fledgling took a running leap to jump from one of his knees to the other. “It was well-intentioned, though. Lots of people hate to see a baby left alone and jump to conclusions, since you’d never do that with a human infant.”

Logan’s hands twitched, and Virgil carefully shrugged one shoulder, giving him permission to record the information.

“Just make sure you don’t write stuff about babies or kids down where anyone could get to it,” he cautioned, chewing on the edge of his lip. “I trust you, but I don’t trust, y’know… the rest of space. Better safe than sorry, right?”

“Correct,” Logan confirmed, having heard that exact catchphrase from Virgil probably about twelve times a week. “Am I alright to approach?”

“What?” Virgil raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, of course, just be careful. I mean, you’re definitely safer for them to be around than me.”

There was a relieved angle to Logan’s ears as he stepped forward, nimbly avoiding a few of the fledglings chasing each other back and forth like feathered tumbleweeds. “I disagree. They seem quite safe in your hands,” he said. “I have no doubt that Patton would be ecstatic to know that you’ve managed to make some friends amongst his kin despite our need for secrecy.”

Right. His cover had been blown five minutes in by the Ampen equivalent of a bunch of grade-schoolers. Crap.

“Let your mind remain at ease,” Logan added, either correctly reading the panic on his face or just guessing from the not-inconsiderable experience he had with Virgil. “With Ampens this young, I’m certain that your positive impression as a playmate will be the bulk of what they mention to their families. I’ve already heard a few of them refer to you as ‘Patton’s shy friend,’ so I imagine most will come up with the rest of the answer on their own assumptions.”

"'Patton's shy friend'?" Virgil felt his ears redden as his face heated up, and there was a chorus of delighted whistle-squeals from the nearest fledglings.

“You change colors just like Uptel Patton!” Marren shouted excitedly, and, well.

There were at least four different species of alien he knew of that shifted colors in all sorts of ways, from a gradual chameleon shift to the rapid flush of an octopus. This was one trait that wasn’t likely to make anyone think ‘Human’.

“Do another color!” A small harmony of encouraging peeps and eager gazes.

“Uh…,” Virgil cast a helpless look of his own Logan’s way. “I mean, I can probably do purple if I hold my breath for long enough?”

“Alright,” Logan cut in urgently,“I think it’s time that Virgil get back to the ship, actually, you’ll have to play with him again the next time we come to visit. Yes, yes, everyone off now…”

–

Miraculously, they’d managed to get through the entire impromptu visit without either of Patton’s flockmates seeing any errant belongings, broken cabinets, or any other indications of the highly illegal and infamous Deathworlder they definitely had onboard.

Roman let out an exhausted snort, trying not to shift impatiently as he stood by the boarding platform and waited for Logan to return with Virgil. If Patton was there, he would have given him a disappointed look for being so blatantly untrusting, but he wasn’t, and it had been a long day, so Roman could be on edge if he wanted to, okay?!

Thankfully, Logan chose that moment to step out from the shade of the forested area, exchanging an assessing look with Roman before deeming the path clear and beckoning Virgil to follow him on board.

The Human padded after Logan, footsteps eerily quiet as always, and… huh. He looked a lot less stressed than he’d seemed when they’d all but shoved him off the ship a few hours ago. Roman tried not to feel immensely suspicious about it, but he glanced down to check his hands for blood anyhow.

He was mostly sure that the Human didn’t actually have any murderous designs, especially not on anyone from Patton’s hometown, but they’d set him loose in a random forest with little to no guidance. Roman couldn’t rule out the idea that Virgil had entertained himself by hunting down some of the local fauna or something.

There was nothing, though, and so he forced his eyes away and checked in briefly with Logan instead. See? He could be cordial when he wanted to! He was a beacon of toleration, okay?

The claim fell a little flat even in his own mind, but he was promptly distracted by the tiniest hint of a whistle. He straightened up, alarm shooting through him as he swiveled his head this way and that, searching for any surprise witnesses.

His gaze fell on the Human as Virgil passed him to board the ship, and Roman stiffened at the sight of three fluffy bundles perched in the swoop of the Human’s hood. “Stop right there!”

Virgil went still, shoulders hunching upward like a bristle and eyes bizarrely wide, and Roman let his tail scrape from side to side for a moment as he glowered, only growing more certain of his guilt.

“I knew it, those are fledglings! Let them go this instant,” he started, planning to end with a suitable threat to ensure the safety of the smallest and most vulnerable of Patton’s kin, only for the Human to somehow go even more stiff and frozen.

“Oh my god, where?” He hunched over slightly, eyes flickering down to scan over his front and arms. “Are they okay?”

Roman pulled up short, admittedly disoriented at the show of clear and abrupt concern. One of the fledglings cheeped in dismay, and Virgil’s head tilted, following the sound.

“Guys, that’s not safe,” he groaned, and then repeated it in Ampen tongue. “Not safe. Not good, not safe, okay?”

His hand twitched up like he was going to reach for them, but then he hesitated for a moment, before slowly turning around so that his hood faced Roman. “Can you help them out? I know they’ve got all the feathers and stuff to keep them safe, but I still don’t want… I don’t want to jostle the hood and knock them out or something.”

“I… yes,” Roman said, feeling like he’d just been hit by a paralyzer shot. He reached out and scooped the fledglings out of their makeshift nest, watching as Virgil’s shoulders grew more and more taut. The Human didn’t trust him, but he held still anyways. “You’ve got, ah. Leaves and twigs. In your head pocket.”

“I bet I do,” he muttered, before taking a few slightly too-fast steps away once he’d checked that his fuzzy passengers had been evacuated. With soft, cautious movements, he patted down the rest of himself, including his other pockets and even the folds of his overcloak. “I think I’m good.”

“That was very dangerous,” Roman scolded, looking down at the trio with disapproval.

Virgil shuffled slightly, looking at him more directly than he usually did. After a moment, he spoke. “They’re fine, right? It’s not their fault, they just think it’s a game.They’re… they’re only babies.”

This was what worry looked like on a Human, Roman realized with a jolt, and managed to choke down his initial offense at the very idea that he would hurt them. He’d assumed the same at first glance, hadn’t he? Virgil had never seen him with kits before, and didn't know very much about him. Roman hadn’t exactly been sharing information or encouraging any bonding, and it wasn’t like the Mindscape had provided very many opportunities for interacting with younglings thus far.

Stars, he hoped there hadn’t been any kids on the smuggler ship. The very idea made him sick.

“Of course they’re fine,” he replied a bit shortly, cradling them a little closer. “Kits will be kits. They didn’t mean any harm, like you said.”

“Oh. Okay, that’s good,” Virgil said, some of that odd tension falling away. He looked back down at the kids. “Uh. Bye, little guys. Stay safe.”

He mimicked a farewell trill with uncanny accuracy, and the fledglings all echoed it with varying levels of mournfulness. Virgil waved as he edged his way up the ship’s ramp backwards, like he thought the kids would ambush him the moment he took his eyes off of them.

Seeing as these three had somehow snuck past a Human’s senses, Roman almost couldn’t blame him.

“When I next see Patton, I’m going to tell him to have a serious talk with you all about being too adventurous, you hear me? Crewmates are not for climbing,” Roman lectured as he carried them back to the main path. He paused to think about how hypocritical that lesson would be coming from Patton, who took any excuse to perch on Virgil. “Oh, for stars’ sake.”

Well, whatever. This was just a one-off. What were the odds they would ever be bringing the Human back here, anyhow?

[surelysilly]

Your full body Danny drawing reminded me of this and I had to find it

Anyways I found even more stuff I think is Mr fear au kind of vibe

Every Danny in these AUs except like... 3 are short stacks and im not sorry about it

i love him short, wide, and fat, amen 🙏

Danny doesn't know what he is, but he is GRIEF STRICKEN, HOMELESS, IRRIDATED, and NEW TO TOWN, yes. God, i want to draw the second one now though, help akjsdhasd

[fortunafavours]

Welcome to Fortuna, Kingdom of Splendor!

demo • FAQs • bsky

You are the bastard child of the king’s cousin, you’ve never been anyone special. The Crown made sure of that. Taken in by your father after the death of your mother, you were never allowed to speak of your parentage under threat of being sent to an orphanage, so you took on the role of servant to your father's house. Now, just before your thirtieth birthday, you’ve begun having a strange, recurring dream: something beneath the mountains knows your name—something ancient—and it wants you to find it. But the stone isn’t the only thing after you. According to your oldest friend, an elite team of sorcerers from a group known as SCEPTRE are interested in speaking with you—by order of the king. And that's nothing to say of the rumblings of discontent in the streets, led by someone known only as the Crow. Apparently, they've got eyes on you, too. Why have you suddenly become the centre of attention? You’re nobody special. …Aren’t you?

Fortuna Favours the Bold is a low fantasy, high stakes, romance forward tale about self-discovery and buried secrets. Unearth the truth of what waits under the mountain, find out who you really are, and try not to get yourself blown up along the way!

It draws inspiration from media like Dragon Age: Origins, House of the Dragon, the Elder Scrolls series, as well as a myriad of Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I've been a part of, and other similar stories. If you like any of those, you might like Fortuna!

Fortuna is currently a WIP and, as always, is subject to change!

Play as male, female, or non-binary; gay, straight, lesbian, or bisexual!

Get caught up in a government conspiracy, or expose the corruption within!

Choose from six characters to romance: a chivalrous blacksmith, a charming physician, a socialite lawyer, the captain of the guard, the soft-spoken acolyte, or your mage friend from childhood!

Determine the ultimate fate of the kingdom! Will you lead it to ruin, or improve the state of affairs? Will you be a hero of the people, or a pawn in someone else's game?

Protect yourself, protect your loved ones, protect the city - or don't!

But above all, remember to keep the peace. The Crown thanks you for your cooperation.

Fortuna is rated 18+ for explicit language, sexual content, alcohol and drug use, violence, morally questionable behaviour, and more.

For a full list of content warnings, please see below the cut.

CONTENT WARNINGS: sexual situations (optionally explicit), abuse of power, sexism, misogyny, (occasionally graphic) depictions of violence, elements of horror, unreality, mentions of suicide, classism, alcohol and drug use, mentions of upsetting situations regarding pregnancy (abortions, miscarriages, stillborns, infertility, and birthing complications), confined and dark spaces, and death.

There may be some I've missed, but I've listed all the ones that I know for certain off the top of my head. Please reach out if there's something you've noticed that isn't listed here!

Please note that the MC is 29, almost 30; the most significant age gap is 9 years. Please do not message me about this. Everyone involved in the story is a consenting adult and is treated as such. If the gap in age bothers you, don't feel compelled to read it. I won't be upset.

I, myself, am 30 years old, and am fine with all listed age differences (obviously. I created these characters lol).

Now that that's out of the way, meet the ROs!:

Malcolm Ashford, 36 [M]

The primary blacksmith for the Crown ever since they took over his forge, though he's not exactly happy about it. Malcolm is a good, honourable sort; kindhearted and genuine, he's easy to approach and talk to. He is also the biggest hopeless romantic - a fact that Cyril never lets him forget. He can primarily be found at the forge in the centre of the courtyard marketplace.

Malcolm is 6'4" (193 cm), broad shouldered, muscular, and usually covered in some sort of soot. He has fair skin (but is usually sporting an intense farmer's tan), shoulder length light brown hair, a light beard, dark grey eyes, and a beauty mark just above his upper left lip.

His face claim is Eoin Macken.

Cyril Trevelyan, 34 [M]

An old friend of Malcolm's. If anyone asks, Cyril is a "non-practicing" physician. Previously a member of the Royal Physician's Guild, he has since left and now operates an illegal clinic in the lower quarters of the capital, where he can primarily be found, though he has been known to frequent a local tavern and can occasionally be spotted harassing Malcolm at the forge. Cyril is charming, outgoing, and would love to get to know you. Just don't expect him to be very forthcoming about himself.

Cyril is 6'2" (187 cm), with an athletic build. He has tan skin, short, cropped black hair, stubble, and hazel eyes. He has a small scar across his left eyebrow and another small scar through his upper lip.

His face claim is Miguel Ángel Silvestre.

Dominic / Dominica Trevelyan, 38 [M/F]

Cyril's older sibling and the current Commandant of the King's Army. They care about the citizens of Requiem, but are less idealistic than Cyril about how to go about bringing change. They generally mean well and try to make things as easy as possible for the masses, but it isn't always seen as enough. Their relationship with Cyril is... tense. To say the least. They are taciturn and serious, and could probably do with some lightening up.

D is 6'4" (193 cm) (M) / 6'1" (185 cm) (F). They are broad shouldered and a little paunchy, but muscular, strong, and a force to be reckoned with in battle. They have tan skin like their brother, short, black hair that they keep slicked back from their face, and light brown eyes.

Their face claims are Keon Alexander and Rosa Gilmore.

James Johnathan / Jane Josephine 'J.J.' St. James, 28 [M/F]

JJ is a notable lawyer from the noble St. James household, though they aren't typically the first one that comes to mind when the St. James name is brought up. No, that luxury would go to just about anyone else in their family, given JJ is the only one without magic. They're a hard worker, extremely diligent, but have just a teensy tiny chip on their shoulder. They're a bit smarmy, but there is a good heart in there. Somewhere.

JJ is 5'10" (177 cm) (M) / 5'8" (173 cm) (F). They have a lean, athletic build, pale skin, light blue eyes, and copper-brown hair.

Their face claims are Richard Madden and Philipine Urvois.

Amaryllis / Amaranthus Calyx, 30 [F/M]*

One of the royal twins, but also an acolyte to the Divine Valentine, goddess of mercy. They have chosen to dedicate their time to the Temple of the Divines, honing their healing magic and providing succor to those in need, emulating all the virtues Valentine embodies. They are soft spoken and kind, but sheltered and naive. They want to help, but have an impressive lack of self-awareness and preservation, and are more likely to get themselves into trouble unintentionally. Hopefully, you won't have to babysit them too much.

A is 5'10" (177 cm) (F) / 6'0" (183 cm) (M). Amaryllis has a slight, willowy build, shoulder length, dark brown hair that she wears in a bob, a small dusting of freckles across the nose, and dark brown eyes that (like most members of the royal family) are ringed with gold. Amaranthus has a lean, athletic build, short, dark brown hair kept neat and styled back from his face, and the same dark brown gold-ringed eyes as his sister. He also wears glasses, though he's constantly forgetting where he put them.

Their face claims are Adeline Rudolph and Kenta Sakurai.

*Unlike the other gender selectable ROs, A's gender setting determines which of the two twins you end up encountering as opposed to deciding the gender for one character. The other will appear in the story regardless, but will not be romanceable if you select the opposite gender. The other twin has a separate job, position, and demeanour and an entirely different personality from the chosen romanceable one, which will be determined by who you select as RO.

Elliott 'Eli' / Eleanor 'Ellie' Rosefinch, 30 [M/F]

Your oldest friend and most trusted confidant, they've known you since you were twelve and you've been thick as thieves since. They're one of the very few magic users in the capital, and have been recruited into SCEPTRE, the kingdom's elite training program for budding sorcerers. They're down to earth and easygoing, grounded, and calm under fire. They tend towards being the far more rational of the two of you.

E is 5'11" (180 cm), with a dancer's build. They have brown skin, short, curly black hair, brown eyes, and sparse freckling.

Their face claims are Dev Patel and Nikita Chadha.

[thecubspeaks]

[joining a galeheart server has made me worse i'm sorry]

"Our Sharran certainly has a type, doesn't she," Astarion purrs, peering over his wineglass at where Shadowheart and Halsin stand, a little apart from the rest of the party. Gale reluctantly follows his gaze.

"Does she?" he says, hoping he sounds breezy and nonchalant. "Druids?"

"Haven't you seen her eyeing up Karlach?" Astarion snorts. "It seems she likes them with more muscle than brain."

"Ah."

Gale forces himself to observe. It's the only way to gather information, after all. Research. Shadowheart's unusually open posture, the way her gaze sweeps up and down Halsin's body in frank appreciation, the way she bobs towards him, almost brushing against him, perhaps playing at being a little more drunk than she is. The only saving grace is that Halsin, if he even notices, does not seem to care.

It's a selfish thought. He certainly can't provide her with any recreation tonight, so by what right can he mind if she seeks it elsewhere? Elsewhere-- absurd. As if there is any sort of understanding between them, as if she has ever even looked his way.

He is, apparently, not her type.

"Oh, Gale." Astarion runs his fingers down Gale's arms. "Jealous? I like you. We could find a distraction, if you wanted..."

Gale clears his throat. "Terribly kind, but I'm afraid I, er, can't." He glances down illustratively at his chest, and a flash of annoyance crosses Astarion's face before he hides it with a pout. He draws his hand away.

"Boring," he sighs. "I need some more wine."

Glass more than half full still, Astarion wanders off. Contemplating whether he would sleep with Astarion if he could is a nice distraction for a few moments, but inevitably Gale finds himself watching, thinking of, Shadowheart instead.

Unfortunately and uncharacteristically, Astarion probably has a point. Shadowheart never tries to hide the way she watches when Karlach bends to lift something, and on the way back to the Grove in the giddy afterglow of battle, hardly anyone hesitated to make their appreciation of the absent Halsin's looks plain.

And Gale, well. He can't make it through a day of walking without aching knees, can't leap effortlessly from a rooftop, can't hurl a barrel of wine at an enemy. Or, indeed, hurl an enemy at another enemy, as he's quite sure he saw Karlach do earlier today. And it's a wonder what a wasting illness will do for one's waistline!-- but even their slim road rations are considerably more than he was bothering to eat back in Waterdeep, and with a long day's adventuring to work up an appetite... well, he's sure Tara at least would be pleased to see how soft he's getting around the middle once more.

The irritatingly stubborn part of Gale insists that surely if he pointed out to Shadowheart the untold benefits of being wooed by a wizard-- has she not seen the intricacy and precision of his somatic spell components?-- then she of all people would have the intelligence to recognise the soundness of his logic.

If it were possible to talk someone into loving you, Gale thinks, then he wouldn't be here now. He rubs his chest absentmindedly, then catches himself and forces himself to stop.

Unexpectedly, Shadowheart catches his eye. Just a glance, tossed over her shoulder. A tipsy smile. Maybe she isn't pretending for Halsin's benefit. Gale returns it, tries to look encouraging. It must work, because she turns right back to Halsin with a flick of her long, black braid.

Gale sighs. His knees ache.

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | HARD LUCK

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

pining—but nothing ever comes easy

Ever since the fence checks some three weeks ago, you and Johnny have been inseparable.

 Always near each other. Always finding excuses to linger. The small things are driving you insane—fingers brushing when you pass tools to each other, stolen glances when you think the other isn’t looking. Thick, suffocating tension that's replaced most of the humidity since summer’s left. 

A few days after the fences  while walking back home from the stables, he bumped into you—a harmless accident, at first. You had nudged him back, bumping your shoulder against his bicep. Then he nudged you back. So you nudged him again. And then, without warning, he full-on shoved you, sending you both stumbling into a pit of mud, arms flailing, laughter bursting from your lungs as he landed on top of you, splashing each other in the process.

You had both ended up completely covered, caked in thick, cool mud, layers of it sticking to your clothes, your skin, your hair. There was no saving anything now. The mud clung to every inch of you, heavy and wet, the kind that made your boots feel like they weighed a hundred pounds each. You had looked like a couple of disasters, and there was no point in trying to salvage the mess.

Which meant there was only one solution: the hose.

You both had trekked the rest of the way to the house, mud squelching with every step, straight to where the hose lay coiled by the back door. The second you grabbed it, you turned the nozzle on Johnny, blasting him with a sharp, cold stream of water. He had let out a yelp before bursting into laughter, standing there with his hands on his hips like this was the funniest thing in the world. You had aimed right for his chest, soaking him instantly, the fabric of his shirt clinging to his skin as the mud slid off.

Then he had snatched the nozzle from you, cranking it on full blast.

You barely had time to react before he drenched you. The icy water sent a shiver straight through your spine, soaking you completely. You had shrieked, sputtering as you tried to swat at him, but he kept spraying, grinning like a devil as you both ended up more soaked than you were in the first place. Mud slid off in chunks, the water mixing with the dirt until you were both just a dripping, shivering mess.

Eventually, you had both trudged inside, still dripping all over the hardwood floor, still grinning. The evening had passed in a haze of warmth—hot showers, dry clothes, the comforting scent of the farmhouse wrapping around you like a well-worn quilt. It was one of those moments that stuck with you, one of those memories you’d look back on during the rougher days.

But the world keeps spinning, and the last remnants of August are scattered and blown away with the leaves as September rolls in. September cools the lingering summer heat, but with it comes the rain.

A lot of rain. 

The crop fields eventually flood. They barely ever have time to dry despite the tile lines, weeds take root faster than you can pull them, and harvesting is next to impossible. Every step outside is a battle against the sinking earth. 

The animals are restless and need even more attention, the barns reek of damp hay, and everything feels like it takes twice the effort. The mud is relentless, coating their coats and clinging to their hooves, and Johnny’s right there with them, hosing them down, cleaning their hooves before hoof rot can take hold. The mud pits are the worst, constantly growing, threatening to swallow everything in their path. 

It’s a never-ending cycle that chews through your patience like rust on metal.

Even the simplest tasks feel like a battle. The dampness seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, making it impossible to feel dry for more than a few minutes. The weight of the work drags on, each chore stretching longer than the last, and there’s no break in sight. It’s exhausting, the kind of tiredness that sticks to your bones and makes you wonder if you should just sleep in and forget about the farm for one day of your damned life.

You used to dread this time of year, but now, there’s Johnny.

Every time frustration threatened to settle in, he was there, breaking the tension with some terrible joke that was so stupid you couldn’t help but laugh, the sound ringing out through the fields, cutting through the dreary days like sunbeams cascading through the cracks in the clouds.

September 8th was the start of it all— the first serious downpour since the Spring. It didn’t bring hurricane levels of devastation, per se, but it definitely gave Johnny a run for his money. After watching him scramble to fill muddy pits in the pastures with gravel, the next day you decided to teach Johnny how to do it with the tractor, for efficiency’s sake. But first, you had to teach him how to actually drive a tractor. 

The midday sky was surprisingly clear, blue skies with a couple clouds, the sun shining but hardly doing enough to dry up the ground. The air still carried the fresh scent of wet grass from the previous night’s downpour. You were both already filthy—mud smeared up your jeans, damp hay clinging to your shirts, the sticky kind of sweat settling beneath your collars from the morning’s labor.

It was the kind of day that stretched long, the kind where there was too much to do and not enough hands to do it. The both of you had spent most of the day patching up the farm from whatever damage the rain did.

Johnny had leaned against the rusting side of the machine as you gave him a general rundown of how the tractor worked—its parts, what to use it for, what not to use it for. His baby blues were locked on you, arms crossed with his faded flannel rolled up to his elbows, forearms streaked with dirt. His hair was all grown out, a mess, tousled from the wind with just a few strands curling against his forehead where sweat had dampened them.

After—you realized a slight predicament.

There was, in fact, only one seat.

Which, you obviously knew. You had just… Forgotten. It’s not like you had anyone else to share it with until a month ago, and it wasn’t exactly built for more than one person, and lord knew this old ‘72 hunk of junk wasn’t equipped with any fancy modifications.

Still, you and Johnny stood on either side of it, both perched on the step bars, staring at the problem in front of you.

“So,” Johnny had said, running a hand through his hair. “How’re we doin’ this?”

You had frowned, scanning the interior like the answer was hidden somewhere in the cracked leather or dusty floorboards. “Uh…”

“Ye gonna balance on the fender?”

You snort, “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Alright,” he said easily, grinning as he cocked his head. “Guess tha’ leaves my lap.”

Your eyes had snapped to his, narrowing as heat prickled at your neck. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

He chuckled, far too pleased with himself. “No one’s stoppin’ ye from enjoyin’ it too.”

“So, you’re saying you would enjoy it?”

He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug, palms slightly upturned as if the answer was obvious, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You had opened your mouth to argue, but before you could even think of another alternative, he had already climbed up, settling into the seat like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, without missing a beat, he had turned toward you, eyebrows raised expectantly.

You had just stared at him. Incredulously.

He had stared right back, completely unbothered. Then,  he slung one arm over the back of the seat, stretching out like he had all the time in the world, and patted his thigh.

“Can wait all day, Hen.”

You had huffed, crossing your arms. “You’re insufferable. Genuinely.”

“Ye love it.” 

Fuck him and that stupid little grin. 

You had climbed up, settling onto his lap with as much dignity as you could muster, ignoring the way your pulse jumped at the warmth of him beneath you.

You stuttered through a more detailed explanation while ignoring the heat in your cheeks. You told him about the throttle, the gears, how to ease the clutch off when he lets go of the parking gear. You hoped he would gently ease the thing forward instead of throwing it into motion like a lunatic.

You looked back at him occasionally from where you were perched atop his thick thigh and he would nod along, serious, focused, like he was actually going to listen. You should have known better.

The second he stretched his arms around you and on the wheel, gripping it like he was about to tame a wild beast, Johnny just had to be Johnny.

The engine had growled as he threw it into gear, and before you could shout at him to slowly let off the clutch , the tractor lurched forward like it had been shot out of a cannon.

The wheels had spun up mud, slinging it in every direction. You had barely had time to curse before—CRACK, the tractor had slammed dead-on into the fence ahead. The sound of splintering wood had been so loud it echoed, the entire structure shaking as the impact sent a fresh spray of wood pieces flying. The whole thing had happened so fast, leaving nothing but the dull hum of the idling engine and the unmistakable sight of a fence massacre.

Johnny had frozen in the seat, hands still gripping the wheel like it might try to escape. His eyes had been locked on the wreckage, mouth slightly parted in dumbfounded horror. You had been the same way, staring at the fresh hole in the fence, at the broken post dangling pathetically from its base.

Then laughter erupted out of you.

It had punched through the silence, doubling you over, your arms wrapping around your stomach as you absolutely lost it.It had been the kind of laughter that stole your breath, that shook your shoulders and left you gasping, because of course this would happen. Of course.

Johnny had groaned, dragging a hand down his face, mud smeared across his cheek from where he had touched it earlier.

“Fan-tastic,” he muttered.

You had barely gotten the words out through your laughter. “If your goal was destruction, then great job.”

You felt his glare on the back of your head, but there had been no real heat behind it—just pure, exhausted exasperation. He had known, just as well as you did, that this was never something you were ever going to let him forget.

“Oh, ha-ha. Real funny,” he had deadpanned, finally releasing the steering wheel, resting one arm loosely around your waist and the other on his thigh.

“I’m sorry, I swear,” you had wheezed, still bent over, hands on your knees as you tried to pull yourself together. But the second you looked back at the fence, at the carnage he had caused, another burst of laughter had escaped. You had clamped a hand over your mouth, shaking your head. “Okay—okay, I’m done.”

Johnny had squinted at you, clearly not buying it.

“Uh-huh,” he had drawn, “Think tha’ was funny, do ye?”

You had snorted, wiping at your eyes, still breathless. “I mean—yeah, kind of.”

“Yeah? How funny’s this then?”

Before you could react, his hands had shot out, fingers digging into your ribs. You had yelped, instinctively jerking away, but he had been faster. His arms had wrapped around you, keeping you against him as he attacked your sides, relentless, grinning like the menace he was.

“Oh, god—Johnny, please!” you had shrieked, laughter spilling from you in uncontrollable waves as you twisted in his grasp, trying to escape.

“What was that abou’ ‘destruction’? Hmm?” he teased, chuckling as you squirmed, his grip strong enough to keep you trapped but gentle enough not to actually hurt you.

Through your breathless giggles, you had tried to shove at his shoulders, but your strength was useless in the face of your own traitorous laughter. “This— This can’t get worse than the fence!”

“Oh, but can’t it?” His fingers had found a spot just above your waistband, and you had nearly fell off the tractor right then and there.

“Johnny!” you had gasped between fits of laughter, trying desperately to push him off.

Eventually, either out of mercy or just the need to breathe himself, he had finally stopped, still grinning as you staggered back, hands on your knees, panting.

“Oh God—” Your breaths came in gasps, “You’re the worst,” you had huffed, face flushed, chest heaving.

He had just smirked, all smug and self-satisfied. “I know.”

Even though you had wanted to glare at him, to scowl and tell him off, you just… couldn’t.

Instead, you had rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly before turning your attention back to the fence. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of work to be done. The thought should’ve frustrated you, but instead, a quiet warmth settled in your chest—the kind that came from the easy company, the laughter, the way he made even the worst days feel lighter.

Speaking of things piling up, just two days later, you found out Shimmer was pregnant.

At first, you weren’t sure. Maybe she was just putting on weight, despite the diet you had her on. But then you started noticing the little things—how her middle grew rounder, how she moved slower, more deliberate, only bothering to graze when necessary. She’d nuzzle into your shoulder more often, leaning her weight against you in a way that felt almost… maternal. And when she missed her heat cycle, that sealed it.

You had your answer.

Pregnant mares don’t always get special treatment from their stallions, but Scout’s different. He’s a gentle giant, and he’s still sticking by her, lingering behind her. When they graze, he just hovers by, protecting her, ears flicking attentively, like he knows she’s carrying something precious. A bond like that’s a rare thing, but you can’t say you’re surprised.

It just meant more work, more things to keep an eye on. She’d need extra care in the coming months—better feed, closer monitoring, maybe even a vet visit just to be sure. And yet, despite the added responsibility, you couldn’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement. A foal.

Something new. Something good.

Maybe that was what you needed—a reminder that not everything about this time of year had to be miserable. That there were still things worth looking forward to.

Little things had a way of breaking through the routine, slipping into the cracks of everyday life in a way that softened the edges. Like the prospect of a foal. Or Johnny’s absolutely horrible jokes. Or—Dixie.

Johnny had been trying—really trying—to befriend the old girl, but there was hesitation in him, something careful and cautious. He had mentioned once  that he wasn’t too fond of dogs. You hadn’t pushed to know why. Instead, on one particularly easy day, you had found yourselves in the sheep barn, sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor. Dixie was curled up in your lap, her graying fur warm against your skin, her breathing slow and steady.

Johnny had watched from a short distance, his arms resting loosely on his knees, his expression unreadable. You had patted the empty space beside you, wordlessly inviting him closer.

Johnny had sat next to you, his gaze soft as he watched Dixie—how her chest had risen and fallen in a peaceful rhythm, her graying muzzle tucked under her paws, the faintest snores escaping her every so often. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved—just watched her for a while, his eyes following every slow rise and fall of her chest, like he was memorizing the simple, quiet moment.

The silence had stretched between you, comfortable, not needing words. There had been something in the way Johnny had focused on the old dog, something unexpectedly tender in his expression. He had reached out, tentatively at first, his fingers hovering just above her fur, unsure if he should touch or leave her undisturbed. Dixie hadn’t stirred, the slow rhythm of her breathing a quiet invitation for him to try.

His fingers had grazed the top of her head, gentle, testing. She hadn’t reacted, just let him. After a moment, he had stroked his hand down her back, a slow, uncertain motion that had turned steady as he realized—she wasn’t a threat. She had leaned into the touch, and Johnny's hand had moved with more confidence, his gaze softening as he continued.

You hadn’t interrupted. You had just watched, silently, as something had shifted in his expression—a flicker of adoration, quiet affection, the kind you had seen in moments that had come and gone without fanfare. And yet, each time, those moments had burrowed deeper under your skin, nestling into places you didn’t quite know how to name.

There had been an undeniable warmth that had settled in your chest, something that didn’t quite belong but had fit all the same. 

You never used to care for small things like this—like the way Johnny cares for something as simple as Dixie, the way he tackles you into the mud or makes you laugh until you cry.

 Everything he does—everything he is—steadily takes root in you in ways that leave you confused but increasingly and indubiously tethered to him.

And then Pa notices.

Of course he does.

He’s been around long enough to hear the way you and Johnny laugh—really laugh, not just the surface-level chuckles, but the deep, real laughter that comes from inside, the kind that makes you forget about the world for a while. He hears the little jabs, the teasing, the way Johnny’s softened around you, the subtle changes in the way you interact, the way you both speak your own language without realizing it.

Pa sees it all—the way you and Johnny are starting to slip into a rhythm, a shared dynamic that no one else quite understands. He sees the little looks that pass between you two when the other isn’t looking, how your smiles have grown more weighted, less guarded.

He’s not blind, not deaf, and he’s certainly not stupid. It’s in the way you speak to each other, the way your shoulders brush when you’re close, the quiet moments that pass between you and Johnny that tell a story he doesn’t need words to understand.

As dinner wrapped up one evening, the silence stretched just a little too long as you cleaned up. Pa leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing just a little as he watched you and Johnny exchange a look and small, pinched smiles, an inside joke that only the two of you understand.

When Johnny headed upstairs to shower for the night, Pa spoke. His voice was calm. Too calm. Eerily casual, but laced with weight, like a loaded gun aimed under the table, safety off.

“There better not be anything happenin’ between you two.”

Your hands froze in the sink. The words hit all at once, but they sank in slowly, like a thresher cutting through a field, one pass at a time. You turned your back to the sink, swallowing hard against the bile rising in your mouth. Pa’s eyes are already on you, steady, unyielding.

“That boy’s here to work—” he paused, his gaze sharpened, “and that’s that.”

Heat crept up your neck, a slow burn of embarrassment, irritation, something else you couldn’t name if you tried. Half of you wanted to snap—ask him why the hell it would matter anyway. Tell him he should mind his own damn business. But you knew he was right.

Because technically, nothing is happening—but simultaneously,  everything is. The glances. The touches, how the tension between you both feels like a wire pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

You scoff, shaking your head. “Nothing’s happening.”

Because what the hell else are you supposed to say? That you’re aching for something to happen? That you can always feel Johnny looking at you like he’s fighting a battle with himself—like he’s on the edge of breaking, one heartbeat away from pulling you into him and kissing you senseless, but he won’t. He’s just staring, and you’re both drowning in it. And it’s driving you insane, gnawing at you, every nerve screaming for him to make a move, but he won’t.

Yes, things are happening. But if he never actually does anything, does it even count? If you load the shells and pump the forearm, but don’t plan on pulling the trigger, what’s the fuck’s point of even bringing out the shotgun?

You clenched your jaw, exhaled slowly through your nose, and turned back to the sink, shoving plates into the drying rack with more force than necessary.

Behind you, Pa didn’t say another word. He didn’t have to.

It’s September 14th, a lazy Sunday evening, and the world has slowed to a quiet hum as the sun dips below the horizon. The air is growing crisper by the day, the subtle whispers of fall creeping in, carrying the chill that promises the change of seasons.

And then, the crack of the bat.

Cecil Fielder, the Detroit Tigers' powerhouse, smashes a home run clean out of Milwaukee Stadium. From the kitchen radio, Ernie Harwell’s voice cuts through the hum of the evening, crackling with excitement, his call booming through the house—“That one’s looooong gone!”

You can’t help but smile at the familiar sound, the way Harwell’s voice seems to carry more energy than the whole room. Even Pa stirs in his chair, the game catching his attention for a moment, though his eyes are still fixed on the TV.

You’re standing side by side with Johnny at the sink, cleaning up after dinner. Plates clink, the dish sponge flicks lazily in your hands, and you both nudge each other, sharing some silent joke only the two of you get. His whispers and half-laughs make you giggle like a teenager, the kind of stupid, effortless laughter that catches you by surprise and escapes before you even know it. It’s easy—too easy—like it’s always been this way, like you’ve been doing this for years.

Johnny’s leaning on the counter next to you, drying a plate as he cracks another joke, his voice low enough that Pa can’t hear. Across the room, Pa’s planted in his armchair, eyes locked on the TV, his face stone still as the news anchor drones on about the hurricane coming Thursday. The rain’s been on and off for days, and the weatherman’s only making it sound worse.

The news perks your ears and you put down the sponge. You wander through the kitchen doorway, leaning against the stairwell banister as you watch the screen, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed as you listen to the predicted wind speeds for Hurricane… Bob? They were just running out of names these days. 

Johnny silently follows, pausing just behind you. You feel him before you see him, solid and steady, a quiet heat at your back. He’s gentle, reliable like the weight of a heavy coat in winter. Always lingering, steadily hovering. 

Like he’s protecting you. Whether he means to or not.

Today’s just one of those fucking days.

The 18th starts with a crack of thunder rattling the house, jerking you awake from a restless sleep. The sound is too loud, like it’s coming from inside your own room. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, but it doesn’t block the noise, doesn’t drown out the howl of the wind through your windows or the draft that accompanies it. You groan, sinking back into the pillow, praying for a few more minutes of sleep. You glance at the clock—7:03 AM. Shit, you should’ve been up 30 minutes ago. 

Oh right—it’s Thursday.

With a grunt, you push the covers off and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the cool floor with a soft thud, your socks slipping slightly as you stand. You push your bedroom door open and make your way across the hall, steps muffled by the runner. The faint sound of running water comes from the bathroom, steady and constant, and you frown. 

You hesitate for a moment, then knock lightly on the door, only to hear the water stop, a muffled grunt from inside. He’s not done yet. You wait a few minutes longer, but the sound of the water running again makes your patience snap.

“Johnny,” you say, your voice rough from sleep, “I need to get in there.”

No answer. There’s no time for this bullshit, you were supposed to be up at 6:30. You twist the knob slowly, and when you crack open the door, he’s shirtless, muscles rippling as he hunches over the sink, mouth covered with white toothpaste-foam. You don’t bother with pleasantries, you just fling the door open, stepping into the space and reaching around him to grab your toothbrush.

He lifts his head, blinking at you through the mirror with a lazy, half-awake look. “Cah i no’ ha fi minuhts?”

Between the accent, the toothbrush wedged in his mouth, and your foggy mind, you don’t even try to decipher what he just said. You stare at him for a beat longer than necessary before turning away with your toothbrush in hand, mumbling something under your breath about him always hogging the bathroom. Guess you’ll have to brush your teeth in the kitchen sink. How cleanly. 

The moment you step downstairs, the kitchen feels heavy, almost suffocating like it’s been holding its breath all night. You inhale deeply, trying to shake off the tired haze still hanging on to your thoughts. 

You set to work on breakfast, but from the start, everything goes wrong. The eggs burn, the bacon curls into crispy charred strips, the toast miraculously gets stuck in the toaster causing it to burn, and when you finally start to scramble the eggs again, they spill over the edge of the pan, landing in a sizzling mess.

You curse under your breath as you glance at the clock. 7:34—already too late. You should’ve been out in the fields by now, getting everything locked down before the storm rolls in. Apparently the Universe has other plans today, but everyone’s gotta eat, right?

You try to salvage what you can from the mess you made, but it’s like everything’s working against you. Nothing cooperates. The more you try to fix it, the worse it gets, and soon, you're moving in circles, rushing, frantic. You can feel the little voice in your head nagging you—telling you you're already behind, that you’re fucking everything up. 

Just when you're ready to scream, the sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupts your spiraling. You barely look up, but when you do, you see Johnny—looking like a goddamn daydream. His work jeans fit just right, hugging his thighs and ass in a way that makes your chest tighten. And that shirt—tight, the kind that shows off the muscles you know are hiding underneath. He looks like he just stepped out of a catalog, and it makes your stomach flip in ways you're really not in the mood for.

Meanwhile, you're still in your pajamas, frizzy hair sticking up like you’ve been wrestling a tornado, and in the middle of World War III (smacking the toaster to get it to just spit up the damn bread). You narrow your eyes as he strolls into the kitchen, fresh as a daisy, not a hair out of place.

He glances at you with a grin that’s too soft for how much it’s getting on your nerves. “Mornin’,” he says casually, like he didn’t just hog the bathroom for 45 fucking minutes.

“We, uh... gonna eat breakfast?” he asks casually, as if you’re not struggling to get anything on the table before Pa’s complaints come flying in from the living room via pigeon. 

Your nerves tighten as you slam the spatula a little too harshly, the sound of it smacking against the pan filling the otherwise still air. Johnny could tell something was eating at you, but he doesn’t push, doesn’t say anything more. You can feel the weight of his gaze, feel the way it lingers on you. Normally it’d be enough to make you weak in the knees—but today—it’s enough to make you want to slam the pans on the stove and walk away.

“I’m working on it.”

Gloves are off, now, Bob.

Once you finally get something halfway edible on the plates, you sit down at the table, hands tight around your coffee mug, just trying to breathe for a moment. Johnny’s sitting next to you and Pa’s already in his usual chair. He’s half-hidden behind a wrinkled newspaper, but you can feel his eyes flicking up to you and Johnny, that same sharp, assessing gaze you felt your whole childhood. It makes your skin crawl. It’s that look that says he knows more than he’s letting on, but purposefully keeping his trap shut.

You shove a forkful of food into your mouth, chewing with a dull, rhythmic motion, as if each bite might somehow lessen the mounting tension in the air, like you were trying to swallow the storm before it hit the farm.

Pa’s voice breaks through the stillness, “Those animals need to be locked up before the rain hits. Don’t want ‘em out there when it starts comin’ down hard.”

Your throat tightens. The Nobel Committee is waiting for your next profound revelation, Pa. You exhale through your nose, but your frustration continues to rise in a slow, steady burn. Everything about this day is stacking against you, one thing after another.

And to make it worse, there’s Johnny. Just… being  Johnny.

He’s sitting there, relaxed as ever, like there’s nothing wrong. He’s just eating, like everything’s normal. Like you’re not both staring down Hurricane Bob as he’s about to nearly ransack the farm. Johnny’s untouchable, the stress glides off his back like water on duck feathers and it fucking grates on you. The calmness he exudes feels like it’s directly mocking the chaos you’re already drowning in. 

You and Johnny don’t get to the fields anywhere near as early as you should’ve. The rain’s already started. It’s light at first, just a steady drizzle, but it doesn’t take long before it picks up, turning the soil beneath your boots into mush. The crop field is nearing the point where you can’t even walk through it without your boots sinking with every step, and harvesting is absolutely out of the question. The ground’s too wet, the crops and weeds too soft to even think about pulling.

On Johnny’s end, the animals, already edgy from the rain, get startled by the noise, their nerves running wild. They don’t want to cooperate, moving erratically and making every damn task harder than it needs to be. The usual rhythm of the work feels completely out of sync.

It’s a mess. The kind of mess that makes you wonder if it’s even worth trying today. But you keep going. Because what else is there to do?

By midday, the sky grows heavier, the wind picks up, biting at your skin as it stirs the trees, carrying the unmistakable scent of rain and earth. The pressure builds in every gust, every shift in the atmosphere. It’s only a matter of time until the storm breaks.

You finish up what you can with the crops, but it feels futile. Every movement feels wasted, undone by the breeze and the moisture in the air. You let out a heavy sigh, frustration building all on top of your shitty morning. 

With a groan, you turn away from the field. The cool air creeps in through the holes of your clothes, but you press forward, boots squelching in the mud as you walk the path toward the stables. You don’t need to look at the sky to know it’s about to break wide open.

The stable door creaks as you tug it open, the familiar smells of hay and leather greeting you like a small comfort in the growing chaos outside. You make your way down the line of stalls, pulling your jacket tighter against the chill creeping in. You spot Shimmer, her dark eyes following you as you approach her stall. 

You run a hand over her sleek coat, the gentle stroke grounding you for a moment. Her soft nicker brings a small smile to your face. You grab her tack, moving through the motions without thinking, attaching the bridle and girth with a practiced ease. It’s familiar—her, the routine, the comforting weight of the leather in your hands.

When you take the lead and step to walk her out of the stall, you freeze.

Scout’s stall is directly across from Shimmer’s, usually home to the large, chestnut stallion. But now—there’s no Scout. The stall is empty, the gate shut, the hay undisturbed.

For a moment, you just stand there, staring at the empty stall, the air thick with the growing tension of the storm outside. Your mind races for an explanation. Johnny must have taken Scout out already, right? He wouldn’t leave the horse unattended, especially not with the weather about to turn. You glance outside toward the livestock pastures, but the view’s obstructed by some hills. 

A knot tightens in your stomach, but you shake it off, telling yourself he’s probably already on it, handling the animals, preparing them for what’s to come. Still, the unease gnaws at you, but you push it down, forcing your focus onto Shimmer.

You settle the saddle on her back and then move to the stirrups, lifting yourself onto her back with ease. 

The wind outside howls, rattling the stable doors. The storm is nearing its worst, and if you don’t get a move on, the animals are screwed. You glance down at Shimmer, her steady, calm presence offering a small comfort amidst the shitshow that’s been your day so far.

You click your tongue to the roof of your mouth, urging her forward, but as you move toward the stable door you can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s still off, but there’s no time to dwell on it now. Johnny’s out there, already dealing with the rest of the animals, and you figure you might as well give him a hand.

You ride over to the livestock pastures, gripping the reins as the wind picks up, circling around you like a pack of wolves, pulling at your jacket and tugging at your hair loose from where it’s tied up. The storm is worsening, the skies darkening overhead. The last thing you need is for the livestock to be caught out in it, panicking and running wild.

You approach the pastures, you tug on the reins, leaning back in the saddle to halt Shimmer’s forward momentum. You scan the fields, squinting through the rain, and your heart skips a beat when you realize—Johnny’s nowhere to be seen.

Instead, you’re met with chaos. Half the cows are scattered across their respective fields, their bodies jerking with erratic movements, as if the very air itself has made them nervous, spooked. Their eyes are wide, and their bodies huff short, panicked breaths as the storm bears down on them. 

Your heart drops to your ass as the panic rises in your chest. You swallow hard, trying to force the anxiety down, but the knot only tightens. You can feel it in the pit of your stomach, that sickening sense of urgency. If you don’t get these animals into the barn soon, They're already testing the fences, straining against them, and you know it’s only a matter of time before they break through and bolt. That’s the last thing you need. 

You urge Shimmer forward, kicking her into a trot as you take her into the pastures, trying to herd at least the cows in the right direction and toward the barn. But they’re not cooperating. Their anxiety is spreading like wildfire, and it’s only getting harder to keep them together. Your heart pounds in your chest as you try to make sense of it all. 

 The rain begins to fall in a steady trickle, but you know it’s only the beginning.

Where the fuck is Johnny?

After about 45 grueling minutes, you and Shimmer manage to get the cows into their barn. You see Johnny’s already fed them and cleaned their water troughs, but why were they all just out? Once you know for a fact all the cows are secure, you lock up the barn and kick Shimmer into a gallop, riding toward the rest of the pastures with your heart beating a mile a minute. Thunder crackles overhead and lightning strikes across the sky like a claw. The storm’s not waiting for you, and neither are the animals. Each raindrop that hits your face feels like a reminder of how much time is slipping away.

Your gaze darts from barn to barn, every corner, every shelter—hell, even the wells where you know Johnny sometimes checks for strays—your mind a tangled mess of questions, frustration, and fear. 

You can’t help but think something’s happened to him. Something must’ve, right? Your stomach tightens with each passing second, every minute that ticks by.

You call for him, your voice lost in the howling wind. You can barely hear yourself over the storm, but you shout anyway, hoping, praying that he'll answer, that he'll show up and make everything make sense again.

But the rain is coming down harder now, turning the earth beneath Shimmer's hooves into a slippery mess, and the more you search, the more it feels like you’re chasing shadows. The storm is swallowing the land, the mist of it clouding your thoughts, and everything is slipping through your fingers like water. The harder you try to hold on, the more it seems to break apart.

"Johnny!" you shout again, but the wind swallows the sound before it can even reach the next field. Your heart beats harder, faster—every second feeling like a threat as you urge Shimmer on, desperation creeping into your veins. You can’t afford to lose him. 

And then, finally, you spot Scout.

You pull Shimmer to a halt outside the sheep barn, your legs burning from the frantic ride, your chest tight with the effort of trying to keep your head above water. You dismount quickly, tying her next to Scout, who is securely tied up outside. Most of the sheep are already safely inside, and for a brief second, relief floods through you.

But it’s short-lived.

You push open the rattling barn door, the sound of it scraping against the floor unnervingly loud in the tense silence, and you call for him, “Joh-”

The sight of him hits you like a slap in the face.

He’s sitting there, propped up against one of the pillars, Dixie curled up in his lap, her body trembling with anxiety. His fingers stroke the top of her head in slow, calming motions, completely unaware of your presence. 

You stare, your heart still thudding in your chest. You don't know what to think. You don’t know what to feel—frustration and worry all swirling together in a tight knot in your stomach. You were pissed, thinking he’d skipped out on you, or worse, that something had happened to him. That maybe he was hurt, and you weren’t there to help him, somehow riding in all the wrong directions like an idiot. You’ve been stressed and anxious, and now here he is, sitting in the dim barn with Dixie, like the skies are blue and the birds are chirping.

You almost want to hate it— to hate him for looking so comfortable when everything about this day has been shit from the second it started. The sight of him, so quietly gentle with Dixie, should be endearing. Hell, if this weren’t happening, you might’ve thought it was sweet. 

But just like that, the moment of softness is swallowed up by a loud crash of thunder. A harsh crack that shakes the barn, pulling you back to reality, and the air thickens with the weight of the impending chaos outside. You grit your teeth and march over to him, your boots thudding against the wet floor. Each step feels like it echoes in the chaos of the storm.

You glare at him sitting there, his hands gently petting Dixie, so unbothered, so utterly calm .

“You—” your voice cracks, thick with anger, “you couldn’t be bothered to get the fuckin’ cows in, could you? Left me to deal with all that shit  by myself. They were about to break through the fucking fence—”

“Love, listen—” He starts, but you don’t let him speak. You’re already too fired up, the frustration spilling out, impossible to stop.

 “No! You don’t get to say anything right now! You’re supposed to be helping! We were supposed to be trying to get everything locked down as soon as possible, and you—” your breath hitches as you cut yourself off, “you were just—just here! Doing—” you wave your hands around in the air, gesturing to the barn, “nothing!”

The rain pelts against the tin roof, but it's still not enough to drown out your voice.

 “I’ve had a shit day, Johnny! A shit day. First breakfast—then I had to rush through everything—did you know my shirt’s on backwards?—couldn’t catch a damn break, the fucking crops all mushy, and then—then this shit!” You pant, trying to catch your breath between the ranting and the way your heart is still palpitating.

“I’ve been riding around, looking for you, calling for you, freaking out...  I thought something happened to you! I thought—God, I thought you were hurt, or worse—” Your voice breaks and you just turn away from him.

His face flickers with something. Guilt? Confusion? You aren’t sure, but the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his jaw is slack tells you it’s both.

You take a deep breath, rubbing your temples for a moment, trying to clear your head, but it’s no use. You exhale slowly, the weight of everything is too much, and you finally stop.

You face him, but you don’t meet his eyes. “Just lock up the barn,” you say tersely. “Dixie will be fine.”

Without waiting for him to respond, you turn on your heel and storm back outside, shoving the barn door open. You climb back onto Shimmer without a word, the tension between your shoulders still tight, your anger still seething beneath the surface. You urge her into a trot, the barn shrinking behind you as you make your way back to the stables

The rain feels like a waterfall now, soaking through your jacket in an instant, and it’s hard to see past the sheets of water pouring down. The wind has picked up, slapping each raindrop against your skin with a force that’s starting to sting, making the trees around you bend with it, their branches groaning under the pressure. Your boots slide in the stirrups as you urge her forward. The rain’s deafening, drowning everything but the sound of your own pulse in your ears.

You hear frantic whinnies, high-pitched and panicked in the distance, echoing from the stables. Your stomach drops. If I had just finished breakfast sooner, if I hadn’t wasted time, none of this would be happening. The thought eats at you. You grit your teeth as you push forward.

You can just barely hear Scout as Johnny follows you, his figure a blur in the rain as he rides behind you. He’s trying to catch up, but that doesn’t matter right now. You’ve got to get to the horses.

You hold the reins tighter, kicking her into a gallop, desperation mixing with anger. The wind’s so fierce it nearly knocks you sideways. The air feels thick with it, heavy and suffocating, making every breath harder to catch as you push Shimmer faster, your heart hammering, just as frantic as the animals inside.

When you finally reach the stables, Shimmer’s front is caked with mud, but you make it inside with a breath of relief. You dismount, heart still racing from the ride, and immediately lead Shimmer to her stall. She’s jittery, her sides heaving from the sprint, but she’s calm enough now that you can quickly unbuckle her tack and guide her into the hay. You slip the halter off, and she nuzzles your arm, her warm breath a small comfort.

Once she’s settled, you hurry to the other stalls trying to calm the other horses. The barn’s echoing with frantic hooves and anxious whinnies, the air thick with their panic. You work your way down the row, talking softly to each one, doing your best to calm them with gentle strokes and soft whispers, though your own nerves are barely holding it together.

You hear the heavy thud of boots on the floor just as the last horse settles down—no thanks to him. You turn to see Johnny slide in through the door, Scout at his side. His clothes are drenched, hair sticking to his forehead. He leads Scout to an empty stall, whispering softly to him as he removes his tack.

Once all the horses are okay, you find yourself standing near Shimmer, absently running your hand along her coat, trying to calm your racing thoughts, Your back is to Johnny.. He’s on the other side of the barn, taking some pieces of hay out of Scout’s hair. His back is to you.

A bright flash of lightning, then thunder booms across the sky like a gunshot. The weight of it all crashes down like a ton of bricks, the pressure in your chest suddenly unbearable. It’s not just the rain, not just the howling wind—it’s just fucking everything.

Johnny and all the weeks of what-ifs and wondering what you two are, and the hours—the fucking hours—you spent racing against time today, trying to keep everything together, Pa’s words from the other night echoing in your mind like a warning. The ever-present ache in your muscles from the long hours in the fields, the weight of your sopping wet jacket.

Everything about this day has been a fight—against the rain, against the animals, against your own fucking emotions. It feels like you’ve been battling the whole world since you shucked off your blankets this morning, and now the weight of everything else comes crashing down with it, 

You’re fucking done.

You push off the stall with a violent jerk, your fists clenched tight at your sides. Without thinking, you storm off, every stride taking you further from whatever the hell this is, whatever the hell he’s making you feel.

The adrenaline still pumps through your veins, a sharp edge that slices through the fog of your thoughts, and the anger, the rage—it explodes with each furious step, each squelch of mud beneath your foot. You can feel it all spilling out of you—every ounce of pent-up frustration, every silent scream, every moment you’ve tried so hard to hold it all together, and every goddamn moment he’s reeled you in so close you could feel the heat of his skin.

You’re sick of the rain. Sick of the way it makes everything feel like it’s flooding, drowning you in everything you can’t control. Sick of him. Sick of waiting for something to happen when all you ever get are vacillating gestures of affection and unsung words.

And most of all, you’re sick of yearning for something you shouldn’t, something that can’t happen no matter how much you crave it.

You don’t look back as you storm out. You can’t. Not when everything feels like it’s slipping through your fingers like water, drowning you in all the things you’ll never have.

The rain pelts you as you move through it, but it doesn't stop you. You head toward the old barn by the crop fields, the one long abandoned and filled with dry hay, broken machinery, and bags of bad fertilizer. It’s empty. Quiet. And that’s exactly what you need.

Johnny’s so lost in his own thoughts, in the quiet rhythm of his movements with Scout, that he doesn’t notice you leave at first. His hands are steady, methodical, as he dries the horse’s muzzle, brushing away the dampness with the cloth. The soft strokes against the horse’s coat are the only sounds in the barn, other than the wind and the distant thunder.

For a moment, it feels like time has stopped, just him and Scout as he replays your words in his mind. But then, as if pulled out of a trance, Johnny glances up, his brow furrowing with guilt when the silence lingers a little too long.

He clears his throat, the words hanging between them before he speaks, breaking the tension, “Can we talk, Hen?” His voice is low, careful—a gentle prod into the quiet.

His gaze flicks over to you, but you’re long gone.

It takes a moment for it to click. When he turns around, that’s when he sees it—the stable door is swinging wide in the wind, the hinges creaking, but it’s the wet trail of your footprints on the floor that really catches his attention. 

His stomach drops. Without another thought, he’s after you before he even knows what he’s doing. 

Of course, he’s right there, trailing behind you. Because Johnny can never let things be easy, and he won’t let you push him away even when you need him most.

You hear his footsteps behind you in the distance as he calls your name, the soft squelch of his boots in the mud, but you don’t stop. You don’t turn around. You just keep walking, your legs moving on their own as you trudge through the hurricane . 

The fury in your chest surges with every step you take, mixing with the rain that’s pouring down harder, as if the heavens themselves are pissed off too. It feels like everything is pushing you forward, pushing you away from him, away from all of it. Away from the guilt, the confusion, the frustration, the ache of wanting something that just  isn’t happening.

But Johnny doesn’t stop. His heavy footsteps continue, relentless, just like him. You can feel him getting closer, like he’s not going to let you fall apart alone. And it only makes you angrier, because goddamn it, why can’t he just let you have this? Let you be angry without trying to fix it? Let the rain wash it away like you need it to?

The storm roars, drowning out most of what Johnny’s trying to say, but you hear your name through the flashes of lightning and the deafening booms of thunder. His voice is laced with agonizing concern, and it only makes the frustration claw at you harder. You keep your head down, not slowing your pace, not giving him the satisfaction of a response. You just need to escape, to have some silence—some space to breathe.

His voice keeps calling, cutting through the storm. You can feel his presence nearing, until his hand wraps around your forearm. The sudden pressure shocks you, making you spin around, hair plastered to your face, eyes wide, breath coming out in quick bursts from the cold and the adrenaline. 

"Leave me the fuck alone," you snap, but he doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, but not forceful—steady, like he’s not letting you walk away from this. 

His face is right there, close enough that you can see the tension laced in his jaw, the distress etched deep in his eyes. He doesn’t speak at first, just stares at you, lips parted like he’s about to say something. His chest rises and falls with his breath, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to figure out how to fix this.

"I-I’m sorry," he stutters, his voice soft, but still thick with urgency. "I didn’t mean tae leave ye hanging like that earlier. But damn it, just tell me what’s happenin’. Please."

You stare him down, your heart still racing, pulse in your ears. You’re shaking—not from the cold, not from the rain—but from the tension that’s built up between you two. It’s like everything’s been pulling tighter and tighter, and now it’s ready to snap. 

“It’s nothing,” you shout over the barrage of rain. You know it’s a lie the second it leaves your mouth. You can’t even convince yourself, and you doubt you convinced him.

He gives you a look, and for a split second, his frustration mirrors yours. “Bullshit,” he yells insistently. “I know ye better than that. Ye wouldn’t be out ‘ere in this weather, shuttin’ me out like this unless something’s up. So stop actin’ like it’s nothin’.”

You stare at him, chest heaving. Your fingers flex into fists at your sides, but they’re trembling. “What do you want me to say, Johnny? That I’m pissed? That I’m beyond frustrated?”

He steps toward you, ignoring the way the rain is soaking him through. His eyes are searching yours, his face inches from yours, and the intensity in them just makes everything worse. 

“I want ye tae tell me what’s goin’ on! This isn’t you,” he says, his words sharp but laced with concern. “The you I know wouldn’t react like this. Talk tae me, Hen.”

For a second, you freeze, your heart pounding in your ears. The storm seems to roar even louder, as though it’s trying to drown out everything, but all you can hear is your own pulse in your head. You don’t know how to say it—don’t know how to say what’s been building inside you for weeks.

It feels like you've been holding your breath too long, choking on something sharp and acrid, unfit for human lungs. The longer it sits in your chest, the more it festers, burning like acid searing down your throat.

Hold it in any longer, and you might come undone, as if the rain pouring around you could melt you down and wash you away with the rest of the puddles on the earth.

“I'm tired of waiting, Johnny,” you say, your voice unsteady but resolute. “Tired of holding my breath for something that’s never gonna happen.”

Johnny’s expression shifts, confusion washing over him like a wave. 

“What the hell are ye talkin’ abou’?” He steps even closer, his brows furrowed, his voice low but filled with something close to desperation. “What’s never gonna happen?”

You let out a breath, angry and sad all at once, “This!” you shout, throwing your hands up, motioning to both of you, the rain, the storm, everything. “Us! All of it! I’m tired of waiting for... I don’t know, for things to change, for it to finally make sense! You... you act like you want this but then never make a move. And— And I’m sick of trying to figure out what you want when you won’t even fuckin’ say it.”

The words hang in the air between you, and for a second, you regret them. You wish you could take them back, shove them back down your throat and stitch up your lips, but it’s too late now. The truth is out, and you only hope it doesn’t ruin everything.

Johnny looks like someone just hit him with two shots to the liver. His face softens—guilt, regret, maybe even hurt flash across his features—but it’s quickly replaced with something else. His lips part, but he doesn’t speak right away. He’s too busy processing everything you just threw at him.

After a second, he steps forward, his hair plastered to his forehead, wet with rain and falling into his eyes, his shirt sticking to his muscles in ways that you can’t help but notice. He lifts a hand, shaky but determined as he gently cups your cheek. His touch is like a bonfire against your frozen skin, grounding you despite the roar of the hurricane around you.

“Don’t say that,” he mutters, his voice gravelly, the storm pushing his words into your chest like a physical force. His gaze locks onto yours, a fire behind it that refuses to be put out. 

“I’m no’ tryin' to make ye wait. I just... I don’t know how to say it without messing it all up. I never did.” His lips twist, and you can tell he's trying to keep it together, like everything inside him wants to explode but he’s holding it in just to communicate to you.

The rain hits like bullets against his face, but his eyes stay fixed on yours. It’s hard to breathe with him so close, with the weight of everything heavy in the air between you two. He’s holding something back, and you can see it—he’s trying not to let it slip.

You want to say something, but the words feel lost in your throat, swallowed by the storm. He steps forward, closing the space between you until there’s nothing but rain and your ragged breaths separating you.

“God,” he sighs your name, “ye think I don’t see how ye look at me? I’m no’ fuckin’ blind.”

His hands are warm when they find your shoulders, gripping like he’s afraid you might slip away, like you might get washed away in the flood. “Ye’re scared ‘cause I’ve never made this real—’cause I’ve never said it. I’ve been scared too. Scared to let ye see how much I need you—”

One hand slides from your shoulders to cup both your cheek once more, the roughness of his fingertips tender against your damp skin as the other snakes around your waist. 

“Love, I’m no’ asking ye tae wait around for me,” he says, voice breaking just enough that it shakes you. “I’m asking you to stop wondering if you matter to me, because you do. I’m just... tryin’ tae figure out how tae make it real for the both o’ us.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and your breath hitches. For a moment, there is no storm, no farm, no Pa, just his hand on your face and the weight of his words hanging between you. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel the hot tears mix with the rain as they slip down your face.

His thumb brushes over your cheek again, this time slower, lingering, as if committing the curve of your face to memory. He looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, the only thing that has ever mattered.

You let out a sharp breath, something between a laugh and a sob, your chest heaving with the weight of everything that’s led to this moment. The frustration, the waiting, the wondering. The days and hours spent circling each other like the Earth and the Moon—locked in orbit, never quite colliding. Until now.

He tilts his head, breath warm against your lips. His fingers tighten at your waist, and the space between you disappears. His lips meet yours, soft and searching, hesitant like he’s afraid he might break you if he's not careful. But you don’t want careful. You don’t need careful. You need real. 

You need him.

You want him.

So you kiss him back, pushing up against him, pressing into every solid inch of him, hands fisting the sodden fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And that’s all it takes for his restraint to snap.

He groans against your mouth, the sound low and desperate, and then suddenly, it’s no longer a kiss—it’s a claiming, a long-overdue confession written in the way his hands pull you closer, in the way his lips part against yours, deepening, consuming, drinking you in like you’re something he’s been dying for. His hands slide up, one cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist so tight you think you might just melt into him.

The storm rages on, but it’s nothing compared to what’s building between you. The air crackles, electric, charged with the heat of something unstoppable. Your fingers tangle in his wet hair, pressing him impossibly closer, and he shudders against you, a quiet, needy sound slipping past his lips that has your heart threatening to beat out of your chest.

You can taste the rain on his lips, feel the fevered heat of him searing into your skin, even through the cold. And it’s intoxicating. Maddening. Because this—this is everything you’ve been waiting for.

When you finally break apart, it’s not because you want to. It’s because you have to breathe. Foreheads pressed together, breath mingling, his nose nudges yours in the softest, most aching touch. His hand cradles your face so gently, the other hand still splayed across your back like he can’t bring himself to let go.

The world goes quiet. The thunder rumbles overhead, but it sounds distant now, like it belongs to another world entirely.

“You’re it,” he says, voice hoarse, the rain still beating down.

“Fuck, you’ve been it since the second you opened your door.”

[caixxa]

bed sharing but instead of there was only one bed it's there were only two beds for three. And it goes from who gets the privilege of their own bed to who is the one left out.

[15kpaperdragons]

i love reading de fanfic because you can tell what kind of build the author played with