#jack: finally opens up about how he feels emotionally | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inkdrinkerworld · 1 year

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something like ms.honey 2

cw: fluff, a bit of angst, mention of haley, flashback scene, friends to lovers, hotch being emotionally constipated

“I can’t do it,” you mutter on the phone and your friend sighs.

“You most definitely can, don’t chicken out.”

You really can’t, you cannot go on this date. It’ll be a waste of time and a waste of money.

What you’d rather be doing is spending the day with your grumpy neighbour and his energetic eight year old who loves all things sweet just like you.

Except, you’ve not seen them in five days.

Aaron’s more than likely away on a case, and Jack’s with Jessica, but there’s not been a single text and you can feel dread setting it.

You want to reach out, but that feels like more than an admission of worry and you’re not sure if you want to delve into what else it could be.

It’s a little mind numbing the way the Hotchner’s have wormed their way into every routine you have and now that they’re not part of it, it feels like something is missing.

“I think I’m just gonna stay in and do class prep.” there’s a finality in your voice that makes your friend sigh.

“Alright, just,” she takes a breath, “crack a bottle of red.”

You hang up after that, rifling through your cabinets for your craft stuff.

You’re teaching the kids about shapes and slightly about fractions, but you wanted it to be fun- so it required a sacrifice to your Saturday night.

Construction paper in varying colours and Youtube tutorials were how you spent about three hours before your phone rang.

Sighing, you slide ‘answer’ without even looking at the screen.

“Hello?” there’s no answer on the line, just a crackle and a pop.

“Hello?” you pull the phone away from your ear and see ‘AH.’ Frowning, you say a little frustratedly, “Aaron?”

“It’s Jack,” there’s lots of whispering and you get nervous. “Daddy’s downstairs.”

“Are you okay, J?” you find yourself asking, standing and reaching for your keys.

“Daddy’s friends from work are here.” you take a peek out your kitchen window, but see no cars at their house.

“Where baby?” your heart is hammering in your chest.

“My old house, there was a problem.”

“Can you get your dad on the phone?” you ask, ready to get in your car and over to Jack and Aaron.

“I’m supposed to be sleeping,” he admits shyly and you laugh. “I miss you.” he says and you feel your heart swell.

“I miss you too Jack,” god you wish you could hug his little body. “Is everything okay?”

Jack sighs, “It was my mom’s birthday two days ago,” your heart breaks for Jack and Aaron.

Jack had told you about his mom’s funeral when he was over the last time Aaron had been away.

“Daddy was sad, and today Uncle Rossi came over because he made a mistake.”

“It’s all good now though?” you ask and Jack says a little, ‘yeah,’ but he sounds sad. “Do you want me to stay on the phone till you fall asleep?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.

“Can we do a video?” he asks and you switch over immediately, finding Jack’s face smushed to his pillow.

“You look so cozy,” you tell him and he smiles, a little blush taking over his face. “What story do you want?” you have a couple of his favourites still at the house.

“Jungle book again, please.”

You read only a couple chapters of the book before Jack falls asleep, the phone falling to the bed so you’re staring at the ceiling but you don’t mind it.

You’re cleaning up your coffee table when you hear Jack’s door open.

“Y/n?” It’s the first sign of trouble when Aaron says your name like that.

You’re not sure what the trouble could be, but you know it’s unsettling and it makes your skin crawl just slightly.

You curse yourself internally at that thought.

Aaron doesn’t have to call you ‘sweetheart’ every time, friends usually go by first names too.

“Hey,” you say, and there’s a sort of awkward silence that fills the space. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for him to keep the phone, he sounded so sad and fell asleep.” Aaron just shakes his head.

“It’s fine Y/n, it’s been a tough week for him.” it grates on your nerves the way he’s determined to only call you your name, but you nod as Aaron speaks, packing your crafts into your sticker folder and sliding it into your tote bag.

There’s something weird with him.

“Jack said you’d been sad.” you mumble before you can stop yourself. “Sorry, sorry.”

Aaron laughs and shakes his head. “He likes you,” he says and you smile bashfully. “But yeah, I was. I’m better now though, swear.”

You eye him skeptically, but nod anyway.

“Rossi says I’ve made a mistake.” Aaron says unexpectedly. Your eyebrows knit as you wait for him to continue, “Coming back to the house.”

Aaron doesn’t know why he’s saying all this, truly. It’s frightening the way he opens up to you without even thinking.

He wants to add, ‘and being away from you,’ but you cut him off before the words can slip from his lips.

“Do you think it is?” regardless of what his answer is, you’re planning on keeping your face neutral.

“I’m not sure, it’s done some good, but I think mostly it’s made Jack emotional.”

You can see the struggle plain on his face. He’s at war with himself, but you’re not sure why exactly.

“Do what feels right for the two of you.” you say softly and he nods.

Seeing him and hearing that he wants to possibly stay at the house reminds you that they’d never been permanent, no matter what you had thought.

It bubbles an anger that’s really embarrassment and it makes you feel gross, makes you feel wrong.

Wrong for letting them into your routines, wrong for getting so used to them being in your space, wrong for your friendship turning into a crush.

“I gotta go,” you say and Aaron nods. He can tell something’s wrong, but prying seems wrong.

Everything seems wrong now.

“Goodnight Y/n.”

“Goodnight.”

You go another week without the Hotchners but this time they’re home. In their house right across the street.

Jack still waves at you from inside their gates, but he doesn’t come over and you hardly see Aaron.

There’s something odd and it’s eating away at you. You hate the limbo of not knowing what’s going on, but you knew it was bound to happen after that phone call.

You give Jack his ‘something sweet’ every week though, still giving him double the regular batch even if Aaron isn’t talking to you.

Your week has been mostly the same routine, wake up, go to school, teach the kids.

Except today.

Everything’s been turned on its head since the moment you woke up.

You’re late. And you’re never late, not even five minutes.

Your alarm didn’t go off, and now you’re about to be an hour late for school because you haven’t had breakfast or showered yet.

The only good thing is that you called in the moment you got up and let the school know you’d be late. Other than that? It’s been a shit show.

As you step out the door, you see Aaron hovering by your gate.

You’re only slightly disturbed by his presence, especially the beard he’s grown. “Is something wrong?” you ask as you lock your door.

“You’re still here.” he’s got an almost relieved tone to his voice.

“I’m late,” you explain softly and he nods, stepping back as you open your gate. “Are you sure nothings wrong?”

Aaron never grows a beard, and he never comes over in the morning even when you were talking.

Sure you being late is uncharacteristic, but it doesn’t warrant a visit from him- especially after all this time.

“You haven’t called me ‘Aaron’ in almost two weeks.” he grimaces after the words leave him like he wasn’t supposed to say anything.

“You haven’t spoken to me in almost two weeks.” you counter as you reach your car. “I’m not doing this right now, you have your reasons fine whatever. I have to get to work.”

You’ve never been this cursory with him ever, and it stings, but Aaron nods.

Your day doesn’t brighten much from there. The kids are all a bit restless and teaching fractions doesn’t go as smoothly as you’d have liked, but they’re understanding the differences a lot better now.

You don’t force it on them after lunch though.

Instead, you let them go over their writing and reading and help them make crafts till the last bell.

Aaron’s outside waiting for you and you resist the urge to roll your eyes.

Sure you missed him, but like this, he’s two steps away from making your bad day worse.

“Come pick up Jack with me? He hasn’t seen me for the day.” you want to ask why, but you don’t want to be reinvited into their lives like this.

“Aaron,” you want to tell him no. You want to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone, to pretend you don’t exist because it was so easy for him over the last two weeks.

But there’s something about the way his shoulders drop and relax as you say his name that has you caving. Something about that Aaron Hotchner smile, that’s not even a smile that wins you over.

“Fine.”

He knows using Jack to force the two of you together is wrong, but after Rossi and Reid grilling him, he wants to make amends.

“You stopped speaking to her?” David is livid. He knows exactly why Aaron had stopped speaking to you but he hates that he’s allowed his worry to rule him again.

“Hotch, she was nice.” Spencer chimes and Aaron rolls his eyes and sucks at his teeth.

“None of you have met her!” he hisses and Spencer shrugs.

“Jack talks,” is all Reid says and David nods.

“Yeah, the kid’s practically in love with her. He even shared some of that chocolate babka she made for you, she’s got a good hand for it.” Rossi says and Aaron smiles despite it all.

Rossi wants to tease him, but the smile has something sad about it.

“That’s why it can’t go on Dave, she’s someone to lose now.”

David and Spencer sigh and lean forward at the round table.

“And you pushing her away is what? Keeping him from losing her? It’s premature even for you, Hotch.” Rossi’s words are weighted, but it’s Spencer that gets to him.

“Jack’s going to lose her twice, once as his friend and then again as his neighbour. When she realizes you’re done with whatever it is you had, she’s going to leave Jack alone to avoid you.”

There’s an implied, ‘and it’ll be your fault,’ that Spencer politely refuses to add verbally.

The words had been swimming around his head all week but he didn’t know how to approach you about it to apologise.

“Did you drive here?” you ask as you reach your car, looking up at Aaron to see him shake his head.

“No, um, Spencer dropped me off.” you nod though you have no clue who this ‘Spencer’ is.

“Get in,” you mutter, sliding into the front seat and starting the car.

The ride is mostly silent and uncomfortable.

It’s stifling that the two of you are this silent but clearly have something to say.

It’s causing a stress knot at the back of your neck now that you think about it.

“Can you just say whatever it is you want to? The tension is ridiculous.” you murmur, eyes darting between Aaron and the road.

He feels gross all over at the way you’ve dismissed him even while speaking to him- but Aaron knows he’s deserved this.

“I’m sorry.” he starts and you frown. “For being distant, and for not coming over. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” he says softly, almost like he’s ashamed of his actions.

“That’s not why I was upset,” you reply, pulling into the parking lot of Jack’s school. “You stopped being my friend. You put distance between us when you went back to your old house, and I didn’t know why. Then when you came home you couldn’t even look at me and say, ‘We can’t be friends anymore’ you just shut me out.”

There’s a long silence in the car as Aaron tries to pick his next few words and you feel like you probably should’ve never said anything to begin with.

“We’ll talk later,” he says as the children start rushing out.

You stay in the car while Aaron gets Jack and sigh. Your forehead is pressed against the steering wheel when the back door opens and a rowdy Jack pushes his face up to yours.

“Y/n!” he screams, and you giggle despite yourself.

“Inside voice Jack,” Aaron corrects softly and Jack nods, pressing a kiss to your neck.

“How was your day?” you ask as you pull out, content to give Jack all your attention if it means that you can avoid whatever is going on between you and his dad.

“Can I come over?” Jack asks as you pull into the familiar road. “Dad?” he prompts when neither of you answer.

Aaron only looks at you.

“Uh yeah babe, but me and your dad have to talk, that okay?” Jack nods, unbuckling his seatbelt as you get out.

“C’mon J,” you call, opening the door and letting him race in.

You set up the tv for him, ‘Little Einsteins’ playing as he sings along. You place a bottled water and a plate of cookies on the coffee table for him too, before turning to Aaron who’s leaning on your kitchen’s arch.

You stare at him from the other side of the archway, waiting for him to speak.

“I couldn’t,” he starts and you cross your arms. “I don’t do well with loss, it’s hard to let people in since Haley died- Jack’s mom.”

God you wish you weren’t so emotional. You can feel tears pricking your eyes just at the mention of Jack’s mom.

“I don’t like putting him in a position where he can lose people. He wasn’t supposed to befriend you, neither of us were,” you nod. “but we did and it started to feel too good being around you.”

You want to stop him, but Aaron bulldozes you and continues, “Things go wrong quickly when they start to feel good. There’s risks that come with being involved with any agent.”

“I don’t think someone would attack me because we were friends Aaron,” you try to joke but he doesn’t smile, he doesn’t even do his little eyebrow quirk and it makes you nervous.

“Maybe not, but I didn’t want to take the chance. Anything could go wrong.”

“Anything could go wrong in friendships that don’t involve agents.” is your counter.

You push off the archway when your brain catches up, “Wait, did you say, ‘didn’t’?” you’re closing the distance between you.

He smiles a little then, only the tip of his smile going up but you see it.

“A couple friends told me I was being premature, in putting distance between us. They also reminded me I was more than capable of keeping people safe.”

You can’t help but smile, “And?”

Aaron’s not off the hook, that much he can tell.

He can also tell that you’re giving in.

“And, I wanted to stop being an ass and I really really missed coming over.”

You shake your head, “What if I didn’t want us to be friends again?”

Aaron pauses for a moment, it’s long and pregnant and it makes you nibble on your lip when you catch onto what he’s thinking, but then he gives you a proper smile this time, “Then I’d go ask Jack to convince you to give us another shot with you.”

“Oh that’s mean,” you mumble and Aaron nods, the toes of your shoes touching now.

“Alright, fine, since you’ve really pulled my leg, I’ll be your friend again Aaron Hotchner.” you say dramatically and he laughs.

“Good, because I really did miss you. More than Jack.” he whispers the last part and you scoff.

“Oh that’s not true, Jack called me.” you say and Aaron’s eyebrows knit together.

“After we came back?” he asks softly and you nod.

“Three times a week from the landline.” The boy in question comes running into the kitchen, an empty plate of cookies in his hand.

“Thanks Y/n,” you take the plate from him, and as soon as his hands are empty he hugs your legs. “Missed you.” he says and you ruffle his hair.

Aaron feels his heart break at the fact that his son had missed you so much, he called you on the house phone. Reid was right, he’d have made Jack lose you twice. He almost did.

“C’mon babe,” you lift Jack to your hip, “Let’s choose something to bake for tomorrow.”

Aaron watches as you go for your cookbook, sitting Jack on the countertop as you both flip through the desserts section.

You all fall into your regular routine after a couple weeks, Jack coming over on a Friday for his ‘something sweet’ and to give you all the details of his week.

Aaron never stays long these days, hard cases that’s mainly long hours but he pops in every night just before you go to bed.

Like tonight, Jack’s still with you, not awake but asleep in your lap, and Aaron knocks on your door.

“Shit,” you mumble, lifting Jack’s head and placing it on a cushion.

“Y/n,” he whines and you pout, kissing his head before jogging off to the door.

“You have to get your own keys,” you say to Aaron, finding him in just his suit shirt, tie and jacket gone. “He fell asleep.”

Aaron shakes his head as he steps in, noticing both you and Jack in your pyjamas as he flicks your locks.

“It’s not even eight thirty, what did you get up to?”

You don’t say a word, but gesture to the coffee table and then to the kitchen.

The coffee table is covered in paper dinosaurs, all in varying colours and species, and the kitchen has multiple tupperware bowls, some with food and others with sweets.

“You’re weak sweetheart,” he chuckles and you shrug.

“He’s nice, and we had fun. Jack pays in compliments and kisses, what’s better than that?” Aaron sits where you had been, raising Jack’s head so it lays in his lap, and pats his free side.

“You shouldn’t be working on crafts on the weekend,” Aaron whispers but you frown. “You should be relaxing.”

You suck at your teeth, “We did relax! We made dinner together and we baked brownies and then we made dinosaurs.”

He just nods, but Aaron wishes he had the time to actually let you relax.

He wishes that he could have a weekend off to take you and Jack someplace where you don’t have to entertain.

There’s a contemplative look on his face that makes his eyebrows scrunch together and his lips purse - you don’t like it even a little bit.

“You’re being weird Aaron.” you say as you reach and smooth the wrinkles in his eyebrows.

“I’ve never been weird,” you giggle softly but don’t say anything and it makes Aaron shake his head. “I’m thinking.”

You pull back from him, “Aaron, please, don’t hurt yourself.” he pushes at your shoulder when you laugh.

“Something serious?” you ask, standing and moving to the kitchen.

Aaron’s about to call out to you when he spots you walking back with a bowl of food and a fork.

“It could be,” he says and he takes the things from you. You flick through the shows, settling on something easy as he eats.

“Are you gonna tell me?” he shakes his head, crunching on a carrot.

“Nah, not yet.” you huff but say nothing, content to just watch your show till Aaron’s ready to leave.

Except, you fall asleep in his lap as well, and he can’t move. He doesn’t mind, not a bit but he does shift a little so he can lay down too with you and Jack on him.

“Fucking perfect.”

The next week is fast, the term is winding down for thanksgiving and then Christmas break.

The kids have been good at the fractions and the shapes, a real change from the last couple of weeks and it makes you feel a teacher’s pride that’s ridiculous.

“You guys are so smart!” you praise as you watch the class name each of the fractions with ease.

Now they’re all eagerly telling you their plans for Thanksgiving, and what their parents are going to be making while you’re in circle time.

“Miss Y/n?” Ben raises his hand as you walk around the room.

“Yeah?”

“What do you do for Thanksgiving?” the class all nod at his question and you smile.

“Uh, well my family and I never really celebrated it. We did the big lunch and dinner for Christmas.”

Another hand goes up and you point to the girl, Lyn, “Will you be alone then?”

They all know you’re not from Virginia.

“Maybe, or maybe I’ll spend it with my neighbours.” you haven’t really spoken of it with Aaron and Jack, but if you have to spend it alone it won’t be as bad as it used to be.

“I hope you do,” Lyn says and you smile.

“Thank you Lyn.”

On your drive home, you think about Thanksgiving and what you’ll do for it, but everything feels too much. It feels weird thinking about doing something when you usually do nothing.

“Y/n!” Jack’s waiting outside your door with Aaron, who has to hold his son’s hand so he doesn’t run over to the car.

“Jack,” you greet and he tugs on your fingers. “What’s wrong baby?”

Aaron comes down to take your keys from you.

“We’re going out,” Aaron says and you frown.

“Where?” you ask and Jack beams.

“Our favourite!” Jack giggles madly and you shake your head.

“Never been.” you say and Aaron smiles. He unlocks your door and watches you and Jack go in before getting in himself.

“That’s even better. We’ll wait for you. It’s not formal. Reservation is for 7.”

Aaron can tell you want to say something, but you don’t. You just make your way to your staircase.

“Y/n, can I have more cookies?” Jack asks and you nod to Aaron.

“If your dad says it’s okay before dinner.”

You don’t stick around to hear whether or not Aaron allows him.

You come back down and Aaron sees you first. Without his conscious consent his belly fills with butterflies and his nerves frazzle.

You’re in a long, blue and orange skirt and a white t-shirt.

Your hair’s been let down, ringlets of loose curls hanging down your back, your glasses replaced with another pair that matches better.

“I’m ready,” you say, watching Jack and Aaron share a cookie as you grab your purse.

“Leave it.” Aaron says softly, offering you a cookie in turn. “You look beautiful.” he compliments and you smile as you pluck the cookie from his hands.

“So pretty,” Jack says as he touches the colours on your skirt. “Like a princess or a fairy!”

“You’re both flirts,” is the only thing you can say, trying to tamper your embarrassment from their attention.

Dinner is easy, conversation mostly abstract.

“What about if you combined the two, a brownie and a cake,” Jack says as they bring dessert out. Aaron had the good sense to get everyone their own hot brownie with ice cream. “A crownie!” he names it excitedly and you giggle.

“We could try babe,” you say and Jack nods, leaning forward and licking the vanilla ice cream on his brownie.

“It’s hot so don’t touch the pan.” you say and he nods. He’s been beside you all evening, much to Aaron’s amusement yet he can’t help the way he notices Jack has been wanting you more and more.

It’s painfully obvious now how much his son had missed you, and for a moment he feels a sharp stab of dad guilt right to his gut.

“Aaron, your ice cream is gonna melt and then me and Jack are gonna have your entire plate.” you threaten, Aaron’s eyes widening as he notices the chocolate stains around his son’s mouth and the nearly gone brownie.

“Yeah dad, eat up or pay up.”

Your laugh is loud at the little Hotchner’s threat.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Aaron says, digging into his brownie before you and Jack team up against him. He still manages to save about half the brownie for the ride home.

The bill comes and you reach for it when Aaron shakes his head.

“Not a chance, sweetheart.” It's cruel of him to say it so sweetly and reverently as he fishes his card out of his wallet.

It makes you stumble, and allows him the advantage of paying without another complaint.

Jack knocks out about twenty minutes into the drive back to your house, and from the quiet that surrounds the car you’re tired too.

“You can sleep y’know,” Aaron says as he glances over at you.

You shake your head, defiant, “And leave you up by yourself? Don’t think so.”

He keeps you talking for a little while, before glancing at you and finding your cheek tucked to your shoulder, and your eyes dropping closed.

“Sleep, sweetheart.” he says softly, hand reaching for your cheek.

“Don’t want you to be bored,” you slur and he chuckles.

“Won’t be, promise.” your eyes don’t stay open long after that, certainly not when Aaron keeps stroking your face.

The drive lasts another half hour, you and Jack out like lights.

When he pulls up to your house he grabs your keys from the cup holder.

Aaron’s meticulous as he opens the door and clears the couch so there’s space to place Jack.

The little boy doesn’t rouse, Aaron having perfected the art of transporting a sleeping toddler over the years.

He comes back for you, unbuckling your seatbelt and stroking your arm.

“We’re home sweetheart,” he whispers, watching you turn to where his voice is coming from. “Want me to carry you?” he’s gonna do it unless you say ‘no.’

“I can walk,” you’re groggy, but he moves to let you hop out of the SUV on your own.

Aaron stays behind you though, hand on your back as you walk inside. You stretch and yawn when you’re inside and Aaron smiles.

“Want some tea?” you ask and he shakes his head, he watches you make yours though.

“Thanks for dinner, Aaron.” you say as you hold your mug, taking a scalding sip that makes you hiss.

“Don’t do that,” he says and you frown. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks and you brighten.

Aaron never has the weekends off. Ever.

“You didn’t say you had the weekend off!” you all but scream and he laughs, reaching for your mug as you rush around to his side of the kitchen island.

“I have the day off,” he amends and you nod, sitting halfway in his lap till he tugs you up properly.

“And you want me to spend it with you and Jack?” he nods, handing over the tea when you’re comfortable.

You don’t think hard about his hand falling to your waist to keep you still as he answers you.

“Mhm, Jack wants to go to a book fair.” he elaborates and you nod. “Are you free?”

“So free! But I have to be back in time to go to the farmer’s market.”

Aaron nods, lodging his chin on your shoulder as you sip the tea. He can do with a day of just you and Jack and nothing else.

#slmhuniverse #aaronhotchner #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x black!reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x yn

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scrapyardwarlocks · 5 months

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This is my Braime rant.

Oh, hello there. Yes, it's been a few years, and I'm still thinking about the GOT finale. When people talk about it, it's mostly to roast Bran getting the throne or Daenerys turning evil because of a bell tower (both extremely valid), BUT I am forever the most salty about the way Jaime and Brienne's story ended. Like...????????

First, I must acknowledge that there are the Tormund x Brienne shippers. I suppose their relationship could’ve gotten more emotionally complex if given the chance, but we only see Tormund horny boy howling because of Brienne's size and strength. In huge contrast, Jaime Lannister’s connection to Brienne goes much further than a surface-level attraction to a large, powerful woman.

They fundamentally changed each other for the better in HUGE ways:

Brienne's relationship with Jaime gave her a sense of agency she never had before. He gave her the opportunities and tools to fulfill exactly what she wanted to be. He developed an unwavering trust in her judgment and skills as a knight that she hadn’t really experienced before. A feminist king, if there ever was one (after a personal growth journey, of course).

Brienne allowed Jaime to see his potential as an honorable man. He opened up to her emotionally in a way he’s done with no one else (except maybe his brother Tyrion?) Although she wasn’t the only reason he decided to defy his sister and do what’s right, she certainly had a monumental impact on his self-worth and morality.

Even when they were firmly on opposite sides, they still advocated and protected each other. Jaime lost the hand he used for sword fighting, and he fought a BEAR for her, for God's sake.

And you can't argue that they didn't have a physical and emotional connection. The amount of unadulterated, obvious yearning is insane, y’all. Right in front of everyone's salad.

I mean, Brienne willingly gives him her virginity, something she’s been vehemently defending her whole life. She allowed him to see her at her most vulnerable. But then...

Jaime decides to go back to King's Landing to protect his sister at the last moment. Keep in mind, he had already fully betrayed Cersei just a few episodes beforehand. In the end, he dies in his emotionally abusive sister’s arms, and the show implies that she's the woman he truly loves... it's genuinely vile to me.

If Jaime had stayed in the same place he was in season one, the exact same thing would've happened to him in the end. So... WTF was the point? What was the point of all that inner conflict, emotional growth, meaningful connection? Jack squat, according to the writers and the footnote dedicated to him in the King's Landing records.

What lesson are we supposed to learn from this, huh? No matter how hard you try to grow and change, what you were born into will always drag you back? You should stay in a toxic relationship, no matter how destructive, because you still feel like you love them? People who have made mistakes in the past don't deserve a second chance at life? That is what I got with the end to Jaime's story.

Thank you for your time, your honor.

#braime #jaime lannister #brienne of tarth #game of thrones #I know it's been five years shut up #they gave me a beautiful gift and then destroyed it right in front of me

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concretevampire · 2 years

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Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes.

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight.

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight.

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky.

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily.

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat.

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions.

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet.

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin.

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name.

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it.

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal.

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind.

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that.

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child.

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith.

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly.

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass.

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago.

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women.

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure.

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse.

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm.

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?”

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste.

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.”

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots.

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.”

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning.

His smile widens.

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?”

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.”

“So that’s how I get you to talk.”

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive.

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel.

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue.

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.”

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?”

“Jealous she ain’t with you.”

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air.

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you.

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads.

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth.

It’s quiet again.

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember.

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work.

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily.

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss.

Abigail’s raised him well.

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.”

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.”

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?”

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.”

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.”

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile.

“So you are worried.”

“Whatd’ya mean?”

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.”

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose.

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.”

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.”

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile.

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles.

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking.

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted.

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals.

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers.

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling.

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart.

You help Tilly with the laundry.

Karen and you care for spare guns.

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love.

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it.

You don’t blame her. You used to too.

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning.

Javier and Bill from a home robbery.

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis.

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand.

But no Arthur.

It’s a bit disheartening. Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then?

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave.

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet.

You thank him with a glance.

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week.

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide.

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out.

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for.

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return.

“Yer mutterin’.”

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore.

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.”

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you.

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most.

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing.

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now.

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning.

“Yer mad.”

“I am not mad.”

“Sure ya are.”

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct.

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you.

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello. Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike.

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning.

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message.

For a second, you think he doesn’t.

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry.

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants.

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze.

You’re sure he wishes.

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines.

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning.

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.”

You look up, raising a brow.

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words.

The only way he failed Hosea.

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again.

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.”

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better.

And you look up, less angry this time.

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills.

Finally, you acquiesce.

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat.

“Your hair’s gotten long.”

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does.

“Want me to cut it?”

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles.

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?”

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.”

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly.

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too.

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks.

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained.

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder.

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like.

But you don’t. You never would.

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop.

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another.

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours.

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out.

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return.

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you.

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead.

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other.

That was you.

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people.

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together.

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie.

“You’re not gonna ride?”

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you.

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.”

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?”

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking.

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.”

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.”

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang.

They make Arthur laugh.

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.”

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“You would if there was money in it.”

“Is there?”

“I’ll say no for my own sake.”

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch.

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame.

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge.

“You gotta get out more.”

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.”

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.”

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.”

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh.

“What do you mean I’m not?”

“You hate Saint Denis.”

“I know but-“

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.”

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.”

“Mhm, sure.”

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder.

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do.

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way.

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room.

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself:

Talk to Dutch.

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen.

Help with any last minute chores.

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too.

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard.

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization.

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched.

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times.

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper.

It’s strange when he gets like this.

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head.

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse.

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan.

“Are you serious?” But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees.

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there.

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again.

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar.

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything.

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.”

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles.

“And whose fault is that?”

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it.

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly.

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.”

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.”

“Sure.”

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.”

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated.

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul.

But you let go, and turn away.

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten.

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before.

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair.

He’ll need a wash tomorrow.

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade.

Obviously, you wake before him.

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams.

His soft snores ensue. You drift away.

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted.

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee.

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze.

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard.

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it.

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back.

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically.

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue.

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once.

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all.

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always.

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?”

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?”

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him.

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been.

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family.

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron.

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?”

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other.

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery.

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts.

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.”

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?”

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power.

In hatred. In violence.

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land.

It had confused you. Hurt you even.

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die?

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you:

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.”

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too.

You stare at Dutch.

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth.

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch.

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked.

“Read it.”

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?”

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?”

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense.

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.”

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?”

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking.

“And how often is that?”

“More than I’d like.”

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up.

“Isn’t that the truth.”

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains.

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye.

And it’s all very domestic.

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary.

When dreams rule the plain of existence.

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months.

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret.

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it.

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have.

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay.

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile.

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.”

“He does, doesn’t he?”

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?”

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.”

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!”

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket.

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.”

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.”

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.”

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks.

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.”

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?”

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.”

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt.

Little brown capped soldiers.

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?”

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.”

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?”

“It was before you were born.” You add gently.

“Ohhh. Was it scary?”

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?”

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.”

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is.

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says,

“There she is.”

Micah’s back.

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside.

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated.

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?”

A sock is hung up, next a union suit.

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?”

You’re running short on clothespins.

“You gettin’ tired of him?”

There’s still enough for now.

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?”

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung.

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.”

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins.

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.”

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly.

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean.

Washed away of filth and stress.

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over.

“Good afternoon,” you say.

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers.

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?”

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.”

“We could rent a room.”

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide.

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.”

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.”

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate.

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly.

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page.

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words.

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what.

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more.

Not until night falls.

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night.

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out.

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave.

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped.

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?”

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.”

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose.

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.”

“Was he angry?”

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.”

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars.

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight.

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves.

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out.

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.”

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts.

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?”

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together.

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.”

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him.

Only him.

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something.

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light.

He’s struck gold.

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche.

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers.

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers.

The gift of walls.

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets.

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties.

Not since Mary.

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered.

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent.

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to.

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name.

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too.

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started.

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours.

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts.

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second.

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache.

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily.

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good.

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop.

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress.

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does.

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea.

You’re a woman, of course you have.

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer.

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint.

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch.

It’s intoxicating.

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple.

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier.

You all but melt.

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly.

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated.

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance.

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants.

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.”

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant.

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper.

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do.

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off.

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm.

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset.

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further.

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him.

And finally, you slide onto his length.

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely.

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist.

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again.

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you.

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being).

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder.

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else.

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck.

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach.

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown.

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him.

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out.

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful.

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress.

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves.

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does.

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress.

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him.

“Please,” you beg.

“Please, what?”

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours.

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum.

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set.

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen.

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy.

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot.

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation.

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would.

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant.

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly.

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck.

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself.

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over.

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock.

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties.

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated.

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders.

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is.

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name.

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss.

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like.

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.”

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say.

“No it ain’t.”

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.”

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created.

“Okay.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfiction #reader insert #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 fanfiction #might get a part two

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porcupine-girl · 1 month

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I had the weirdest possible Check Please dream.

Ngozi was going to do another volume, and we were all excited because Shippy and Taylor were finally going to get together.

Who tf are Shippy and Taylor you might ask?

Shippy, I immediately realized upon waking up, is Tater, but in this dream world somehow he got a different nickname and I don’t even know how. Idk if my brain was just like “he’s part of this popular ship and I’m lazy” or “Tater and Taylor would sound too cutesy and I really want this girl to be named Taylor for some reason” or what.

Taylor was not Vanessa with a different name. She had spiky lavender hair that looked a bit like this animal crossing hairdo:

But longer, like if it were lying flat it’d be about chin length, and of course in Ngozi’s drawing style.

I didn’t find out much more bc I woke up due to my husband getting up to get ready for work, but somehow when I got back to sleep, for once my brain deigned to continue my dream from before. It is apparently very invested in Shippy/Taylor (although after I woke up and realized Shippy was Tater my brain went back and forth between the two names).

So in the continuation, I learned that Taylor was already dating another member of the Falconers (I’m not sure I ever got his name), but he was very controlling and emotionally abusive and everyone on the team was hoping she’d leave him and kind of shunning the boyfriend socially due to his behavior.

Tater ran into her in like… a mall food court sort of location? And somehow their conversation led to him confessing his feelings but saying that it was fine if she didn’t want to be with him, just begging her to leave the controlling guy and saying he’d help her however he could just as her friend. She was clearly not quite ready to leave yet, but then her boyfriend called and when she said oh I’m at the mall and I ran into Tater so we were just hanging out he got really pissed that she was hanging out with another guy (in a totally public location, and being honest about it) without him and demanded she come home right away. And when she hung up you could see that having that conversation right after the conversation with Tater was kind of making her realize that she really did need to get out of it.

Tater saw that too and jumped on it, like “If you don’t want me to help I’ll call Jack and Bitty (which my brain then corrected to Zimmboni and Little B, it was like my brain was like helloooo this is Tater unlike you Ngozi would write him correctly) right now and they will come help you get your stuff, you can stay in their guest room, they would love to help.” And she was kind of mortified by this, like oh god does the entire team know??? And he was like, well. Yeah. Kinda. Everyone’s rooting for you to leave him, that’s why nobody talks to him or hangs out with him outside practice, we all know how awful he is. And she was like oh god, great, everyone knows how stupid I am for staying with a guy like him, but Tater was like no no no everyone knows how hard it is to leave that kind of thing but we all know you’re strong enough to do it as soon as you decide you’re ready.

And that was about as far as I got in the Shippy/Taylor saga before I woke up for good. I can only assume Jack and Bitty did come get her and let her stay with them, and eventually once she was over the nasty breakup she got together with Tater.

What’s really funny was that when I went to start writing this post I couldn’t remember her name, only that it started with a T and was like 6-ish letters long. I started the post calling her Tricia and was like no that’s not right, so I googled girl names that start with T and was just hoping that if I read enough lists of names something would click and maybe I’d recognize it if I saw it. Then I opened the first list and the very first name was Taylor and I was like OH RIGHT MY BRAIN NAMED HER AFTER TAYLOR FUCKING SWIFT HOW DID I FORGET THAT??

#omgcp #alexei mashkov #zimbits #but only in the background lol #if I wrote this it would be like my third or fourth fic based on a dream lmao #but I doubt anyone would be interested in a Tater/OFM fic #pg irl

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leiandroid · 1 year

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gaara&ino | a little outtake of a psychiatric ward au :)

ino is a "schizophrenic", she hears things which she believes are people's thoughts, and so claims she can read people's minds. she has motor ticks and a tendency for repetitive actions which is channeled through her hobby of arranging flowers. her room in the ward is filled with flower wreaths, arrangements etc, and she gets very anxious when they are out of place. she also has OCD.

gaara is a narcoleptic kid with anti social and behavioural issues. he wears a straight jacked most of the time and it only gets tied up when he exhibits signs of going into an episode (his episodes are characterised by violence and destruction and is a great threat to himself and those around him, but especially himself). his room in the ward is padded to avoid injury.

gaara often uses his narcolepsy as an excuse for getting out of trouble and avoiding certain conversations and people.

due to the heavy medications that gaara is always under, his emotions are extremely subdued and he doesn't feel any of them in any real intensity, the meds keep him emotionally invalid and numb.

ino and gaara become unlikely friends when gaara was going into an episode and some of the other patients were enabling him by feeding his anger by bullying him and throwing stuff at him. ino punched one of them in the face and dragged gaara away from them.

gaara bit her arm hard enough to draw blood but she withstood it through tears in her eyes and told him, "i won't hold that against you because i know you're scared."

when the nurses finally arrived, the worst of it had already passed but he was still given some medications to placate him. to which ino says, "he really hates those, you know?"

gaara just stares at her, puzzled. it is the first time someone has stood up for him and has voiced his thoughts that he keeps to himself.

from then on, she sticks to gaara like glue. he finds solace in her room because it smells of earth and flowers and it is very calm and quiet. ino's voice is bright and melodic and she has full conversations with him without him needing to open his mouth because ino says she can read his thoughts better than anyone else's; and he accepts this as true because more often than not she's right about what he's thinking.

because of this, ino speaks on his behalf to the nurses and doctors and other patients. gaara gets particularly moody when the doctors ignore ino's words and turn to him to ask, "is that right gaara? do you really feel [insert what ino said]?" he just angrily nods, and ino crosses her arms haughtily and reminds them that she can read his mind and "you don't have to talk to him like he doesn't understand."

they develop an unhealthy attachment that causes both of them anxiety when they are separated. ino needs to protect him and gaara needs the peace she brings him. however, gaara causes her a lot of grief when he destroys her room at times during his fits which triggers her OCD and she has to lock him out for hours or even days at a time to re-arrange her room. similarly, gaara feels exposed when she reads him too well, many times he can be heard yelling at her to get out of his head. their fights are as explosive as their friendship is easy.

gaara's once bare and empty room slowly gets filled by colourful blankets and pillows and plushies that ino buys for him. he can regularly be found sleeping under a large soft pile in the corner of his room.

ino is always excited to see temari when gaara's siblings come to visit. even though gaara isn't always thrilled or really feels like seeing them, he sits through it just so ino can get a chance to talk to temari. ino looks up to temari as a role model. and temari appreciates ino who takes care of gaara and has given him a friendship he otherwise couldn't have gotten in the outside world.

inoichi likes gaara because he sees how happy his daughter is around him, but he is wary of him due to his tendency for violence and only hopes he doesn't truly hurt ino.

#gaaino #gaara #ino yamanaka #NARUTO #my art #leiandroid #mostly definitely platonic #though they did try to kiss once and were like hmmm perhaps not #ino supremacy #naruto psych ward au

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zayray030 · 2 months

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🐝 anon

I was trying to do something cute but once again it turned to angst lmao. I love me some hurt/comfort. I think I sent this last year? But I’m pretty sure tumblr ate my ask so lemme rewrite it all out

So like treyace early stages yknow, they’re all cute and gross and everything is great until ace starts doubting how trey feels about him. This is before they’re together but they obviously like each other and they’re flirting alllll the time but whenever it seems like more is gonna happen between the two someone needs help for whatever reason and Trey drops everything to go help. (For extra angst and a splash of jealousy I’m gonna say riddle is the one that needs things a lot). So like ace tries to get one on one time alone w Trey but he keeps dipping and ace just withdraws bc he’s so upset

I think a lot of the hurt would be ace feeling like he’s second place all the time like, his parents didn’t exactly play favorites but his older brother always seemed like the gold standard and more well liked. He feels like his friends kinda like each other more than him and he’s the after thought of the group. All his upperclassmen have their faves and he feels he’s not one of them. So when Trey starts paying attention to him more he feels like he finally has a person that puts him first and that there’s someone who values him for the first time. Which is why it hurts so much when he feels like he’s playing second fiddle once again.

So Trey notices that ace is suddenly cold and tries to ask what’s wrong but ace isn’t great and admitting his feelings and kinda shrugs him off. I think the firsties start to notice he’s sad and colder so they try and figure out what’s wrong and there’s big emotional admissions and the firsties promise to try and make ace feel like he’s not the 3rd wheel to them all and they help him with telling Trey how he’s feeling.

So then there’s another big emotional display and Trey realizes that he’s still kind of a yes man and tries to be better while ace works on being more open emotionally and the firsties regret helping bc now ace and Trey are going to be cute and gross all the time lol

Oh I do remember this ask! I just kept on second doubting myself and not knowing how to answer thos properly but by god the extra addition?????? 👏👏👏👏👏

Ace feeling like second best is kinda what inspired me to write the one fic where the senpai just started to PRAISE him and I can kind of imagine this happening in a different scenario except the first years don't go to all the senpai they just go to trey since he's the boyfriend and they all try and basically try to get Ace to open up more

I can imagine Ace overlooking a lot of things at the start of the relationship because he's too bust focusing on the fact that he know has someone where they believe he's special and good enough but then he starts to see Riddle as competition and it destroys the good feelings he had

OH THE PRE-RELATIONSHIP ANGST????? Ace just constantly getting annoyed and thinking that things will change when he and Trey finally get together

OH, TREY NOTICING???? HE is EMBARASSED when he realises that Ace realises that he thinks he's second best to anyone in this school, including Riddle, and is trying to hard to prove it but every time he tries he's confronted with the fact that Ace is right

OH THE BREAKDOWN WITH THE FIRST YEARS????? I JUST KNOW IT HURT!!! ACCUSATIONS!! YELLING!!! INSULTS!!! TEARS!!!! OH my god by the end of it they're all puffy and red and all massaging ice onto their face to help with the swelling whilst still sniffling

From then on they make a group calender where they make sure that there is a group activity between a pair or a trio of the group where they are hanging out. Ace-deuce. Epel-jack. Ortho-ace. Jack-sebek-epel. Something like that so that they're all hanging out and they have a day where they're all together and they sit and talk no matter how humiliating it is

Trey deciding that the best way to truly show Ace that he is serious is by making it public. He stands in front of the cafeteria and loudly declares he can not be bothered to help anyone and he will in fact be focusing on himself and his relationship and Ace for the foreseeable future. He then smiles, princess carries Ace, and walks out to ravish him with attention 🩷

The first years are now forced to hear Ace gush giddily about Trey forever more but at least they get free dessert out of it

#twisted wonderland #ace trappola #trey clover #twst first years #treyace

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vrisrezis · 1 year

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Rocket and reader comforting one another during the blip?

You’re uncharacteristically quiet. Something rocket wasn’t used to, in fact it was unsettling to him. From the moment he had met you, you’d been nothing short of an annoyingly loud, talkative, easily excitable and overly outgoing individual. You were the heart of the group, and always brought everyone together. When everyone was arguing amongst themselves, bickering with one another over stupid bullshit, you were the one calming everyone down, encouraging everyone to work together. If they ever had a fight, you always encouraged apologies, talking things out. You had tried to keep up that front, around rocket and around nebula. In a way, you brought the two together as well. Gave them time to bond with one another and become friends and to find solace within eachother.

It was late at night now, and there was a somber silence that fell between you and rocket. He had come in to check up on you, something he had started making a habit of doing when he started to notice you stayed up pretty late, something you never did prior to the blip. You claimed that you just had a lot of energy, or that you just weren’t tired, or that you were learning more about terrans and their strange customs that you suddenly seemed interested in at 3 am. He wasn’t stupid, and he knew you were just trying to grieve in a way that you hoped nobody would notice. He knows what it’s like to hide his true feelings, in fear of vulnerability and judgement, but this was something far too huge for him to simply keep to himself. So he didn’t keep it to himself, he cried to you often about how he’d lost the only family he ever had, the only people that accepted him as is despite how much of an asshole he can be. But he never heard you cry. He had asked you so many times how you were doing, and you always said you were doing just fine. He never believed you.

It kinda hurt him, knowing you were keeping so much to yourself. He trusted you, enough to vent out his frustrations. And that takes a lot for rocket to do. Why didn’t you trust him? But honestly, he knew why. He’s the most emotionally constipated person you’ve ever met, along with nebula, and they were the only people you had left. No wonder you haven’t told them jack shit. But even before that, he realized, you were always helping everyone else, you never let anyone else help you. You always kept it together, you always kept a level head and always put on a smile and a brave face. You are the most selfless person he knows. So when do you get a chance to be selfish?

“So…” he finally says, and although in the moment he’s unsure what to say next he doesn’t think about it. Doesn’t try to think of what he’ll say first, like usual, he doesn’t think before he speaks. “you gonna actually talk to me or are you gonna dodge my question as per usual?” you says, and you feign confusion, raising a brow. He can’t help but roll his eyes, “you can fool everyone else, but you ain’t foolin me. I know you’re not out here just to look at the stars in the sky. You’ve seen it a million times and last time I checked, you didn’t give a shit about astrology.”

You finally sigh, patting the spot next to you, gesturing for him to sit. He does. He looks at you, and you’re far too tired to try and read the emotion on his face. If you had to guess, it was concern. Granted, you should’ve expected that. Normally you tell rocket almost everything, and you haven’t opened up at all to him since arriving on this planet, about everything that’s happened. Despite knowing him for years, you never ever opened up to him about how you felt about things. Even things that simply annoyed you.

You guys have been on this planet for a good 4 months now. 4 months since everything that happened, 4 months since you lost your family. Lost everything. You scratch the back of your head, “I don’t even know what to say.” you start, unsure of where you’re even gonna go with this. “I just… don’t know anymore..” you say, looking out to the sky in front of you. “Just tell me how you’re feeling.” your boyfriend says, grabbing onto your hand, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles. “You haven’t told me how you feel about any of this. How you really feel. It’s just us. No need to be strong in front of me.” he says, and you lay your head on top of his and finally let yourself cry for the first time in what felt like years. You vent your frustrations out to him, how you feel like you’ve failed everyone. How you lost your family, the first family that loved and cared for you, just like that. Like it was nothing.

You scream and cry to him, and he listens quietly. Just like you did for him, so many times.

#rocket raccoon x reader #rocket racoon x reader #rocket x reader #mcu x y/n #mcu x you #mcu x reader #marvel x y/n #marvel x you #marvel x reader

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serial-serializednovelreader · 2 months

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36. Their favorite season

Mina, Jack, Arthur, Renfield, Van Helsing

Ooh love this question, anon! Spoilers under the cut (though I tried to keep it implied). Spoiler-free ask on different prompts with Jonathan here.

Mina:

Initial impressions: Fall. She feels like someone would love the fall colors, bundling up and — in a modern setting — spooky season! I can totally picture her being a stereotypical fall girlie (I say this with all the love, fall is my personal favorite season).

Final thoughts: Spring. I think she would love seeing the beauty of nature at full bloom and appreciate seeing animals, especially baby ones, coming out of hibernation. Plus, spring is the perfect time to take long strolls with Jonathan and her friends! We know she’d love to travel with him to different places and, while summer is an ideal time to do this too, I just think she’d love to go during this time of year when the landscape would be vibrant and colorful. There’s something indescribably special about spring for her!

Renfield:

First impressions & Final Thoughts: Summer. This one seemed pretty cut and dry (though feel free to give your thoughts if you think he’d have a different favorite season!!). Summer is when all of his favorite things that give him good life are up and about! Bugs are super easy to attract in the summer, as opposed to the other seasons. Beyond that, I also think he likes the feeling on the sun on his face — it’s more prominent in the summer and gives him a taste of freedom and the outside world he can’t feel otherwise… :(

Arthur:

Initial impressions: Summer. This is likely the time of year when he went traveling with the suitor squad and when Lucy accepted his proposal, so it would stand to reason it’s also his favorite time of year! With wide-open skies and the weather at a good temperature, this time of year probably makes him feel like a man in his element.

Final thoughts: Fall. I think he’s drawn to the leaves changing color and the wind in his face. I imagine he also likes the feel of bundling up and being able to hold loved ones close. I imagine after the events of the book, fall would be very hard for him to enjoy — considering the most horrific events of the book (especially the worst possible thing to him personally) takes place during the fall. However, I think he would come to enjoy it again eventually. Mainly because he’d have the Crew of Light to help him enjoy it. Plus, who else but him is going to show baby Quincey the leaves changing color?? I mean, the others could, but he’s the one who appreciates it the most!

Jack:

Initial impressions: He doesn’t have a favorite season! Seasons are things to be observed for science, not to be enjoyed.

Final thoughts: The initial impression is actually what I imagine he would say if you asked him at the beginning of Dracula but post-canon, I think he would appreciate winter the most. He would come to like sitting around a fireplace with loved ones, enjoying blankets upon blankets heaped on top of him to keep him warm (he gets cold easily). Also, while he’s improved emotionally, I think he would still like the quiet reflection he’s able to get in the winter months when he can stare off into the snow or the fireplace, thinking philosophical thoughts instead of depressing thoughts now. Of course, during Christmas, his extended family (aka the Crew of Light) would have *none* of that! Christmas is a boisterous affair…and Jack wouldn’t have it any other way. :)

Van Helsing:

Initial impressions: Winter. I’m not sure why, but I initially got winter vibes from him, and I could see it. I could definitely see Christmas being his favorite holiday, while also rattling off traditions of other winter holidays. Plus, it’s a time to be with family and he would certainly enjoy that!

Final thoughts: I think winter would be too hard for him to fully enjoy after the loss of his family (namely, Christmas). So, I think his favorite season would be spring. Like Mina (and we all know how much he loves being like Madam Mina), he enjoys seeing new life blooming after a harsh winter and serving as a constant reminder of good rebirth. I also think he would enjoy Easter for a similar reason. Fun fact: Easter egg hunts were a thing in the 1800s in England (introduced by Germans — source: this article), so I definitely think Van Helsing insisted upon hosting Easter egg hunts, especially after Quincey Harker was born. <3

Ask game here

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k-evans-reads · 1 year

Text

In Living Color

Chapter 24

Summary: When Natalie Marton, lead character designer for Buzz Lightyear, meets the voice of Buzz, Chris Evans, the sparks are undeniable. But when their work pushes them away from each other, both physically and emotionally, will the sheer differences between their worlds be enough to force them apart?

Pairing: Chris Evans x Pixar Animator OFC Natalie Marton

Word Count: 3,953

By: @k-evans-writes and @ourfinest-hour

We do NOT give permission for our works to be reuploaded, translated, or reposted on any other site. Our work is our own.

Warnings: None.

Previous | Main Masterlist | In Living Color Masterlist

Nat watched with a smile as Chris opened the sliding doors from his room to the patio, stepping out in his swim trunks and a tee shirt and into the bustling backyard. The kids all hurriedly shouted greetings to him before they turned their attention back to the game, and soon enough he’d made his way over to Nat and Alex as they sat on lounge chairs near the pool as Jack napped on Alex’s chest.

Her eyes slipped shut momentarily as he pressed a quick kiss to her lips and murmured, “Hey,” before he greeted Alex.

“How’d it go?” Alex asked him, her hand moving up and down Jack’s back as he slept soundly.

She watched Chris shrug, pursing his lips before he smirked as she saw him watching the kids playing with Heather and Ryan in the pool. “Alright,” he finally answered with another shrug. “Didn’t go awfully but I never like doing talk shows.”

Nat frowned as she listened to his words, but the reassuring look on Chris’ face as they met each other’s eyes quelled her fears. He winked at her before he slipped his sunglasses over his eyes, shielding him from the early evening sun, and turned, giving Dodger a scratch before the dog ran off again.

“Zach is just about to start grilling,” Nat began, before Chris nodded, turning his head over his shoulder as he headed over towards the outdoor kitchen.

Nat’s words were proven true when Zach and Eric came out of the house carrying chicken and burgers to grill, bright smiles on their faces when they saw Chris had returned. She listened happily to the sounds of the kids splashing in the pool, Chris catching up with her brother-in-law and father as they turned the grill on, and the soft breathing of Jack as he slept happily, and Nat felt… content. She was happy and warmth spread over her body, not from the summer sun, but from just how great she felt here with everyone.

It’d been a rough few months not only for her, but for Chris as well, and for the first time since early April, Nat felt like she could take a deep breath and kick back. She had the week off of work, having arrived in Los Angeles from San Francisco late the previous Saturday. She’d been more than happy to hang out with Chris in his home in between him running around the city, making appearances and doing interviews to promote the film. She’d relished in the familiarity of it all, something she’d been missing since she’d moved up north.

But the best part was when her family arrived the previous day, just after Chris finished his Zoom interviews at home. Getting to hug everyone and finally be with them meant more to Nat than she’d realized, and she felt her gratitude for Chris’ generous offer of playing host for them grow as she got to spend more and more time with him and them.

Nat’s brain was cycling through thoughts of feeling as if it was her playing pretend. That the elated shrieks of joy from the pool, the roar of the grill kicking on as Chris’ laughter echoed through the backyard, and that the content sighs of Alex next to her all weren’t real. That this wasn’t her reality, her life, or where she really was, not after spending so much time alone and unhappy as of late. She knew some of it was her fault – her fault for turning down invitations from her new co-workers of bar hopping on Fridays after a long and busy week, of taking lunches at her desk as she tried to keep up with her ever-growing inbox, and not venturing out much. But she was tired. She was simply so exhausted at points that she could barely muster the energy to brush her teeth at night and turn the lights off before falling into bed, that it was hard for her to summon the energy to be Nat.

She’d expected the transition to San Francisco to come with growing pains, but she’d been comforted by the knowledge that it wasn’t an entirely new place. She’d been there before for work trips to Pixar’s main campus, and she knew most of the team there already. But her reputation around the Disney offices of being the jokester, the happy-go-lucky, cheerful one had followed her there, and she struggled reconciling that persona and personality with reality now. She’d thrived in Los Angeles, with her core group of friends, her routine… and with Chris. But now she didn’t have that consistency in her life, with an ever-changing schedule depending on what department needed her and what meetings she was needed in, and by the end of the day she nearly always had a pounding headache. Any plans to finally take that scary step, to try to form friendships with people or finally start going to that yoga class she’d had bookmarked for weeks now were thwarted by the pain. Instead, Nat would go home, scrounge up some semblance of dinner, and quickly talk to Chris as she continued working in an attempt to make tomorrow better, but it never did. It truly never stopped.

But now, here in Southern California, with her entire extended family and the man she so desperately loved – and had been for well over a year now – she was happy. She was herself. She could’ve stayed there on that lounge chair all night as the sun dipped below the horizon, but she joined everyone at the large dining table on Chris’ back patio, her hand on Chris’ back as they passed the plates around and helped the kids get situated.

Carson’s blonde hair stuck up every which way as his pool towel draped over his shoulders, and his eyes were wide as Chris helped serve the young boy food. Nat’s smile was soft as she watched Carson eagerly take the plate from Chris before he started eating in the chair across from them, and then her attention was drawn to Lily, sweet Lily, who was quietly sitting next to Chris, a smile on her lips as he whispered something to her, making her laugh.

Looking around at everyone here, Nat knew this is where she was meant to be, and was so thankful that Chris had fought for them to get to this point, to make it this far. But she didn’t want to stop here. She wanted to add a few more seats to the table, if they were able, and to see these kids grow up, hand-in-hand with each other at every graduation, birthday party, and soccer game, signing each Christmas gift and birthday cards from “Uncle Chris and Aunt Nat”.

She’d been zoned out and in her own head for a long time when she felt Chris’ elbow nudge her side, expectant eyes staring back at her as Chris slyly nodded his head to Ryan. “Sorry, what?” Nat asked, a sheepish look on her face as she looked at her brother-in-law.

“I was just asking how San Francisco and work has been for you,” Ryan explained, shrugging with a small grin.

Nat took a deep breath, biting her lip. “It’s… alright,” she began, pausing as she felt Dodger pass her underneath the table. “It’s just been really busy. I didn’t really expect the adjustment to be this hard,” she explained in a moment of honesty, one she hadn’t really divulged to any of them yet.

“You just miss that soft serve machine at the Disney campus,” her brother-in-law Ryan pointed out, causing a loud round of laughter to pass through the group with each of them being well aware that it was a fixture Nat loved. But in that moment, she couldn’t seem to muster up a laugh because the situation felt anything but lighthearted to her.

Heather encouraged her with a smile,“I’m sure you’ve already made a ton of friends there.”

“Well, it’s hard to compete with Mark and Jamie,” she muttered in response, not wanting to admit that there truly hadn’t been anyone she clicked with, leaving so much loneliness inside her but just shrugged, “It’s just been a lot different settling in than I thought.”

“Probably because unpacking that disaster called moving boxes was a job in itself!” Chris slapped a hand to his chest while boisterously laughing before he started telling the story to the family of how he had to dig through pots and pans just to find Nat’s socks but the playful teasing seemed to gloss over her feelings that she struggled to even wrap her brain around, let alone share, so once again Nat just pushed those emotions away for the time being.

She knew she’d have to figure out a way to settle in and figure out her new life in San Francisco, especially after how hard she fought to take this position, but now wasn’t the time. Nat was here in Chris’ house, which felt like it was partly her home too with her section of clothes in the closet, hair products in the shower, and her little touches of throw pillows and artwork around the house. She was sitting here with the man that she loved more than she ever knew was possible and her family that was here to go to the premiere of the movie that changed her life. Right now she didn’t have to think about going back to San Francisco, she was here with the things that mattered most to her in life and she was happy.

The minutes on the clock kept passing as the family all hung around eating and talking while the kids played, in their own bubble of happiness until Chris’ phone chimed with a notification from his older sister. Quickly, Chris and Nat scurried to the door to open the gate to Chris’ home, wide grins on their faces as they finally got to see Chris’ family arrive for the premiere. His mother and older sister Carly, along with her husband, Kevin, and their kids had made the trip from Massachusetts to Los Angeles, but that wasn’t the only thing Nat was excited about.

Chris’ niece and nephews were each holding a few randomly colored balloons in their hands as they ran up the front walkway to greet their uncle, and Carly held a bag, giving Nat a knowing smile as she followed Lisa up the path, who held a box in her hands.

Nat had reached out to Lisa a few weeks prior when she realized that Chris’ promotional schedule had him flying to London just before his birthday, putting him thousands of miles apart from everyone during his special day. They’d decided on doing a small celebration for him, not only for his birthday, but to celebrate the hard work he’d put in for the film for years now.

She hung back, taking the ice cream from Carly and passing the cake to Alex as she came to help and went into the kitchen with her sister, giving Chris a moment to say hello to everyone and have some privacy. But as they slowly gathered everyone inside around the large dining table, passing cake and scoops of ice cream to everyone after they sang to Chris, she found herself sitting closely next to the man of the hour. His arm was around her shoulders as they stood at the island, his attention devoted to watching his niece and nephews as they ran around outside with the dog. His thumb moved side to side over Nat’s bare arm, occasionally tapping the skin there in a way that told her he felt just as happy as she did.

The conversation amongst the group flowed easily until Lisa switched the subject to what would be taking place tomorrow night and commented, “I can’t wait to see you two together tomorrow night. You’re going to look so good together!”

Upon hearing the comment of the impending news of their relationship being broken to the world tomorrow night, Carly was curious, “Nat, did you decide what you’re wearing?”

“Oh did you get that expensive dress?” Heather chimed in.

“No but what I picked was just as expensive,” she admitted with a chuckle. She remembered her weeks-long search, having consulted with Chris’ stylist to make sure what she’d wear wouldn’t clash with his planned outfit. She then shrugged as she added, “I figured if photos of Chris and I are going to be plastered all over the internet I might as well go all out.”

Carly smiled as she listened to Nat’s words, just as Nat’s brothers-in-law grabbed the kids to get them ready for bed after their long day of swimming. “So what did you choose?” She asked, eyes glancing outside at where her children were playing with Dodger before she looked at Nat with a raised brow.

Nat leaned back against Chris’ embrace, his thumb still moving over her skin. “Um, it’s over in that garment bag,” she began, nodding her chin to the two garment bags hanging in the doorway of the laundry room. One was smaller, a black bag with Chris’ name in his stylist’s handwriting on the outside of it and the other was full-length and a beige color.

Lisa, Carly, Heather, and Alex went over to the bag, unzipping it and taking in the chartreuse wide-leg pantsuit she’d had altered in the previous days. She hung back with Chris, relaxing in his touch as she heard the women excitedly whisper to each other as their eyes took in the outfit. Eric stayed near the couple, but his attention was captivated by the garment bag across the room as he craned his neck to sneak a peek at it. But with the women crowded around the clothes, hands reaching out to delicately run over the material and the embroidered bra she’d wear with it, Eric got up and headed over to get a better look.

“I’m so nervous,” Nat muttered quietly, chewing on her bottom lip.

Almost instantly, Chris tightened the arm that was tossed over her shoulder, pulling her close so that he could kiss her cheek and comfort her with, “Nattie, remember you don’t have to do this,”

“Well people have been hardcore speculating we’re together ever since the house party last year and then you coming to my art show and the other times we’ve been spotted, so it makes sense to just come out with it,” Nat shrugged, recalling the multiple conversations they’d had about this and finally coming forward publicly with their relationship. They had hoped just coming forward with it would help stop some of the speculation and let them have a little more freedom.

“I think so too,” Chris agreed before dipping his head and smiling at her sweetly while adding, “Besides, I want to be arm in arm with the most talented artist at Pixar.”

“So that means I have to be arm and arm with you then?” She couldn’t help but tease him.

“Sorry baby, you’re stuck with me now,” he simply shrugged. “If it makes you feel better though, I’m nervous about tomorrow too but it makes me feel better knowing I’ll have you with me. And now we won’t have to hide.”

Nat just nodded, tucking some of her curls behind her ear while acknowledging, “If you think it’s the right time to appear together, I trust that.”

Chris nodded toward her, silently saying he thought it was the best decision before sealing it with a soft kiss before telling her, “I love you, Nattie.”

“I love you too,” she smiled, knowing how easily those words fell out of her mouth.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, but held her close as it grew into a smile. His head leaned against her own as his hand slipped down her side to rest on the small of her back, fingers tapping absentmindedly against her worn shirt.

Nat was admittedly scared, she didn’t think there was anything anyone in her position could ever do to properly prepare for this. But at the end of the day, hiding would always cause more stress for the both of them. She struggled sometimes with knowing they couldn’t run to the grocery store together in most places for fear of him being spotted, which would spur further attention and interest in not only him, but Nat as well.

The attention on Nat’s personal life had calmed down much more when compared to this time last year, and she finally felt like she could breathe when she wasn’t faced with thousands of follow requests hourly on her social media. But with this big scary step towards finally acknowledging the relationship publicly, she and Chris had discussed how things would likely look going forwards. More interest and requests for interviews and comments to his press team, more speculation online, more attempts to get a glimpse into her private accounts… it all was just so foreign to her.

But she felt ready. She felt ready to get to be side-by-side with him as a partner, to finally be able to speak openly beyond their tight knit circles about their relationship statuses, to get to post things a little more freely without worrying if someone will see her in the background of a story of Dodger, if a hostess at the Italian place downtown would share that they were together having dinner, or any of the thousands of other scenarios her mind made up while she couldn’t sleep each night.

Even though she maybe wasn’t one hundred percent ready, she’d seen the frustration Chris felt, and tried to hide, when he’d admit that he just wished things could’ve been easier. That no one cared who he was with or if he was dating. So with that knowledge, and hearing Chris out when he came to her with the idea of walking the carpet together at this smaller-scale premiere than he normally had… she agreed. Maybe with a bit of anxiety, a bit more fretting than she anticipated, and with a bit of hesitancy, but she agreed. And now, in less than a day, she and Chris’ faces would likely be all over any coverage of the event.

She only hoped that this was the right choice, that this big leap and change in their relationship was for the better. He’d felt the same, she knew that he was excited for the event as a whole. It was hard to overlook the importance of the premiere for both of them. For Nat, her first released work as the lead character designer for the main character of the film. For Chris…. His lifelong dream of working in a Pixar movie was realized. And she couldn’t have been more proud of him and hoped he’d have a chance to remember that tomorrow.

“I still can’t believe how fuckin’ amazing that movie looked,” Chris whispered as he shut the bedroom door behind him quietly. They’d just arrived back at Chris’ after the premiere, having quietly made their way to their room, careful to not wake anyone in the rest of the home. Her family had left after the movie, with Alex and Zach coming home first with the kids to relieve the sitter for Jack, and the rest slowly making their way during the after-party. Chris’ voice was full of awe as he reminded her, “Baby, that was what you created.”

She smirked, lifting her shoulders in a half-shrug as she reached back and took off her necklace while she kicked off her heels. “Well you’re the one who brought it to life with your voice,” she pointed out, relaxing as her bare feet hit the hardwood floors.

“Are you kidding? Nobody could have given a shit about my voice, they were too busy staring at those incredible reflections on Buzz’s helmet,” she heard him protest as he made his way through the bedroom, bathroom, until he finally reached the large walk-in-closet. Nat followed him there, desperate to change out of the fancy clothes and into something comfortable. While she’d loved – practically adored – the outfit she’d worn and felt beautiful, she was ready to relax and just be Nattie, instead of Natalie Marton.

She smirked as he caught her eyes as he unbuttoned the knit polo, her voice quiet as she confessed, “Okay I will admit I was pretty proud of that.”

A soft smile was on Chris’ lips as he watched her carefully hang the blazer before she changed out of the rest of the clothes. “I’m pretty proud of you,” he told her honestly.

“And I’m proud of you. I can’t get over how talented you are and I feel like I got to see so much of that come to fruition tonight,” Nat admitted to Chris just as easily. She could see the effect her words had on him, the way he stood up a little taller, the smile growing on his lips, and she couldn’t help but be struck by the realization, yet again, that they were each other’s.

“I can say the exact same thing about you, Nattie,” Chris replied as he hung his clothes up and held a pair of sweatpants in his hand, placing them on the countertop in the center of the closet. He walked out into the bathroom in only his boxers, Nat’s eyes moving over the freckles and tattoos covering his torso until he was out of sight. Once she’d changed into pajamas, she joined him in the bathroom, side by side as they each washed off the perfectly applied makeup from earlier. “And I’m so proud of how well you handled everything tonight… you know, about us appearing together. I’ve done things like this before and it’s still not easy for me, so seeing how well you handled it really blew me away.”

“I don’t think the reality has settled in yet,” Nat admitted as she hung her wash cloth up, brushing off his praise a bit while she reached for her toothbrush. “I’m terrified to see what’s going to blow up on the internet tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it’s already blowing up now,” Chris simply stated as he quickly brushed his own teeth, causing Nat to look at him curiously as she moved her toothbrush over her teeth. She hadn’t really thought about it much during the premiere, too distracted by everything going on and listening to Chris’ publicist’s instructions, but back here, in the quiet of his canyon home… her mind started racing.

As she rinsed her mouth out and put her toothbrush back in its spot, she looked at Chris as he hung a towel on the shower door. Nat went into the bedroom and called back to him, “Do you think so?”

“Baby, let’s try not to worry about it now. We had an incredible night getting to celebrate what brought us together in the first place so let’s focus on that instead,” Chris told her, standing in the doorway as he shook his head at her, then told her he was going to shower and would be out in a few minutes.

Before Nat climbed into bed, she picked up her small clutch from her nightstand, pulling out the lipgloss, her phone, and her gum, placing them on her nightstand. As she heard the shower kick on in the bathroom behind the bed, she settled back on the luxurious pillows, staring at her phone as she weighed her options. She could sneak a glance, indulge a little bit and see what was going on… or she could sleep, relish in the time she was getting with Chris before his busy summer schedule truly kicked off, putting them hundreds and thousands of miles apart for most of the time, and face their new reality tomorrow once she was awake. But her curiosity got the best of her and she reached for her phone for the first time that evening, staring at the screen as it powered on.

Nat felt her stomach drop as she saw what felt like miles and miles of notifications on her phone from texts from friends who now found out she was dating Chris Evans, to thousands and thousands of new follow requests, and articles people were sending her. She wasn’t stupid, knowing that tonight would bring on a barrage of things like this, but actually clicking on a link to an article on People Magazine’s website and finding a picture of her there with the title “Chris Evans surprises at Lightyear premiere with secret girlfriend!”

It seemed like this entire year had brought on so much stress to Nat’s life. It had started with her having to work on two movies at once, causing her to be stuck in the office for all hours of the day and then had ended up with her being promoted. She had been so sure of this promotion, knowing it was the right thing for her career but had resulted in Chris walking out of her life. Although that had turned out well with them back together and stronger than ever, the job she had been so sure about hadn’t panned out the way she wanted.

San Francisco had been… lonely. Nat didn’t feel like she fit in there and had come to see that Chris’ words had been true and that being in charge of the department had left her feeling exhausted and burnt out in all the worst ways. But she had chosen this, she had put everything on the line for this and didn’t feel like she could give it up that easily, and the one thing that had been her saving grace was that she knew that she’d get this week off tucked in Chris’ home with him once again while their families surrounded them.

This past week she felt like she could finally breathe, causing her to see just how suffocated she was in her new life. But now even this safe place now came with her face all over the internet and all the stress that came with it. Tears welled in her eyes, feeling nothing but overwhelmed in this moment as she kept torturing herself by scrolling on her phone until suddenly it was being pulled out of her hands.

“Nattie, don’t do that,” Chris told her, a deep frown on his face as he put her phone down on his nightstand, sliding into the bed. His hair was still wet from the shower, sticking up messily from his attempt to towel dry it, and his chest was bare with a pair of sweats hung low on his hips. His frown remained as he explained to her, “Looking at everything right now is only going to stress you out, trust me.”

Nat blinked a few times, wiping the tears from her eyes harshly before her hands fidgeted at her side, absentmindedly wishing Dodger hadn’t gone to bed with the kids earlier. “I’m going to have to see it sooner or later,” she protested, tensing a bit as Chris’ hand found her own before he squeezed it comfortingly.

“Let’s not worry about it now,” he suggested, his voice soft and calm. He then lifted his shoulders in a shrug, pointing out, “Besides, I only have you for a few more days.”

“Don’t remind me,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her brain had a mental countdown to her flight on Saturday back to San Francisco, almost taunting her with the reminder of her return to her sad reality. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

Chris arched an eyebrow at her, his eyes surprised. “Nattie the workaholic is saying this? I don’t believe it,” he murmured through a laugh.

“You can believe it now.”

Nat just stared down at the blankets while using the back of her hand to wipe at the tears spilling down her cheeks until she felt a warm hand on her waist while a low voice coaxed her, “Hey, c’mere.”

Wanting his comforting touch more than anything, Nat scooted over, letting Chris’ thick arms wrap around her. She laid her head on his bare chest while his hands just rubbed up and down her back and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head and tried to encourage her, “I know it’s taking a minute to settle in at your new job but you know it’s going to be just fine. You’ll get used to something new, I know you will. And everything from tonight and us appearing together seems big right now but it’ll all die down and be just fine.”

And although Nat wanted more than anything to have someone understand just how deep her emotions were, how scared and lonely she felt out in San Francisco, something else was stirring inside of her. She knew Chris meant well with those words, but she felt like she had to get over this. That it wasn’t an issue, that this was all in her head, and it was only reinforced by the continual promises of “It’ll get better!” each time she brought up her feelings around everything.

She’d stick it out. She’d get over it. It’d get better. It had to.

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theultimatenonbinarynerd · 1 year

Text

Death In Paradise And How The Show or Shows Have Unknowingly Made Beautiful Autism Representation An Eassay By An Autistic Person

Introduction

I never get this personal or sappe but hi I'm Mel and just recently I got my Autism diagnosis. Recently I've been trying to discover who I am and what parts were just lies after realising i have been making and trying to imitate and please people my entire life.

I started watching Death In Paradise at the end of Season 10 my Mum had it on the tv and I thought it was interesting so I started watching. I then watched the first Christmas special and fell in love even more before giving season 11 a watch. Really loved all the characters and especially loved the characters, the visuals and the mystery aspect. Infact it made murder mysteries/who dunnits become one of my special interests. Started watching Beyond Paradise and some of the earlier seasons with Richard Poole.

Two things have made me realise why I probably love Death In Paradise since I have gotten my Autism diagnosis.

1: I was discussing the series finale with a fan who has sadly but understandably deleted their twitter account about how all the DI'S especially Neville when he was flashing back to the scene he was arrested found myself relatable as I replay my memories like that.

2: Martha's breakup monologue as heartbreaking as it was to Humphrey because she's absolutely out of line since they could adopt but her gut reaction is absolutely right. She has treated Humphrey appallingly not communicating with him about his feelings till that moment and not being honest with Humphrey resulting in him being dishonest in return. I am a people pleaser and will often think about others happiness before my own and Humphrey impulsively agreeing to move to Shipton Abbott is a good example as he really struggled setting in. Martha is right Humphrey is awkwardly nice to everyone even the police commissioner who I would have no patience with.

Now I realise that I am invested in these shows not just for the mysteries and the who dunnit element but to see Autistic people like me have human struggles in a very stressful job.

Even though I'm on a very different career path to all the DI'S as an Autistic person I think all the DI's are Autistic and show their own unique struggles. This is why I fell in love with the character of the Doctor to. If the DI'S aren't cannon Autistic they're definitely Autistic coded and it's my headcannon and I'm over riding the bbc on this one because when we see the way Autism is represented on screen within other white male characters I can see that Neville, Jack, Humphrey and Richard ain't no Rainman or Sheldon Cooper or Good Doctor which is why I feel so represented through these characters.

So with from what I've seen I would like to break down each DI that has been on the show and essentially justify why I have head cannoned all of the DI'S as Autistic.

1: DI Richard Poole

There are so many things that make me think he's Autistic I'm up to S2 Episode 7 of Death In Paradise as I'm wanting to catch up and as soon as this man came on screen I knew that there was no way in heck that Richard Poole is just neurodivergent grumpy english man as Camille would put it. One of the episodes I related to was Season 2 Episode 5 because if there's one thing I struggle with as an Autistic person its giving people the correct comfort they need.

Which links perfectly to my first point.

1: Richard And Emotion

Constantly throughout the first two seasons we see Richard struggle to communicate his emotions and hide how he's feeling. When sad things come up in s2 ep 5 and when he's asked to hold baby Rosie for the first time he struggles to display how he's truly feeling and how best to react. It shines especially when he asks Dwayne how he comforted Camille. I think Season 2 Episode 6 and Episode 5 was the first time we'd properly seen Richard sort of embrace the sand and open up emotionally.

2: Sensory Needs

Similar to Neville he makes it very clear that he does not enjoy the loud festivals on the island. He seems most comfortable up in his shack secluded reading a good book and chilling out.

He also seems to wear no summer clothes on the island as despite the heat he only seems comfortable with suits. Personally I struggle with being in bare t shirts and shorts so I can definitely relate to the fact. Richard seems definitely like one of those people who doesn't climatise for the summer and will not wear coats in the winter.

Overall an absolutely amazing relatable character.

2: DI Humphrey Goodman

I haven't gotten to S3 with Humphrey yet but I can also see relatable Autistic Representation in him. This is all based on from what I've seen in Beyond Paradise Humphrey wants to please and get on with everyone so he often hides his own emotions and puts others first. I can also see that he stims, forgets stuff if there's a change in routine and burnout hits him hard. I think he was partly burnout as the falling out with Martha must have been quite exhausting.

Masking is a huge thing with Humphrey so in my head cannon I think people including Humphrey have dismissed him being Autistic as just him being quirky. In my opinion the beyond paradise finale and episode five showed just how much Humphrey represses his emotions and then when it comes to burst it's bad.

1: Masking and Socializing

Humphrey throughout the beyond paradise series constantly tries to hide his uncomfortableness with Archie being around and his feelings about Martha stopping IVF. I know he came around and was sincere in the finale but I honestly think he wanted to pretend he felt ok with it so he wouldn't lose Martha.

Social wise he is also very awkward with people and struggles to communicate what he wants them to feel. Fights and conflicts seem to also exhaust Humphrey. Talking to Esther in Episode Five he admits he doesn't know how to feel about Martha not wanting kids and can't stop thinking about it. Infact he's so distracted by his fight with Martha that he can barely help Esther with the case. I'm often overwhelmed with socialising and go away to relax and think things through is definitely a coping mechanism I use.

2: Stiming And Info-Dumping

A form of stiming I picked up from Doctor Who was flapping my hands about when I'm talking and rambling. Humphrey out of all of the detective's seems to do this the most even when not talking about the solutions to a case.

He also is very passionate when talking about his special interests. I also think the way in the beyond paradise series he pictures the crime in his head and relives it whilst explaining it to Esther is very not neurotypical I view memories and emotions in my head like that sometimes.

Overall a very relatable character regarding his social skills and his need to people please.

3: DI Jack Mooney

This is going to be very short as I haven't seen much of Jack Mooney due to the fact I'm on S2 of my Death In Paradise rewatch but even the three episodes I watched whilst it was rerunning alongside Beyond Paradise I got very not neurotypical vibes from him.

The episode where he's rooming with Dwayne shows his struggle to interrupt other people's emotions, read social cues and understand the right moment to intrude on a conversation. It's absolutely hilarious when he just walks in on Darlene and Dwaynes date without considering that it's not an appropriate time. Not to mention when he interrupted Dwayne from his shower.

Through all three episodes I saw I can tell that he really struggles with grief so Florence is a good friend that he can consol. She helps him realise what stuff might make the shack feel more comfortable and friendly, like having a record player etc.

If any Autistic DIP fans want to reblog this and share their own thoughts about why they headcannon Jack as Autistic.

4: DI Neville Parker

Ah Neville Parker a character that I can definitely see myself in especially after season 12. Although I started watching from half of season 10 I still have enough reasoning to justify my headcannon. The way Neville organisises his meds and takes rejection from other people shows. Although you don't have to be Autistic to experience and anxiety Neville from what I've seen definitely overlaps with both.

Similar to Richard he seems to really struggle with the environment but at least have the sense to not where his blazer all the time and change into island built clothes off shift. Season 12 shows that Neville has adapted so well to the island that if he was put anywhere else like a prison cell its nerve racking and difficult for him. Not to mention from my own experience I've switched off when I'm sad or when something too difficult to process has happened and Neville does just that at the end of S12 through the Sophie or should I say Rebecca situation.

1: Lack Of Red Flags + Social Cues

Season 12 showed that because of Nevilles desire to have a relationship with someone and get over Florence he was unable to ignore the red flags about Sophie until he was in jail for her murder. Ok I'm pretty sure not all of the neurotypical Death In Paradise fans didn't fall for Sophies scheme but like Neville I truly felt no bad vibes from her until the very end. I haven't seen the red flags till to late and its costs me my mental health.

Neville seems to really struggle how to communicate his feelings as also seen by his crush on Florence.

2: Stimming + Special Interests

Throughout the show Neville is very rigid he fidgets and waves his arms about enthusiastically when he has found out who the killer is.

Throughout the show we can also see that Neville is a passionate reader and loves Star gazing. He was absolutely thrilled to info dump about the famous star gazer that has been unalived. We see he struggles with stuff outside of his limits and will glady lovingly share fun fact with his team.

3: Emotions/Shutdown

As mentioned Neville tends to become quiet when he's upset and shutdown. We can see throughout the case in episode 8 he's not entirely there till he confronts Sophie for the final time.

Neville insanely loses his enthusiasm and energy after he's arrested. If you look back he does not instigate any of the conversations whilst he's in the cell unless it's Sophie. Most people would react screaming and yelling when arrested but Neville is just too shocked to move. As an Autistic person I've had a shutdown only once but I definitely relate that if I was arrested I would just be frozen in panic not wanting to upset anyone.

Being quiet seems to be one of Nevilles best coping skills when something immensely stressful has happened.

Again when he had that freeze frame recalling when he was arrested and who could have switched the keys it seemed very relatable and not neurotypical. Not to mention a lot of Autistic people have a high sense of justice which could explain Neds fearless anger and frustration at the end of Ep 7.

Conclusion

I think even if coded having Autistic representation that's not cis white man super intelligent with no struggles is impactful its also why I want a black or biracial DI on the show as it would be even more impactful.

Honestly all the DIS being Autistic or on the neurodiverse spectrum as a whole adds to alot of the fish out of water element of the show.

I highly encourage reblogs as i assume I'm not the only autistic or neurodivergent fan of the show.

-Melody-

They/Them

#beyond paradise #death in paradise #humphrey goodman #neville parker #richard poole #jack mooney #beyond paradise spoilers #actually autistic #neurodivergent

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