#it was. not intentional its just that john is how i imagine him and i cannot change it 😭 hes just perfect

[eldritchqueerture]

@lighthouseshepard you asked for a tag 🥰 decided to split this one into a few chapters (looking at 4 so far I think)

Summary:

"His arms still felt tense without the connection to Arthur. Anxiety – was that what that was? – was brewing in his gut at the distance between them, despite it only being two feet at most. At least in Arthur’s eyes he had a better position to warn him should something approach; now there were too many distractions, and the angle was off. He had an almost overpowering urge to grab onto Arthur again, hold him tight against his body and never let him go ever again. That way they could be close again, close enough to protect against any threats, close enough to feel… whole." --- John and Arthur finally separate and temporarily stay in New York to get used to this new arrangement. It doesn't go as well as they might have hoped.

Arthur did not get his sight back.

This was the first thought John had after he had gathered his own surroundings enough to notice Arthur heaving on the floor beside him. Abandoned were the thoughts of free movement, finally after months of being confined to the space in Arthur’s mind and one arm, of a physical body finally of his own – as soon as he saw (with his own eyes at last) the pain on Arthur’s face. His hands shot out to grab the man by the shoulders – and they were big hands, significantly bigger than Arthur’s and darker by a few shades at least. John felt his stomach constrict at the sight, but the worry crowding his mind prevented him from getting overwhelmed with these new, physical sensations.

As soon as Arthur raised his head to look at him, John could tell he was not able to see. His eyes were clouded and unfocused even as he whispered Arthur’s name, his vocal cords not used to speaking.

“John?” Arthur asked shakily. “I—I’m… Are you…?”

“I’m here, I’m fine,” he whispered again and cleared his throat to get his voice working. “I’m... I’m here.”

There was wonder in his voice at the realization, but his eyes were glued to Arthur’s, his heart still beating fast with worry. This was supposed to work for both of them, it was supposed to give Arthur back what John had taken from him.

He felt his hands tighten on Arthur’s shoulders.

“I…” Arthur started, unsure. Then, he let out a mirthless laugh. “I can’t see.”

“Arthur, I’m sorry.” The words spilled from John’s mouth like a tide. “I’m so sorry, I thought it would work. I really hoped—”

“John, it’s alright,” Arthur interrupted him, his right hand searching and grabbing John’s shoulder. The touch felt so strange and foreign to John that it effectively stopped any other sounds coming from his mouth. “We knew it was a long shot anyway. It’s… It’s alright.”

He said that, but John could see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. “What about your arm? And, and—”

“I have it all back,” Arthur said, gaining a bit more control of his voice and flexing his left hand carefully. “All except for…”

He trailed off, and John tightened the grip on his shoulders again.

“Arthur—”

“What about you?” Arthur shook his head slightly, changing the subject. “You have—You have a body now! How do you feel?”

“I… It’s…” John hesitated and tried to take stock of his body. He felt the strength of muscles in his arms, legs and torso, felt the hair on his head, falling onto his shoulders. He was naked, skin forming goosebumps from the contact with the stone floor and the draft from the corridors of the hideout. He could feel every point where his skin touched something, the length of his shins on the stone, the stretch in his knees, the tension in his shoulders and the warmth of Arthur’s body on his palms. He could feel the air entering and leaving his lungs through his nostrils and his mouth; he could feel his own heart beating. It was… “So much.”

He hadn’t stopped gripping Arthur’s shoulders like a lifeline. He could not imagine letting go of him and dealing with all these new sensations alone. Arthur, he knew Arthur. He knew Arthur’s body. This one… would require getting used to.

“I can’t even imagine what it’s like…” Arthur mused. “Experiencing the physical reality for the first time. Are you okay?”

“I… think so?” John frowned and blinked a couple times. From what he could tell humans didn’t need to control breathing and blinking all the time, so why did it feel as if he stopped paying attention to it, he would suffocate? Why was his heart hammering like it wanted to break his ribcage open and get out? How did Arthur do this?

“Are you…” Arthur licked his lips almost nervously. “Is it… human?”

John blinked again, tilting his head slightly to look himself over. From the front he looked human enough, but he felt a crevasse on his back, the length of where his spine should be. He had full control of what hid there, barely material until he willed it into existence. One by one dark tendrils of shadow began to snake from behind him, carefully, as if testing the air.

“Mostly…” John said. With one of the tendrils he touched Arthur’s right hand, making him gasp. “But not… entirely.”

“Fuck,” Arthur let out, a look of wonder crossing his face as he felt the limb with his hand. It was material enough to touch, but the edges undulated slightly like fabric underwater. “Did you—?”

“I can hide them, I think,” John supplied. “If necessary.”

A bit of tension let up from his shoulders at the little smile on Arthur’s face. “Might be, if we plan on ever going out.”

“If people can even see them,” John remarked. When Arthur frowned with confusion, he explained, “Remember the Vizier and his… Well, the creature on his face? Noel saw it as a simple mask.”

“True! You’re right,” Arthur nodded. “I guess we’ll need to test that.”

John swallowed and cringed slightly. The tentacles for one were familiar – as the King, he had plenty of those, even if the memories were faded. He still clung to Arthur for dear life though, some of the tendrils wrapping around his arms as well almost without his conscious input.

“John, what are you…” Arthur let out a laugh. “You can let go of me, you know?”

John blinked at all the limbs he managed to connect with Arthur and detangled them all one by one, his chest growing heavier with each one. Eventually he forced his hands to let go of Arthur’s shoulders, his palms curling into fists immediately to search for something grounding. Nails in his skin – that was pain. At least this sensation was somewhat familiar. He focused the tension on his left pinkie without really thinking about it. Yes, that. He knew that.

“I suppose we need to find you some clothes,” Arthur spoke. “Didn’t you mention a wardrobe somewhere in this place?”

“Yes, whatever cult had been residing here used this place to sleep as well,” he said, acutely aware of the strain speaking put on his vocal cords. “There were robes as well as normal clothes.”

“Yes, well, I think we do prefer the latter,” Arthur laughed and stood up with a slight groan. John belatedly realized he could do that as well.

“The nearest room will be on our left,” he spoke. “In the corridor we passed through getting here.”

“Right, right.” Arthur walked in the right direction almost confidently, with John following him close by. His arms still felt tense without the connection to Arthur. Anxiety – was that what that was? – was brewing in his gut at the distance between them, despite it only being two feet at most. At least in Arthur’s eyes he had a better position to warn him should something approach; now there were too many distractions, and the angle was off. He had an almost overpowering urge to grab onto Arthur again, hold him tight against his body and never let him go ever again. That way they could be close again, close enough to protect against any threats, close enough to feel… whole.

Yes, it felt like an essential part of John was missing, left behind somewhere in the recesses of Arthur’s mind, and only that way he could at least get close to what he knew. He dreaded the thought of Arthur somehow disappearing from his line of sight, lost somewhere in the shadows of these old stone halls. The prospect made him feel sick.

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he didn’t notice that Arthur had stopped at an intersection.

“Ouch!” Arthur yelped as John bumped into him, turning back to him with a slight crease of annoyance on his forehead. “You’re the one with eyes, John. Use them.”

“Sorry, s-sorry. Uh, right here.”

Arthur’s hand searched for John’s and squeezed lightly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just… A lot to get used to,” John managed through the tightness in his throat. The touch of Arthur’s hand was a lifeline to a man drowning somewhere deep within him, and he desperately wanted to grab onto it and claw his way up along it towards the surface. His hand shook.

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, right?” Arthur asked, some concern coloring his voice that made John feel… Something in his stomach. Something he did not like. He frowned.

“Of course, Arthur,” he growled. “Let’s move.”

Arthur let go of his hand then and turned right, and it was one of the hardest things John had had to do not to pull that hand back to him by force if necessary. He followed Arthur with gritted teeth, the unpleasant tension unchanging in his chest.

They managed to find enough clothes to fit John in some pants, shirt and a jacket with a high collar. John was sparse with his descriptions and gave them only once Arthur asked. Most of the time he needed to get dressed had passed in silence, save for the rustling of clothes.

“Alright, ready to go?” Arthur asked once the rustling stopped. John was looking himself over, his jaw still clenched tightly.

“Yes,” he replied, keeping whatever thoughts brewed in his mind to himself.

“You should take my arm,” Arthur said. “It will look less… Weird.”

John frowned at him again. “Weird?”

“Well, I can’t very well hide the fact that I’m blind now,” Arthur replied. “Gonna have to learn to navigate on my own, now that we’re… apart.”

Something coiled tightly in John’s stomach. Again.

“Gonna have to buy a cane, probably. But either way, this will be easier for now.” Arthur stared in John’s direction expectantly. Carefully, John stepped towards him and wrapped his arm around Arthur’s forearm.

They managed to find their way out of the hideout, emerging from an abandoned building somewhere on the outskirts of New York. The train station was near enough that they made it there without issue and were on the train to New York before the sun started setting, painting the sky a golden orange.

They were alone in the car, as far as John could tell. The ticket taker had passed and checked their tickets, without so much as a second glance at the two, and the short ride to Grand Central was shaping up well. John was quiet, looking around the car and out the window once the train started moving. He felt Arthur at his side, close enough for their knees to touch, and it had to be enough. It had to be enough.

“How… How is it?” Arthur spoke up carefully. John blinked, realizing he’d probably been waiting for descriptions.

“The weather is clear, only a few clouds in the sky,” he started speaking. “The early sunset is painting everything in a golden hue, as we pass the houses on the way to the city. The train is mostly empty, there were a few people in the car that we passed on our way in, but now we are alone.”

Arthur huffed an unrealized laugh. “Thanks. But I, uh… I meant, for you. How is…” He licked his lips. “How does it feel now?”

John looked away, even though he knew Arthur could not see him.

“It’s still… a lot. A lot of sensory information I didn’t have to process before. It’s… harder to focus with it all.”

“Hm, I bet,” Arthur nodded.

“But I think it’s getting better,” John lied. “I’m getting used to it.”

“Good. Good,” Arthur offered. “Your brain starts to filter out some things once you get used to it. But I… If there’s anything you need, or, or—”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” John said impatiently. “I have experienced a lot through your hand already.”

The words felt sour on his tongue as his gaze involuntarily travelled to Arthur’s left hand. The hand that had used to be his. Practically the only manifestation of him, of who he is, out in the world.

And now it didn’t even belong to him anymore.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, and he forced himself to look away. Arthur deserved to have his arm back, he deserved to have control of his own body back, regardless of what John thought might have been his. Everything that he was in Arthur’s head had been stolen, taken without consent, without consideration. What fucking right did he have to claim that part of Arthur? Now that he had his own body – one without the scars, without the wood wedged into the bone of his left pinkie that always ached ever so slightly; the marks that he had considered his own. No, those were now Arthur’s to bear, Arthur’s alone. He had no claim to that body anymore, no matter how much of his identity he had weaved around them.

They arrived in New York before nightfall and managed to secure a room at the hotel. It was too late to call anyone – they had ended up near New York by accident, so no one was expecting them to arrive. Not that they assumed anyone would – Marie could have very well found a new tenant and they didn’t know whether Noel was still even in the city. When John had suggested Daniel, Arthur got slightly nervous and brushed the suggestion off, saying that they should definitely visit him, just maybe not so soon after separating. John could only guess at what that meant.

The hotel room was sparse, with a decently equipped bathroom, a radio and two beds with accompanying nightstands, as well as an empty wardrobe with a mirror door. John stopped in front of it, trying to reconcile the unfamiliar face of the man who he now was, standing – almost towering – over Arthur. His face was long, with a protruding chin, square-shaped jawline and a big nose. Half of it was covered by a splintered, white mask.

John obliged when Arthur asked him to describe himself. He kept his tone perfectly neutral throughout until he mentioned the mask and Arthur’s breath stuttered.

“Can I…” he begun with hesitation, reaching to grab John’s arm. “You don’t have to say yes, but… Can I touch it?”

Something seized in John’s chest, grabbing hold of his throat and squeezing for a moment, so hard he could not get a sound out. Then he breathed out, putting every effort to mask the shaking in it, and whispered an affirmation.

Arthur’s hand first found John’s collarbone and traced it up to his neck and jaw. A shiver passed through John’s body that he sincerely hoped escaped Arthur’s notice, and the careful fingertips reached the edges of the mask.

John could feel through it, the mask an integrated part of his body, with nerve connections leading to and from it as they would on any part of his skin. Almost involuntarily John raised his own hand to match Arthur’s movement, to feel what he could feel – the smooth, silk-like texture of the mask under his fingertips. In doing so, he covered Arthur’s hand entirely, effectively cupping it to his face.

“John…” Arthur sighed his name in a tone that made John’s stomach do some really strange twists, and he was really growing sick of this. He gripped Arthur’s palm perhaps a tad tighter than he intended and drew it away from his face.

“Well, I can’t really hide this one,” he announced, with frustration bubbling over into his voice.

“It’s—It’s alright,” Arthur said in a thick tone, withdrawing his hand back to himself. “Some people wear, uh… Masks like that to hide facial scarring sometimes. It’s alright.”

John did not mention how the mask looked way too similar to the Pallid Mask that the King’s cult wore, and Arthur didn’t seem inclined to either. Some sort of bundle of emotions coiled in John’s chest at that thought – shame? Regret? Guilt? But also some sort of satisfaction – a feeling of it being right. This was a part of him whether he liked it or not – whether Arthur liked it or not. And John would just have to deal with what that meant for them going forward.

[lisenberry]

Fluffy fluff.

CW: Pregnancy and child birth, language

Ch.2, Ch.3

You knew this day would come. Your due date wasn’t until the following week, but as of your last check-up, the midwife didn’t think you would make it that long.

But you were still surprised, and fought a rising panic, when you woke up around dawn to your first set of contractions. They weren’t terrible, at first, and you tried to remain calm as you showered, dressed in the comfortable outfit you’d set aside and checked your hospital bag for the thousandth time since you’d packed it weeks ago.

You’d read all of the books and watched all of the videos. It was a long process, and there was no rush to get to the hospital at this stage. It could be hours, days even before anything happened.

You were completely prepared and in control.

Until you stepped out into your hallway and straight into the wall of heat and muscle that was your neighbor.

“Oh, hi, John. I didn’t know you were back.” It’d been over a year since he’d left.

Why on earth he kept such an expensive apartment when he hardly ever lived in it, you couldn’t understand. He’d lived across the hall for five years, and had spent less than six months total sleeping in his bed.

And every so often, when it worked out, in yours.

“I got in late last night.” He paused, brows drawn together as he took in your obvious condition. “I was just heading to the gym.”

Jesus, he looked so good. Even in track shorts and a hooded sweatshirt. It pulled tightly across his chest as he rocked back on his heels. No doubt doing the quick math as to whether or not he could be responsible.

“I’m headed to have a baby,” you huffed out, as a sudden rush of spasming pain in your back nearly keeled you over.

That was a new feeling. It felt urgent. Shit, maybe you should’ve left sooner.

“Right now?” He lunged to grab your bags from your arms as you leaned against the wall for support.

“Not yours, don’t worry.” You laughed up at him, in an attempt to lighten the awkwardness of the exchange.

“Can I call someone for you?”

“I called a cab. It’s on its way.” The pressure started to ebb as you chanced a few steps towards the stairs.

“A cab? Absolutely not, I’ll drive you.”

“No, please. It’s fine. I have a plan. It’s all going to plan.”

But he’d taken possession of your hospital bag and your diaper bag, and had them loaded into the boot of his truck before you could protest.

“Is your boy—the father meeting you there?” Once he’d hoisted you into the passenger seat, and started the engine, he finally asked the question that had been left hanging between you.

“He’s not in the picture.”

Never was, you didn’t add. After you’d convinced yourself it would never work out between you and John, you'd had a brief fling with a visiting colleague from Berlin.

Imagine your surprise when you found out you were pregnant a month after he’d finished the project and gone home. To his wife, you found out later.

“You’re doing this alone?”

“It’s going to be fine. I told you, I have a plan.”

**********

“You don’t have to stay, really. I can do this on my own.” The contractions had become so intense, you couldn't control your voice enough to sound convincing.

His sympathetic smile as he finished filling out your intake paperwork was purely to placate. He had no intention of leaving. And you were grateful for his help.

The fact that he knew so much about you to only need to ask a few questions when completing the never-ending forms should’ve been alarming, not comforting.

Your blood type? Had you ever told him that?

“Aren’t you preregistered? How many times have you had to give them the same information?” He drew his eyebrows together in frustration as he realized the next packet was double sided.

“A fucking thousand.” You focused on your breathing and fought the waves of nausea that seemed to get worse along with the pain.

Weren’t there supposed to be breaks? You were told there would be breaks. You barely got a second to unclench your fists before another one started again.

You stood too quickly and steadied yourself with a hand to his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Concerned, he stood with you.

“I’m going to be sick.” You rushed, or rather waddled at your fastest pace, to the nearby family restroom and he trailed along close behind.

He stopped momentarily at the triage desk to slap the clipboard down and boom something about needing a room immediately, before following you in and holding your hair back as you wretched into the toilet.

“Shhh, I’ve got you.” He soothed, as he rubbed your back and passed you a wad of tissue.

“Please don’t leave me,” you croaked out, tears flowing at your helplessness and the sudden realization that this was only the beginning. That your life would never be the same.

“Careful what you wish for, darling.”

Once you were admitted to a room and set up with effective pain management, you finally relaxed enough to get your wits about you. And that involved, in no small part, frequently reminding the staff that, no, John was not your husband. He wasn’t even the father.

He wasn’t nearly as dedicated to correcting them as you were.

Things seemed to happen quickly, although you’d find out later that you labored well into the night, with a tireless, supporting hand held firmly in yours.

“You did so good, love.” When it was all over, he wiped a sweaty, wayward lock of hair from your cheek and planted a kiss on the top of your head. Seemingly as relieved as you were. As if he’d been holding his breath along side you.

You missed the look the nurse gave you as she placed the squirming infant on your chest, nor did you hear her mutter under her breath, “Not the father, my ass.”

“Welcome to the world, sweetheart,” you cooed, the pain quickly forgotten as you felt a tremendous sense of peace. Clarity.

“And welcome home, John.”

[jammiesjars]

First time doing this , but would love Price or koing with a plus fem reader 😩🙏

OH absolutely 😋😋😋

How about a little bit of both?? Its more of a ramble but i hope these suffice 💗💗💗

I did some comfort and fluff for konigs and I did smut for price’s :)

Warnings: fluff and smut, dirty talk, talk of insecurity in königs, grinding

Price

“My pretty fuckin’ birdie…” John mutters, pawing at your thick hips and love handles. He’s got you sat on his lap in front of the mirror, blissed out beyond recognition with his cock seated inside of you.

Its your fault, honestly. John has had a hard day at work, so to see his wife wearing the nightgown she wore on their wedding night made all that frustration channel into something more… primal.

“Look at ya… how gorgeous..” He’d growl, reaching up to squeeze the fat of your tits as he lets you desperately grind down onto him. Your cunt aches, desperate for the release you’ve been denied so many times as Price plays with your body. You desperately try to lift your hips up for more friction, only to be slammed back down; the fat on your thighs rippling as it connects with his muscular ones.

“No, love. I didn’t say you could lift your hips, did I? I said you could grind.” He’d tut, rocking your hips back and forth.

“N-not enough- its not enough John-“ you’d slur, babbling incoherently as he makes you grind back on him.

“You’ll take what I give you.”

You let out pitiful moans and pleas, just for ‘a little more, john’, and promising you’ll ‘be a good girl, love.’

But it doesnt matter. Price doesnt want this to end just yet, so it wont.

He’ll keep you like this until he cant take it any longer, finally gripping the fat of your hips and fucking you into oblivion.

Konig

“You ready to go, Meine Liebe?” König would call out, his large frame standing in the doorway. Even in his own house he manages to radiate something ominous, like hes out of place.

What he didnt expect, though, was to be met with tears running down your pretty face as you stood in front of the mirror. He watched as you tugged at the dress you wore, silently sobbing as it doesnt fit exactly how you imagined. (So real)

“Schatz?” König frowns. “What’s wrong?”

König trots over, kneeling in front of you. “Whats got my wife so upset?” His large hands engulf your chubby hips that he rubs in soothing circles. It doesnt matter how plump you got, wether naturally or from königs sneaky ways of making you eat more, (poor boy was afraid you were going to wither away and he wasnt going to let that happen.) , he still somehow managed to remain larger.

Bleary eyes meet his as you babble incoherently, trying to explain that you cant go out looking like this.

“Looking like what, Meine Liebe? You look pretty.” He states, his tone straightforward. He says it like its a fact, not an opinion.

“Like- like this! Im huge-“ you blubber, more tears falling down your swollen cheeks. You attempt to step out of Königs grip, with the intentions of changing.

“Ah ah. You’re not leaving yet, maus. Let me look at my wife” He tuts, large hands roaming your body.

“So pretty and soft..” He grunts, squeezing your midsection and arms.

“König don’t touch me like that, you know how i get-“ You’d sniffle, wiping your tears.

“Hush. Ill touch my wife how I want.” Is all you get in return as he peppers soft kisses on any skin for purchase. Its almost ironic to see such a large man kneeling before you to kiss you so sweetly.

Hes content here, to kiss your skin so sweetly as wordless affirmation for his love for your body until those tears stop. And once they finally do, he’ll peer up from kissing the soft pudge of your stomach.

“My pretty maus… dont cry, Ja? You’re so beautiful.”

Is he the best with words? No. But damn will he try if it means your more comfortable in your own skin.

[eowynstwin]

gravity

previous - neighbors - next

John takes you out to dinner. cw: alcohol, somewhat heavy drinking

It’s a cold and windy morning that, as you hover just a little closer to his warmth, you ask him about decent places to eat nearby.

“Fancy pub food?” he asks in response, and it takes you a moment to process what he’s said. Today he’s in a thick, soft-looking knit sweater, which makes it infinitely difficult not to imagine huddling up against him.

You think he’d let you. You’re not sure how you know this. Maybe it’s the way he positions himself next to you, standing at an angle toward you just slight enough to be casual, but open enough to be purposeful. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to warm you up with his eyes alone—he asked you once why you always bundled up to be outside, and you told him you were just sensitive to the cold.

Since then, you’ve often caught him checking on you, surreptitiously. Simple once-overs that you think are searching for evidence of discomfort.

What would he do, you wonder, if he found any? Would he send you inside, as he had the first morning?

Part of you thinks that would be better. It would give you an out, open up a path diverting away from whatever this thing is that hangs in the air between you and John Price, this thing that you pass back and forth between the pages of borrowed books.

It’s a thing that breathes with the both of you into the early morning, and you don’t know how to look at it. You don’t understand its shape. It’s a thing you wish you wanted to walk away from.

“Who doesn’t?” you reply, sipping at the cold dregs in your cup.

“How ‘bout tonight, then?” John says, and you swallow a little too quickly.

“W-what about tonight?”

He smiles at you, as if he’s thrown you off on purpose. “Dinner, on me.”

You blink several times. “You—I—I mean—really?”

He shrugs, easy and casual as you wish you could be. “Could show you what’s best on the menu. And I wouldn’t mind having dinner with someone besides m’self.”

You hesitate, because your gut reaction is to say yes, John, I’d like nothing more, and that is not a reaction you want to satisfy. These past several mornings have been nice—nicer than you could have expected. You’ve stopped interrogating yourself as to why you keep bothering, because each time his smile greets you as you step outside is answer enough. The routine has been easy to settle into, even comforting.

You need to protect that comfort, you know, even from the allure of something more.

John does not press for an answer, seeming content to savor the last few inhales of his cigar. You wonder if he’s guessed at your inner conflict, wonder if the quiet he’s giving you is an intentional moment to sort yourself out.

He never presses for anything, ever.

“I suppose I could meet you after work,” you finally say.

The smile that breaks across his face nearly knocks you off your feet. You’re relieved when he says, “Sounds good to me,” because if he’d said it’s a date you think you might have dissolved on the spot.

John texts you the pub’s address, and it’s close enough to walk to. You arrive that evening, in your usual two coats plus a knitted hat, to find that the place exceeds a set of expectations you didn’t know you had. The patio seating is closed in with a white picket fence and hung with strings of fairy lights, and it flanks a red brick building with a large, friendly lantern hanging over the door.

You might have expected something a little grubbier, if you’d given the place any more thought beyond this is John’s pub and he’s having me for dinner here.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, and your gaze is drawn as if by a magnet to a table further in—John has already seen you, and beckons you over with a wave.

He’s still in the knit sweater, and his fleece jacket is hanging on the back of the seat across from him. He stands as you approach, rounds the table, and pulls that chair out for you when you join him.

You don’t know why the chivalry makes you falter, makes you want to turn and sprint all the way back home. All you know, as you sit down, is that you can practically feel the aura of his presence behind you as he helps push your chair in, can feel it move as he leaves your side to return to his seat. You feel yourself gravitate into it, leaning a little over the table as if trying to keep it close.

“This place is tidy,” you say earnestly, trying for that morning normalcy, as you begin to shuck your layers.

“It’s alright,” he agrees. He’s smiling gently, the cool blue of his eyes vivid in the contrast of warm lamplight.

“Do you—” and then you can’t help but giggle, because it’s such a cliche question “—do you come here often?”

He grins, huffs that little laugh. “Too often,” he says as he sits back in his chair, putting a hand on his stomach. “It’ll start showing soon, probably.”

You look at the flat of his stomach, the broad paw of his hand. Remember the trim waist of that very first morning. “You know, somehow I doubt that.”

He meets you eyes, laughs again, and it warms you to the bone.

Seeing him like this, at night, is an unknown quantity. The John you know how to interact with exists on his front doorstep, painted in the cool palette of sunrise, cold air, cigar smoke. This tableau, composed upon the table between you, might as well turn him into another man entirely. Who is this John, awash in warm light, nearly twelve hours older than the man you spoke to this morning? Who are you, now, seeing him after work and before the end of the night?

You feel a little untethered. Your feet still itch for the door, for the measured, predictable floorboards of your own home.

Maybe John notices, because he takes a menu from the stack of two at the end of the table and offers it to you with a reassuring lift of his brows. “Hungry?”

That question, at least, has an easy answer. You smile a little. “Starving.”

His advice turns out to be necessary—everything looks good, and you both end up ordering too much food. Over a spread of fresh, hot chips, halloumi kebabs, and katsu chicken served liberally with curry sauce, John also has a bottle of scotch brought to the table.

“No, that’s too much!” you protest as the waitress sets the decanter down with two clean glasses. “John, really.”

He sets to pouring, his expression pleased, though you’re not sure what about. “Humor me, love. I don’t get to share very often.”

He hands you a glass, and lifts his own above the food. You acquiesce, and clink the rims.

“Do I take a shot or a sip?” you ask, bringing the glass up to your mouth.

“A sip,” says John, and his expression is genuinely distressed. “Please, don’t ever suggest shooting scotch again. That hurt to hear.”

You smirk, and take a slow drink. It hits your tongue with the prologue to a burn, rolling across your taste buds as the twinge fades and you close your eyes. The flavor opens like smoke exhaled into still air; you purse your lips a little and swirl it in your mouth; nutmeg, vanilla, and even a little apple expand across your palate. When it hits the back of your tongue, a short floral burst surprises you, and you swallow it down eagerly.

You find John watching you when you open your eyes.

“Where did you learn to drink like that?” he asks, and there is a new tone in his voice that you’ve never heard before.

It’s low. Resonant. Almost—purring. The look in his eyes, too, is different, the pale blue sharper somehow. Focused keenly, and with some unknown, honed intent, on you.

It pins you where you sit. John is looking at you. John is seeing you.

“Doesn’t everyone learn to drink at uni?” you reply, trying for airy and light. It doesn’t work. Your voice trembles, just a bit.

He’s still watching you, and you think he sees that. Recognizes, perhaps, a change in your expression, some telltale sign that he has shaken you. He looks away from you, takes a drink of his own scotch, and when his gaze returns the keen edge of it has softened. You breathe, and realize you hadn’t been.

You seek something comfortable, something you can measure and control. “How is Actium treating you, then?”

He smiles, and it’s a little rueful. “Octavian’s being a cunt.”

As talk of the most recent book he’s borrowed carries you into more comfortable territory, the two of you make your way through dinner, which is every bit as delicious as John had promised. The food is hearty, greasy in a way that isn’t too heavy, and pairs perfectly with John’s scotch, which you indulge in liberally.

When the alcohol has outpaced the food that is meant to offset it, you think back to what he’d said earlier, about not often getting to share.

“So am I the first person you’ve brought here?” you ask. “Or do you take every neighbor out to dinner?”

John lifts one dark brow, leans in with a tilt of his head. “Only the pretty ones.”

You give an unladylike snort and swirl a cut of chicken around in curry sauce. “You’re incorrigible, John, really.”

The smile he gives crinkles the laugh lines around his eyes, and you feel yourself want to melt at the sight. It is unfair how handsome he is, in that warm sweater, in that golden light, haloed softly in the haze of your verging intoxication.

“When will you believe me when I compliment you, hmm?” he asks, low and resonant in the depths of his chest.

You shoot the rest of your scotch in answer, stuff the chicken into your mouth, and proffer the empty glass.

John squints at your heresy, but obediently pours.

“I suppose your line of work isn’t really great for your social life, then,” you comment. “Always coming and going.”

“My calendar’s certainly empty,” John agrees. “Honestly, it’s been a while since I’ve sat down with someone like this. I suppose I’m out of practice.”

“You’re eating with a fork and knife and not your hands.” You grin. “I’d say that’s pretty good already.”

He smiles back. “Would that chase you off?”

You sip your scotch. “Not if you keep pouring.”

“And she complained when the bottle came out. What about you, then?”

“What ‘bout me?”

“How many blokes have you been to dinner with, lately?”

You scoff at that and wash your food down with a sip. “None. As if they’re throwin’ ‘emselves at me.”

John’s expression changes, and it’s slow grin that spreads across his face, a smile you have never seen on him before. It isn’t the sad smile he’s given you at times, melancholy and resigned; nor is it the one he gives when he sees you in the morning, warm and soft and friendly.

No, this one is—energized. Invigorated. As if someone has given him good news he hadn’t been expecting.

“They’ve got to be,” he says, and his tone is humorous. “You must have your pick of the lot. And none of them have struck your fancy?”

You press your hands to your too-warm face. “John, don’t tease me.”

“Seems I’ve got to count myself lucky tonight, then,” he continues, leaning his elbows on the table. “If you’re as choosy as all that.”

You give him a droll look, and swirl your drink around in your glass. “If you must know, I got out of a relationship not long ago.”

John’s brows lift, and you want to smack yourself for letting that little detail escape you. “Is that so?”

You drink. “That is so.”

“What kind of idiot would let you get away?”

“My head is already spinning, and you’re abusing that,” you protest.

“Sorry, love,” he says, clearly not sorry. “But now you’ve got me curious.”

You sit back in your chair, staring at your plate to avoid his gaze. “I’m afraid it’s not all that dramatic. It just…didn’t feel right. I guess he liked me more than I liked him. We would go out, and I would think, ‘I want to leave him and go home.’”

And you still felt guilty about it. You hadn’t liked him that much in the first place, when he’d asked you out—you’d just said yes, because it seemed like the right moment in your life for something like that to happen. When you’d ended it, your extended social network had scratched its collective head, because there truly hadn’t been any good reason.

You just weren’t happy.

“Suppose I didn’t give it enough of a chance,” you say, downing the last of your glass.

“Hey,” John says, soft and gentle. You look up to meet his eyes—the expression on his face is a mixture of sympathy and resolution. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Sure, John.”

“Love.” His brow creases, insistent. “You deserve something you want.”

You press your lips together tightly, and suddenly you’re struck again with that sensation from earlier, that feeling that John’s presence is a tangible aura, something that rolls and settles across your awareness like a physical touch. You realize you’ve been leaning into it again, drawn toward him like a comet into the snag of a planet’s gravity.

“I’m definitely drunk now,” you say, because the only other words that want to come out are an emphatic I want you.

John smiles. He doesn’t press the issue. “Will I be carrying you home, then?”

“Oh, John, really!” You give a scoff, surprised at the sudden humor. “You couldn’t carry me all that way.”

One dark brow lifts.

“No,” you say. “You’ll have to put me down. I’m not light.”

The smile remains.

You hold his gaze, suspicious, and finish the last of your glass. It does not take long to polish off the last of dinner, and when the two of you agree that the last chips have finally gotten too cold to eat, John pushes his seat back and stands.

“Done, then? I’ll settle the tab. Love, put that away.”

You sheepishly lower your half-lifted wallet back into your purse.

Accounts settled, you make it outside the pub, and then you have to lean against a wall as John watches you, amused. The world is swaying, its pendulum arcing near-horizontal at the amplitude of each swing.

“I just need a minute,” you whisper.

John does the worst thing he could possibly do—he gives you his back and kneels down, arms a little open. “Come on.”

“Come on? Come off it, John, really, you’ll drop me!” you exclaim.

He looks over his shoulder at you. “I won’t.”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. Tomorrow, you’ll blame the many glasses of expensive scotch, but in the moment you know it’s the way the hanging lights limn his silhouette in gold. You know it’s the soft expression on his face that you are already too fond of. You know it’s the quiet confidence in his reassurance, and above all those things it’s the familiar comfort of his kind blue eyes.

“All right, John,” you say.

As you wrap your arms around his shoulders, John scoops your knees up into the bend of his arms, and you can add now the feeling of his strength to your mental registry of his body. He is broad against you, the width of him obliging your thighs to part farther than they have in a long, long time.

It brings a heat to your face that dwarfs the low simmer of your inebriation. When he lifts you, straightens up and hoists you a little on his back, like you weigh almost nothing, you are unable now to shove back and contain what he has inspired since that first morning.

“This feels nice,” you murmur, tucking your chin on his shoulder. The scotch has the reins of your tongue now. There is no stopping the words that come out. “I wondered if it would. This morning.”

John’s reply is low, humming in his throat as he begins the trek home. “This morning?”

You breathe. “You always look warm and soft. You’re so handsome every morning. Even the first. I wanted to touch you back then. I wanted you to hold me.”

He doesn’t say anything. Maybe he’s trying to focus on the walk back and not dropping you in the middle of it. He hoists you a little, cupping his hands beneath your knees, squeezing.

His silence prompts more of your honesty. “I don’t want to go to dinner with anyone else, John. Even if someone did ask. You’re the only one.”

“You’re drunk, love,” John says. You don’t recognize the tone of his voice, why it sounds…pleading.

Your face is very close to his, your chin pillowed in the fleece lining of his collar. You resolve fully to blame what you do next on the scotch, and touch the tips of your fingers to the coarse umber on his cheek.

His thumbs press into the divots beneath your kneecaps. John says your name, low and breathy. It must be the strain of carrying you that shows in his voice.

You lean in. You press your cheek against the bristles of his beard, inhale, take in the ever-present Maduro that saturates his skin. The friction is a million little pinpricks of sensation, and you think in that moment that if his beard doesn’t leave hot, welted scratches on your face, you might fall asleep crying.

“Oh,” you murmur, not recognizing the languorous, almost wanton sound of your own voice. “Feels good, John.”

“That’s,” he huffs, and audibly swallows. “That’s good. We’re—ah—we’re almost there.”

“Okay,” you say, sighing against him, settling fully into the expanse of his back.

You doze, unburdened now by what you’ve admitted. He does not waver once on the walk, makes no complaint of your weight as street lights pass and the night moves slowly by. He is as steady, when he makes it to your front door, as he was when he first picked you up.

“Where’s your key, love?” he asks.

“Oh,” you murmur blearily, “um. Let me down.”

Even after your feet are back on the ground, his steadying hand does not leave you, ballasting your elbow as you dig around in your purse. It seems like an embarrassingly long time before you find your keychain, and when you try to unlock your door you miss the slot twice.

John’s big hand wraps around yours then, engulfing it with long fingers and broad palm, and guides the key steadily into the lock. The slide of the deadbolt is loud in the quiet night. You have to lean against the door, suddenly devoid of the strength to turn the knob as you look up at John’s concerned face.

“Let me help you in, love,” he says, brow creased. “Please. I’m worried you’ll fall and hit your head.”

Your entire body feels like it’s sinking into a glass of champagne, his words caressing you like rising bubbles, little pearls of air tickling your face as they touch you. You openly stare at him, watch his throat work as he swallows again, rest your eyes along the broad tendon that flexes as he tilts his head.

“Sure,” you whisper, too out of breath to speak aloud. “If that’s what you want.”

So John turns the knob, loops your arm around his shoulders, and walks you inside.

It is very hard to focus now, as John sits you down on your couch. There isn’t much you can hold in your mind besides the moment his hands leave you, and you inexplicably want to cry at their loss. You don’t see where he goes, vision going dark and blurry around the edges—you think he might have left until he comes back with one of your glasses, filled with clear, cool water.

He kneels in front of you and proffers it, doesn’t let go of the glass until both your hands are wrapped around it. He watches you as you take a sip.

“Drink all of that, alright?” he says. “You had a lot.”

You hold the glass back out to him. “You did too.”

His brows lift, lips parting. Have you surprised him? He pulls the glass closer with a little tug, puts his lips to the rim and tilts it from the bottom as you hold it. His eyes do not leave yours as he drinks, as he takes only a little, and then he pulls away and gently pushes the glass back toward you. Your gaze falls from his eyes, down to the little droplets of water clinging to his mustache, down again to the steady line of his mouth.

You bring the glass back up and take a deep gulp.

“Good girl,” he says, low and rumbling, and heat floods your body.

You realize then that his other hand is on your knee, the weight of his palm heavy and broad, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle into the edge of the cap. You are washed in the blend of his warm comfort and the sudden, almost violent sear of your own desire.

When the glass is empty, he eases it from your hands and sets it aside on your coffee table. When he turns back to you, your hand comes up, unbidden, to curve itself along the angle of his jaw. Umber bristles are coarse beneath the sweep of your thumb.

“Not soft, is it?” John murmurs, and there is something stormy and intense in his gaze.

You take a deep breath. “Maybe I’m okay with that.”

His hand grips your knee suddenly, vicelike, and you know this is pushing too far. He does not lean in to you, makes no move toward you, but his entire body is a bank of energy that he is holding, holding, holding back. His chest rises and falls rapidly. His eyes pin you to the couch as he works the muscles in his jaw.

“You’re drunk, love,” he says. It is not the pleading assertion he’d given earlier. It is a conclusion—fond, but resigned.

The room has begun to gently spin, with John at its axis. “I’m drunk,” you agree, whispering and fragile.

It breaks whatever has been building since you’d left the pub. John draws back. Nods. Gives you a smile—that smile. The one that had taken hold of you the first time you saw it. Trying, with every scrap of willpower it had, to be happy, to be alright with what little it had. Failing to do so.

Unable to hide how much it wanted.

“You got a spare key?” he asks. “I can lock you in.”

“Key hook,” you say.

His hand drags down from your knee to stroke along your shin, and then he’s rocking back on his heels, standing to his full height. He looks at you for a moment longer.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

When you blink, he’s gone, and the deadbolt is sliding home.

[jolapeno]

pulse. skin. soap.

soap mactavish x f!reader (call of duty)

you have two things to thank for this: wine + @ghostaholics

IMAGINE stumbling to your room on base. exhausted, banged up. scrapes and bruises protesting something chronic. using the door to lean to capture your breath. dropping your things, one by one. heavy, loud in the quiet of your room—something you should desire, but you don't want silence. you want noisy, busy, limited space to think about how close all of that was.

flipping the light on, only to come face to face with him. soap—mactavish. john.

he's been sat waiting. given a heads-up that it hadn't gone to plan. the term 'gone to shit' was used, and he’s been stewing, fretting. working himself up.

because he should have been there.

and when your eyes land on him, your throat closes—having only wanted to see him. and here he is. and now you’re not sure what it is you want.

soap doesn't allow you to ask, push or talk. just stands, mattress protesting his movements as he closes the gap in three strides. lips latching to yours, kissing you like he's starved—like he hasn't been able to breathe.

there's been a noose around his neck since someone told him—his nails picked, skin raw around the beds.

now though, he just feels you. sliding his head down, kisses left on your chin, jaw and neck, before he takes a moment to press his face into your chest. hearing your pulse, feeling it hammer against his nose as he breathes in the scent of you mixed with the world that tried to take you.

blinking, your hands slide to his neck, fingers tracing around to his chin, lifting him, his tongue warm and heavy in your mouth. desperation beating through you as you take in his calloused palms, all scorching against the bitter cold of your cheeks.

you don't grumble when your back meets the door, barely even a wince—body having been aching for so long, this, with him is minor. then the kiss turns messy, a blend of bitter and sweet as gratitude falls from you in unspoken whispers and apologies fall from his. mixing, merging. falling as quickly as they appear, quickly followed by fabric—the remainder of your clothes hitting the floor with a clunk before its thinner pieces, ones that float and make no noise when they hit the ground. then you just feel him, skin to skin, his gratefulness against your thigh, hard, leaking—desperate.

pulse. skin. soap.

it only dawns then, practically swarming you, that you're safe. a sob threatening to escape. a crack appearing over your wall, but he holds you tighter. more intently. as though feeling the earthquake that runs through you.

he's decided, in the second since he's felt your body against him, that it’s less about being in you, than being against you. more desperate to feel your heart beat, than hear you whisper his name. but you're pulling, tugging, pleading. his lips kissing your collarbone, down your breastbone, feeling you arch into him until he can lay you down in soft, made sheets, the instrumental sound of the bed groaning once more filling the space around your breaths.

it escapes then. runs, flees from his throat. "thought I lost yer, lass."

you can't stop it from wobbling, your bottom lip twitching between you place it between your teeth. your hands finding purpose on him, the back of his neck and waist, not wanting to tell him that at one stage, you thought he had to.

instead, you press your mouth to his. roll your hips. punctuating a few words back with action than comments you can’t mutter.

you know he knows. the two of you are connected, more than just in how you both are between your thighs. but more in a way that’s like an invisible thread. one that hummed when you were on your back, eyes blinking as orange, yellow and red exploded up into the blue, cloud-filled sky.

"eyes on me, lass."

you’re not there now. his words yanking you back. placing you here, with him, on your back in a different way entirely as you dig your nails into his skin. eyes landing on the once-white ceiling above him—just dull yellow light casting shadows over you and him.

"came back for you, mactavish. just you. always for you."

his head dips, and presses to your neck. eyes closing, forcing back tears of worry and dread. because you're here, breathing on his neck.

soap knows he should be focused on making you forget the hell you’ve just survived. knows you need this, that this is who you are. that this is the two of you, a complex array of pulling and tugging before words can be muttered and honesty can respire. because he knows what their job is—what it means. knows each time he waves you off—or you him—that could be it. gone, stolen, vanished as though the other next existed in the desert, greenery or water. which is why he pauses his movements, thumbs brushing over your cheeks, staring into your wide-open eyes.

“shoulda told y'how much y'mean to me,” he whispers.

something shattering in you, tears appearing then falling. dashing in a quick flood down your dirt-covered cheeks as he nips at your neck; suspects it’s why your nails dig into his neck, shoulders and scalp. to feel it, how real this is—this thing the two of you have and the dangers you both have to face.

the ones you have to fight through to get back to the other. it against your neck, tongue licking at the sweat at the base. not giving a single fuck that you’ve not showered. barely able to force away the sight of clotted blood just above your knee, on your hip and on your cheek. unable to stop thinking about the swelling of your bruises that are quickly forming.

because soap knows he should be happy, pleased that this is all it is. while you know you should be happy you have him waiting for you.

thankful for the little things, like pulses, skin and each other.

[bowieandqueen11]

Not Just A Trinket / Izzy Hands Imagine

Request: hi! ur writing is EVERYTHING btw. ur an amazing writer. you mentioned you wanted to write for izzy hands again and i have a request– feel free to ignore if it's not what ur looking for :) maybe izzy hands x reader where the reader has a small gift for him (a little trinket, a beaded crystal bracelet– something they made for him) but they're WAY too anxious to give it to him because they're scared he won't like it so they end up just carrying it around, trying to build up the courage to give it to him pfft

AHHH thank you so much my lovely, that's so sweet of you, and so is this idea!!! :3 Also I know I'm a little early in the timeline mentioning Davy Jones but I like to think of Izzy as a trendsetter ;)

Warning: mentions of fighting/ injury and strong language, some sexual innuendo!

(I do not own OFMD or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes to @nadsdraws.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

Izzy Hands was beginning to detest feeling like this.

He would rather charge sword first at a horde of raging Englishmen: would prefer to scrabble and scrape and scratch through the eye sockets of thousands of the Spanish with naught but his bloodied fingernails. Hell, even grovelling under the sole of the snivelling wreck that now possessed his former boss like a twisted nightmare, a horrid regret, would be preferable. If his hand wasn't too firmly attached to tangled rope of one of the shrouds in a death grip, if his glove wasn't close to bursting at the seams with how tightly he was gripping, he had half a mind to draw his dagger out of its scabbard and gouge his heart out right there and then.

He looked furious. So much so, that Roach was quick to side step him as he hopped down the steps with fresh sewing materials in his hand, giving a final look back at the intent man who only bared his teeth at the cook in response. Valuing his life, or at least the ability to keep all his fingers, if the sight of the keen blade being twisted between Izzy's free fingers told him anything, Roach is quick to recoil back and raise a concerned eyebrow in Wee John's direction. He in turn just rolls his eyes and lowers his head back to his sewing, but the rest of Stede's crew are astute enough, from where they're lingering around the deck, to notice the thick tension brewing like cold shivers of electricity in the air. Even Jim and Oluwande were giving each other side eyes, pausing their hammering at the helm to dart their eyes to their side and trace the path of Izzy's line of sight.

It never wavered. Every time they looked, it never changed. He had spent the last two hours gaping sourly towards the edge of the quarter deck. Gawking solely at you, without a single movement, without a single flicker outside the bubble where you hunched.

You thought he was angry at you for arranging a special outing for Ed and Stede at Datura Grotto, finally indulging in finding a way for them to spend some time alone after your Captain had begged and hounded you for days; he had become so accustomed to bursting through doors trying to find you and ask for your help, that the poor daunted man nearly burst into tears when he smashed your bedroom door into your nose and nearly broke it. The rest of the crew believed he was plotting something: trying to pick out the quieter members of their friends first, as payback for being stuck on this so called 'straight out of Davy Jones' arsehole' of a ship for so long.

Izzy, though. Izzy knew he was smitten. And he fucking hated it. He hated feeling so vulnerable.

Out of all the crew members still pretending to mill about, only Lucius was daring enough to purse his lips and look brazenly back at Blackbeard's first mate. Only Lucius, in fact, was feeling equally brave, and equally vexatious that fine afternoon to muster up the courage to slide up beside him. 'Someone in a bad mood today, are we?'. He taps the ships railing with the point of his nail, the broom he had been pretending to sweep splintered pieces off the floor a moment ago soon forgotten about as he leans it against the side of the ship. He replaces the loss by dropping his hand to his hip, cocking his head and smiling at an increasingly agitated looking Izzy. 'Would it have anything to do with that fine young sea farer over there by any chance? How romantic, Dizzy Izzy. Oh, I do love a good fix-me-up-'

Oh, he was enjoying this.

Izzy's quick to snap, not even bothering to look in Lucius' direction. 'Fuck off, before I do you a favour and cut that little seducing tongue out of your mouth for you.' Lucius watches Izzy's fingers tighten into leather clad black balls on the rope ladder, and doesn't need a second warning to trot off back towards his friends again. With a final wide eyed look of shock, he turns back to Black Pete and shrugs, holding his hands up as if to say that he tried his best.

All the while, you just keep your gaze steady out and onto the brewing horizon of the sea, watching as foam shook out like reaching hands around your ankles as they across cut through the wave crests, only the salty sting of thrumming silence keeping you company underneath his watchful gaze. The beaded necklace you had spent the last week or so threading together, carefully crafted by trembling fingers and a bit tongue during long evenings spent in your hammock, was beginning to feel like an anchor weight in your pocket. You tried to distract yourself with mundane, idle chit chat with a very thankful Lucius, who had swung over to your side after Pete convinced him to go scouting out for some more gossip. Swinging his legs between the latches of the port quarter, he merrily took the hammer you were idly holding from your hand and began to 'fix up the ship', his wrist barely moving as he turned to you with a scheming smile.

'So, do you know what's going on then? Why Izzy's acting like this? I swear, that man. If he doesn't bend over right now and try to get that stick out of his arse, he's going to be a miserable sad sack of repressed irritation forever. He's like a jack in the box. I swear to god, I'm just waiting for him to burst.' The tone of his voice sounds almost worried, but Lucius is smiling and waggling his eyebrows the whole while. 'That would be kind of funny, actually. I've always imagined him as a stamper. Or maybe a screamer-'

You have no idea what to say, not understanding Lucius' oh so unsubtle hints, so you just run your fingers over the bulge in your pocket once more and chime in to his rant from time to time with a disinterested 'hmm' or distracted 'oh, yeah. Definitely.' It really didn't help that you were beginning to blush the same champagne hue as the bubbles between your toes with how gravely Izzy was staring at the side of your face. It was growing increasingly harder not to give into the temptation: to not just swing your head around and meet his hard-set eyes head on.

Once he realises you're dead set on staying right there, away from him, hiding in the corner all day, he sighs and let's go of the sails, marching off to do another impromptu inspection of the boarded vessel. It's an easy distraction: yelling orders at Wee John, spitting insults at Roach as he scurries out of Izzy's way, stealing the Swede's cup out of his hand and spraying beads of coffee around Buttons' feet. All of it was a Grade A fantastic distraction, and Izzy was hell bent on forgetting just how quickly time had gone by that day: Ed and the moronic, sappy, massive twat of an arse Stede would be back from their foliage constitutional any minute now, and Izzy was acutely aware that he was running out of both minutes, and chances to ask you to take a walk with him on the island himself. He had spent far too much of the morning wasting away, leaning his back on Stede's antique armoire and watching you with crossed arms: like a weathered statue, the growing umbra he cast somehow seeming to reach its tendrils out and blanch the fringes of the doorway. Even Fang and Ivan had been too terrified to come near him, and so he had been left alone. A silent sentinel, trying to figure out why the fuck his heart was cracking against the cage of his ribs and tearing their ligaments to shreds.

You hadn't exactly made things any easier for the man: feeling so intimated, you had spent the whole morning begging your friends to whisk you away from him at the first sign of danger. Whether that meant ducking behind Frenchie's lute like a crab, or hiding like a bulky turtle under the large bit of crimson cloth Oluwande was fiddling with the tassels of, you had used any form of escape to save you from the embarrassment of having to be near him. To let him see how flustered you became just at the overwhelmingly intense pressure you felt in the air any time he swaggered over to your side: to hide the fact that your eyes would widen in abject horror, your breath hitching any time the back of his gloved hand would 'accidentally' brush against your wrist as he went on his merry way, pretending it was all by accident. That it was all just a little game to him.

Little did you know, that he was feeling exactly the same way. The one time he had dared to come over to you that day had been an unmitigated disaster. He thought he was being... well, as kind as he possibly could be by slapping you on the shoulder and saying 'how good of a job you're doing.' He was nodding his head between every word, that jilted, simpering smile on his face as he supplemented his sentiment with an incredibly heartfelt 'at least Y/n knows how to do a fucking thing on this ship, not like you lot of useless fucking fuckers they have to work with. The rest of you are embarrassing, really.' He went to walk away, the side of his wrist glancing against the back of your hand as he finished with a breathless 'you lot could learn a thing or two from Y/n.'

He had staggered away from you as if mortally wounded, tongue bitten between his teeth as he tried as nonchalantly as possible to make his way back to the stern of the ship. While you were busy trying to bury your head down into your chest and avoid the smirking faces of Lucius and Pete, you happened to notice from the side of your eye that with each step Izzy was ringing out his hand. To your surprise, he used his teeth to rip his glove off, tucking it under his armpit as he wrangled with his fingers; he couldn't stop every cell burning as if it had just been reeled under the bottom of the ship. Couldn't understand why his fingertips wouldn't stop shaking as he flexed them.

Lucius was right. He was about to erupt, and he wondered if he'd ever be alright again.

It took until the sun nearly bowing over the jaded unicorn surmounting the anterior of the Revenge for you to find the courage to finally slink away from your convenient hiding spot to go over to Izzy. Well, that and the feel of Lucius literally dragging you up by the wrist and giving you a well meaning shove in the back towards the helm.

'Oh, fuck me', Izzy hisses as he watches you approach, turning his back to you to hide how flustered he was becoming with each tugging step at his heart you take towards him. He nearly jumps high enough to fall face first off the side of the boat when he feels your hand tentatively tap his shoulder, but he manages to inhale sharply and compose himself as best as he can before he flicks his eyes to look at you.

'I-uh-', you swallow thickly, shakily drawing your hand away from him and tucking it behind your back. 'I-, uh. I, I mean, I-'. The two of you, a far change of pace from usual, can barely keep your eyes on each other.

You feel like throwing your shoe at Lucius when you register the all too familiar sing song-y chime of his voice murmuring 'say something!' from behind your back. 'Or I swear to god, I'll kiss the man for you!'

'Well, I-', you start again, shooting the most vicious glare you could strangle out of you back at your friend. With a final sigh, you continue: 'I saw your necklace, and I don't mean to pry- but since you're always wearing black, which of course is incredibly cool, I just- well, I thought it needed a burst of colour.' Without a second thought, you scramble to pull your makeshift necklace out of your trousers, and shove the glistening glass emeralds and burnished pearls into his fist.

'It's just a silly thing, really. I saw Stede fixing Ed's red fabric and I just thought... well, you don't have to wear it. It's just a trinket, it's stupid. Really, you don't have to wear it. I'm sorry-'. After a pause, the burning sensation is enough to make you turn on your heel and bashfully start to make a break for the Rec Centre, just to get as far away from him as possible.

'It's not just a trinket.' The softness of his tone, despite how harshly he sounds out the letters makes you swivel back in surprise. He takes the opportunity to take a step forward and grab onto your wrist. He tugs you closer, until you're standing dangerously close to him: if he were to inhale deeply now, to puff his chest out just a tenth of an inch, your belly buttons would be tightly pressed upon each other. You can already feel his buttons strain against your shirt as he whistles out through bunched teeth, the breath sharp and warm against the side of your jaw. 'Don't say that. Never say that. It came from you, so it's not-... just, don't say that.'

He blinks, slowly releasing his viper grip.

'I like it. I really do. Thank you.' He motions awkwardly with a flick of his fingers to the side of his neck. 'Would you mind? With the gloves, I'm... not very good with clasps. Haven't, haven't used one in a long time.'

You can't stop your head from nodding, feeling like a wound up spring toy as you unfurled his fingers again and took the gift back. With a final swallow, you try not to turn cerise as you gently roll down the collar of his shirt. It folds easily down over his vest, until your bare fingers are dragging over the naked line of skin on his neck, just teasingly hiding the tense muscles of his upper back.

'You really didn't have to do this for me, you know.'

'Yeah... but I wanted to. You're not as much of an arsehole as Stede tries to make out.' You manage out a giggle, before you're back to biting your bottom lip in concentration, brushing a few strands away from the back of his head.

He wants to say more, but his voice chokes in the back of his throat like rifting water, his mouth trembling as your fingers brush over the coiled grey hairs bristling at the nape of his neck. It feels like a red hot poker is being dragged across his skin; he shivers at the feeling, a tight coil rolling across his limbs before settling uncomfortably heavy in the pit of his stomach.

He looks like he's about to weep when you take a step back, reaching up with a final pat to make sure the little metal swallow that adorns the centre of your necklace is lying perfectly against his breast. You may have lingered there a little longer than necessary... long enough for your palm to begin burning against the firm muscle of his pec, and for Lucius to draw out an enunciated wolf whistle, but it was definitely worth it. Even the sound of Frenchie snickering from the barrel he was perched on down on the deck was drowned out by the thrumming toll in your ears: by the sound of Izzy's sharp breath piercing your ear as he wavered uneasily on the spot. He didn't want to move away from you, not yet. He could barely even hear them. For the first time in his life, he didn't even fucking care. All he could focus on, over the bridge of his nose - through the gentle curls of his tired eyelashes, was you.

He was intoxicated - but even worse, he was finally beginning to understand. By god, he wondered. What the fuck had you done to him? Could this really be what Edward feels? Could anyone, really, feel this much?

'I hear swallows are meant to bring good luck', you state with bated breath, fingering the charm you had picked up from a market stall at the Republic of Pirates for a final time. It had reminded you almost immediately of Izzy: a hidden treasure, glistening white-gold, like fresh sunlight flitting across the glitter combs littered across the sea beds. It had been well buried within piles of muck: old straw, rotten bits of moulding fruit, bloodied bones twisted into odd shapes that you could barely recognise, but it had been lying there. Waiting just for you. A needle in the haystack. The final piece of the puzzle.

Izzy's breath draws in sharply as you absentmindedly begin to brush your pointer finger up and up: tracing the edge of his jaw line before rolling over the same bird tattoo lacing his neck, your eyes still drawn to the gap between his shirt where his Adam's apple lay tautly.

'Yes. Very good luck', he states, amazed he even found his voice. Surprisingly, he doesn't even try to pull away. He lets you trace your finger over the beak, gliding across the round belly until they're dancing teasingly over its tail. In fact, without his wonderous, dipped eyes looking away from you, he seems to be tilting his head in time, allowing you easier access to brush against his skin and steal his soul with every movement.

Before he has time to think of the repercussions of what he was about to do, the leather of his gloves flex around your cheeks and Izzy Hands has bowed his back down over you, lips knocking against yours. It's terse, and rather urgent in its forcefulness; it was both a slip of outrageous passion, and a terse reminder of his years out of practice feeling any sort of physical affection, and yet you couldn't help but brush up even closer to the man. He welcomes you eagerly, even though this eternity lasted only a moment: with his thumb, he tilts the jut of your chin up so he can lick his tongue against your bottom lip all the more easily. His knee slides forward until it knocks against your own, lurching you forward and saving him the embarrassment of having to voluntarily admit to his weakness and slide his other hand around the pulse point of your neck, until he was cradling the bone of your shoulder.

He finally draws back, his tongue darting out to lick along the edge of his top lip. 'Yeah, very lucky indeed.' He seems sorrowful to be letting go of you, but the loud whistling and snorting that begins to bounce back and forth between Stede's crew snaps Izzy back to himself. With a final glance back down to your lips, he struts off to pick up Lucius' long abandoned broom and starts chasing him across the ship with it.

[shotmrmiller]

cbf!Price?!?!

You mean your older brother's even older friend?

You'd been born in the US to an American mom and a British dad; but his job moved you all back across the pond. New country, new school, new people--it had been hell for you and your brother. But the family next door were so welcoming, especially their only kid, John.

Who always called you 'sunshine', gave you piggyback rides at rugby matches so you didn't get lost in the crowd, and never said "Hello" but, "There's my favorite girl".

The same cbf!Price who was your scary dog privilege when you fell in love with the underground punk scene and wanted to go to the sketchiest concerts.

When he'd enlisted, you'd cried for days, but couldn't bring yourself to tell him why you were so heartbroken, no matter how many times he asked, brows furrowed with concern. "Its only a couple months, luv, then I'll be on post just down the road. We'll still have our weekends."

And he kept that promise, as much as he could, even after you moved out of your parent's home to attend university.

It was forever on the tip of your tongue; the words you so desperately wanted to say, had to bite back, otherwise they'd destroy that precious friendship....

.... I can only imagine the myriad of unfortunate ways he might accidentally hear you whispering his name and those words....

with my brash personality, im fucking him the day he's to leave for basic. js.

no regrets around here.

--

ohmygod! imagine him being captain now, and he brings you to meet the boys.

Johnny whistles low the moment he lays eyes on you. "Steamin' Jesus, Captain. Tha' yer friend? She single?"

John does not answer him.

Kyle is kind, sweet, and courteous. Suspiciously so. It gives John flashbacks of how he acts towards women he wants to bed.

Right.

Simon's just his big, quiet self. He's intimidating, but you're not afraid—after all, you grew up with your bully older brother and John.

John notices his eyes gleam when you talk at him, yes, at, because Simon doesn't respond. But he listens. And he's been listening a little too intently, staring at your dainty hands gesture animatedly.

That's enough, he thinks.

"Time t'go home, love." You pout but wave goodbye at the boys and head towards his vehicle.

Johnny opens his mouth to speak but John quickly intervenes, that unless he wants to start fucking pushing, keep his thoughts to himself.

"I'll see you all at base tomorrow."

On the ride home, you tell him that they were all very nice. John's grip on the steering wheel tightens and says that as nice as they are, they go through women more than they do magazines.

"Oh." Did he imagine the disappointment laced in your voice?

"Do you?" What?

"I don't do it often."

"Oh." He turns his head to look at you, but you're staring out the window.

His heart races and elation thrums through his veins. You definitely sounded upset. John looks straight ahead and speeds up to take you home.

His home.

There's only you for him, and if you won't take the first step, then he will.

--

side note: what if he didn't return those feelings? christ id eat my fucking phone. im running away!!! no one look at me how embarrassing!!! his eyes soften, and he's like, "Oh. I'm so sorry, love. You and I practically grew up together."

That really stings. And then he brings his little girlfriend over to meet you and your brother, and you stiffly shake her hand and go to your room to cry.

Someone softly knocks on your door, and you don't move to open it, just yell at whoever is at the door to fuck off in a warbly voice. John's muffled I'm sorry deepens the crack in your heart.

"'S'alright, John. I'll be okay."

You did this to yourself, anyway.

The marriage invitation comes in the mail and you tear it to pieces.

Since you were young, you dreamt of being Mrs. Price, but now, that's all it'll ever be.

A childish dream.

[bambi-kinos]

I really enjoy your meta and look forward to more mclennon analysis. Out of curiosity, you mentioned that you think they started being physical in 1964 - is there a reason why that year specifically? Personally, I've always thought they started sleeping together in 1963, and my reasoning for that is they seem much closer in videos/photos, not to mention it was the year they "broke through", so to speak.

Would love to hear your thoughts on that!

Hmm well I guess it depends on how they, and we, define their sex life. John and Paul were sexually intimate starting since they were teenagers because John brought Paul into the group wanks. (tbh it's a miracle Paul didn't brain John with something heavy thanks to all that Winston Churchilling.) There's really no telling how it progressed from there, anything is possible with these two. Until Paul tells us the details (and I do not put it past him) then he and John could have been hooking up at literally any point in their relationship. When I think of them getting physical with each other, I'm thinking of them getting each other off with intent and purpose, and considering the style of the time this would mean penetration. Everything else can be handwaved away.

I pick 1964 because of this post: https://www.tumblr.com/got-ticket-to-ride/739464905120497664/its-the-anniversary-day-of-john-and-paul-in-paris?source=share

It's just something about it, y'know. John and Paul are in their city. They stayed up all night and well into the morning and then slept deep into the afternoon, almost evening. And then as GTTR says, "And then they emerge from their hotel room looking like a newlywed couple."

Well, there's just a certain satisfaction radiating off them isn't there?

But I do see your point: why wouldn't they be hooking up earlier? Why wouldn't it escalate physically before this? Why would they wait until Paris 1964?

I have a few reasons, they are admittedly flimsy but since we are all just making shit up then it's fine, right?

Julian was born in 1963. I've read bits and pieces of Beatles 1963 by Rees and that book is full of little chunks about John running home to see Cynthia and the baby (usually not even for a full night/day because he was so busy.) Their schedule is also packed, they are constantly on the move especially during the night because this is where they had to start being smuggled out of theaters and such. So I genuinely think that John and Paul did not have the time or the space to have sex with each other. I know I am saying this when they had time to hook up with groupies between shows but considering who John and Paul are, and what they mean to one another, I just struggle to imagine them acting that way with one another. They would want to take their time with one another and get it right. They're hopeless romantics at heart, they're both deeply enamored with the idea of "you're special, you're different" so I genuinely think they would want to take their time with each other physically and do it right. I don't think they had that time in 1963 with the way they're running all over the UK.

Then there's the Absolute State of John and Paul's relationship in 1963. Remember that the halcyon days of Paris are way in the rearview mirror at this point. In 1962 Stuart died, Cynthia got pregnant, and John had to get married to save her reputation. I can't imagine Paul reacting well to any of this though I'm sure he put his cheery stoic mask on. Then in 1963, Julian is born. Barcelona happens and John seduces Brian to get the songwriting credit that he wanted and screws Paul out of their deal. Considering this is something Paul is still angry about to this day, I can't imagine how he blew his fucking top at John when he found out that May:

I don't think Paul was in the mood for any hooking up in 1963. John has a baby with a woman, is married, then he fucks off to have a gay experience with their manager and then when he comes back he's screwed Paul's side of the business on the downlow? I would be on the fucking six o' clock news lmao, John would not have escaped my wrath. It's really no wonder Paul made a specific point of hooking up with Jane Asher isn't it? He was making a point to John specifically and John seethed about it.

However I do think that something happened in 1963 that healed the rift in the Lennon-McCartney relationship:

Paul got sick from the gastric flu and he fainted dead away in the dressing room. John was very upset and was seen pacing the room when the doctor arrived to check on Paul. This is how we know that Paul actually fainted for real, if he was just feeling feverish John would be concerned but maybe not like that. @james-winston has a pair of really fantastic posts about the aftermath of the fainting incident that I have taken as gospel and I fully apply this to any McLennon analysis I write about this period. The key point though is this:

I have a headcanon that Paul being sick caused something to happen between John and Paul that left them both feeling awkward around each other. I don't think it is was sexual, I think it was more likely that John (who thought he was cursed to have all the men he loved die on him) was afraid something might happen to Paul, and reacted emotionally to it.

This all took place in November, after the Wooler thing, after the burn from Barcelona has had a chance to soften, after they both have had time to get used to the idea that Julian exists and has a place in their lives now. I think this was enough to mend things between them. And you know what else happened the night Paul fainted? Brian secured The Beatles their spot on Ed Sullivan:

So once Brian comes back and tells them the news, John and Paul flip right back into the honeymoon phase. The wounds of the past are forgotten (for now) and they're right back in each other's pockets. I think it's around this time period that Paul was taking photos that now make up Eye of the Storm.

TBH I can imagine John and Paul hooking up at this date. If someone looked at this and said "well this looks like a prelude to sweet love making to me" then that's perfectly reasonable. There's some suggestive photos in Eye of the Storm where Paul is taking John's picture from what looks to be a bathtub while John makes faces at him. It could have been then, absolutely.

But I like the idea that Paul wanted to wait until the next year. 1963 was rough on all of them and he and John are both big on getting new starts. Wait for 1964 to roll around. Brian says we're going to Paris in February. I can wait until then.

And just this once, it was worth it.

[acrossthewavesoftime]

Wait... are you saying that Simcoe was possibly a Bicon, in addition to being a hero of Upper Canada?

That, my friend, I am! Albeit with the usual caveats that there are some things we cannot say for certain.

I think there are hints pointing towards Simcoe having been possibly romantically, or even sexually, inclined towards men as well as women.

Apologies for my tardy reply, but this got a tad long, so please proceed under the cut:

Edward Drewe: "My Dorilas"

The first hint is the poem I was talking about, written by his fellow officer Edward Drewe, whom Simcoe knew since childhood. Drewe wrote the poem as a farewell to Simcoe upon being invalided back home to England early in the Revolutionary War.

For me, the repeated emphasis on the sorrow of parting in elborately dramatic scenes (such as imagining what would happen if Simcoe would die before also returning home, complete with a description of his "mangled corse" [sic, and a bit sick, too]) and particularly the repeated address of Simcoe as "Dorilas" seem to point in that direction.

The lovely and ever helpful @my-deer-friend was able to pinpoint a potential origin for the appellation "Dorilas" from the Tale The Loves of Dorilas and Euanthe, published in the Oxford Magazine in 1774.

Assuming the name is a direct reference to either this particular story or similar stories, due to the personal nature of the poem, my assumption would be that Drewe, complementing Simcoe's Dorilas, cast himself in the role of Euanthe.

This, by the way, is the last paragraph of the story:

"[G]olden shafts" and Venus having "crowned the night when Dorilas the pride of swains enjoyed his beloved Euanthe" does sound quite... Well, they surely weren't just looking at is stamp collection together.

If the appellation "Dorilas" in Drewe's poem indeed does refer to Dorilas and Euanthe, I think that would be a very distinct hint as to how the relationship between Drewe and Simcoe might have looked like.

John André: "an officer whose superior integrity and uncommon ability did honour to his country, and to human nature."

Another man who was very important to Simcoe was John André. They knew each other, and enjoyed spending time together. They were of a similar age and had shared interests. Similarly to André, Simcoe could draw well and was a man not shy of conviviality.

When André was captured, Simcoe approached Clinton submitting a plan for André's rescue which would have included putting his own life on the line that was however refused by Clinton.

Now, I'm perfectly sure I have seen Simcoe's letter to Clinton somewhere, but cannot find it. It seems to exist, too, because the plan to rescue André was also known to Simcoe's biographer, Mary Beacock-Fryer, who makes mention of it, sadly without referencing the original (Beacock-Fryer, Mary: John Graves Simcoe. A Biography, p. 56.).

What I can provide you with however is the assertion, in Simcoe's own words, that he

[...] had given directions that the regiment should immediately be provided with black and white feathers as mourning, for the late Major Andre, an officer whose superior integrity and uncommon abiity did honour to his country, and to human nature. John Graves Simcoe, Journal, p. 152 (1844 reprint).

In his so-called Journal, a work he compiled in order to highlight his own role in the war and political stances which he wrote with the intention to serve as a stepping-stone for his (political) career after his return to civilian life (and half-pay) in England, there are not many hints as to how his relationship with André may have looked like, which, given its nature, makes sense.

He does however highlight, in his Journal and later private letters, how greatly André's death upset him, and allegedly, though I have never found any proof for this, André's self-portrait, drawn at the eve of his execution, was copied by Simcoe's artiscally gifted wife to give to Honora Sneyd, André's former sweetheart.

There are no concrete hints to any relationship in a romantic or sexual sense with André, in any case however, I think it bespeaks their close bond that Simcoe was willing to sacrifice his own life for André, and had the Queen's Rangers add feathers to their hats as a token of respect and rememberance to him.

Mary Anne Burges: Defying Social Expectations

Simcoe was by most accounts a person who was naturally jovial, affectionate and inclined to see the good in everyone; local stories and historical anecdotes about Simcoe highlight his approachable character.

One curious personal relationship was that with Mary Anne Burges, his wife's best friend; the two were a 'package deal', which he knew; legend has it that after she had accepted his proposal, Elizabeth Gwillim, the future Mrs. Simcoe, sent her fiancé to talk to her best friend and promise her that he would never come between them.

How much of this story is true will remain lost to history, but Simcoe had no issues with Burges moving into the vincinity and being a constant visitor. She even became, in the absence of blood-relations, an aunt of sorts to the Simcoe children who would help take care of the four eldest daughters while their parents were away in Upper Canada.

Mary Anne Burges and Elizabeth Simcoe were friends ever since their teenage years and Burges sometimes came to stay with her bestie, who was then living with her maternal aunt Margaret and the latter's husband, Admiral Samuel Graves, whenever her cash-strapped parents considered putting pressure on her to get married already.

Mary Anne Burges remained single for life, carved out a professional existence (albeit an at times precarious one) for herself writing for magazines, had a great interest in the natural sciences and even became a single (foster) mother to an orphaned relation. Here is what she wrote to Elizabeth when a gentleman decided to try his luck with her by way of a surprise proposal:

[...] so I wrote him word that I had more a determination to continue single all my life [...]. Mary Anne Burges to Elizabeth Simcoe, 8 June 1795.

Her refusal to the proposal had nothing to do with the particular gentleman in question; she was simply not interested in men in a romantic or sexual capacity, which she seems to have been very open about. In another letter to her best friend, shortly after the Simcoe's had left for Upper Canada in 1792, she gives an account of a spat between herself and the notoriously quarrelsome Margaret Graves, jealous of the close relationship between her niece and Mary Anne Burges. Margaret Graves mused loudly that friendships between married (Elizabeth Simcoe) and unmarried ladies (Mary Anne Burges) were very improper, because unmarried ladies might ask a married lady about advice regarding her lovers. Mary Anne Burges coldly replied that "[t]hat can easily be overcome by not having any lovers."

Mary Anne Burges remained a trusted friend close with the Simcoe-family for as long as she lived. Given that the Simcoes were very close, and Mary Anne had been around the Graves' house, too, I would guess that Simcoe would have known either from Mary Anne Burges herself or from his wife, that she was resolved not to conform to the common expectations held for women in the day. Despite that, she was allowed a close relationship not only with his wife, but particularly with his children.

To me, Simcoe's relationship with Mary Anne Burges evidences that he was more, for lack of a better word, open-minded than one would expect of an aspiring social climber with politically otherwise conservative leanings in the late 18th century, which may have influenced his view on and willingness to engage in romantic or perhaps even sexual relationships with other men.

Samuel Graves: Simcoe's upbringing

This open-mindedness likely stems from his upbringing between his mother's and his godfather's household. While I sadly know only very little about his mother, I know quite a fair bit about his godfather Samuel Graves.

Graves valued education (and scolded his older brother because he considered his nephews too little educated to successfully make their way in the world), was married to a member of the Bluestocking circle who believed that women should have more legal rights, especially regarding social mobility through education and vocational training as well as allowing married women to hold property in their own name, and allowed Mary Anne Burges to stay in his home whenver she required an escape from her home life.

Even more interesting is that due to a severe case of malaria contracted while serving abroad as a young man, he had grown infertile. He knew this, and was open about it to his family. Taking this into account, his marriages defy the contemporary socio-religious expectations somewhat as they could never produce any offspring; his two marriages were, from the pieces of evidence I have, likely for love.

His second wife, Elizabeth Simcoe's aunt Margaret, née Spinckes, appears to have been firm on never wanting any children of her own due to having watched her sister die in childbirth, which, coupled with her aversion to giving up her substantial fortune to a husband, had kept her from marrying so far; looking at her marriage to Samuel Graves, it seems that she not only trusted him with her property, she was also happy to have sexual relations with him, some light allusions to this apparently very delctable part of married life she left behind in letters.

Conclusion:

It was in this at the second glance rather surprising environment that Simcoe grew up in, and that may have influenced his personal development, and perhaps instilled in him an acceptance of people not conforming to social expectations, which may have influenced his possible relationships with men such as Edward Drewe and perhaps even John André.

Simcoe's acceptance of Mary Anne Burges as a close friend to his wife and daughters (and to himself, too), who by modern terminology would likely fall under the umbrella term "queer", shows that throughout his life, he was accepting of people who, especially regarding personal and potentially sexual relationships, defied social expectations.

How his own relationships with other men may have looked like concretely, and how the people involved would have perceived, termed and described them might sadly be forever lost to history; for a great analysis of terminology and (what we today consider to be) queerness in an 18th century context, I will link this excellent post by @my-deer-friend.

Especially Edward Drewe's potentially sexually underpinned poem may suggest that a relationship going beyond a romantic friendship between him and Simcoe may have existed.

I think that in Simcoe's case, no prior evaluation of his friendships with men of a similar age prior to his marriage has taken place yet because firstly, most scholarship on him was written in the 19th/early 20th century when queer history was, to put it mildly, not exactly a priority, and secondly, because his very happy, monogamous marriage (about which he wrote poetry containing such great lines as "[...] shall my Eliza with true passion burn") and eleven (!) children do not instantly suggest any attraction to other men on his part.

A further, more in-depth analasys would be a desideratum on my part, especially because I believe there is some basis for it meriting further research.

[immajustvibehere]

Spark (8/8)

Arthur Morgan x fem!Reader - Enemies to Lovers

Chapter 8 summary: Found and taken in by the Natives, Arthur is walking a fine line of living and dying. In the grip of illness and fever, he often imagines seeing you by his side.

This is a long chapter, so I gave it sub-headings. Easier to manage if you can't read it in one go :)

link to my masterlist

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

7500 words, +30 minutes reading time

I. The Downfall of the Gang

A prevailing notion circulated in the gang that you and Molly shared culpability for the Pinkertons’ decent upon Lagras. They nearly razed the settlement to the ground, and the frustration about the new location of camp being found out so soon certainly didn’t help to improve the general mood. With you gone, there was no way you could justify yourself and nobody was keen on defending you either, though some people were convinced of your innocence either way. Notably, Abigail, though somewhat resenting you for having left, given Jack’s affinity for you and John’s confinement, was sure you wouldn't send the agency to shoot at them. Artur knew that you wouldn't do such a thing, as you had absolutely no reason to. Many people in the gang knew that it was way likelier that the Pinkertons picked up the trail from some of the boys coming back from Guarma, considering the gang was worth almost nothing without its leader anyway.

Dutch readily agreed that it must have been you, his main intention probably being to silence Micah, whose ceaseless prattle on the matter had grown unbearable. Micah spit phrases like: "She probably thought that she could get rid of us so we wouldn't go after her for the betrayal."

This went too far, even for Dutch’s taste, who was aware that they had other battles to fight. It was useless to hunt either you or Molly down and just a waste of resources and guns that were scare to begin with.

Arthur was distraught that you were gone. When he rode out with Charles, to search for a new camping spot up North, Charles handed Arthur the gun that he had borrowed you. The gesture resonated with a finality surpassing all preceding farewells…though there hadn’t even been proper good-byes.

"She uhm...she said anything? 'bout where she's headed?", Arthur asked as he let the gun slip into his saddle bag.

"I'm sorry", Charles shook his head, "She was a great help when we moved camp, but she disappeared soon after. She gave me the gun and told me to hand it back to you if I get the chance. You know, we weren't even sure if you had survived."

And the topic was left at that. The gang moved to Beaver's Hollow and Arthur felt a sickness nagging on his body. He started boiling with rage, every time your name was mentioned in a negative sense. Mostly by Dutch and Micah. Soon after, Bill started to complain about you too. Arthur would be lying if he told someone that he wasn't looking for you. It wasn't an active search, but whenever he was in town, he'd ask a few men at the bar if they had seen a woman of your description. Though the answers were barely trustworthy most of the time.

At the saloon in Annesburg, he spoke to a drunk man, who, as answer to your description mumbled a "fierce little creature" before he fell asleep on the table. This was the best lead Arthur had, and it wasn't nearly enough. He was roaming the country, avoiding collecting the debts, suffering under how sluggish his body was willing to comply to what he wanted it to do.

The first time Arthur was happy you had left, is when the doctor had told him, that he had tuberculosis. Until then, Arthur had mixed feelings. He appreciated that you left the gang to save yourself, because it took no genius to understand that whatever had bound the gang together was a thin thread that threatened to snap any moment. When he saw how Molly ended, however miserable he felt for her, he had been glad it wasn't you that had come back to die in the dirt. And still he had harboured feelings of resentment for you. Leaving without a word, without showing yourself ever again, when on that ride back from Guarma to Shady Bell he had hoped for you to be there, for some hug or any sort of gentle sign that would have soothed his aching soul and body. He realized soon that he was foolish to hope for that. And that Micah was right to accuse him of having become soft, if your gentle hands was all he could think of, despite your hands being mostly anything but gentle.

But as he sat outside camp, wheezing and wiping the blood off his lips that he had coughed up, he was glad you weren't here. Whatever urges he had to be comforted, to see something else but a bitter and angry face, the feelings of having failed and paying for his sins was the stronger force. He deserved it, after all. And he shouldn’t wish for comfort.  

-

He, as many others, tried to avoid camp as often as possible. In those two weeks, when the hostility between him and Dutch was especially high, because he and Sadie had rescued John from prison, he spent most of the days roaming the country and helping strangers. It wasn't that those trips took his mind off you, quite the contrary.

It was when he was out fishing with Hamish, a veteran with an impulsive horse, that he mentioned you for the first time to anyone that wasn't Charles or Mary-Beth (not counting Jack, who regularly asked where you where and why you had gone).

"Ya know. There's this girl...we went fishing a while ago and she couldn't deal with the waiting."

Hamish felt that it was dangerous territory, so he considered Arthur's pondering face for a while before he finally said: "You should take her here sometime. While we wait for the fish to bite, I can tell her stories so interesting, she' gonna hope that nothing bites."

Arthur chuckled sadly and shook his head: "She left, 'm afraid. She was right to do so. Ain't especially lucky to be around me."

As if the universe heard those words, Hamish was pulled into the water only moments after by the gigantic Pike they were after. It gave him and Arthur something to laugh in the aftermath.

-

"I'll draw them away from you! Go!", Arthur yelled, desperate pulling the reigns of his horse as John dismounted his.

"Come with me", John implored, "We can make it out of here!"

But Arthur understood he couldn't. The train heist only hours before and Abigail’s rescue had drained his strength. His body was tired, no, it was surrendering. He knew he couldn’t keep up the pace. His horse was his only support now, if he abandoned it, his legs would betray him. It wasn't just the tiredness of his limbs, he felt nauseous, sick, the sweat was on his forehead, causing his hat to cling uncomfortably.

"No. I pushed all I can”, Arthur’s voice was strained, “I'll buy ya some time, keep them off your back a while longer, you run and join Abigail and Jack."

"You're my brother!"

"I know", and with those words said, the brothers turned their backs to each other, John fleeing up the mountain, Arthur desperate circling the small area with his horse, firing round after round until he had shot himself a path of escape. The horse’s pained bucking under the impact of a bullet seared through Arthur’s heart, yet he urged it on. The loyal animal complied, carrying its master through thicket and woods as bullets whizzed past. Finally, it collapsed, half of its heavy body falling on Arthur who had ungraciously been thrown off.

The head of the horse was weirdly twisted, but Arthur still heard its heavy breaths. That aside, it was silent in the forest. Killing it would be the noble thing to do. But his vision was already blurred when his hands crept to his gun that was long out of bullets. And before he realized that it was silent in the forest and he had managed to shake the Pinkerton’s, Arthur closed his eyes, not being able to fight the exhaustion any longer.  

He was dead. Or dying, at least, because every time he gained consciousness, his whole body felt like it was on fire. With immense effort, he pried his eyes open, only to be greeted by a hazy image, his pounding headache blurring his surroundings. Arthur struggled against his own lethargy, he wanted to gain control of his body again. Neither of his limbs moved, no matter the effort he was putting into it. His eyes wouldn’t focus, his chest no rise enough for a proper breath. Every time however, without failure, weariness washed over him and unconsciousness reclaimed him before he could even form a thought about the state he was in. It was a cruel cycle.

When Arthur woke up for the third, maybe fourth time – there was no way of keeping count of those seconds of consciousness – he thought only one thing: Namely, that if that was dying, he hoped it would go a little quicker.

At some point, Arthur stirred awake. He felt stronger than before and finally had enough wits to take in some of his surroundings. It was nighttime, he perceived the nocturnal chorus of crickets. His attempt to open his eyes was met with a revelation, his vision, though fatigued, offered him a somewhat clear image. It was exhausting to look; he barely blinked a few times. He was in a tent, or something of that sort, he noticed. And it rocked around, like a boat or a waggon…or maybe he was just feeling dizzy. And when he managed to move his head just a little, to glared to the side, there were you. For a second, Arthur thought nothing. Then he concluded that he must be dreaming or was indeed dead and this was some funny way to pay for his sins. He closed his eyes. His arms felt too heavy, he wouldn't be able to rub his eyes or pinch his nose in concentration. But he simply opened them again. And the image of you was gone. So was Arthur's consciousness, a few moments later.

II. The Recovery

Over the next couple of days, Arthur would wake up from time to time. Sometimes seeing you, sometimes faces of women he didn't recognize. Dark skin and dark hair, Indians, he thought. Then he'd have nightmares that sometimes took his breath away and he'd wake up, feeling like a heavy weight was crushing his chest. And there would be someone - you, another woman, some strange man - pressing wet rags to his face and he wasn't strong enough to complain about it. To tell them to stop because it kept waking him up from dying, from sleeping, from unconsciousness. Whatever that black void was he'd fall in, but he much preferred it because then his body didn't hurt so much.

"You're going to be alright, mister."

Arthur opened his eye to look into the face of a dark-skinned woman. Braids falling from her head that was dangling right onto his face. There was the wet rag again, but it didn't feel so crushing this time.

Finally, his vision was…almost clear.

It was she who explained that he had collapsed and now was with Rains Fall’s people, as they were heading North to escape. The women that took care of him, Arthur caught glimpses of three different faces and though his headache was mostly gone, a persistent cloudiness lingered over his senses. Maybe it was because he sometimes seemed so confused or because he still lacked some control over when he fell asleep out of exhaustion, but when they talked to him, it was always very vague.

"Your friend will return soon. He's securing the perimeter, but he'll be back in a day or two", one of the women explained to him. They must mean Charles, he was certain. But when he wanted to ask, he found that it was hard forming words. His throat was parched and the attempt to speak yielded only a hoarse croak. A sympathetic smile from the woman conveyed understanding, at least.

….

You had sat at his side for four hours. It was late at night, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave his side. You had been running errands the last couple of days and had missed him waking up. Well, waking up without fever and therefore capable of forming thoughts. Tonight, he was restless, dreaming maybe.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes and grabbed your wrist. His hand was clammy, still remnants of his sickness and probably his latest nightmare, but this time – for the first time ever – he was fully awake.

"It's okay, I'm right here", you reassured him.

Arthur simply stared at you like you were a ghost. Then his eyes narrowed to one of his signature contemptuous stares. It was a terrifying expression that you had seen a couple of times before. His nose would scrunch in disdain and his facial muscles were coiled with tension – a sign of irritation. In a firefight, it marked the precipice of drawing his gun; in a brawl, it forewarned of the impending launch of his first punch.

"Yer real" Arthur stated, his assertion hung in the air. His voice was low and quiet. It sounded like he needed something to drink, something to oil up his throat that has dried up from weeks of not using it.

"Unfortunately so, yeah", you said. Your heart sped up. He was awake. Finally. After all those days of not knowing if he'd make it, he was okay. Far from fit or fully recovered, but he wasn't dying no more. The thought made your eyes wet and forget about Arthur's sceptical glance.

Arthur blinked slowly. Those weren't dreams. They never had been. You had been there all this time.

Arthur closed his eyes again without saying something. His hand slipped from your wrist and onto his chest. He didn't want to talk, no, he didn't even want to see you right now. A swell of emotions came over him and he wasn't sure how to feel about your presence. For his inner turmoil, he kept silent on the outside, giving you the impression that he had dozed off again.

Eventually, he really fell asleep. Though when he awoke and pled for water before even opening his eyes, it was you who led a bowl to his lips. Whenever he woke up, you would be there, ready to jump at his commands. You didn't speak about why you were here or where you had been. Nothing of that matter. Nothing about Dutch or Micah or little Jack. It was always just handing him water or soup or helping him change his clothes.

Two days later, Charles showed up with a warm: "Welcome back, brother." It was he who explained what had happened. That two Indians had found him unconscious, buried under his horse. That his leg had been bruised from the impact, and he was weak, feverish and on the brink of death. It was an intricate matter, caring for him while heading North with the tribe and he admitted that only after one day with him under their care, Charles had seriously considered staying behind and caring for him. It had slowed down the group that much. Then they ran into you, simply sitting on your horse and watching the caravan of people go, before catching Charles' eye.

Arthur remained conflicted when Charles broached the topic of you. This inner struggle was not lost on Charles, keen observer that he has always been.

"She took good care of you. Without her, your recovery might have been in doubt."

And as this didn't seem to do the trick, he added…

"She sat with you every night. Washed you, made sure you had everything you needed. Even though Rains Fall disagreed, she stole a waggon so you had a comfortable place to get better.”

“She had left, Charles…”, Arthur croaked. You leaving the gang behind had left him with mixed feelings. He had worked through them before and had arrived at the conclusion that it was better for you, and still…seeing you here, healthy and restless, he regretted not having you there at the end. You could have been of great assistance. Could have prevented Abigail from being taken or made John’s prison break easier. Hell, he might have had more fun killing the last of the O’Driscoll’s if you had been by his side. The prospect of your sudden absence when he might have required your presence left a bitter aftertaste in his mind.  

“Don’t blame her for that. She had no obligation to stay, she was only with us for little more than a month at this time and she could tell that it was coming to an end”, Charles said.

Arthur thought what might have happened if you had been there at the stand-off. The notion of having another ally by his side, countering the overpowering presence of Bill, Javier, Micah and his two traitorous cronies, weighed heavily on his mind Yet, this reverie crumbled upon realization – there was the cruel possibility that instead of Miss Grimshaw, you would have found your demise. Or considering your proclivity for action over passivity, you might have opened fire earlier and would have caused an even worse outcome. Yes, maybe your absence had been the better.

“She rode hours through rain to fetch you a doctor”, Charles went on as he saw Arthur’s thoughts wander, “She found a nice man with a waggon. The doctor said he knew you and that you helped him one time in Rhodes.”

That put a little smile on Arthur’s lips, because he remembered the Doctor well. He was talking all funny and had had his waggon stolen. “Yeah”, Arthur answered as a sign of recognition.

Even Charles didn’t know what more to say, so he put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder, before he left him alone.

The group had settled down near a creek. You had been on the move for a while now, and food supplies were running low, so they had decided to camp here for a couple of days, until hunting and gathering had provided enough resources to continue the travel. It was then that Arthur left his little nest that had been made for him. A simple waggon really, with some linen span across it to shield him from the weather. Sitting up was exhausting, but he managed to more or less crawl to the opening, sitting there and letting his legs dangle from the waggon. Everyone was working. The horses were grazing, a couple of kids were running around. It wasn’t difficult to spot you, chopping some wood and carrying it to the fire. That’s when you caught Arthur’s eye and approached him.

Seeing him out of “bed” put a big smile on your face.

“Why even bother?”, Arthur asked when you had reached him, jumping up the waggon to sit next to him. “Should’ve shot me when they found me. Tuberculosis can’t be healed, as far as I’ve heard.”

“Tuberculosis? What are you talking about?”, you looked at Arthur curiously. He stared back in silence, furrowing his eyebrows.

"It's what I've got", Arthur explained, a little sceptical as if your gaze alone had made him unsure of the diagnosis.

"You don't have tuberculosis. At least, the doctor we consulted said so", a smile played on your lips. A knowledgeable smile, as if you knew more than him. It was a cheeky smile.  

Arthur didn't believe you.

"Y/n, I was on the brink of death when you found me. I cough up more blood than I ever lost through bullets…taking a deep breath was almost impossible.”

"How's it now though? The breathing...", you asked.

Arthur halted and for the first time since he had regained consciousness, he drew in a deep breath. Then another, and another. It was slightly uncomfortable, as though something was constricting his lungs and made it harder for him to let air in, but it didn't hurt. It was only after the fourth big breath that a slight cough stirred from within. But it didn't ripple his airpipe, bringing red fluid onto his lips. It almost tickled. It reminded him of the sensation of pressing upon a spot where a bruise had once been, recently faded. It wouldn’t hurt, but it would tickle, and the skin would be terribly sensitive.

"It's...okay I guess", Arthur concluded.

You smiled, satisfied: "You don't have TB. I mean...maybe you do, but Doctor said if you had, it wouldn't have shown so soon and with such vigour. But he did say you had the worst case of pneumonia he had ever seen. We weren't sure you'd make it. But now that you have pulled through the worse", you shrugged, "I'm afraid you'll have to see my ugly face still."

Arthur didn't know what to say. Was he relieved? Happy, even? He didn't know. He was just speechless.

"Doctor said that in case you recover, you'll have to rest a lot. He knew you, by the way. Black fella with a nice-looking waggon. Weird grinder thing on top. Had to help him fix a wheel when I brought him up here. He said you had helped him some time ago, fighting the people who had stolen his waggon. And then he said you wouldn't be fighting anyone for a while, even when you are back on your feet. You need to rest for months, fresh air,...and especially, seeing that you have lost about half your weight, lots of good food. No smoking, of course."

Arthur’s chuckle rippled through the air as he started to grasp the situation. “That’s quite the relief”, he murmured, chuckled lightly as he finally started to grasp the whole situation: “That’s good news.”

“What? That you look like skin and bones?”, you teased, bumping your shoulder into his.

“No. That I’ll get to see your ugly face for some time longer”, he bumped back, stronger than you had and almost knocking you into the edge of the waggon. You hadn’t been so relieved for a long time. You felt something thick in your throat and tears gathered at the corners of your eyes.

“Missed ya, ya know”, you said quickly before a sob could work its way up.

“I missed ya too”, Arthur looked at you. He noticed the wet eyes and scrunched his nose immediately: “You gone soft while I was out? You crying ‘cause of me?”

The teasing tone alone was so friendly and welcome, it cheered you up even more.

“You ain’t worth crying over, Mr. Morgan”, you lied.

“Damn right I’m not”, he said. He let his eyes roam around the camp again. It felt familiar. The image or Horseshoe Overlook came to him, but this was different, of course. Or was it?

“You hungry?”, you asked.

“Starving. If ya can offer something else but soup”, Arthur quickly added. He only had eaten soup the last days. It was the only meal which didn’t require chewing and wouldn’t immediately choke him in his half-conscious state. This time, you brought him a small portion of stew. Not comparable to the stew Mr. Pearson had cooked. The small pieces of meat that you had granted him in his portion were as soft as they possibly could be, almost melting in his mouth.

“Slow down, god damn it”, you warned him.

“Yes, ma’am”, Arthur quietly mumbled. It was hard to slow down, but he knew he had to, since this was the first time he ate properly in – he later was being told – 13 days.

In the evening, you approached him again. Arthur was lying in his bed, half-recumbent with his journal on his lap. It was closed, Arthur was merely thinking. He had flipped through some entries before, but now he enjoyed being idle and watching everyone getting ready for the night.

“Arthur”, you knocked at the wood before appearing in his field of vision, “got something for you. I almost forgot, I had it stored away.”

You climbed on the waggon and put down a gunnysack. You carefully spilled its contents onto the floor. Arthur recognizes the round glass with the flower first. Then the picture of his mother. The picture of him and Mary. The shot of his father, though big chunks of the little picture were charcoaled and burnt, he only recognized it because he had looked at it so often. Two shirts, one pair of pants and an old belt that he hadn’t used in a while.

“That’s all that was really left, I’m afraid”, you said. He didn’t need to ask, he understood. You had gone back to where they had last camped and had rummaged through what was left after the fire to store it for him.

“Why did you…?”, Arthur started, picking up the picture of his mother.

“I…don’t know. I never had many belongings to my name, but those I had, meant much to me. Figured you feel the same”, you shrugged. Then a cheeky smile appeared on your lips: “Thought it would be nice to bury you with them if you didn’t make it.”

Arthur clicked his tongue. “It was stupid to go there. Might have been dangerous.”

“Felt worth it for me, I guess”, you said.

After a pause, Arthur thanked you. You wished him a good night at let him be. As soon as your frame vanished from the little field of view that the open canvas space granted him, he opened his journal again. He pulled out Mary’s last letter to him. Not reading the neatly written words again, he simply turned the envelope upside down, until the ring fell into his hand.

…

It took two more days before Arthur was strong enough to walk around and be on his feet for more than ten minutes at a time. But he felt fine enough to take a bath in the creek and shave. It was shocking to see his cheeks that have sunken quite a bit due to the weight loss, but Arthur’s appetite was as good as ever, so you didn’t worry about it too much.

Most of the day he spent by sitting in the shade and observing the people. Mostly you, if he was being honest. You played with the kids, helped wherever another hand was needed.

He was trying to get up from his little patch under a tree when Rains Fall approached him. Arthur hadn’t encountered him yet, he had been busy with arranging and managing the move. The last time Arthur had seen him, he had delivered him his dying son.

“How are you, Mr. Morgan?”, Rains Fall’s voice was as gentle as ever.

“Feeling much better now. I can’t thank you enough for taking me in”, Arthur said.

“After all you have done for us, it is I who must thank you”, Rain Falls smiled slightly. Silence ensued between the two men before Rains Fall spoke again, “I recall our conversation when you were my company on the ride up the mountain. You said that some people in your gang still had a chance for a good live and that you wanted to give them that.”

“Yeah”, Arthur said, his eyes fixed on you. You were brushing some horse in the distance.

“What’s with her?”, Rains Fall asked, following Arthur’s gaze, “I heard she took excellent care of you. Charles told me she’s a fierce spirit when cornered, but she seems tame and gentle. I can see that you care for her deeply too.”

“Suppose I do”, Arthur answered, “I’m not sure if that’s what she wants.”

“There are always some uncertainties in life, don’t waste too much thought on those that can be resolved with one simple question”, the chief answered. Arthur nodded, as if he understood, though he wasn’t so sure how much of the situation he had actually grasped. The ring that Arthur had picked out of the letter was in his pocket, and he felt it, when Rains Fall spoke those words. When nothing more was said on that matter, Rains Falls sighed: “Tomorrow, we’ll be on the move again. We haven’t covered much ground yet, but I’m certain we’ll make it.”

It was a statement that needed no comment and Arthur watched as the old man walked away.

-

The group barely covered ten miles a day. It was a good pace, nevertheless, for Arthur was on his feet again and tried to make himself useful. He tended to the horses, seeing they are well cared for and rested for the journey. All this time, you were pretty much at his side non-stop.

“You used to say ya don’t need me to do babysitting…but now yer the one watching me like I’m gonna do something stupid the second you lay your eyes off me”, Arthur teased.

“I don’t trust you to do no heavy lifting”, you said with a smile. It was a good opportunity to be close to him and help.

All of a sudden, you had started sleeping in the same waggon as he. Because the one you had used was “needed otherwise”. You sat next to him at night, watching him draw in his journal and often fell asleep way before him. Arthur was unsure if this was a sign that everything was like before, that you still liked him, but he was glad about the closeness again. The second night, he held you. The third night, you fell asleep with your head resting on his chest.

-

“I’m going to leave”, you said. You sat next to Arthur and watched his pencil strokes. They had been shading the horse he had just sketched. The pencil halted and Arthur looked at you.

“What?”

“Day after tomorrow, I’m leaving. I want to head south again. Then west, maybe”, you looked Arthur in the eye. His blue eyes which were warmly illuminated by the oil lamp in the waggon darted around your face. You weren’t teasing or joking, he could tell as much.

“You know I’m not someone who sticks with a group. If this thing goes bad, I’ll feel like I’m responsible”, you offered further explanation.

“Yer gonna head out there alone?”, Arthur asked, his voice strained.

“Was hoping you’d join me, actually”, you swallowed. You had dragged the question out for a while now. You knew that Arthur needed to be somewhat recovered if he was to travel with you, so you had had a good excuse for not asking for a long while. But the last couple of days the anxiety had been eating you from the inside.

Arthur didn’t answer. He watched you; you watched your own hands. As he remained silent, you unwillingly lifted your head to look at him. This was all that Arthur needed. His hand found your chin and lifted it even more, turning it towards him. In the blink of an eye, your lips met. Arthur tasted the tobacco on your lips and figured he missed smoking. Or at least, he missed sharing a cigarette with you.

“I thought you might not like me no more”, Arthur said as the kiss had ended. Both of your faces remained so close, your foreheads touched, and Arthur only needed to whisper the words to make you understand.

“Well, there’s always been lot of nonsense in your brain”, you grinned. You were relieved, because frankly, you had feared the same.

You kissed him again before asking: “Can I take that as a yes?”

“You better”, Arthur breathed, now snaking his hands around you and pulling you into yet another kiss.

III. The Life After

The parting with the Rains Fall and his people unfolded smoothly. Farewells were exchanged without any pressure of time and in good spirits. Charles and Arthur, in particular, enjoyed a more extended exchange of goodbyes compared to their previous parting. Both could go smiling, knowing that the other one would be fine.

Arthur got a spare horse, a young, not entirely tamed one, though Arthur was more than capable of handling it. Your travels back South progressed fast. It took a toll on Arthur, traveling on horseback after he had only been on his feet for a week, but you took care of that with long breaks and early nights. Sometimes, you’d rest for an entire day, also giving the horses some time to recover. You’d take care of food in a nearby town or go hunting, while Arthur watched the little possessions you travelled with. By the time you reached Ambarino, the leaves on the trees had assumed hues of red and brown and the nights were getting colder.

“Shouldn’t we head West?”, Arthur halted his horse. You had just crossed the Grizzlies and had travelled along the Dakota River for a while, before you stirred your horse East. The air was fresh, and Arthur was wrapped in a coat you had bought in a town before crossing the Grizzlies. The sun was still strong enough that the buttons could remain open, but sometimes a strong gush of wind would send a shiver through your spine and remind you that winter would be here soon.

“We can’t continue traveling”, you said. Arthur was exhausted, and so were you.

“So, what do you suggest?”, Arthur rode next to you, stirring his horse into a slow trod next to yours.

“I know a place where we can lay low for the winter”, you said, not explaining further, even though you felt Arthur’s curious gaze. Only when you arrived at O’Creagh’s Run later that day and headed so decidedly for Hamish Sinclair’s cabin, Arthur understood.

“That’s where you wanna live?”, he asked amusedly.

“Nice man lives there. I’m sure he’ll let us stay with him for a while”, you explained. Arthur smiled, but didn’t want to spoil that he knew the old veteran. Hamish was already outside doing repairs on his little boat when he saw you approach.

“Ain’t that a nice surprise!”, Hamish raised his arms, “A visit by two friends at once!”

Now it was your turn to be surprised: “You know each other?!”

“Of course. Arthur Morgan!”, Hamish shook the hand of Arthur as soon as he had dismounted, “You’ve lost some weight my friend, but you look as fine as ever.”

Over hot coffee, Hamish was filled in on the happenings of the last month. When you asked to stay at his place for a while, Hamish was delighted. Almost immediately, you started to build another bed, because it was agreed upon that Arthur would need something more comfortable to sleep on. You would be fine with the floor in front of the fireplace for now and Hamish would continue to sleep in his bed.

It worked remarkably well. The three of you were rather quiet and when something needed to be done, it was done sooner rather than later. Arthur fished most of the time, you were out hunting with Hamish. Hamish would teach you to cook some meals, because, as he put it “A man that has lived alone for such a long time, knows his cooking spoon”, and you’d run errands in town, if something needed to be fetched. The fall of the Van der Linde Gang was still comparably recent, so the posters were still all about and to risk Arthur being seen, wasn’t a risk anyone was willing to take.

As idyllic as most of the days passed, one would think that there weren’t any struggles or that you spent your days hunting and selling pelts. But you would have never been able to sell enough pelts to support three adults, so sometimes, you’d go out and rob a stage or some rich looking traveller. You told Arthur but kept quiet in front of Hamish.

The days became shorter and the chill of winter settled in, Arthur’s recovery progressed steadily. He started to put on some more weight and longer walks or chopping wood didn’t leave him struggling for air any longer. Hamish would sometimes go out for a whole day, granting the two of you precious moments of solitude and intimacy.

In December, Hamish announced he’d be gone for a few days, visiting a cousin in Valentine. He’d be back for Christmas Day, he promised. Arthur and you considered the possibility that Hamish’ cousin was a fabrication, a ruse to give the two of you some more time alone. Nevertheless, you appreciated the gesture wholeheartedly.

Snow had fallen and the fireplace had been ceaselessly crackling in the past few days. So, the hut remained comfortably warm. In Hamish’ absence, you shared Arthur’s bed. Nestled against his chest, you traced circles through the dark patch of hair just below his navel. The only sounds to be heard were the steady crackling of the fire and the hoot of an owl nestled in a nearby tree.

“Ya mean a lot to me, y/n”, Arthur’s words slipped out so unexpectedly that you sat up and looked at him with surprise and suspicion. You were well aware of his feelings. After all, he had demonstrated as much just half an hour ago, in that very bed.

“Yer talking strange”, you remarked and raised an eyebrow.

“I love you”, Arthur said, his tone carrying an unusual weight.

“And…I love you too”, you replied slowly. This wasn’t the first time you had said that to each other, but the manner in which Arthur said it felt different. Arthur gave you a look that was so full of uncertainty and self-depreciation for himself, you lightly slapped him on his bare shoulder.

“What is going on? Did I do something wrong?”, you asked. You even raised the blanket to check if this was a new sort of foreplay that he was trying because he was ready for the second round. It was also an attempt to lift the mood, because the tension of the situation started to prickle your skin.

“Ain’t nothing wrong. I just gotta ask ya something and it ain’t easy”, Arthur complained. sitting up straight.

“Yes. I’m sorry Arthur, but the Gingerbread you baked yesterday is inedible”, you joked. You and Arthur had tried to make some gingerbread yesterday and because you hadn’t felt like baking, he had taken control of the matter. The result was…lacking, to say the least. You had lied that it looked and tasted alright, but you had been sure that by the disgusted face you had made it was clear that it had to disappear before Hamish came back and threw them out for dishonouring his kitchen.

“That’s not it and…”, Arthur looked at you funny, “It wasn’t that bad.” You smiled at him sympathetically.

“I just…god damn it, woman”, Arthur rearranged his sitting position. The he got up and slipped into his pants and shirt. He was somewhat angry, irritated maybe. Or nervous? You watched him confused.

Arthur was still fastening his pants when his voice, low and hesitant, reached your ears: “I just wanted you to know that I love ya…”

You nodded as if it was silly to suggest otherwise. With Arthur’s warmth now absent from your side, your body was cooling down and you pulled the blanked further up. And then Arthur caught you completely off guard because he knelt down besides the bed. His fingers swiftly plunged into his pockets and retrieved a ring.

“I was wondering if ya might wanna marry me”, Arthur voice was firm. He didn’t want to give the impression that he was in any doubt that he wants to spend the rest of the time with you. He was fully aware that he wasn’t the youngest anymore and that the sickness had marked him significantly. Since recovering, he had gained back most of the weight, yet ther were times when his muscles reminded him of their limitations, failing him when he attempted tasks that were once effortless.

You stared at him in disbelief, a thousand thoughts running through your head. When Arthur opened his mouth again, you were afraid that you had taken too long to answer.

“I thought it was too late for me to marry someone. I’m old. And unlovable, mostly”, Arthur chuckled warmly, “If two people ain’t too big of a group for you…” Arthur added mumbling ‘maybe three or four at some point’ before continuing, “I’d want ya to know that I plan to stick with you. Yer still young, so I understand if yer don’t want to-“

“Yes.”

Arthur shut up at looked at you. Was that a yes to “not wanting to marry”? Arthur looked like a kicked puppy for a moment, before you cleared his confusion: “Yes, I want to marry you, you dumbass.”

The ring slipped on seamlessly. The Arthur picked you up, naked as you were and hugged you lovingly. You squealed because of the cold air.  

“Are we telling Hamish?”

Arthur mumbled the response into the crook of your neck which he was peppering with kisses: “If ya want. That enough of a Christmas present for him?”

You hit Arthur’s back: “Hell no! The man lets us live in his home. I was thinking about getting him a new rifle.”

Arthur set you down and you gathered your clothes, putting them on slowly, as Arthur was taking his time admiring you.

“Put some money back”, you grinned mischievously, “It was also meant for buying you a present. But I suppose that being my husband is good enough.”

“Oh you!”, Arthur growled and scooped you up, throwing you over his shoulder. For all the strength he had lost, he was still strong enough to do that. Barefooted, Arthur stamped out of the cabin. “Give me one reason to not throw you into the lake!”, he teased and approached the jetty. It wasn’t frozen yet entirely, but the water was icy cold and black.

“I’m your wife!”

“Not yet you ain’t!”, Arthur made a motion that made you shriek, but he only feinted to throw you in, “besides, that is no valid reason.”

“I’ll kill you, if you do!”, now you tried to break free, but Arthur’s grip was firm.

“Ohh. That’s more like it. Though I think you love me too much for that.”

“Many wives kill their husbands!”, you screamed.

“I could drown ya first, ya know”, Arthur teased and swirled around, so you faced the black water.

“You’ll never find out where I stashed the money and won’t afford a present for Hamish!”, you finally said.

“That’s true”, with that, Arthur let you down. As soon as your bare feet touched the snow, you darted inside, shivering violently in front of the fireplace.

Arthur soon followed, having more of a quieter complexion. He closed the door behind him, and the warm and loving atmosphere of the cabin was restored. In many ways, Arthur saw you as an equal. You were just as good as a shot as he was, just as fast when it came to running or riding. There was no need to escape his old live, because you were an outlaw just like him. You didn’t mind if life meant running away from the law. He didn’t need to tread lightly with you. You could take criticism; a discussion or whatever life threw at you. And yet, he found your movements graceful, gentle. Most of the time, at least. Arthur smiled at the thought. When your opponent was a bigger man and it would come to close ranged fighting, you became sloppy and angry, but with a gun you were the definition of accuracy and grace.

“Hello?”, you looked at Arthur wit tilted head, drawing his attention back from his reverie, “Where have you wandered off to?” His daydreams had lasted so long, he had barely noticed that you had dressed yourself.

“Jus’ dreamin’ about my future wife, ‘s all”, Arthur grinned sheepishly. He extended his arms invitingly, and you moved closer, nestling into his embrace.  

“Don’t start expecting things I’m not capable”, you said.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know?! Maybe I want my husband to be capable of baking proper gingerbread for Christmas and then you come along and-“, Arthur interrupted you by poking you into the side and making you squeal.

“You do it better then!”, he challenged.

“I suppose I will!”, you grinned back, heading for the little stove, “I bet mine are at least two times more…edible than your sorry experiment.”

“What are we betting? A kiss, Mrs. Morgan?”, Arthur said slimily, his arms crossed and watching you. The name made you feel warm and happy. For all the times you’d been mistaken as a Bell, you like that name way more. But for old time’s sake, you turned around and looked at the man you love.

“Your life, Morgan!”

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

taglist: @xclovers @photo1030 @cowboydisaster @stilinskiwitch @globetrotter28 @unbotheredbeeeee @eyelovie @ashjbu @lovrgirlsstuff @how-the-heck-would-i-know @j4llyf7sh @urfavjanalein @thatonestrangebird @nirvanaaaonly

[malfiora]

Good Enough

Bruce probably wasn't meant to hear it, but his heart squeezes all the same. His fingers clutch at his chest and his throat works around the lump suddenly lodged in it.

"I'll have to ask my dad," Dick had said. The words belong to another child, one Bruce has never met. But that voice – its tone, its warmth, its certainty – is Dick. Undeniably, unmistakably Dick. He's talking to one of his teachers (Mr. Mather, he recalls only because he had to deal with Dick's insistence that his biology teacher be called Ms. Sciencer for weeks) and he grins when he spots Bruce stalled by the door. "Oh, speak of the devil."

Bruce stumbles his way through a conversation about Dick's exceptional grades and aptitude for abstract concepts and how he has real potential as a mathlete, but his brain is humming with wordless excitement at the word "dad" and eager to hear it tickle the air again. He floats on that feeling all the way home, even elongating their return to tell Alfred to pull over at that fast food joint Dick likes, the one with the milkshakes.

And then he crashes. Dick disappears into his room to allegedly do homework (Bruce is eighty-five percent sure he's actually hopping onto his computer to IM Barbara Gordon), and with him vanishes the warmth of being considered a father. Left in its wake is a coldness injecting nausea into his gut.

He can't be a – he doesn't know how to – when did Dick even – and why him? The past three years flash by in reverse: Dick dancing through a spray of bullets, tears streaming from Dick's mask as he watched Batman fall from a snapped line just like they did, Dick standing proudly before a mirror in his brand new costume, a gleam of murderous intent staring up at him, a broken boy swallowed up in an EMT's blanket while his world lay shattered at his feet. What has he done? How could he think that drawing this bright kid into his dark roost was a good idea? And now Dick thinks of him as a father figure – it's too late to go back, isn't it?

He isn't John Grayson, will never be, doesn't want to try. He hears the whispers among polite society speculating why he won't adopt Dick, but none of them come close to the truth. It's rooted in fear (inaction always is). Fear that he'll be seen as the fraud he is, and then Dick will leave and regret ever calling him "dad."

He's not even Thomas Wayne, not for lack of trying. His memories of the man are faded around the edges but he knows he devoted himself completely to any and all that he loved: his career, his wife, his son. Thomas Wayne didn't do anything by halves. But Bruce Wayne is constantly torn – one foot planted in civilian domesticity fumbling his way through raising a child, the other firm in Gotham's underbelly hellbent on redeeming the damned while keeping his kid partner safe from the danger that he throws him into in the first place.

"Sir," Alfred calls, his voice soft. "If you're done drilling a hole through the carpet with your eyes, I've put tea on."

Bruce blinks and looks up at Alfred. "Tea sounds great, Alfred."

He plods after Alfred and into the tearoom. Alfred deftly sets out cups, saucers, and bowls of cream and sugar before pouring the fresh brew. Bruce murmurs a "thanks" before sipping his. Alfred lowers himself into the seat opposite his at the small table.

"Master Dick seems to be doing well at the Academy," Alfred says. "I can't imagine that that caused your dour mood."

Those who call Batman the world's greatest detective just haven't met Alfred. "Dick called me 'dad' today," he explains calmly. "Not to my face. I overheard him say it to his teacher."

Alfred hums. "Could mean nothing."

That's...true. Dick may have used the term as shorthand. "Dad" is easier to say than "legal guardian" and more specific and personal than "Bruce." It could have been a Freudian slip, Dick's mind supplying him with a cognitive shortcut subconsciously. Bruce sets his tea down and stares into the liquid.

"Or," Alfred presses on (Bruce hates the way his heart lifts a little), "he is starting to see you – us – as his family." Alfred sips and watches him.

"That's what I'm afraid of," he admits after a while. "Alfred, I'm not – Dick deserves so much better than –"

When it's clear that Bruce won't finish the sentence, Alfred clears his throat gently. "If I may, I'd like to share a secret with you." Bruce nods. "There was a time that I considered leaving you."

Bruce's eyes widen. "What?"

Alfred nods. "I thought that after your parents, I was the last person who should raise a child, especially one who needed his world put back together. Surely the Kanes would have made better surrogates. Perhaps a foster if a suitable one could be found." He smirked. "I almost considered the Queens before that awful accident."

The blood is rushing in Bruce's ears. Alfred, his most loyal and longest friend, had wanted to leave him? "What changed?"

Alfred takes another sip, contemplates. "I don't think anything has. Everyday I wonder if I made the right choice. If I am being selfish staying in your life simply because I love you too much to let you go."

Again, Bruce's chest squeezes. Alfred, his Alfred, has the exact same fear. That somehow he'll fail his charge, will lose him. And all this time, Bruce has never considered going anywhere, can't imagine his life without Alfred in it. Maybe – is that how Dick feels? That Bruce is his? God, if that's true then...then Bruce as he is just has to be good enough. Because he's not going to let Dick go.

"My son," he says, testing the word. It tastes sweeter than the tea on his tongue.

[jolieblack]

Jolie’s thoughts on

Shoscombe Old Place (Sherlock & Co. podcast)

Good call shifting the environment away from the way too similar horse racing scenario of Silver Blaze.

Thank you also, Joel, for letting our boys go on a holiday. It’s not what I imagined when I said I wanted Consequences after Dancing Men, but it works! And I find it telling that Sherlock especially seems to have offered no resistance to the plan. Seriously, S & J camping by the river (and Sherlock going fishing, because of course he would!) for real and not just as a blind (like in ACD’s story) filled me with happiness and serenity.

I was not prepared at all to learn so much about John's childhood and family circumstances. "Made and then broken in the Army and subsequently fixed at 221B Baker Street", yes, that is the John Watson that we know and love in any universe. 😭

I'm so glad he still has a refuge in his old town now, and I love that Sherlock gets invited totally as a matter of course. I so heard him on the "weird feeling when a place you used to call home doesn’t feel like home anymore", too.

I'm also left wondering a LOT whether John’s canonical unhappy alcoholic brother (also Henry/Harry, like the father?) from Sign of Four exists in this universe. If yes, there should be traces of him in the old family home for Sherlock to deduce… Unless of course he’s a half brother or something who never lived there (from John's dad's earlier marriage or relationship, possibly?). Or maybe the traces are there and Sherlock just never said a thing, and only will later…

I also wasn't expecting John to run into his famous so-far-nameless ex! I found myself hoping that they wouldn’t go down the tropey route of the Crazy Evil Ex. When John called Carrie "evil" when they were trapped in the crypt, that really didn’t seem accurate. But John was being so realistically cranky about everything to do with Carrie, I really felt for him.

Sherlock was being such a sweetie throughout, especially at the start. Doing small talk with the neighbour, NOT pointing out that John rambles exactly as bad as his mum sometimes, not wanting him to have to call his ex in person, repeating over and over that they’re in a beautiful place with good beer and he’s really enjoying himself… Calling John invaluable… Feeling a little bad about recklessly leading them both into danger in Dancing Men, perhaps (not that John didn’t follow willingly and without question)? Or just being happy that he and John are still alive and still around and evidently didn’t fall out over the Dancing Men business, either?

"I'm a big boy. I can do it." - "Would you like me to call her?" - "Yes, please." - "What’s wrong?" - "Poor signal in this village." - "I’m blocked, aren’t I." My heart 🥹 How I love a protective Sherlock.

And our boys getting philosophical in ancient sacred buildings at night is almost a tradition by now. I love it when they do that. The River Thames analogy was so intriguing, too. Who would have thought that Sherlock could be such a poet?

"A sea? A lake? A waterfall?" [10 seconds later] "Shoutout to Professor James Moriarty, who is listening intently to every word." AAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!! 😱😱😱 That was the creepiest moment ever and John was so right to lose his shit.

How close are we to Reichenbach? We might be there by August. Or Joel might be pulling all our legs.

Whatever it may be, don’t deny yourself the pleasure of looking at this absolutely beautiful art by @paperleef !

Oh and then of course there was a case as well, but it hardly seemed to matter for most of the story. No surprises there for the connoisseurs of ACD’s original stories, either.

I’m glad that they did not go down the Crazy Evil Ex route with Carrie after all. I was a little narratively underwhelmed by how John’s dynamic with Carrie and its potential for conflict just fizzled out. But thumbs up for realism there. They’ve both moved on and that’s it. Like so often in RL. And didn’t we all love the fact that John now considers Baker Street his home, Sherlock & Mariana his family and the Sh & Co project his future.

I also didn’t expect Part 3 to turn into an anti-classism manifesto, but it does make sense, especially seeing how the matter bugs John all the time, too. Check out this great meta by @comicgeekery on the matter!

I would also like to contest Mr Emory’s ideas about the founding date of the Adidas shoe brand, but that’s just a tiny detail.

Sherlock: "John Hamish Watson!" - John: "Don’t Hamish me!" 😂 - Wasn’t aware that’s a verb, but apparently it is!

The car chase scene/river rescue scene was so good I literally forgot this was just audio. Also, Sherlock and John diving in a lake together to get Robert out was just… so touching. And so cool. (I think I’m mostly in love with how Sherlock switched immediately from "Watson, get out of there" to "OK, I’m going right in there with you".) And did you all notice we got another "John"? It’s still being saved for special moments. 🥰

Dear Joe, nobody who dies on duty on a peacekeeping mission gets a cheap place in heaven in my opinion. But then, if Harry Watson was anywhere as modest and laid-back as his son is, and something tells me that he must have been, he probably took a cheap place on purpose, not to be a pain, and when an angel came up and wanted to guide him closer to the hero places, he was just, "nah, mate, I'm good here".

Also, Sherlock packing their things before the case was even wrapped up, to make sure John would find it easier to go back home to London, rather than lingering and questioning his life choices, was so sweet again.

"You’re stressed, any you’re lashing out at those you love (!). You’re losing your mind. You spoke to a river!" - "And you put a dog in a bag!" - Possibly one of my favourite ever closing scenes of this show. (Treat yourselves to this lovely observation by @itsnobodysproblem , please!)

[lime1991]

hold on i have to recraft my trolls age hc... i just learned there was a brozone website and on said site we have:

January 2nd 1999 is, maybe, Branch's birthday? And instead of being like "awesome im a big brother" Floyd just goes "thank god im not the baby anymore" after hes born.

Baby Branch's oldest message is this:

February 26th 1999. He's over a month old at this point, but the phrasing of "tonight's show" leads me to believe he was part of the band from literal birth (also why Floyd's first reaction to his birth is "thank you for saving me") and therefore this isnt his first show.

The last logins for all of the brothers is March 11th 1999

And just a day before, according to John Dory, new merch dropped

Soooo i think its safe to say around March 11th 1999 is when the band broke up after their ruined performance, which makes sense that it was also the last time any of them logged into the website. (though i think it would be sad and sweet if it showed branch had logged into it sometime recently but whatever)

So that brings me back around to the age thing.

The trollspedia page states Poppy is around 21-23, and I agree and am more inclined towards 22-23 personally. Seeing as Branch was born in January 1999, he'd be 24 in 2023. But the only thing that confuses me a little is Branch saying its been 20 years since the band broke up:

For 1999 to be 20 years ago, that would mean the movie takes place in 2019. And... honestly that's not too far off from 2023 so i don't mind that being the case, its always vague about what year its meant to be, a lot of animated movies are like this. Also i wanna bring up that the song Bridget and Poppy sing in the beginning (Good As Hell by Lizzo) came out in 2019, SO... its not impossible that the movie is meant to take place in 2019.

SO... with this all in mind... my new theory/headcanon:

As of 2019...

John Dory - 39 Bruce - 38 Clay - 33 Floyd - 28 Branch - 20

And as of 1999...

John Dory - 19 Spruce - 18 Clay - 13 Floyd - 8 Branch - 2 months

ALSO lets not forget the fact that troll age stages are different from humans', a 2 month old is singing and dancing in a boyband. They tend to mature past their actual age really quickly.

(i know these are country trolls, but the idea is still there. as soon as they pop out the egg, trolls are basically toddlers)

And I've tried to keep my theory compliant with what the wikia says (like how Clay's 1999 self is referred to as a teenager, therefore i made him 13) because i believe theyre mostly right. however. i also believe the movie takes place in 2019, not 2023. even if that wasnt the intention of dreamworks, they wrote in the script that its been 20 years since 1999... that can literally only be 2019 lol.

But if we want to imagine it takes place in 2023, heres age hcs for that too:

John Dory - 43 Bruce - 42 Clay - 37 Floyd - 32 Branch - 24

Btw this means, in my hc, Poppy is 19 in 2019 and 23 in 2023, as is implied in the wiki. Which makes sense to me, because Branch is obviously older than her by at least a year. With my hc that Bruce and JD are only a year apart (again, in compliance with the wikia that claims JD was a teenager in 1999 and therefore not 20 like i want him to be. and making the "heart throb" not a minor bc thats weird to me) the moment where Poppy calls JD the "old one" but later fawns over Bruce is made extra funny when the two of them are so close in age.

But i want to say for the millionth time so nobody gets confused bc of all these numbers: I THINK BAND TOGETHER TAKES PLACE IN 2019!!! not 2023. And don't even ask about how the first movie truly fits into this, I DONT KNOW, they definitely did not fully think through a trilogy in 2016. Some things are just a product of when they came out and thats ok.

[rodolfoparras]

This is a blurb/idea from something I am writing but I can't resist sharing.

"I'm not a violent dog, I don't know why I bite" type of male reader and Price.

Reader is feral and cruel and aggressive, all snarling and growling and never letting anyone come close. He's sent to 141 because if there's anyone who can fix a crazy bastard it's Price. But John soon discovers that this feral mountain of a man is actually scared little puppy, he even says to John

"You know how abused dogs keep acting aggressive and bite anyone who comes close even after they're rescued? Because you might have good intentions but for someone who only knows pain and abuse, it's better safe than sorry."

And he is so scared of being sent away and punished for acting out but John just hugs him and pets his head, telling him that just like with abused dogs, it takes time, patience and love to start the healing process and he has plenty of it all.

Pain and anger never quite go away but it's easier when you have a guiding hand of a loving master who instead of yelling and hitting, gently talks you through it and helps you get better.

-🔮

I would do anything to be glued back together and restored by price 🧎🏻‍♂️🧎🏻‍♂️🧎🏻‍♂️ imagine getting into yet another fight and you’re like shouldn’t bother with me as he patches up but he’s just like nonsense while he finishes up the task or saving you from getting killed during a mission and once again you’re like you wasted precious time saving me when you could’ve gotten yourself out ot there and once again he’s like nonsense even when he first took you onto his squad you told him you were hopeless but once again he’d told you nonsense as he signed the papers he’d be so fucking patient no matter what you’d feel embarrassed for falling into the same old pattern but he just tells you that even healing has its ups and downs and he’ll be with you every step of the way ngl my heart hurts bc I have a similar concept and I absolutely love price being a safe haven for reader 😭🥹

[verdemoun]

Wait wait wait please tell me more about Kieran and Javier timewarp plsplspls do they go on manfailure dates. Will they go on fishing trips. Does the timewarp vdl gang own a shitty little kayak like they deserve? Need to see Kieran and Javier being losers in love traversing modern times

THEY ARE MY ENDGAME because this is johnigail charthur era but i need my boys to find happiness.

kieran having been in modern era for 12 years when javier gets there. he may be a loser and also neurodivergent but he's so much more relaxed and confident than the gang ever got to see him be. grew his hair longer learned what a razor is and keeps his beard more even length even if his moustache is never more than like kitten whispers. healthy weight functional muscle from walking (drunk sprinting) and gardening like he's thriving

and javier's like having a rough time y'know he just wants to be around the gang all the time. he has felt so alone pretty much since the gang broke up and he's really ashamed of the fact he gave up his/Dutch's ideals and started working for the government for the sake of saving his own skin. and the general learning modern era stuff. most of the gang are busy with their lives though so kieran is accidentally the one who has to show him around?

javier has a type. and kieran very confidently taking his hand with a smile and saying they had to hold hands crossing the road? tall pasty manfailure with ratty dark hair? javier is panicked he is screaming oh no he's hot. it's a constant game of 'is he flirting or is he being socially dense' and javier is about to rip his hair out which kieran finds hilarious and adorable. its completely intentional. kieran is very honest, will fall in love with anyone he finds beautiful and thinks dad bod timewarped rdr1 javier is every bit as damned fine as rdr2 javier.

look they are disasters okay they're disasters in queer genderless human forms. javier went from still holding onto an on-and-off relationship with john pre-1899 that relied on codes and discretion not for being gay but because john was still trying to work things out with abigail (javier was so in love he just accepted being treated like that!!) to blushing at spontaneous pda because kieran glanced over and remembered how handsome his boyfriend is. getting told i love you seventeen times a day. doing something stupidly mundane only to hear 'pretty' from across the room and kieran just watching with the goofiest in love smile on his face. not only how flustered javier gets but also has he ever been in a relationship where he was loved as much as he loved someone? trying not to cry as he catches his semi-verbal boyfriend practising spanish so they can talk in javier's first language because NO ONE IN THE GANG EVER TRIED TO LEARN SPANISH EVEN THOUGH HE DIDN'T SPEAK A WORD OF ENGLISH WHEN HE MET THEM

javier's loyalty also meaning he is the biggest advocate for anything kieran needs to support his neurodivergency?? using the famous 'make grown men piss themselves' glare before staff can even comment on kieran bringing his snacks to a fancy tapas place on date night. also knowing exactly what makes safe foods safe and being able to offer mouthfuls of new foods that kieran might like or very honestly say 'do not touch you will be physically disgusted by this'. both considering a perfect romantic evening fishing. just quietly fishing lost in sharing tips and bait and the total bliss of one another's company. couple pic looks like american gothic with both of them completely blank and holding fish. nestled on the couch watching tv in spanish because kieran has his headphones on and doesn't listen anyway but really enjoys it. javier replacing the weighted blanket. kieran being taller and just picking javier up if something his brain detects as a threat happens because protect loved one comes first and javier trying trying to assure him the small yappy dog is not a threat to their lives but also almost tearing up because imagine someone loving him enough to actively try and keep him safe

it started ironic but their song is literally fish by craig campbell and javier will sing it while playing guitar despite neither one of them particularly enjoying country music but loving that song. the gang are mortified and see kieran as an innocent soft bean of purity who doesn't understand the song is not about fishing. not only is he fully aware but that is exactly why it is their song. trust they have the best sex life in timewarp. just losers with trauma and seperation anxiety who are completely devoted to each other, actually listen to one another so sincerely and never have to be worried about being left behind or forgotten again

to the second point annabelle being the big cheese wealthy woman of the group bought hosea a very modest aluminum boat with a low power engine because he's getting too old for rowing and she knows he does enjoy fishing. john will not touch it with a 10 foot pole he is convinced it is going to sink at any second when someone is reeling in a fish all other passengers have to move to the other side for balance and despite opportunities to buy significant better ocean vessels hosea loves the ss old girl. they can pry his shitty boat from his cold dead hands. so many happy, good, new memories he's formed with the gang in post time-warp.

[zeravmeta]

Super Sankta 2 Exu sounds like an excellent idea Zerav. For maximum meme, she's a John Wick style Guard- just uses guns to bash in people's skulls.

Super Sankta 2 Exu whose going John Wick style on people is funny but my concept for Exia Alter was always based on like, the concept that Skadi Alter first introduced that we all thought at the time was gonna be the standard fare for alters

My Ultimate Sankta vs Exia 3 concept was based around the idea of a "Bad End" Exia the way Skadi Alter is, where Exia would be further mechanized ala Executor and become an emotionless seraphim-type unit who would essentially be the ultimate Sankta weapon. This would happen as the result of Laterano having some kind of big event that would cause them to pull all remaining Sankta from all corners of Terra for their promised day of ascension where they would leave Terra and all its problems behind, with certain Sankta (Like Exia) essentially being the vanguards and protectors of these people (I essentially just took the idea of the Rapture and assigned it to the Sankta), with the event concept in question being Penguin Logistics invading this holy land to save their girl.

So like. you can imagine how hard ive been popping off with all the new lore reveals we've gotten over the past 2 years. That said, this concept is a little outdated, and just leaving it at that would be no fun

So here's my pitch for how Exia Alter 4: The Quest For Peace would go with modern foresight (added read more because reasons)

The Popes basement computer in Zwillingsturme just let out a directive that they need to gather their best Sankta to fight against the end of the world. This is in conjunction with the last few events squarely tying together Iberia's Seaborn plotline with both Laterano and Siracusa and their dividing faiths. Now, all of this is in conjunction with the hints we've been getting that Penguin Logistics is going to split up (Lappland and Mostima have already flown the coop, and currently the rest are in Siracusa helping Texas the Amogus, but that will likely not last especially bc Exia's own anniversary line all but majorly hints at this split happening because they all got different stuff going on)

If Penguin Logistics splits, Exia will well and truly be left without a support system.

Now, Exia has always been kind of off as far as Sankta go, because for all intents and purposes she shouldn't be out of place: We see just how Sankta tend to act in Guide Ahead, and Exia didn't really seem all that different. Yet, when we look at her history and actions (she was basically kicked out, she was super accident prone which made other Sankta hate her, as part of Penguin Logistics shes constantly drunk, Texas herself says that Exia being an optimist makes her different, etc), she's actually Really different.

Almost like she has an abnormality compared to other Sankta. Me and a few others (check out @annierosaart post here) have speculated on her being different, but we also don't really know WHY: Even if she was suddenly disconnected from the Sankta empathy powers, we don't see any indication of how, and unlike Ezell we don't have any sort of 'wake-up' moment for her.

But given the weirdness about her and her lines, I think I know what the exact nature of her abnormality may be (and heres my pitch) when looking at the most relevant characters who have abnormalities, namely Executor and Arturia, because I think she falls in line with them (shameless plug to my old exia/executor buddies post):

Executor's abnormality is that his emotions are incredibly muted compared to others. He isn't heartless or emotionless, but more that his heart and mind runs on rationale and logic first and foremost, which almost disqualified him from being canonized had he also not been Laternos single most competent man because saint fedex is entirely disconnected from caring about petty things like being racist.

Arturia's abnormality is that she is receptively empathetic to the point she has nothing within her. She can remove the inhibitions of people, and this is in service to understanding them, because she lacks an understanding of herself: She has a grand dream of an empathy for the world even beyond the Sankta Empathy power, and to accomplish this she draws out the emotions that people hide. As a result, she reflects the emotions of others within herself and thus is incredibly empathetic to the point she's also lacking in emotions and a self.

Exia? I think that her abnormality is that she's too emotional, that the emotions she feels are far more amplified compared to others.

I believe this for a couple of reasons: All the weirdness surrounding her aside, whats the one thing that's always defined Exia? Her Rapid Casting EX. It's always been memed about, but simply firing a single bullet from a gun is akin to casting an Arts attack, with guns serving as a type of wand in these cases. Exia is the only character within the series whose been noted to be so fast with her arts and casting.

This post here does a phenomenal job expanding on this point, but Arts are an expression of the soul, they're influenced by emotions and become stronger with them because they are ultimately expressions of the self, which all characters in and of themselves having a "unique" arts inherent to them. Hell, all of Leithaniens arts are based around using musical expression, while Sarkaz are noted for their arts based on souls and memory, with the literal main heroine of Arknights having an empathy based arts superpower.

Exia, having Super Emotion as her Sankta halo abnormality, could explain why shes so good at gun, even without Oripathy, because said emotions are boosting her casting ability. Remember, anyone can use originum arts, it's just that oripathy is needed for them to be able to do it without a casting device.

This heightened emotion could also possibly explain her crush on Mostima, and even why Mostima is so weird/cruel about her: Mostima was simply a childhood friend alongside her and her sister, and yet when she left for Lungmen, Exia was hot on her trails and then waited 4 YEARS to be beside her and meet her again. She joined Penguin Logistics specifically because of Mostima. It's incredibly likely that Exia might have just had a small crush on her that then spiraled heavily because of this, and Mostima (with her chronic backstory-itis letting her find out that the whole Sankta and halo thing is a scam from her op files and events) might even be aware of this aspect of Exia, and may have wanted her to get over it, always leaving to try and make Exia move on but also always coming back because she needs to look after Exia. After all, if Exia had heightened extreme emotions, what are the chances she could die of grief? She already gets drunks regularly, and despite being cheerful and optimistic, Exia is wearing a mask hiding an incredibly depressed individual.

It could also be possible that the reason why Exia never noticed this is because while it doesn't let other Sankta feel her emotions, she can still feel that of others. She's always confused as to why back in Laterano people always accused her of being disingenuous, because can't they feel her emotions? Well, if she has Super Emotions, it could potentially be overloading her halo, so while she can receive signals, they can't be felt by others. Moreover, this mechanical aspect blends in well with her E2 art, where she is the single operator in the game without an animal/living motiff

Even other Sankta have birds and/or human statues and robotic elements (funnily enough, Executor Sniper only has crosses but even then he is clearly being themed as specifically an angel), but Exia? She has her guns, becoming wings as a ring forms with them. She's literally ascending while her wings become darker.

So what does all this mean?

Well, the Pope's basement bonzi buddy just sent out a directive for the Pope to gather the best Sankta to fight against the end of the world, and who else to recruit but a vulnerable, lonely Sankta who was kicked out for being TOO destructive? Exia's profile does make mention that despite appearances, she is also incredibly pious just like other Sankta, and if the Pope himself came knocking, wanting to give Exia a place back in Laterano, and in a high ranking, respected position no less?

She would jump at the chance, not only to be beside her sister (and possibly Mostima), but also to be accepted back into Laterano society.

Executors own halo has a mechanized element to it, where he also gains more parts to it when he goes from normalest man to saint fedex, so he likely underwent some kind of modification to go along with his promotion, especially because he also now carries an Nier Automata companion cube with him straight from the machine

If Exia is to be canonized, she might be adjusted in a similar way by The Law.

She might even be fully altered into becoming Laterano's perfect weapon to fight against the end of the world. The Witch King himself describes this approaching threat as a void of infinite knowledge which seeks to eliminate them, an unshakeable truth of existence that drives people insane.

The Creator must perish.

What better weapon to fight against such a thing than one who feels her own emotions so strongly she cannot be swayed? Or better yet, an equally as unshakeable, emotionless machine?