#like a soggy wet biscuit

[vintage-polar]

Tags via @perenial

Hes truly such a bro

[lucaswarmhotchocolate]

haven't been able to cook something rlly good or eat my favorite foods in the way that I like them recently and it's doing horrors for my mental health. I would honestly settle for Kraft mac n cheese and dino nuggies rn (I don't like Kraft brand mac n cheese and much prefer homemade but that's ridiculously expensive and dino nuggies are fine I guess but I prefer something crisper like popcorn chicken or McDonald's nuggets)

[hellfiresky]

In the drip of the moment

Summary: In a leaky underworld apartment, you and Fox share cup noodles.

Pairing: Fox x GN!Reader Word count: 2633 Warnings: swearing

Illustration: TCW and Cyberpunk 2077

Crack treated seriously based on a chat with @orangez3st. Thanks for the idea, vod!

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

It wasn’t rain. Not really.

But here, on the uppermost floor of your apartment building in Gavas-Eclat, a harsh neighbourhood in Level 3215, the underworld’s so-called "rainy season" might as well be a full-blown monsoon. The pipes in the structures overhead groaned and rattled, letting loose a deluge of runoff that hammered your roof. Leaks sprouted like weeds, dripping incessantly into the buckets and pans scattered around your apartment.

"CYARE!" Fox’s voice rang out from the bedroom. "THIS PART IS LEAKING AGAIN. FUCKING HELL, GRAB A BUCKET!"

You sighed, abandoning your attempt to shuffle another set of towels around the already waterlogged floor. The storage closet offered a lone bucket, battered from years of service. You grabbed it and made your way to Fox, whose patience seemed to be hanging by a thread.

"I told you it was going to get worse!" you called as you walked to the bedroom.

"I didn’t think the whole damn level would spring a leak!" Fox stomped into view, a soggy towel thrown over one shoulder and an empty caf mug dangling from his fingers. Half of his black undershirt was drenched, whilst his trousers were rolled up to his knees. “Please tell me you still have the nice caf. I can’t for the life of me go down to your apartment lobby and buy that shitty vending machine caf. Babe, you know how terrible that stuff is. It’s all sugar.”

“First of all, it’s not a leak - it’s a waterfall,” you corrected, pointing to the stream now pouring from the ceiling. "Don’t think a bucket’s gonna cut it. Second, new beans are in the second-to-right drawer in the kitchen. Grind it yourself.”

“Well, what do you want me to do, cyare? Patch the whole damn underworld?” He shoved the bucket under the latest torrent. “I hate this level. I hate it here.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Could be worse. At least this time it’s not raining some gas runoff or—”

“Don’t. Don’t even finish that thought,” he snagged his already-cold caf pot from the counter. “And you’re insane if you think I’m grinding beans in the middle of this fucking waterfall. I should’ve stayed at HQ. At least that place only smells like bantha shit half the time.”

Despite a fresh leak appearing alarmingly close to where he was standing, he poured what little caf remained into his mug, grimacing as he noticed the new wet spot on the ceiling. You were almost certain it was the eighth or ninth cup he’d downed today, but you didn’t have the heart to mention it. Or maybe you just enjoyed watching him spiral into caffeinated madness. “You’re so needy,” you sat on one of the kitchen counters, arguably the driest patch of the room. “Come on, Fox. Where’s that Marshal Commander efficacy? Surely you’ve got a strategy for this.”

“Strategy?” he repeated. “You want a strategy? Here’s my strategy: burn this fucking apartment down and collect the insurance. Problem solved.”

You gasped in horror. “Fox!”

“Oh, come on, like you haven’t thought about it,” he slammed his mug onto the counter with unnecessary force. "Why’d you even pick this shithole anyway? You could’ve at least chosen a level that doesn’t come with its own weather system.”

“It was cheap,” you said with a shrug, opening a jar of biscuits you’d bought from the corner shop run by a nice Ithorian lady in your building. You extended the jar to him, and his eyes lit up as he eagerly grabbed a handful of biscuits. “And I didn’t think my boyfriend would be over here complaining about caf and leaks every other day. Nobody asked you to come down here anyway, cyare.”

Months of dating had made you an expert at reading the man beside you. The way he leaned against the counter, sipping his caf whilst simultaneously munching on at least three biscuits, told you he was no longer upset. Fox was like a tooka, almost. Feed him, give him something to drink, and he’d settle down. It always amused you how much he loathed the Underworld, yet he still made the effort to come down to your apartment every other day. He knew the trek to the surface level was a hassle for you, and though he’d never admit it to you, he cared enough to make it easier. You watched him, an involuntary smile stretched on your face as he stared blankly ahead, a biscuit in one hand and his caf in the other. Just as you found yourself admiring the rare moment of peace, a fresh drip from the ceiling landed squarely on his shoulder. His scowl returned in full force as muttered a string of curses.

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, brushing at the wet spot, “someone’s gotta keep an eye on you before this whole fucking building collapses.”

“Just admit it, babe,” you leaned towards his direction with a playful smirk. “You prefer being down here with me instead of in your sterile private quarters up there. For stars’ sake, the last time I stayed at your place, I thought I woke up in a medbay. Do you even own a single decoration? A plant? A poster? Anything?”

You gave him a light sideways punch to his shoulder, earning a low chuckle from him. It was rare to hear him laugh - most days, he was all work and discipline - but when it happened, it was like seeing the actual sunlight in 3215. “Decorate?” he echoed. “Cyare, I’m a soldier, not a fucking interior designer. What do you expect me to do? String up fairy lights and start collecting throw pillows?”

“Well, a few cushions and maybe a rug wouldn’t kill you. I don’t know, a holo-photo of the boys maybe? Something to make it look like an actual human being lives there.”

He snorted before taking another sip of his caf. “I live there just fine without all that junk. But sure, I’ll pick out a nice floral print just for you, sweetheart.”

“I don’t even like flowers,” you laughed, rolling your eyes. It was cute, really. He knew you hated flowers - they always reminded you of funerals. Instead, in lieu of flowers, Fox had developed a habit of giving you snacks from the Coruscant Guard vending machines. And not just any snacks. It was always the most ridiculous, random thing he could find! Neon-coloured jelly that you swore had some kind of caffeine in it, off-brand dried nerf strips, or those spicy crackers that nobody but him seemed to like. He always acted like it was no big deal, handing them to you every time you went out together or whenever he came down to stay at your place. He’d casually say, “Found this on patrol,” as if he hadn’t gone out of his way to snag them.

You grinned at the thought. “Honestly, I think I’d be more freaked out if you did show up with floral prints. Stick to your weird snacks - make a basket full of them.”

“Like a mini bar situation?” He turned his head towards you. 

“Yeah, maybe with some drinks, and fruits, or whatever,” you shrugged as you grabbed a biscuit from the jar. “You could even paint that bedside table of yours red - it’d be a great pop of colour amidst all that sterile white.”

Fox snorted but looked thoughtful as he pushed off the cabinet and stood in front of you, hands resting on the countertop where you were sitting, right beside your thighs. “Funny you mention that. I actually saw a nice cabinet while I was patrolling around Calocour Heights the other day.”

“Oh yeah?” you raised your eyebrows. “What kind?”

“It was one of those, uh… modular things,” he gestured vaguely with one hand, the other still steady on the counter. “Real sleek, real clean. Bright red, with these glossy panels that fit together like a puzzle. The whole thing looked like it belonged in one of those fancy apartments topside - like it could double as art or something. It had compartments for everything! Drinks, snacks, gear, even these little hidden drawers you could lock. Thought it might actually make my quarters look less like a medbay.”

You tilted your head as you tried to picture it. “Huh. Sleek, red, functional, and versatile? Sounds like your soulmate, Fox.”

He lowered his gaze to the floor, chuckling as he shook his head lightly. “Yeah, well, the romance died when I looked at the price tag.”

“How bad?”

“Let’s just say,” he narrowed his eyes, “if I wanted that thing, I’d have to sell my speeder - which is a Republic property, my armour, and maybe half the Guard’s refectory rations for a month. And even then, I’d still be short.” He paused before facing you with a grin. “Or maybe I could sell Grizzer, and face Hound’s wrath.” 

You laughed, nearly choking on your biscuit. “For a cabinet? Stars, Fox, that’s next-level.”

“Exactly,” he joined your laughter. “Because what I really need in my life is debt over some shiny red furniture.”

“Shame,” you squeezed his cheeks together. “You’d look good with a fancy cabinet. It’d go great with your style.”

“But if it keeps you from staying down here in this death trap of an apartment, I might actually consider it.” He leaned forward to get closer to you. From this distance, you could catch the bitter scent of caf on his breath. You lifted a hand, fingers tousling his curls as you let out a bright smile. “Oh, so that’s it? You’re secretly hoping to bribe me into moving topside?”

“Bribe? I’d call it... strategic persuasion.” He gave you a quick peck on the cheek. “I’m a tactical genius.” 

You laughed as you playfully shoved his shoulder. “That would’ve been a hell of a flex. Commander Fox’s quarters featured in one of those interior design videos on the HoloNet. And the best feature? The overengineered snack holder.” Fox grinned, arms crossed with that smug look you had come to love plastered on his face. “Damn right. ‘State-of-the-art compartments for your snacks and fancy caf beans.’ I’d probably go viral.”

“Oh, for sure,” you joined his sarcasm. “People would flock to see the legendary Commander Fox and his impeccable taste in mid galactic modern design.”

“You’re not wrong. I’ve got fans everywhere.” His grin widened as he added with mock seriousness. “Have you seen those ladies lining up near the Senate Building? They’re all lining up to meet me,”

A belly laugh burst out of you, so sudden and loud you had to clutch your stomach. “Those old ladies?!” you managed between fits of laughter. “You can’t be serious!” Fox crossed his arms. “Dead serious. They’re lining up for me. Every single one of them.”

You wiped a tear from the corner of your eye, still laughing. “Okay, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“It’s part of that Senate Elder Aid program. The Guard’s been running supply deliveries for the retired citizens in that sector. And who do they see when they open their doors? Me. In uniform. Doing my job.” He closed the distance between you again, lifting his caf cup to your lips. You grabbed the cup and took a sip before answering with a teasing grin, “Let me guess. They’re thrilled to see such a dashing young man handling their deliveries.”

He snorted. “They tell me I remind them of their grandsons - or in some cases, their late husbands. One of them even gave me a pie last week.”

That sets you off again, making you laugh so hard. “Oh, stars, Fox. You’re out here breaking hearts and collecting pies.”

“Hey, don’t laugh. Those pies are no joke,” he opened your fridge and groaned when he saw nothing in it. “One of them had so much jogan spread in it, I swear I saw the Force. It was orgasmic.”

You shook your head as you watched him rummage through your kitchen. It struck you then - this wasn’t the same Fox you’d first met. When you started seeing him many moons ago, you had no idea what to expect. He’d always been grumbly, guarded, the kind of man who carried a lot of baggage on his shoulders and refused to let anyone lighten the load. His brothers had even warned you, “It’ll take a few drinks to get him to crack a smile.” But here he was now, standing in your leaky apartment, cracking jokes about orgasmic pies and cursing at the leaks. This side of him, the side that raided your kitchen cabinets and made jokes about burning down your apartment, felt like a secret he shared only with you. Outside, the relentless sound of dripping water finally eased, and the oppressive atmosphere of the leaks seemed to lift with it. “Fucking finally,” you muttered under your breath.

“Yeah, fucking finally, babe,” Fox agreed, looking over his shoulder with a smirk. “Guess we don’t have to burn down your apartment now.” He muttered as he continued raiding your cabinets. “Aha - found it.”

He pulled out two cup noodles, the ones he’d given you last week with a ridiculous backstory about a senator who brought them back from an Outer Rim trip. He tossed one to you before tearing into his own. “You saved these?” he asked in disbelief as he filled the cups with hot water. “I thought you’d have devoured them by now.”

“They’re souvenirs,” you said with a shrug. “Figured I’d save them for a special occasion.”

He chuckled, handing your cup back and settling beside you on the counter. “Well, I’m glad I could be here for the big event.” You smiled, resting your head against his shoulder for a moment. The two of you sat there in the quiet, eating noodles and listening to the last echoes of dripping water fade away. Fox slurped a particularly long noodle, before kissing the top of your head. “I’ll stick to raiding vending machines for you, cyare. Much easier on my wallet.”

“Oh, don’t think this means you’re off the hook. You’re still making me that snack basket.” You elbowed him, and sipped the spicy noodle soup from the flimsi cup. 

“Yes, boss.” He signed dramatically at your request.

“You’re such a baby.” You laughed again, resisting the urge to start a food fight. Fox held out his cup noodle above his head like he just received some kind of award for being a decent partner. “And yet, this baby just saved your apartment and provided dinner. I expect proper gratitude, cyare.”

“Gratitude?” you raised an eyebrow. “I’ll think about it. Maybe after you build that basket.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound warming you like the noodles you were eating. Both of you would get back to cleaning up soon, hoping the hot water was still working so you could finally take a shower and wash off the day. You thought about dragging him to The Wharf tomorrow for a quick fix for the ceiling leak - he had mentioned it was his off day. Maybe you’d stop by that little diner he liked on Level 4780, grab a plate of fried dumplings, or finally let him show you the vendor that sold the ridiculous milky gummies he kept sneaking into your cabinets.

But you pushed those thoughts aside for now as you turned your attention to him. His serious expression as he ate his cup noodles made you smile. You decided to stay in the moment. The galaxy outside could wait - its noise, its demands, all the things neither of you could control. For now, it was just the two of you, sitting shoulder to shoulder in your leaky kitchen, sharing a moment of peace that, somehow, felt like it was always meant to be.

[eggcompany]

Sherlock feels Shitty

Sherlock gets sick and John cares for him. Sherlock feels 'unsettled' and asks John to hold him. Cute cuddling ensues.Short and sweet

Sherlock was sick. Sicker than hell. He felt terrible and looked worse. Good thing he lived with a doctor. 

Said doctor was currently doing laundry because everything smelled of sweet sickness. He found Sherlock in his room a few hours ago. Curled up under all his blankets, sweaty and pale. John had given him meds for the fever and a bottle of water. 

“Sherlock, do you need anything? You should probably get a shower and get all that sweat off your skin. You could develop a rash and I mean it smells… awful in here. I’ll fix your bed while you wash up.” John said when he returned to check on the detective. Sherlock just groaned and pulled his blanket tighter around his head, hiding his face. John sighed. Sherlock is the worst patient. 

John walked around and squatted down, his knees protesting, so he was face to face with Sherlock. His nose was the only thing visible from his blanket wrap. 

“I swear to god I will put you in that goddamned tub wrapped in your blanket. Get up and shower and let me clean this room. You smell worse than usual.” John said in his ‘ Real Shit Sherlock, I’ll kill.’ voice. Sherlock shivered but not from the fever. He unwrapped his head and gave John puppy eyes. 

“Up, come on. Stinky man, go shower. Think about what you want to eat while you’re in there!” John calls after Sherlock as he trudged to the bathroom wearing only a pair of briefs and a plain t-shirt that used to be john’s but is now stretched to hell. 

John quickly stripped the bed and sprayed sanitizer on the bare mattress. He got a plain cotton sheet set and threw it onto the bed and covered the pillows in the nice new cases. John smiled and got a bottle of some good smelling spray that Mrs. Hudson cleans with and doused the room in it. 

“Johnnnnnn” He sighs as he heard Sherlock calling out for him. John walks to where Sherlock’s soaking wet head is poked through the bathroom door. His hair hung into his face. John thought he looked like a hosed cat. 

“What do you need, Sherlock? Did we run out of water?” John asked and leaned against the wall. Sherlock sneezed and then hiccuped. Sherlock groaned and looked up at John, so defeated. 

“I don’t have a towel and I didn’t grab any clothes. Will you- Could you grab me some underwear and a hoodie? I’m getting cold. And a towel! Please…” Sherlock said and hiccuped again which caused him to cough. John felt pity for the younger man. Sherlock never gets sick… 

John dug through Sherlock’s drawers till he found a pair of soft grey underwear and he found a plain navy blue hoodie in his closet. John went down and got a towel out of the clean laundry he had already folded but hadn’t put away yet. John made his way back to the bathroom and knocked. 

“Johnnnn, I feel like trash. I’m cold and my body hurts so much and I feel like I’m melting.” Sherlock said through the door. John opened the door to reveal Sherlock sitting in the tub with the shower running. Sherlock was pouting as the water washed down his face. The room was filled with a thick steam that John thought felt rather nice. 

“Sherlock, I brought you what you wanted. How about we get you dried off and dressed and right back to bed. I know you don’t feel good. You’ve just got a bit of a cold. I’ll come sit with you in your room if you’d like, we can go through emails. Now up and dressed.” John said and put the clothes on the sink and handed the soggy man the towel. Sherlock had turned off the shower but was still sitting in the tub. John walked out and he heard Sherlock groan as he stood up. 

John dragged his chair in from the living room into Sherlock’s room and placed it beside Sherlock’s bed. He brought his laptop in and made a plate of biscuits and got a few water bottles to set beside the bed. 

Soon Sherlock walked in and flopped down face first into the bed. 

“Sherlock get under the covers. Why didn’t you dry your hair? Do you want to stay sick? Let me go get a towel. Eat these, drink this.” John said and watched Sherlock cocoon himself into his blankets and nibble on some of the cookies. John put a bottle on the bed too before he left to get a towel. 

When he returned Sherlock was sitting up in the bed with his blanket still pulled over his head. John put his knee on the bed and pulled the blanket off Sherlock’s head. 

“Do you want to brush it?” John said in a light quiet voice. Sherlock shook his head. John wiped the water from Sherlock’s pale skin around his neck and then around his ears. Finally John threw the towel over Sherlock’s head and rubbed and scrunched at the dark hair until the towel was wet and the hair was dry. Sherlock had closed his eyes and relaxed some. John threw the towel over near the hamper. John settled back and sat in his chair. 

“Go back to sleep. You need to rest. All you can do is rest and try to soothe your throat. I’ll make you some new hot tea if you’d like.” John said and watched Sherlock pout and whine. 

“Why’re you whining right now?” John asked and Sherlock looked at him and poked his bottom lip out. 

“I feel unsettled. Everything’s wrong and I feel hot and cold and I’m overwhelmed.” Sherlock said and sniffed his nose. He looked so… well not Sherlock-y. Not confident and solid. He looked rather flustered and mushy. 

“What can I do to help?” John asked and looked at Sherlock. Sherlock just thought for a moment while looking at his hands. John just waited. Sometimes you had to be patient with Sherlock, John learned a long time ago. 

“You like me.” Sherlock said and didn’t look at John. John shook his head. ‘ You like me’ usually meant ‘ I’m going to ask for something normal friends wouldn’t ask for ’. 

“What do you want?” John said in a caring tone. Sherlock sniffed his nose again and picked at his blanket for a moment. 

“Will you be okay with um… holding me? ” Sherlock said. The last few words were mumbled so John didn’t quite understand. 

“Sherlock, I didn’t hear you. Can you say it again?” John said and Sherlock blushed and looked to the side. 

“Will you hold me, please? It’s fine if you don’t want to because it’s not something yo-” Sherlock very quickly and rambled on. John laughed and sat down on the side of the bed and pulled the covers away. 

“I didn’t take you as a cuddler. Teddy bear are you?” John said and laid back against the pillow and headboard. 

Sherlock blushed but quickly scooted so he was laying against John’s chest. Sherlock tried not to move and stay still as he laid stiffly against John’s arm and torso. 

“Sherlock, you’re intolerable sometimes.” John said and pulled and pushed at the sick man until he was laying across John’s lap with his head laying against where John’s heart was. John put his arms around him and Sherlock didn’t breathe for a moment. 

“Is this okay?” Sherlock whispered and felt like he was melting. John was so warm, so so warm. And strong and solid under him but he had some softness around his midsection and he smelled- 

“Go to sleep.” John said and pulled the blanket back up over them. Sherlock was tense for a moment but then John started to rub Sherlock’s upper arm slowly. 

John couldn’t help but fall asleep too. Sherlock’s weight felt nice against his chest and it was nice and cozy. John slept like the dead for almost two hours before a coughing fit woke him up. 

John opened his eyes as he was shaken away by the coughing man who was pressed against his chest still. Though Sherlock was laying a different way now. Sherlock had put his legs on each side of John’s and his chin on John’s shoulder. Sherlock had his arms wrapped around John, under the short man’s own. 

John instantly started to rub up and down Sherlock’s back. Sherlock hacked and wheezed for a few minutes before it stopped. He tried to catch his breath. John just rubbed his back and pulled the blanket back up to their shoulders. 

“It’s alright. It’s okay. Just breathe, Sherlock, breathe in nice and deep and let it out. It’s alright.” John said in a low loving voice. John felt so bad for poor Sherlock. The younger man was really just skin and bones. Coughing must take so much out of him. 

“I feel shitty…” Sherlock said and laid his face back onto John’s shoulder. John  sighed and leaned over so his head was leaning on Sherlock’s. 

“I know. I know you do. Well get you fixed up soon enough. Do you want to get up and get you-” John offered but Sherlock squeezed him and interrupted him. 

“Stay. I don’t want anything. Just wanna sleep, please.” Sherlock said and closed his eyes. He really was still so tired…

John nodded. He kind of liked being here, holding Sherlock. 

“Okay. Let’s just go back to sleep.” John was soon right back to sleep, this time with his arms wrapped around the detective.

Maybe taking care of Sherlock wouldn’t be too bad...

[tobacconist]

ELEMENT REPORD(s)

collated.

from the weather hermit:-

TRACEE HENGE

-

element repord six-two-two. poo, POO! hot levels: -6 cow angle: 9 theres a cloud-clash: temporary two-to-fourteen, six-to-three gull warning: oh! field weather: 6 simper me with churning rain, ksh! ksh! stop.

-

element repord for the 24th of lull. warnings of severe droop in knool parish, waxing at 15 and 2, and waning at lights out. bang! bang! bang! possibility of dog-shake (eugh!), with puddle displacement, and backsplash: 3 WARNING: not good for mrs chinnermans hatchday dance (shame!) a heavy front! settling in for the night, despite bad moon-shapes. (oh) blowing it rough in brownlap for the wet meadow raking contest! a glove-graph of the island shows fingerless fleecey, with occasional handrub. aaaand blowthrough! blanket thickness: 2, with occasional sheets rising in the vest.

-

element repord for foursday the 18th of leafmoss. dunderhatch today, if youre planning to take part in the moss jump at the hoof&hedge hut. and hairsieves for girls. wafting. klesh later, so avoid deliberate stamping in the upper parishes. good news for spatter fans! level: 8-9 all nightly. smoothing to a dripple, with sheep-crouch: 4 by sunclimb. down in the lower parishes: cloud-goo wafting. ah, wafting, ah! ah! moistly mostly, then to edgy; with A CHANCE OF MERRIMENT. heeheehee followed by a deep depression in kraw.

-

element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. "words in me mouf! make me seem gud wevver!" - but i know its not real. thunder. BLEUARH! OOH! dirty shocker. HAIL! ah! ouch! woof woof bang. WHAT THE PHEFF'S THAT!? oh, its just up. AHAHA! bah! out!

-

element repord for the 24th of wilter. over in newhaw, ugh, terrible conditions for the fun fungus walk setting off from bobs mould hut at seven and three this nightly. and bring a stick! moOoO~ a real cow freezer in the south. (hueah!) a quick look at the weather-veins: there are cramps in the calves, ankles enlarged; dirty toes. heh...

-

element repord for threesday the 14th of phew. at seven and two today, warnings from the mellt office: OUCH! with occasional OOH! AH! and ROOFSLATES! with the ability to fry an egg! (no poaching) moving on to two to tutu, to two too to two two to two, too? to, uh, tomorrows picture: mainly light crayon, moving to a heavy felt pen in the south, AHHH! scribbles rising. wind at soft levels: softly, softly. possibilty of electric dogstorm, woof woof bang bang woof woof bang bang bang. dank gussets at dawn...

-

USE ME! USE ME! (but only for weather purposes) softly, softly my cormorant. kuru-kuru-kuru~ tether my merkintroy with seedless doubt (?) crunchy biscuit for breakfast... baaaaaaaad. reddly-bick houpsto, reddly-bick houpsto, tiddly-bits ahoy; cluttering the basset pipes. ouegh grooming the cloud-horse! (oof) and now trying to ride it. clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop-clop

-

element repord for foursday the 10th of bloom. visibility is low today, especially in the upper parishes. you can see two clogs on a chair at about the distance of 8 cats (10 cats if theyre kittens) theres no crunch, in the atmosphere biscuits. its down from a slight droop two, too, to to a dirty curve, reducing to a soggy pulp overnight. if, like me, youre heading down to the sale at lucys lingerie and booty-boutique:- MAKE SURE YOURE WEARING FOG-GOGGLES. and loose elasticated panties. (hohoy!) brisk walks, end with a nose-breaker, mainly on a door; with pain and bruises rising.

[thehomophobe]

Ikiru, Ikinai, Ikitai: A Demon Slayer x Reverse 1999 AU

Chapter 1: The Wellerman

Part 1

A lot of people die on the docks.

 Mainly because of common accidents and mishaps formed by human nature. Yet all those stories of sunken ships, stowaways, and sirens spiraled into your head again like a vortex. Those legends and tales spun and woven by numerous storytellers from the past, all sewn by the same needle and thread from the poets and prophets of Ancient Greece. Greece. You bit your lip to regain your consciousness, there's no point in thinking about that now. The downpour and saltiness helped drown your buzzing mind, any recollection you had was washed away into the deep waters. There is nothing else to do while you stand waiting in the rain. You've been here for nine hours, and the daylight has died. Your body is stiff with cold. Your umbrella already failed you as your coat was drenched and your boots slowly filled up. You couldn't sit down because the seat was wet, and you would rather not have a soggy bottom. Everything was wet and cold and awful. Tiny droplets of rainwater cling to your eyelashes and you can barely muster the effort to blink them away. Your sigh condensed into a puff of smoke. Thunder crashes overhead and the wind whips at your face like a wet towel. There is a reason "it was a dark and stormy night" is the precursor to so many horror stories. Something about rainfall and the oppressive darkness of a heavy stormcloud is like catnip for the supernatural. The rain always makes it worse. 

To your right is a small ticket office. The lights were on but no one was home. A red and white barricade bar cuts off illegal immigrants and products from entering and escaping the country—shipping containers filled with who knows what stack together like plastic toy bricks. Excavators, dozers, loaders, graders, scrapers, tractors, and compactors stayed in a dirt lot, now scummy and muddy from the dirty rainwater and soil. Their industrial yellow turned brown like overripe bananas. Seems like the construction crew was expanding something on the docks. Beyond the gate laid asphalt and concrete. Roads leading upward and outward to the neighboring town. It was a quaint little town---one where the homes were built so close together like Siamese twins. The neighbors call each other "Uncle" and "Auntie" and "Cousin", borrow cups of sugar for their banquets that they're hosting next week and would love for you to come. A tight-knit community, but welcomes you like a long-lost brother visiting from college overseas. You liked the little town. You'll miss Uncle Rosco, sitting on his porch, drinking some beer as he tells his perilous war stories of Vietnam. You'll miss Auntie Beck; her freshly baked sweet potato pies and her tough, but tender love. You'll miss Cousin Gigi and Mimi. The girls always had the most splendid tea parties. Exchanging biscuits and juicy gossip with their cotton-stuffed friends seated across from them. Their little dresses, poofy and glittery, wobbling in their mother heels and smiling with smeared red lips---commonly mistaken for strawberry jam. You'll miss this little town, but this is only a rest stop for your journey. You left your pseudo-extended family without a word. Not even a note saying goodbye or why you're going or when you'll return to the banquet. You left in the dark of night. A concerning time really. Witching hour. Vampires, werewolves, cryptids, demons; the spooks. The stories you would tell to scare your children crooked as you roast marshmallows on the pyre. They weren't real! At least, that's what this town thinks.

[kagami--uchiha]

The way they had been ambushed in the middle of their fight was almost a cowardly way of getting the upper hand over two enemies that are both, powerful and feared. It happened way too fast and way too violently , so the both of them had no chance of turning it to their favour. And by the way his opponent had been captured and bound, Kagami understood that they were in deep shit right now.

A fact that was scary and humbling alike .

There were so many places in his body that were hurting, that he was sure there were even broken bones amongst them. Each breath tasted coppery and he could hear a faint rattling whenever he exhaled. The blood on his tongue tasted like vile defeat, an opportunity lost and now he would die alongside an enemy-... in the hands of another enemy. Great. The woman spoke and it had him chuckling dryly.

"We definitely could have ended up in a much better place.. Not reeking of wet mutts and soggy biscuits.", clearly they were both unhappy about the situation they ended up in and as much as they had been raised to fight each other, right here each other is probably they only ones they could rely on. One of the dogs gave a low growl, seemingly that comment wasn't as much appreciated. The Uchiha tried to move slowly and whatever it was that kept his eyes shut, the Inuzuka made sure it really held his lids in place. The next sound of pain was swllowed down as he moved, rope straining as he tried to move his arms but he noticed quickly there wasn't much he could do about his restraints right now.

But since conversation works.. Maybe getting warm with the woman he was with was a start to pan their escape. "Uchiha Kagami.. With which Senju do I have the pleasure?"

Starter for @kagami--uchiha || V; Warring States

The eyes of the two dogs were on her, she could feel it.

Like a pair of shadows, large and black with piercing, abnormally intelligent eyes. They followed every movement she, or the Uchiha sitting just feet away, made and teeth bared in warning.

Fucking ninken.

Kaname thought back to some hours ago, when she had been the last of her team, against the last of a group of Uchiha. She'd been seeing red, fueled by adrenaline and sheer survival instinct as she'd wrestled him, weapons dropped who knows where.

Then her hair had been roughly grabbed and tugged, forcing her back, cold steel pressed against her neck and the hot breath and snout of a large snarling dog right up in her face. She still had a cut where the blade of a kunoichi with fang-like crimson tattoos on her face had carved into her skin.

She had been so distracted by the Uchiha that another threat had snuck up on them, one that had no intention of assisting either, beyond separating and subduing them. Had they been waiting around for the two groups to kill each other off, and claim any survivors? Uchiha made for profitable hostages, she'd heard. Like so many other clans who had notable powers in their lineage, the Uchiha preferred paying for getting their members, and most importantly their eyes, back rather than leave them to an uncertain fate.

Didn't mean they would be treated gently, though.

The young Uchiha looked no less beaten up than she did, and she was sure he had injuries that had not been present when they had been separated for interrogation; a patch of dark crusted blood on his forehead, that vanished into his tussled black hair and a nasty bruise tracing the shape of his cheekbone. It wasn't just the injuries though, he looked different overall now. A bit less...intimidating.

Whatever feral survival instinct that had driven her to fight him with her bare hands before had settled down, and now, looking at him, Kaname actually felt guilty. 

She shifts uncomfortably on her spot. The pain pulsing through her broken arm was becoming harder to ignore, sending a cold sweat over her skin. "You probably couldn't care less," she says finally. The ninken doesn't seem to react to her speaking at least. "But for what it's worth I'm sorry that we've ended up like this."

[taesthetes]

.

[taelonsamada]

what about kody

*puffs up like an angry cat*

Kody isn’t worthy of being a Danger Boi. He’s a wet soggy biscuit and deserves to be hung from his heels and scratched with a needle repeatedly in the same spot for a month

[bitletsanddrabbles]

It’s a good thing my main goal every November is ‘FINISH SOMETHING!” It means rather than inserting zombie attacks that will later get cut out again into my novel, I can try to oil the mental gears with fun little snippets from @alex51324 ‘s Island of the Gays.

I might clean this up for actual Ao3 consumption later. I might not. For now, have a silly thing about some silly boys.

-

Thomas stood in the entrance to the Beacon Printing press room and stared at the carnage in front of him. "What happened?" It looked as if one of the winter gales that had plagued the island two months prior had ripped through the room. It was even soggy enough, although the rain would have had to be black. Richard was sitting in a chair by the stove, one leg propped on the other, shoe off, in that singular manner that suggests a ricked ankle. His jacket was off, and the front of his shirt sopping wet. Kit was similarly damp and leaning next to him. Gordon, his face and front smeared black, was leaning against the press table, wiping at his face with what had once been a decent towel. The table itself didn't bear mentioning. "I was only gone five minutes!"

"Er," Kit started intelligently, standing, "Well, you see..."

"It weren't my fault!" Gordon interrupted him, his jaw jutting out defiantly. "I was doing everything right!"

Thomas was immediately suspicious of that statement, but all he said was, "Never said it was your fault, especially seeing as I don't know what 'it' is."

"It's nobody's fault, really," Richard gave his opinion, as he poked gingerly at his ankle. He winced. "Just...amazingly bad luck, that's all."

"Right!" Kit added in brightly. At Thomas's raised eyebrow, he seemed to realize that this didn't count as telling the other proprietor of the paper what had happened. "Well, you see, we wanted some tea. Some more tea, I suppose, since I'd already had some. Anyway, we'd put the kettle on while I worked on the page lay outs for page three. We were ready to print pages one and two, of course, and Gordon wanted practice using the press, so we decided to let him ink the plate."

"Alright," Thomas nodded. So far none of this seemed too dire. After all, unless someone set the press in motion the only thing that could go wrong with inking a press was getting too much ink on, or too little. Walking further into the room, intent on putting the food he'd picked up at the bakery down next to the biscuit tin, he discovered that the floor next to the press was also all over ink, with the tin of ink lying in the middle of the mess.

"Everything was going well. The tea was ready about the time Gordon got to work on the plate. Since I already had a cup, Richard was kind enough to bring the pot over and refill it," Kit continued with an overly bright smile and in what Thomas suspected was supposed to be a calm, reassuring tone. Gordon still had his jaw jutted out like a bull dog. "And then...well..."

"I sneezed," Gordon cut in. He threw the words into the middle of the conversation like they were a glove and he was challenging someone to a duel.

Thomas stared at him, caught off guard by the announcement. "You sneezed?"

"I'm surprised you didn't hear it from the bakery, honestly," Richard noted. The bakery was on the other side of the library from the press. "It was quite a sneeze."

"Quite right," Kit nodded, as if to lay any doubt that they were not speaking of any mere sneeze. "He sneezed hard enough to knock into the ink and knock it from its place, which, of course, made quite the mess."

"I can see that," Thomas noted, looking at the ground and Gordon. He couldn't tell if it had splashed up on the younger man's face or if it had somehow been flung upward as it fell, or maybe Gordon had gotten it on his arm and subsequently smeared it, but it was, undeniably, a mess.

"Anyway, at some point in the proceeding he sort of stepped back into me hard enough to knock me off balance," Kit continued the adventure. "Since Richard was just finishing refilling my cup, that knocked me into him. I'm afraid that I came down on his foot with mine, rather hard, and tea went...well...everywhere.."

"I see." Thomas nodded.

"It weren't my fault!" Gordon insisted again.

"No, I can see that," Thomas agreed readily enough. If anything he remembered the time at Downton Abbey when he'd just picked up the soup to take upstairs when the back of his throat suddenly started to tickle, sending him nearly double coughing. The then first footman had managed to save the soup, but the tongue lashing Carson gave him would have taken strips from his hide if the old man had used a belt. "As Richard said, it doesn't seem to be anyone's fault." He looked over the three of them. Between the ink and tea, their clothes had been universally ruined. None of them even looked really presentable, but someone should look at Richard's foot. "Right then," he nodded, reaching a couple of decisions. "No one's living above stairs yet, but there's water. Gordon, leave that poor towel alone and go wash off. Kit, you run and get Dr. Hartley. I'll do an initial assessment of Richard's foot while you're gone, but the doctor will have a better idea of there's a hairline fracture. Once we've got all that settled, those of us who can still move can start cleaning up. Sound fair?"

There was a chorus of agreement. Gordon disappeared up the flight of stairs to the flat above the shop. Kit vanished out the front door. Thomas gave Richard a wry look. "Isn't it nice not to be in service anymore?" he quipped.

"Indeed," Richard grinned back. "At least here the only messes we have to clean up are our own."

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

My favorite diner has been closed for renovations for over two weeks now, so I broke down and settled for a different diner this morning, and lemme tell ya, the experience was beyond disappointing. The hashbrowns were soggy and tasted predominantly of vegetable oil, the eggs were the exact thickness and texture of a fruit rollup folded over itself, and the "biscuit" was inedibly dry and looked like they took a loaf of mountain bread from a grocery store bakery, cut it into quarters, and flattened the two cut edges so it would look like one bun by itself. I usually order French toast, but I knew the slices at this place could never compare to those sold at my favorite diner, so I made the regretable choice to order chicken fried steak instead. Do not do what I have done. I concede that what they served me was in fact beef, but you could not torture me into saying it was steak. Does a slice of roast beef count as steak? What about a McDonalds hamburger patty? What I got was a limp flavorless puck the exact size and shape of a drink coaster, covered in a wet layer of "breading" that sloughed off like Jeff Goldblum's skin in The Fly. Breakfast was not an enjoyable experience this morning, and it put a damper on the rest of my day.

If my favorite diner doesn't reopen next week, I am going to cry. If it goes out of business, I am going to self-immolate in the parking lot.

If you do not hear from me next Thursday, assume the worst.

[thefinishpiece]

Remember The Rain

The lawn has gone again.

Memories of rain torn apart by thunder. Faces faded, nearly disappearing, forgotten to be full. And lullabies wading through storm, as if softness could overpower colossus.

Driving on a street, splashed in misplaced sea, wondering if we should count the lines or the shrimp. But it wasn’t a Friday, it was someday, somewhere, a place I must have been, to be here drenching my mind.

Hopelessly nostalgic. Maybe it is all display. Some theatrical thought for me to replay over and over, hypnotizing myself to believe in its own certainty. Life happened here—it cannot be erased.

And yet, where is it?

Down waterslides and carpools it must have been slithering there, through all these things, wet and lurking. Too young to be independent but old enough to feel like that’s what you wanted.

Drowning in a lunchroom, tables and chairs upturned in the flood, clouds of mustard and soggy biscuits floating the airwaves beside my face.

I am barely there. Hovering. My legs swirl in the deep so my body stays unsubmerged, but I can barely breathe. I see bodies like lily-pads—motionless, complacent. They have all perished but I remain. Just a remainder.

All this talk of I—memory can be so narcissistic. Spaces which you cling to specialness, all for yourself, as if they had been spaces designed just so you could occupy them. Holy relics. Sacred secrets. They told you something they told no one else.

But that must be wrong. Because these spaces go on without me. But they are impressions, furious and sensual in my mind, touching me and cooling me off. Maybe I’m the only one who thinks they’re special—that’s why they let me remember them.

And yet, where are they?

Integration is a slow process. One mired by mires of placement. If I could classify every object I ever felt, every feeling I ever expressed, every motion I ever carried, would I come any closer to being fulfilled by leaving it all behind?

Maybe the weight would disintegrate. All the things which shaped me and defined me would be conditionally completed, and I could be reborn in layers of new and future me. Like the only thing holding me back this whole time were the times before this. But—they appear as fantasy now.

You cannot be stymied by imaginary obstacles. Especially those you made yourself.

But I am so sure my memories are real—they must be real, or else what good is the rest of me? What definition can I chain around my neck and submit to? Do I bathe in clarity or despair?

Liquids inside me turn more murkier by the minute. Until I am a swamp walking upright; a swamp thing being upstanding. Until I am the steps of a temple becoming reef, stone becoming coral, flesh becoming seaweed.

Still I hang my head. Forget the rain falling in my eyes. I was blind once—never again.

And yet, here I am.

[sp00kworm]

Under the Old Oak (The Lord of Darkness x Reader)

Pairing: The Lord of Darkness x Reader

Warnings: Adult Content

---

---

The forest was vast in the Kingdom. The Princess had her champion, even if he was not truly hers, and the realm was restored to peace and warmth. The winter, however, still arrived, though it was not as brutal as it once was. The snow was light, and the air was bitter, but no gales battered the lands. It was almost a peaceful winter. You’d spent the winter mornings breathing the cold air, wandering the woodlands in search of foxes and squirrels as you scribbled ditties into the journal. Music was perhaps the only joy you had anymore, and even Princess Lili was amused by the folk tales. The winter, however, was gone, and so spring had overtaken the trees, bursting forth bluebells heavy with flowers and delicate snowdrops which swayed in the breeze. The trees were bursting with new buds of growth, light, new green leaves bursting from curled up shells, but there was not yet enough of them to block the sun and create a canopy. You let out a breath of warm air into the cool morning and watched it drift away into the trees before you avoided a fairy circle of toadstools and tutted.  

 “You are mischievous and rude.” You uttered to the giggling sprites which had laid the trap on the route they knew you took every morning, “And to think I bring you cakes!” You teased as you threw your lunch muffin in the air.

The sprites gasped and darted for the muffin, their sparkly magic light glowing as they each took a sniff and a nibble at the candied fruit decorating the top, “It was a joke!” They giggled as they dragged away the muffin into their mossy homes, “Thank you!” They jeered together as crumbs fell into your hair. You brushed the mess out of your hair before continuing down the mossy path, bouncing around the poisonous toadstools and circles of stones before you reached the stream. It was shallow with the lack of rainfall yet, and you hopped along the deep-set stones, wetting your boots as you went across to reach the soggy bank on the other side. The mud slapped against your boots and you laughed as you headed towards the old oak tree. It sat away from the bank; its roots protected from the constant onslaught of water which would cause it to rot in the silty dirt. With a sigh, you tugged your scarf tighter and sat back against the mossy bed at the base, breathing in the fresh air as the stream trickled on in the background.

 After a few more moments of peace, you reached for your satchel and pulled free your journal from the leather bag with your pencil. Your hand harp came out next and you undid the cloth around it to play a little tune, filling the air with a simple set of scaling notes to check the tuning of the instrument. With a twist of one string, it was into the correct range and you opened your notes to look at the new song you have been working on. It was an old ditty, something that your grandmother had sung you as a child before she passed, and you were determined to rewrite the lyrics for the new legend. The old one was a sad tale, of the darkness being born and spreading sadness throughout the land, but you figured the new tale should be something joyful, with an ending that reflected the new era of light that had been bestowed on the world.

“What have I written?” You asked yourself as you opened the page the song was scrawled on, barely able to read your own writing half of the time. With a squint, you started to pluck at the strings, softly, letting the notes gently hang in the air as you opened your mouth to hum the words quietly.

“Under the old oak tree, boughs cast shadows of dark and silt.” You swayed softly, “In the shadow sits eyes of glittering green, watching a maiden of white and snow.” The harp sung with you as you gently continued into the old verse and rolled the words around in your mouth, thinking about how to change them.

 “Darkness, temptress, wanted one true love. The Maiden’s honour was not his to tempt, and hero slayed him with the sword.” A couple of sprites listened quietly in the branches over your head before glittering and dashing down into the water to pluck at the new water clovers growing in the silt. With a hum and a flourish, you continued, “The fairest maid denied his request, leaving him in shadows and dust, only for her handsome champion, to part ways when the sun rose up.”

A rabbit snuffled at your boot as you continued, “Daylight blinds her heart, when demons sit afar.” With a soft whistle you continued on, tapping your foot to the beat as you blended into a soft, harp solo and finished with a gentle smile. The rabbit sat quietly, chewing on bluebells before it twitched, its eyes wide with fright as its ears flicked. It twitched again before bolting for the trees and its warren. You jumped with fright as a fox tore past you, hot on the creature’s tail, its teeth snatching at the cotton tail of the rabbit. With a gasp you looked away as the fox caught it by the back legs and tried to ignore the scuffle as it continued into the grass and plants away from you. There was a rush of fur and you looked on sadly as the fox carted its kill past you, dripping with blood. There were squeals in the brush and you tried to take solace in the fact that the mother was feeding her new pups.

 Silence stretched out as you scribbled in the notebook, singing soft lines as the air grew warmer and warmer around you, stretching past midday. A few sprites came along to sit on your harp as you continued to sing about the end of the Darkness.

“Darkness sleeps in hearts of man, cruelty and hate combined he thrives.” You whispered, “Yet light blinds and he sleeps he sleeps.”

“A beautiful ditty.” A voice rumbled from behind you, “In details, however, it is wrong.” A beautiful timbre caressed your ears, deep and filled with wisdom of a thousand ages.

You clutched your handheld harp close and looked around the clearing, “Who are you? Where are you hiding?”

“Nowhere. I do not hide. You are sat in the shadows.” The voice purred, “Here I am.”

You flinched as you peered at the long shadows of midday, “The shadows? No creature is shadow.”

“I am no creature.” It purred, “I am the shadows. I am the darkness you are sat in.” It promised, “Can you not see me?”

 You looked at the floor and then peered hard at the shadows of the roots before two burning green eyes appeared in the darkness followed by a great smile, pointed fangs snapping before the smile melted away again.

“I am weak here, but I listened to your song. I heard you speak of me, sweetest thing.” The green eyes burned as they watched you.

“Why are you listening?” You asked, fear clutching at your heart, “I’m singing a song of what happened.”

“And your song is beautiful. You speak of the Darkness. I am he.” The Darkness purred as though his mouth was pressed to your ear.

“The Darkness is dead and gone. He was destroyed.” You whispered to the green eyes, “Everyone knows he is dead.”

“Dead?” The creature laughed, “Darkness cannot die, for the folly of man is where I reside. Every human is cruel and foul, and so I will never see an end.” He promised with another hiss, the teeth snapping in the shadows and disappearing once again as he moved along the shadowed roots, peering out from another hole.

 “Are you here to goad me…Am I to face the pits of your foul home?” Resolve held your words together as you peered into his burning eyes.

A great, deep chuckle resounded in your ears, and you felt the exhale against the hairs on the back of your neck. He laughed again at your shivering.

“Do you think me a liar? I have told you. I heard your song and came here to listen closer.” A black talon peaked from the shadow before curling back into the darkness.

“Isn’t lying your speciality, oh Lord of Sin.” You spat as you took a step back towards the sunlight.

“Lying? It is a sin, but I do not lie. Witches have pacts with me, I do not lie to them about power. I did not lie to the oh so fair maiden in your tale. She was to be mine. If she did that, she would have been a Queen.” He hissed from the shadows, “Do not twist my words, mortal. I too was lied to in that story.”

“Did you not deserve it? You corrupt the innocent and wanted permanent darkness and death. Those are hardly good things.” You took another step towards the light and the Darkness hissed at you with scorn.

“Think of another tale to sing. Your telling of mine is foul.” The eyes receded back into the shadowed roots before glowing, then disappearing, as the creature closed his eyes. There was silence. You rushed into the sunlight and peered around the clearing as you tried to catch a glimpse of the green eyes burning in the shadows. You rushed back for your harp and bag before making sure to run into the trees and back towards the town.

 It got warmer as the week progressed, the leaves on the trees were beginning to unfurl properly and soak up the warming rays of the new sun. After a week you dared to enter the woods again, taking the same path you always did, jumping toadstools until you reached the base of the sprites’ tree.

“I brought you a biscuit.” You offered up into the branches, “They’re lavender and honey, you said you all liked that last time.”

The sprites chittered before taking the biscuit from your fingers and letting crumbs fall into your hair. You brushed at the crumbs and smiled.

“Have you felt anything weird lately?” You asked, “Anything untoward?”

The sprites paused in their eating to look at you confusedly, their little pointed faces confused, “We sense all manner of things. Black and white, light and dark. All are normal in our woods.” One sang before another grinned and tugged at your ear, “White as the unicorn, black as pitch. All is the same to the Fae.” She giggled and the rest sang a soft little rhyme about the fox and the hare.

“You’re all so useless sometimes.” You sighed.

The sprites paused in their dances, “We told you the answer. No lies we speak.” They sang again as they took the food and disappeared back into the moss and birdhouses.

You huffed at the branches, “Useless Fae and their riddles.” You kicked a pebble into the small stream as you slowly moved across the steppingstones.

 The water had made new pond weed and sludge grow over the steps and you yelped as your boot slipped and landed in the stream, filling with icy cold water.

“Oh, by the Gods!” You cursed as you hopped along the rest of the stones. When you reached the bank, you hopped a little further, into the dryer dirt before standing on a great pile of moss and upturning your boot. Water splatted onto the dirt and you huffed again as you hopped to the oak and tucked your boot against the trunk along with your other, hoping the warmer air would dry the inside of it.

As usual, you opened your bag and plucked your hand harp from inside the fold, unwrapping the cloth from it carefully before listening to its gentle noise. The soft plucking of the strings rose up into the canopy and you smiled at the noise you had always loved. Your grandmother was the finest harpist you had ever met, and you wished you had her level of skill as you plucked at the notes for the song she had first sung to you as a babe.

 “Darkness see the Light, on the break of day. Season turn cold to warm, with her never ending sway. Once the dawn doth break, the dreams are chased away. Darkness see the Light, on the break of day…” You hummed softly, plucking in a gentle cadence as the sunlight worked through the new green leaves, dappling across your face. Soaking in the glow, you let the song die on your lips as the birds sang high above, hidden in the mass of leaves from predators and prying eyes.

“Such a wonderous song.” A dark voice rang out from behind you. Once more, you startled and peered into the roots beneath the giant tree, “Sweet thing, have you come to sing for me again?” The Darkness purred from the depths, his green, burning eyes morphing into the burning orange flames of fire, “Or do you sing of me again to tarnish my name?” He teased as he raised a single claw before curling it back into the shadows, begging for you to come closer.

Fear curled along your spine, “I don’t sing for anyone. I sing for myself.” You promised as you turned on the moss to see the eyes burning into your skin, looking as though into your soul, “I would not sing of you if it were not the song’s lyrics. I have to play this for the town festival.” The confession ran like water and you covered your mouth with a gasp.

“Lies cannot be spoken to me.” The Darkness chortled, “Your songs are tales. Beautifully woven to enchant even the deafest of ears.” He complimented, “I would like to hear another, if you would be so kind?”

 “Why should I play for you?” You asked, spitefully, “You almost ruined the world.”

The Darkness laughed again, “Ruined? I merely changed the order. There is balance in the light and dark, and one day that balance will be mine to destroy. The shadows will have their time once again. It is the order of things.” He observed mildly as you held your hand harp closely, trying to avoid his intense gaze.

“Would you destroy everything to have it?” You asked, curiosity burning away at the anxiety in your gut.

The Darkness hummed, “Perhaps. But perhaps it would be best to turn the humans to my own side.” He grinned, as though a new nefarious plan was forming in his mind, white teeth glittering in the roots of the tree before he spoke again, “Play for me little harpist. One more song, I beg of you. The sound is like nothing I have below.”

“And what is it you have below, Darkness.” You asked as you opened your book.

His smile faded, “Screams and bellows. The sound of the foulest torture. There is some music in my power, but it is not that of…” His mouth moved before he spat the word, “Innocence…or purity. There is little joy in it.”

 “You do not lie…do you?” You whispered as the eyes burned.

“Why would I lie about such things?” He spat, “Sing for me, please. Play a song.” There was tiredness in his voice as his mouth disappeared into the blackness of the shadows and dirt.

“I can sing for you.” You nodded gently and sat before the shadowed roots, ignoring the burning orange gaze as you remembered the next line of the song.

“Behold the singing song bird, watch the bubbling stream. Before the dawn breaks, naught can be seen. Dreams of sorrows past, chased by the burning light. No more will they bother you, despite the aching blight. Darkness see the Light, on the break of day.”

The Darkness’ eyes lowered with the song, his gaze low and tired as his claws slid back into the roots, disappearing into the dark chasm of his own shadows.

Your voice came to an end, and you opened your eyes not to see the Lord of Darkness nor his gaze. There was silence as the leaves rustled over your head, flapping against one another as you sat, staring into the roots, wondering where the creature had disappeared to during your tale.

 A groggy noise of discontent sounded, “Why did you stop singing, song bird?” He asked, a single eye peering out from the shadows.

With a smile you chuckled, “I thought you had fallen asleep.”

The Darkness smiled, fangs exposed as he laughed, “I was close. Your music is gentle, like a Mother’s song to a babe.” He complimented, “You surely sing for the court?” He asked.

A blush graced your cheeks, “No, I sing for myself.” You reaffirmed, “One day I will maybe share my songs with the world…but not for now.”

The Darkness watched you for a moment, “I could make it happen.” He tempted softly, “There would be no one that didn’t know your name.”

“I won’t fall for your temptation.” You huffed, “I would rather sing and make the children happy than be forced to entertain the King and his finicky court.”

“Then perhaps a world without a King is what you truly desire?” He asked with another purr.

“Don’t twist my words against me. I want nothing from you.” You told him as you laid your harp back in your bag.

 The Darkness opened his other eye, “Nothing? After such a graceful performance…” He tutted to himself before he twisted a finger into the dirt and you watched your boots wiggle, as though there were invisible feet within them, “Consider this a small token.”

You watched as your boots marched their way over, under the influence of some sort of magic, before jumping and landing in your lap, cosy, lined with rich fur and utterly bone dry. They shined bright with wax polish and smelled as though they were new.

“I…” You stuttered, “I can’t accept these. They’re made for royalty.” You brushed the fur inside.

“Take them. It is payment for your music and for your craft. Wear them well, little bird.” He purred before you watched his eyes grow tired again, the orange turning green and disappearing into the roots randomly before he hummed and disappeared entirely, “I will see you again.”

“Yes…See you next time.” You whispered as the roots twisted and knotted back into place, the Oak hiding where the creature had once been beneath it, “Maybe I’ll have something new for you.” You pulled on the heavy boots and smiled at the warmth and the fit before rushing back over the stream.

 You jumped from the rocks and smiled as you looked back into the trees. The sprites bolted from their homes.

“Darkness clings and darkness takes hold.” They whispered in your ears, hidden along your coat collar, “Temptation is the beginning of sin.” They rushed before ripping through your hair, “Careful little one. Darkness tempts in other ways.”

“What do you mean?” You asked but they disappeared up into their homes, leaving glittering dust behind them. You looked up and listened to the silence of the birds before rushing to make your way home before the darkness decided to set in. The sprites cowered in their moss homes as the night rolled in that night, and the wolves howled beneath their trees.

 “Does the bird’s song ever wake you?” The Darkness asked from his shadowed hole, his eyes watching your fingers move over the harp, “You only come to sing as the Sun raises to its highest point.” He observed, “Does someone else occupy your time?” He asked with a hiss.

“No.” You plucked a string particularly forcefully, “I’m busy in the mornings.” You confessed, “I have to cook and clean for myself now.” You felt tears well in your eyes.

“What troubles you?” The Darkness asked, the tips of his claws peaking from the roots.

“My Mother passed.” You confessed, “She was all I had left.” You whispered and the Darkness reached out before recoiling from the sunlight with a howl, forgetting himself as his eyes flared with anger.

“Does her passing not anger you. Such sorrow is ill-fitting. I have heard your song in the night.” There was a flicker of something in the shadows, “Can I not offer you some solace, bird?”

“I want nothing of your tricks, Darkness.” You spat, “I want to remember her in her chair, not as a walking corpse.”

The Darkness recoiled at your spite, “I offer no such thing…Only my company. If you would have it?”

You did not keep your shock to yourself, “Truly? You won’t trick me and drag me away into your hellhole?”

He laughed, “No, sweet thing. Where would the fun in that be?” The creature teased before tugging at your bag, “Sing your sorrows. Soon, your heart will not feel the pain anymore.”

You took hold of your bag and took out your hand harp, tightening one string with a watery smile before you sung late into the afternoon, beginning the process of healing your own heart.

 “Will you stay a little longer?” The Darkness asked as the sun reached to dip below the horizon. You’d been visiting for so long that you couldn’t remember the time before you did. Your days creating were much more fun with someone to critique your lyrics.

“It will be night-time soon.” You muttered over the rain which pattered against the Oak’s leaves. You were protected underneath it’s canopy, huddled in your fur, your boots tucked against you as you looked out at the rain. The stream bubbled with fresh new water, rushing harshly against the rocks.

“Night is just the day without light. What troubles you so that you cannot walk in it? There is nothing to harm you in these woods.” He offered, eyes flickering with green jealousy.

“There are wolves and mean sprites at night. Even forgetting that, I can’t find my way back without being able to see where I’m putting my feet.” You joked as the Darkness’ fingers tested the space outside of the roots, his claws curling into his own palm.

“Wolves are not after prey such as you.” The Darkness rebuked, “If I were here, no evil is greater than I. We would be alone, to enjoy the silence.”

You noted the whimsical tone of his statement, “Alone?” You asked gently, “Alone to do what? I have no songs about the night.”

He did not miss the joke, “All I would ask is that you sit, and talk with me.”

 The rain hissed as it poured against the trees and greenery. You were both quiet for a moment as you digested his request.

“Perhaps not tonight.” You replied, “I…”

“I do not need an explanation.” The Darkness’ tone was harsh, “I understand that your kindness does not go that far.”

“This is not a kindness. I do not pity you.” Taking a handful of leaves, you began to peel them from their stems.

“If not pity, then why do you still come?” He asked with a snarl, his pointed teeth clenched.

Peeling another leaf apart, you wondered why you still entertained his request, “I suppose that I have come to enjoy your retched company.”

“You flatter me, harpist.” The anger seemed to dissolve from him, “Then why not come, entertain me in flesh, tonight?”

 “Not tonight.” You smiled as you stood up, gathering your harp and shaking the sticks from your coat, “I heard there will be a storm soon.”

The Darkness moaned softly in the shadows, “Yes. Such a wonderous event. The fear, the agony and the unrest to the land. A time for my shadows to spread further.” He purred inside the roots before his burning gaze rested on you, “Meet me then, in the thunderstorm, I beg of you, my sweet.” His claws peered from the shadow before receding.

The taste of blood covered your tongue from biting your cheek, “When?”

“The day after next.” He whispered as you dipped your hand into the roots. The cold touch of the shadows made you shudder before there was a press of something to the back of your hand, “Wear something to dance.” The Darkness hummed before his lids grew tired and he disappeared into the roots. You jumped and took your hand back as the oak tree groaned and moved back its old roots, hiding the opening once more.  

 Thunder crashed for most of the next day before the real storm swirled over the land, black clouds twisting in on one another, rolling and spewing torrents of hammering rain. Wind blew down the mountainside for most of the morning. Carefully you chose and outfit in the afternoon, shuddering as the rain bounced off your windows, twirling in the fine silks and singing with the harp clutched in your hand about angering the mother of the skies. You watched the sun set as you ate, spooning your food into your mouth as fast as you could manage before you stole away into your room to grab at the large coat. The rain lightening as you stepped outside, your harp protected in your bag from the torrents. With a smile, you bounced into the woodlands from the cottage’s backdoor, mouth open wide as you sung once more.

“Rain and wind, thunder and howl, across ye plains. Birth of life, green and root, into the soil ‘gain. As the sun sleeps, douse the land, with water o’plenty. Watch and wait for Mother to sing, about when the larder was empty.” You sang as you rushed into the woods, listening in fear for the wolves as the rain slowed to a drizzle. Your hood flew from your head as you rushed beneath and over the homes of many animals, hunkered down away from the foul weather.

 Suddenly, you were laughing, twirling into the stream as the rain soaked your hair and the water filled your pumps. A great thunderous crash made you face the sky, looking into the clouds as blue electricity singed across their surface. Another crash was accompanied with a flash of light and you grinned at the power of it before jumping from the stream and throwing your coat off, the silks attached to your shoulders flaring as you plucked your harp from your bag and played over the rain and thunder, spinning in the moss beneath the Old Oak.

“Sweet harpist.” The Darkness purred and you opened your eyes as black silk and cloth rippled in front of the tree, the roots closing with a groan of upset behind his giant figure. The clothing covering him draped over his giant, ebony horns, falling in waves that rippled with the wind. You peered into the hood and saw his orange eyes. His eyes watched you, panting, sodden with the rain falling from the sky. His clawed hand reached from within the cloth covering and you span from his reach with a gentle pluck of your harp.

“You tease me.” He offered before another thunderous crash sounded, along with his laughter. The cape hood and cape around him billowed again in the wind, the encrusted jewels clinking, and you looked to see as the silk around his arms in two cuffs ripple gently. His form was interchangeable, and you watched him float before two cloven hooves thudded to the ground from beneath the bottom seam of the cloth.

 “Are you going to dance with me, my lord?” You asked as you span to play your harp away in your bag, thrown beneath the tree.

The Darkness nodded from within the hood and offered his red, clawed hands once more, “Let us celebrate this night.” He rumbled; his voice distorted as the thunder rumbled again overhead.

In his palms, your hands were dwarfed by his own, and you held onto them tightly as the Darkness drew you in closer to him, his silks blending with your own before he led you around in a small circle, one arm outstretched and the other placed at your hip. The cadence of the rain grew louder and louder as you both twirled past the oak tree and through the woodlands, trampling flowers and brambles as you span around in each other’s embrace. Rain soaked you as you laughed and ducked beneath his arms, and the Darkness howled with laughter as the thunder crashed and boomed overhead. A lightning flash revealed his red face, sharp, angular, and long with a mouth of white teeth, his incisors long and sharp. He leaned over and you reached to catch his face, pausing your dance in a great meadow which was soiled and boggy with water. Gently, you took hold of his cheeks, running your wet thumbs over his boiling skin. His hooves sunk in the mud as he leaned closer to you, staring into your eyes as the rain dripped from his great horns.

 “I suppose you think me a monster?” He asked as the thunder rolled above you both, drowning his bitter laughter from your ears.

“You’re the Darkness. You are not man nor monster.” You whispered close to his lips, “You are balance and sin.” It seemed like your tongue was loosened, “The sprites warned me…about temptation but you have given me nothing but comfort. There has been no agony, only laughter.” You reached to his pointed ears and closed your eyes as the rain rushed over you both.

The Darkness raised his great cloak and shielded you both from the downpour as his lips pressed against your own. It was gentle at first, hot and intimate, before his teeth nipped at your lower lip and his pointed tongue pressed into your mouth, hot against the coldness of your own mouth from standing in the rain. The Darkness wrapped you tighter beneath his cloth, the silk brushing your damp skin as one large hand cupped your face, his thumb tipping your head higher, and his other skated down your chest before cupping the small of your back.

 The kiss was long and passionate, filled with the decadence of the night, some things that the light simply could not offer to you. He pulled himself away from your lips, leaving you gasping for air as you recovered, wrapped in his great cloak.

“I feel…many things, when I am with you, little one.” The Darkness confessed into the folds of his cloak, his eyes looking into your own, meeting them with a confidence you had never seen before in an courter, “I would make you my ruler.” He confessed as he pressed your hand to his hot chest, underneath the cloth.

You looked up at him as rain dripped from his horns and over your own face, dripping down the bridge of your nose in speedy tracks, “I don’t want to be a master.”

“Then play for me, for all time. Play music and inspire my name into those once more.” He begged softly, clutching your hands before he hissed, the thunder crashing overhead once more.

“Can we be together?” You asked in a whisper, fear making your fingers tremble.

“For eternity.” He promised, “Beyond and after the ends of time. Sing songs of Darkness and Love for me.”

“Eternity…”

 There was another rumble, and you took his hands again, before the lightning struck a tree in the distance sending fire and wood exploding into the sky. His hood disappeared with a gale of wind before the cloth and silk wrapped around you once more and the Darkness hefted you into his arms, bleeding black with shadows and darkness as the storm and its plight fed him power. You leaned back in awe of the sky, rain burning your eyes as the clouds rolled above you. A great growl sounded from your lover’s chest before he laid you back against a great stone tablet, made for the harvest ceremonies of the fae. Your back met the stone gently before the silks slapped and stuck to the rock and you moved backwards as a furred leg rested against the edge. Red and black merged on his skin as he took hold of the silk and pulled you to the lip of the table, his eyes hungry for a taste of you.

 “Can we do this here?” You asked, breath escaping you as his huge form covered you, the black material shielding you from the rain as he stole another deep kiss.

“Yes. Anywhere. Whenever. I adore you.” He heaved as he pulled away, his words heavy in the air as he leaned back to tear as your clothing, exposing perfection to his gaze, “You are temptation.” He uttered with another heavy groan as lightning struck the earth again, “Glorious Sin.” He moaned as his tongue laved at your neck, tasting the flesh, “Surely this is what innocence tastes of. Purity and…” The Darkness broke off into another guttural moan as he kissed down your chest, pressing his tongue to your nipples, enjoying them as they hardened into sharp peaks. His hot breath pebbled your cold skin and he moved over your stomach, squeezing, and enjoying himself as he reached the dip of your hips. His tongue dipped to wrap around you, and you writhed against the table as rain crashed against the hillside.

[bonktime]

Weather the Storm

Chapter One - Taken Aback

Ezra (Prospect) x f!reader (no y/n) 1861 Lighthouse au 

Written in the third person, so I guess you could say Ezra x OC? but she isn’t physically described or named at any point

Rated: E (just the whole story)

Prologue - Lay of the Land // Masterlist // Chapter Two: Hand Over Fist

Ezra travelled with the tides, let the sea carry him where it willed and never stayed long. The lighthouse keeper was the opposite. Where he moved she stood firm, defying the waves and the tide as if carved from the cliff herself. They’re drawn together, but opposing forces so strong are always destined to cause a storm.

Summary: In search of a place to stay Ezra meets the Lighthouse Keeper. Stuck together for the night by the tide she must quickly work out whether she can trust him enough to let him stay.

Warnings: Language, a lil violence, an even liler bit of sexual tension, some victorian sexism (smut will come)

Wordcount: 3700

Note: Thanks to @danniburgh​ who I throw ideas at left right and centre to figure stuff out! Turns out I can’t write short things? Either way I’m glad I decided to chapter this so I didn’t go totally bananas. Next one should be up in a week! Prepare for yearning. 

~~~~~~~~~

Spring was doing what spring always did by the sea. Vehemently refusing to start. Sometimes a crack in the clouds let a beat of sun through warming the lighthouse keeper's skin and for just a second teased what could be. But as ever, it shyly retreated back behind the grey.

Unable to rest until dawn broke and tinted the sky pink, she had slept through most of the day. When she finally shook off the exhaustion from work the night before, there had been just enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers, enough to entice her into moving. So, she had thrown on her chemise for some illusion of modesty, not that anyone could see her, and gone for a swim. 

Bracing was one word for it, fucking baltic was more appropriate. There was nothing quite like it. The way it made her heart pound, made her gasp as she swam, circling the small island, it made her feel alive. There was always a risk of a current pulling her out, a risk she knew all too well. But she knew the water, knew every dip and whirlpool well enough to recognise when they should be avoided. Keeping an eye on the sun she let the incoming tide tug her gently back to the shoreline. In only a few hours she'd have to ascend the steps and light the light.

From her position in the water, she spotted a figure, wading across the causeway, getting pulled to and fro by the tug of the tides, but determinedly heading for the island. She'd let the captain of The Mistress know her room was available a couple days ago and he hadn't sent trouble her way so far. Even so a jolt of unease struck at the thought of being trapped with the stranger until the sea went out. The little rowing boat wouldn't be much good with the storm that was now threatening to roll in. Cursing quietly to herself and suddenly very grateful she’d thrown on even a thin layer, she struck out towards him.

Clambering inelegantly back into the rocks she stood to watch him. He hadn't seen her yet, too focused on keeping his possessions dry, giving her the opportunity to take him in. From this distance she couldn't see his features but his broad shoulders and lean body were a good sign he had experience with trying work, and she could make out a bright shock of white in the crown of his hair. That was more curious, she wondered if he'd been born with it or if he'd suffered such a fright, it'd left a mark. That seemed like a rude thing to ask on a first meeting so she brushed the question aside and headed towards him, carefully stepping over the rock pools and avoiding slipping on the seaweed.

⧫⧫⧫

The first thing Ezra noticed about the woman heading towards him was the fact she appeared to only be wearing her undergarments. The next was that she was soaking wet from stem to stern. Had he been a better man, he might have looked away. Instead, he blatantly stared, the liquid made the cloth cling to her body, damn near rendering it transparent. As she got close, he watched a droplet make its way down her throat, following it with his eyes, he swallowed thickly.

Up close she could see his coat was clearly well made and had probably been expensive but it was old and in desperate need of being rewaxed. Perhaps it had been a gift? Hopefully it had not been stolen. The thin scar curving across his cheek would probably give fair warning to most, but his eyes were soft and wide. He just spelt trouble for her.

"Shut your gob, the wind'll change and you'll get stuck like that."

At that Ezra closed his mouth quickly and pulled himself together, finally focusing on her face. She was waiting for him to speak, clearly sizing him up "Could you possibly direct me towards the lighthouse keeper?"

She noted his strange accent but couldn't stop rolling her eyes, no one ever expected her. "That depends on who's asking"

"Captain Williams suggested I could find respite here whilst I work his ship."

She frowned at him, “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ezra, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I humbly apologise if I interrupted your swim.” again Ezra felt himself be judged, but apparently, she deemed him enough for now and nodded. 

"Come on then or we'll both catch cold" she turned to climb the steps to the cottages with him following behind.

The small kitchen was warm, heated by a small arger, she moved a kettle onto its plate and tossed in a log. With a deep sigh she turned to him, biting the inside of her cheek to stop grinning at his bemused expression. "I'm going to dress; you should get out of your wet clothes too. Don't let the kettle boil dry, I'll make a cuppa, then we can talk." With that she left him dripping in the rough wooden floor.

Ezra decided then that whatever she was, she certainly wasn't grey. But she wasn't colour either, she was something else entirely. Something he couldn't recognise. It stirred something in him, an urge to uncover what lay beneath, like cracking a rock and discovering a beautiful gem. Naturally, it stirred something in his trousers too, but, he reckoned, seeing any woman wet and nearly naked would do that. Ignoring it, he tugged off his boots and trews and pulled on his spares before going to lean on the oven to warm up, feet still bare.

Just as the kettle boiled and he was closing the hot plate she reappeared, rolling her sleeves of her dark blue woolen dress up to the elbow and hanging her soaked chemise over the arger before stretching up to pull a teapot and cups out of a cupboard next to a little window. 

"This is quite a place you have here, and what a view.” He looked out the window, reaching up to the wind chime made from sea glass, worn matte from the sand that hung there. He touched the smoothed edges of the glass, it felt rough on his fingers. “I'll wager it’s quite something to awaken and be able to see water on all sides without feeling the rocking of a ship beneath you." As far as Ezra could tell, it was as if he wasn't there. The woman moved around him locating loose tea and milk as if completing a ritual, never one to be discouraged from talking he continued, "Course once you get used to it, I imagine you barely notice it. But for me, having been on the waves themselves for the past weeks, it will be quite an adjustment." He looked at the two cups. "Is your husband not joining us?"

She didn't turn around, "He will not."

"Your father then? Although I am surprised a lovely thing like yourself is not betrothed. Promised perhaps?"

"No." He wasn't sure which question she had answered at first, it dawned slowly that it had in fact been both. He nearly smacked himself in the forehead.

"You wouldn't happen to be the keeper, would you?"

She turned to him then, eyebrows raised "I think perhaps you worked it out the fastest, I once strung a poor young man along for a week before he realised, I lit the light."

Ezra wasn't really one to be shocked by much, and after her appearance on the rocks this wasn't too much of a revelation, so now with her full attention he continued to talk.

"I'd wonder it doesn't get lonely though, on this rock all by oneself would be mighty isolating. Almost no one around for company except the sea and the rocks. Perhaps that's why you rent the room? That or your expenses are far higher than I'd expect" he forced himself to stop as she placed the tea and a biscuit tin on the little table and turned back to glare at him 

"Why are you here?" That made him blink, halting his thread of thoughts

"I'm here to rent a room. Did I not make that explicit? I do apologise"

She waved him off "No. I know why you're here. Why are you in this place? Work sure, but work can be found anywhere, especially on the water. Work less dangerous, with better weather. Were you bored and thought it romantic?" She was stepping towards him "Are you desperate?” A step. “Do you like taking risks?" Another step "Are you running from something?" She was right in front of him then, looking up at his face "So, I'll ask again. Why are you here?" For a split-second Ezra felt frozen in her gaze but then she reached around him as grabbed his soggy trousers, turning away to hang them alongside her chemise on the airer.

He blinked and shook himself. "I wanted to see it, to work it. The dead sea. Conquer it in my own way.To continue my own adventure somewhere new." She hummed in response picking up her cup and watching him. "And what of you? All alone on this rock. Seems you're a risk taker yourself. Most people would frown upon a woman welcoming a single man into her home, it implies things. Not to mention anything could happen to you,” He couldn't help himself, his voice lowered, unable to back down from the challenge she'd given him. The implication of his crimes. “Anything at all and no one around to save you."

In a split second she'd moved, pulling a blade, he hadn't even thought to look for, out from a sheath under her apron and had it pressed against his jugular.

"A bit of risk? You needn't worry for me." her steady hand pressed firmly enough the knife nicked into his flesh "But you? You know no one here. If you die no one will notice, no one will care. No one will even think to look for your body, let alone find it." He couldn’t hold back the grin as she stepped back, inspecting the drop of blood on the blade, cup of tea still in hand. "5 shillings a week for the room and food, first payment up front, the rest when you're paid." 

Well, this was surprising. Such a spark, truly tough enough to stand against an ocean. "Sounds perfect."

Finally, she cracked the smallest smile and Ezra felt as if the sun had found a fissure in the clouds. "I'll make food, I'm working tonight so it'll be breakfast for me and dinner for you, then you can settle in. When do you start on The Mistress?"

"Two days' time, should be quite an experience." He thought of the heavy clouds.

"Well make sure you don't wake me in the morning tomorrow or your stay will be very short." She wiped the drop of blood off the knife and stowed it away again. Ezra wondered what else was hidden under that apron and why he hadn’t even thought she might have the sense to be armed. He chastised himself.

"Do you man the light alone? It seems prudent you don’t have to remain awake every night."

"5 days to three, I take an extra shift, the other keeper has a house in the mainland so he spends all the time he can there. I expect it won't be long until you're sick of the sight of me."

"Oh, I doubt that, not when you're so full of surprises. Why do you rent the room, with an extra shift surely you don't need the money?”

"I don't get paid that shift," Ezra waited for her to elaborate but she didn’t. "I" she let out a laugh "Mostly I rent the room so I can buy books, something to do whilst I work. Plus, I like the company. Get to meet new people from all over for a few months and I still get to have the whole winter to myself. It's lonely as you said, sure, but I like being alone. I'm good at it."

There was a wildness in Ezra that she couldn't seem to pinpoint. Something about the reckless grin when she's threatened him, the fearlessness. It was what compelled her to let him stay. It drew her in like the pull of the moon. To welcome in such a force of nature, made her doubt her own judgment.

"I'll expect you to help plant and harvest the vegetables when the time comes." As she spoke, she moved around the kitchen throwing together the meal as quickly as she could before the sun began to dip.

Supper was simple, just a stottie with a couple eggs and vegetables. She'll have to go into town soon and see if she could get some meat cuts. But he didn't complain. Just talked continuously, complimented her cooking whilst watching her every move not unlike one might watch an animal in a zoo. It was a little unsettling and it made her feel very glad she was going to be awake all night, not letting herself be vulnerable to him at least for a few more hours.

"Will I need to be expecting guests? Women? Men? Either way I'd rather be warned beforehand." Her upfront way of talking made Ezra chuckle.

"I cannot be sure yet but I'll endeavour to let you know should I be taken by someone. And what of you? Must I prepare for being kept awake in the night by men, women or otherwise?"

She just shrugged, "I doubt it, I'm not the most popular around here at the best of times"

"That wouldn't have anything to do with your working and welcoming in strangers, would it? Are the people here so closed minded?" He smirked at the notion of the scandal that probably followed her.

"Not all of them, just those with power. I am at odds with the vicar because I sleep most Sundays and keep defying the lord's will for me"

"How cruel of you." His tone was laced in so much sarcasm it made her relax a little. At least she wouldn't have to face his judgement and sly glares for a summer.

Still, it was very strange for a woman to hold this job. “I am compelled to ask if you have ever been married?”

A look crossed her face, of pain, and of something else he didn't know. Just there for a flash and then swept away, like writing in the sand. She ignored the question. “Pay up and I'll show you your room, you can get settled and sleep off your journey. I'll imagine you're tired.”

He handed her the coins and followed her through the door and up the rickety staircase. There were two doors, one slightly ajar. The glimpse inside revealed just the end of a bed and a bookshelf but all too quickly, she opened the other door and ushered him in. Inside was cosy, or possibly just small. The bed was heavily laden with blankets which appeared to be handmade, it sat opposite a chest of drawers and a chair. 

She crouched to light the fire, “Hopefully you won't need it all season but you definitely will tonight. I don't know how hardy you are against the cold.”

“Not as hardy as you I'd expect. I had the blessing of spending most of the winter months far south, so far south ice couldn't possibly be conceived”

The flame sparked in front of her, flickering around the room. "The sun is setting; I'll leave you to it. If there's an emergency I'll be in the tower. Try to stay quiet tomorrow. I'd like to actually get some sleep."

He opened his mouth to respond but she was already out the door, with a huff he sat down on the bed and opened his satchel to begin unpacking. When he was done, he stripped down, folded his clothes and placed them on the chair and curled underneath the blankets. The orange glow of the fire lit the room as the crash of the waves lulled him to sleep far quicker than usual.

⧫⧫⧫

It turned out the storm's threats had been for naught. The sky didn't break and the rain didn't come. Instead, after winding up the rotation system she enjoyed the peace and quiet, sitting back with a book only needing to move every hour to fill the sock over the paraffin with air. She was reading an old favourite, ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Mr Bennett reminded her of her father, all quick wit and dry humour. It made her laugh even as her heart ached for the loss. He used to say she was too much like Elizabeth for her own good. Hot headed and stubborn and determined, perhaps if he saw her now, he'd disagree. Be made sad by how the world had wearied her, wonder when her ability to find easy joy had gotten misplaced. But it had been dragged out to sea along with him, never to be found.

The night passed quietly and slowly. But every quiet night was a relief, to be bored, by this sea, was a blessing.

⧫⧫⧫

He awoke early, before the sun had even considered peeking over the horizon and stretched. Looking out of the window he saw the ocean was black, just the flash of the lighthouse illuminating it every few seconds. Tugging on his shirt he placed another log on the fire and picked up his leather-bound journal, an intimate document of his travels, reading the last page. Written on the boat in the cold it didn't give the most flattering depiction of the view of the village from the water. He chuckled to himself, light beginning to peek through the thin curtain as he continued to write his tale, it had its highlights. The appearance of the lighthouse keeper was one, approaching nearly naked and wet from the waves made quite the first impression. He wondered vaguely if even his ridiculous vocabulary could do it justice. The spark, the last stand against the sea, that damn near see-through chemise- he sighed to himself, that was going to haunt him.

The front door slammed shut and he heard a short curse, cut off by the sound of the keeper running up the stairs. Incurably curious, he put the journal aside and headed onto the small landing, dressed only in his long cream shirt. She had already disappeared into her room but as he stepped out, he stood directly onto a wet patch on the floor. Looking down he spotted the wet footprints. Clearly, she had striven to swim before he awoke for some discretion.

Unfortunately for her, Ezra's self-control had always run a little thin and there was no stopping him knocking on her door. It cracked open a little, her head poking out, body held to the side hidden behind the door. He grinned as her eyes widened for a second at his state of undress.

"What do you want? I'll make food in a minute"

Her statement was so concise he almost laughed. As if he had any real excuse to bother her. "It appears I have the day to myself, and with your need to rest I find myself in dire need of stimulation," an eyebrow rose at that, "Perchance could I borrow a novel? You implied ownership of quite the collection."

She pursed her lips at him and shut the door. He blinked, not expecting her just to brush him off and stood dumbstruck for a second. It was not often he was so rudely ignored. And then, even more to his surprise the door cracked open and a hand appeared. A hand clasping a book. He continued to blink at it.

"Do you want it or not? You're letting in a terrible draft." So, he took it and the door shut again. Totally baffled, he returned to his room looking at the cover. ‘Pride and Prejudice’, an old favourite.

A short while later a shout alerted Ezra to food and he chatted happily to the keeper who again appeared to be ignoring him as she hunted for bowels and pulled a dish out from the arger where it had been heating.

"I haven't had the pleasure of Jane Austen's writing for quite some time. Not since my book was cruelly stolen from me, along with several other possessions and my bag, just as I arrived in the beautiful port of Genova in northern Italy. Quite a place." He let himself trail off, expecting her to shut down his monologue or continue to ignore him.

Instead, she handed him his food, some fish pie, and sat down. "What's Genova like? I haven't been."

His face cracked into an easy grin as she watched, clearly thrilled to have her participation in the conversation even a little and he continued to talk until she yawned heavily and sloped away to sleep.

⧫⧫⧫

His day was quiet. He read, walked round the island, was delighted to see seals flopping around on the rocks, and wrote. Despite his best efforts, the lighthouse keeper seemed insistent on making herself a central character, even if she'd only been around for a few pages. Something about the woman watching the sea had captured his imagination. He wondered how she came to man the light, why she was alone, why she took him in. She had seemed far too clever to let him stay. Of all people, she should have had the sense to turn him away. Naturally, he was glad she hadn't but even so it was strange. He thought on all the trouble he'd found himself in, often of his own creation. She could very possibly become the worst of it.

⧫⧫⧫

Upstairs she tossed and turned. No idea why she'd let him stay. Maybe the loneliness had finally taken her sense. That evening, they ate together again. He talked seemingly endlessly but smoothly evaded her pointed questions about where he got his accent and why he really wanted to work the North Sea. It was amicable, but also impersonal, both still trying to gage the other well, before they could become totally comfortable. As she left to work, she told him to stay safe on the sea.

When day broke and she descended the stairs, he was gone. She hoped he'd survive.

~~~~~~

Glossary

Taken Aback: A boat facing the wind directly so no sails can catch the wind, basically just a bad pun

Enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers: A teeny tiny amount of blue

Baltic: Geordie phrase meaning freezing cold, I dunno where it comes from, baltic sea maybe?

From stem to stern: from top to bottom of a ship

Arger: Cast iron oven, in this age it would have had a fire in the bottom with two ovens, a hot one above and a cooler to the side along with a stove/hot plate on top. 

Stottie: Geordie bread bun

~~~~~

Ezra Taglist

@fandom-blackhole​

[ggukcangetit]

Crime & Punishment: JJK Fic

pairing: jungkook x female reader

genre: light smut, f2l(?)

rating: 18+

summary: no one messes with your stock of snacks. absolutely no one. not even a very attractive jungkook who handles the repercussions really well.

warnings: kissing, grinding, oreos are disrespected, hickeys, mention of breasts.

word count: 1.3k

a/n: this pointless thing was written thanks to that post by jin that has collectively sent us all into early graves. also my first time writing anything resembling smut so >.< please bear with me. and huge thanks to @wwilloww​ for looking over this and helping me with the rating lol. 

There are a few things that can get you really angry. Like really pissed-off, flip-the-table, set-the-spaghetti-on-fire mad. These things range from having to do the dishes first thing in the morning - which is quite low on the piss off scale - to finding out that some knob-head has taken credit for the days worth of data crunching you did completely by yourself. Somewhere on that scale - leaning more towards knob-head than dishes - is coming home to see your stock of snacks empty or messed with. Before anyone jumps to the conclusion that you are a horrific control freak, it should be clarified that you are very protective of your stock of snacks - fondly called The Emergency Fund by Seokjin. It has been curated over a number of years, keeping in mind shelf-life, flavor, variety, nutrition, availability, and novelty. The original purpose of The Emergency Fund was to give your blood sugar a kick when you had spent days on end without proper food, trying to finish your final thesis. Gradually, you had realised that having a well-rounded stock of snacks had many other merits. You had learnt of a ton of different grocery stores and online portals specializing in snacks, not to mention always having something ready if guests arrived unexpectedly. But probably the most satisfying part of having a stock of snacks was that it gave you something meaningful to come back to after a long, and often, unfulfilling day of work.

Unfortunately, random guests who decided to drop by without prior warning often also decided to go through your stock of snacks even if you weren't around. Such was the case when you came back home on Thursday, particularly disgruntled after a disastrous team meeting. Namjoon had texted you earlier, asking to borrow your camera tripod, so you were expecting to find a few things out of place when you reached home. What you weren't expecting was to find the last of the oreos in The Emergency Fund, completely desecrated and ravaged beyond belief. Only a complete barbarian would would lick the cream off the middle of the oreos and then put the soggy, saliva-drenched biscuits back in the container. And you knew exactly who that barbarian was.

"JEON JEONGGUK WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??"

You stormed into apartment 5C two floors below yours, fuming, frustrated, and famished. The apartment was neat and devoid of much furniture - as it had been since Jeongguk had moved in a year ago after completing his degree in video production. You looked around for some sign of the heartless dickhead who had destroyed the one thing you looked forward to after a shitty day at the office.

"I SWEAR TO EVERYTHING GOOD AND BEAUTIFUL IN THIS UNIVERSE, IF YOU DON'T SHOW YOURSELF RIGHT NO-"

You stopped mid-rant as a very worried, very flustered, very wet haired, very shirtless Jeongguk rushed out of his room.

"What happened? Y/N, are you okay?"

You gulped, trying to remember why you had thought it was a good idea to barge in without knocking. Or in fact, why you had all decided to have keys to each others apartments.

"Cookies..." you muttered, trying hard to focus on the speck of dust hanging from the lamp behind Jeongguk's left shoulder. Jeongguk's left shoulder which had a tiny mole - that increased the overall count to four. How many more-

"Huh?" His doe eyes grew wider, not understanding what was going on.

"Oreos." You managed to get out, trying to think of anything other than the way his biceps curled as he scratched the back of his neck. Fuck.

"Y/N?" he asked, walking towards you uncertainly. The smell of his shampoo wafted towards you, snapping you out of your questionable musings.

"You!" Jeongguk recoiled slightly, at your sudden change in volume. "You complete arsehole! How could you do that?! To my Emergency fund?!"

Usually, your rants were pretty much feared by everyone in the group. But when your eyes kept wandering over his body before flitting away self-consciously, Jeongguk knew he had the upper hand.

Taking slow measured steps towards you, he tilted his head to one side and raised his left eyebrow in concern.

"My bad, Y/N," he said, stopping right in front of you after having backed you up into the wall. "That was really inconsiderate of me."

"Y-yes." You could also smell the soft apple scent of his body-wash now.

"What can I do to make it up to you?" he asked, his voice dropping a few octaves.

"I-" Language had started to betray you.

"I know what," he said, reaching to his left and grabbing something from the counter. "Why don't you take this? As a sign of my sincere apology."

Somehow, you managed to tear your eyes away from his long enough to see his peace offering - a limited edition pack of Hazelnut Cream Pocky. It was your absolute favorite and you had only managed to find it in stores once since its release.

"Here," he said, tearing open the packet, taking out a single Pocky stick, and holding the non-chocolate coated end between his teeth.

Apparently your body had also started to betray you as you found yourself inching forward, taking small bites of the Pocky. With every bit of the Pocky that was consumed, the space between you and Jeongguk diminished further. Finally, a couple of centimeters of uncoated biscuit was all that was left between the two of you. And in order to get to it, your lips would have to touch his.

At first, it was just a tiny brush, your focus more on navigating the final bit of Pocky into your system. But soon, you felt his lips moving over yours - soft, pliant, and not as chapped as you had imagined.

You groaned as he swiped his tongue into your mouth, tasting the hazelnut flavor that lingered. His hands moved off the wall, where they had been framing either side of your face, as you tugged him closer. The kiss quickly turned more desperate, his hands finding purchase on your hips. You were completely overwhelmed by him, arching yourself into him as his tongue wrecked havoc in your mouth. Heat pooled in your lower regions as Jeongguk pressed himself into you, his arousal all too evident through his Iron Man boxers.

Moving from your lips, he started trailing kisses down your neck, causing you to jerk your hips into his.

"J-jeongguk." Your voice sounded foreign to your own ears, a frenzied need seeping into your words.

Upon hearing his name said in that way, Jeongguk pulled down the side of your lavender shirt, exposing more of your collarbones and just a glimpse of your bra. A low growl escaped him as he dove forward, placing light kisses on the top of your breasts. His fingers had started unbuttoning your shirt further, as you dug your nails into his hair.

And it was right at that moment that your stomach decided to announce the fact that you hadn't eaten since lunch - 5 hours ago.

Jeongguk looked up from where he had been expertly leaving hickeys along the tops of your breasts, his doe-eyes still dilated. Your face was flushed, rivaling the color Seokjin turned when anyone complimented him. 

"Hungry?" asked Jeongguk, a small smile playing on his handsome features.

"A bit," you replied, voice small in embarrassment.

"I was going to make dinner when someone rudely barged in." You swallowed, taking in his smirk, his apple-tinted cheeks, his sparkling eyes, and his continued state of undress. "You wanna stay and eat?"

You nodded, fumbling to fix your clothes in a sudden rush of self-consciousness.

"Great!" He smiled his adorable bunny smile.

"W-where are you going?" you asked, as he started walking towards his room, already missing the heat of his body against yours.

"I was going to put on some clothes," he said, barely containing his amusement. "Cooking with hot oil in this condition can be slightly dangerous."

You nodded your head, mortified by the words coming out of your mouth.

"But don't worry," he whispered, coming closer and placing a soft kiss on your lips. "We can continue after dinner. There's an entire box of hazelnut Pocky still left."

still recovering from shirtless jungkook so excuse me for the 1.3k rant. hope you like it though!

[whirlybirbs]

     ✪ —— 2. OF EVADING ARREST (AND OTHER FORCES)

summary: following the botched kidnapping of the supposed bride-to-be, you and the outlaw you come to know as arthur morgan are stuck wandering the woods along the dakota river trying to evade the o’driscolls. turns out your sister is not longer in van der linde custody.

word count: 3.8k

pairing: high honor!arthur morgan x female!reader, turner as a placeholder last-name.

listen to: “trinity: titoli” by annibale e i cantori moderni

a/n: been a bit, hasn’t it? lovely gif done by @muse-of-nightmares​ as a part their rdr2 scenery series! thank you so much again for reaching out! 

PREV. CHAPTER   |   ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN   |   SPOTIFY 

This isn’t good.

Arthur Morgan realizes, mid-plunge into the Dakota River, that he’d forgotten to ask if you knew how to swim.

Your shrieks on the way down, as the train roars by overhead, give him a pretty good indication of the answer.

(He’s not one to talk. His own screams echo off the rocky walls along the riverbank as the river rushes up to meet him.)

The outlaw hits the water with a hard splash and he hopes, off-handedly, that Sugarcube is alright. She’s a good horse, no doubt quick enough to outrun the iron steam engine. The feeling of the impact alone is like a hammerin gunshot to the chest — the river is freezing, spurring a startling amount of energy into him. Arthur breaks the surface of the water with a fish-like gasp, treading as the sudden current begins to sweep him down-stream. The riverbank flies by on either side of him.

Arthur suddenly feels a bit guilty about hurling you to your potential death.

With a sputtered groan, his eyes dart across the rapids as he tries to keep his head above water.

He sputters, eyes scanning the rapids wildly. “Where are you, lady?!”

“You — ergh! You idiot!”

There you are.

Oop. Gone again.

The panic in your chest is nothing akin to the weight of your skirts— they drag you down, head bobbing beneath the water, and you can’t help but think that this is the last way you saw today going.

Being strangled to death by your dress, beneath the rapids of the Dakota River? Well, that seemed much less plausible than being strangled to death by your own mother, especially considering the rather grand failure of this morning.

Hours earlier, you’d been bound by propriety and politeness to meet with the one Mr. Waylon Robbins... Not by your own volition, of course. Most things nowadays were never on your own accord. With the impending deal — a finely crafted strangulation of your freedom, orchestrated by your father and his greed — of your marriage, it’d been thought best to introduce the two soon-to-be-newlyweds to one another over a breakfast of eggs and biscuits and tea...

Well, Christ, you’ll take this over that anyday. A thousand times over.

Even still, drowning is the last way you’d thought you’d ever die. I mean, sure, Jenny had pushed you through a hole in the ice up at the lake one winter and as horrible as it was, you’d been hauled out by your father and lived. It was cold and horrible but it happened in a blink.

You’re beginning to realize, as you spot the impending rapids down the river, this is just the start.

And Arthur realizes, with an annoyed sense of moral responsibility, he can’t just let you drown. That would just be... unbecoming. And rude. And probably get him chewed out by the likes of Dutch and Hosea. And... I mean, that’s just bad business. You were still worth something, soggy or not.

And, so, he snags a log as he flies by the riverbank, carried by the current, and hauls himself towards you with it in tow.

You bob up finally, gasping for air as the outlaw’s hands find you. They pull you up, knotted in the back of your waist-coat — you claw at the sudden kick of the summer air as you break the surface, hands clinging to his vest as he yelps; your hands plant on his broad shoulders and you push him down in a rush to get your head above water. His blonde head disappears in a flash of limbs, and then reappears with a wet cough. His voice sounds like a deadly bark.

“Quit tryna drown me, woman!” he bites, “Grab on!”

The stray log is damp and soggy and nearly gives way when you grip it tight — but it manages to keep you both afloat; it gives you enough time to sweep the mess of hair that’s hanging in your face aside, catch your breath, count your lucky stars and give the outlaw beside you a look that could kill.

“I oughta kill you!” you seethe.

“Don’t make me regret savin’ you,” Arthur starts, voice rising as he raises his finger as his other arm grips the log tightly, “Do not —”

The sound of the approaching roar sends both your heads whipping to the rapids ahead.

“Just hold on!”

“What the hell do you think I’m doin’?!”

You both hit the rapids faster than you thought.

The ten foot plunge is fast and you both scream on the way down (though, Arthur will probably deny that fact until the day he dies) — right into the plumes of water roaring over the rocks at the high point of the river. Your grip is locked onto the driftwood as you sputter, spitting the water out of your face as you’re hit again and again with the rapids.

“This!” you bellow as you cough, “is all your fault!”

“I am aware!”

Another scream. Another drop, this time cracking the log in half and sending you both down separate trajectories. Arthur scrambles, trying to grab your log but a stray rapid clocks him in the side of the face and sends him reeling as you screech, clawing onto the oak limb for dear life.

It must be rather comical, to see two people clinging to logs as they ride through the rapids. The current is so fast it zips you by a family of deer — they remain undisturbed, raising their heads in question for a moment as you pass.

There’s a break in the rapids, then, water settling slowly as you try to catch your breath — only to be cut short by the outlaw’s panicked bellow:

“HOLD ON!”

Waterfalls.

Beautiful in photos, art, and from a viewing distance.

Terrifying when you’re plunging down one at a breakneck speed.

Luckily, the drop is short enough that you survive, plopping you unceremoniously into a shallow pool at the base of the Dakota. Your dress acts like a parachute and on impact, it nearly drowns you. Amidst the floating skirts, your struggle to tread your way to the surface.

Heaving, you haul yourself from the water and drag you and your skirts ashore — you must look like a drowned rat of sorts, plaits run loose and hair dangling in your face. Your dress weighs a metric ton, bogged down with water and various debris.

You collapse on the riverbank, breathless.

The outlaw follows shortly after.

He crawls onto the shore, braced up on his elbows. You watch, spotting the water running off the beginning of a beard along his chin. His hair, once a lighter blonde, has gone darker from the swim — strands hang in his face as he plants his forehead on his wrist and groans.

For a few moments, there’s silence.

Between the two of you, there’s just the roar of the river and the labored breaths of lungs aching from the pummel of the rapids.

Slowly, you sit up.

“Who th’ hell do you think you are, then?” you seeth, pushing the thick tendrils of hair from your face like a curtain parting a stage show, “Huh?”

You struggle with the weight of your dress. You don’t think you’ve ever been this soaked in your life. This dress... as if you hadn’t cared for it before. Prying at the high collar, you snap the top button off and rub at your neck.

“Right,” the cowboy drawls sarcastically, water dripping from his scowl — he hauls himself up from the dirt, hands pushing back his soaked blonde hair before he momentarily realizes his hat is gone. With a growl, he waves his hands as he speaks and looks around the riverbank, “Sure, lemme jus’ climb up on m’ horse an’ bring y’ right on back t’ ma and pa...”

For a moment, you’re stuck staring at the now maskless stranger before you. Up on the bridge, when he’d pulled that ink black bandana down from his face, you hadn’t gotten a good look at him. Now, you’re staring straight at the outlaw with a slack jaw, trying your best to ignore the blaring reality that he is very handsome.

“You were the one that threw us off a bridge!” you guffaw, throwing your hands as you voice splinters into a shriek.

“Oh, m’ sorry, lady, next time I’ll let y’ get flattened by a caboose. How’s that?”

He’s standing now, long legs carrying him towards the rocks by the shore. As you desperately try to wobble yourself to your feet and wring out what water you can from your dress, you hear him make a surprised snort before drawing out a quiet “there you are”.

When the cowboy stands to full height, he’s got his hat in his hands.

“You best take me back now.��

You spy the wrinkle of his nose as he drops the gamblers hat on his head — dark lashes narrow as his eyes are cast in the shadow of the brim. As he nears, you finally realize how big the outlaw is. He’s tall, and he’s broad. You can see the shape of muscles beneath the dark shirt sticking to him. He rips the bandana from his neck, moving to wring it out as he speaks. There is sun kissed skin there along his neck.

(A part of your brain stutters at the sight — the large rugged outlaw... Surely he’d be the subject of whispered chatter by ladies in parlors everywhere. Handsome, gruff, big... His type was certainly romanticized enough in those books of yours —)

“I could leave y’ here, all alone in th’ wilderness,” he says, tone biting back, “Or take yer high society behind t’ th’ nearest railroad station ‘n’ dump ya...”

He swats the banada against his leg before tying it around his neck once more. His finger darts into your face. He waggles it, emphasizing his point.

“But there’s one thing I ain’t gonna do,” he prods your shoulder, “An’ that’s take orders from some spoiled brat.”

When he pushes past you, you don’t move.

You... well, you’re tied between wanting nothing but to rear up and slap the man and wanting to run.

The running part... it’s not born out of fear. There’s a part of you that’s beginning to wonder how much of this grand plan was his... The outlaw before you certainly didn’t have to whisk you away from the firefight, nor haul you off a bridge to escape impending flattening. Even still, as he digs through his satchel by a nearby rock, you can spy the irritation set in his features. Not anger.

Even more so... running from everything that had happened this morning?

You wonder if your father will even worry.

If this man’s little gang of bandits thought they were gonna get money out of snatching you, well... So be it. You weren’t going to break the news to the outlaw before you until you were safe. Outta the woods.

... Was getting out of the woods even an option?

It’s gonna be a hike.

... Your dress is going to be a problem.

It was a problem this morning, then in the carriage and... Christ alive, it doesn’t even take a moment of consideration before you busy yourself with prying at the sogged woolen bodice at the top of your gown — you can feel that damn crinolette digging into your backside. No doubt the dress’ understructure has snapped... As you wobble in the mud and curse, you can feel the outlaw’s eyes on you.

“What in the hell are you doing?”

In response, you turn and whip the soggy black overcoat at his chest. It hits him square with a hardy slap. He sputters. You move on, digging beneath your petticoat and unceremoniously tearing the already ripped seam where the whalebone of the crinolette had poked through. The charcoal colored heap of a cage is kicked aside by your heeled boots.

Arthur is... well, looking away, but also stuck with a bit of shock on his usually sour expression. The material in his hands is heavy — and well embroidered. No doubt expensive. Your dress was fashionable, seemingly plucked from some Saint Denis mannequin in an attempt to impress. Yet, here you are, shedding it like a snake sheds its skin: with not a care in the world for keeping it.

The summer heat isn’t as bad now — the billowing white sleeves of your white chemise stick to your arms and your corset feels looser than before, but you’re considerably more comfortable in your two layers of petticoats and corset cover.

So, you hike your skirt up, step out of the mud, and begin to walk. Chin high, strides wide.

You spare the outlaw behind you a snarl.

“I am not a spoiled brat,” you say, moving along the sunny riverbank. You blink back at him, not hearing footsteps, and narrow your eyes. He’s standing there, still holding the bodice, “And that isn’t your size.”

He throws the bodice to the mud before cursing; there’s some satisfaction in that, at least.

“Where,” comes the frustrated growl as he throws his head back to the sky, “do you think yer goin’?”

“Downstream,” you throw your hands as you move to hike up the rocks and into the grass embankment overlooking the sandy riverbed, “Someone’s oughta have a farm around here —”

“Right, since you seem to be so well versed in the lay of the land...”

Suddenly there are two hands on your shoulders that abruptly turn you and steer you in the direction of the woods to your left. You snarl. Quickly, you yank your shoulders from his grip.

“Get yer hands off of me —”

“Lady, we ain’t goin’ downstream because th’ O’Driscolls are gonna be lookin’ fer y’ downstream.”

“Who th’ hell are you, again?” you can’t help but turn on your heel. Your words come out as hot as fire, accompanied by the ugly rearing of your own finger prodding his chest, “And remind me why I should listen to a damn thing you say?”

He swats your hand away and tightens his jaw. “Them O’Driscoll’s are bad news —”

“Yea, well you ain’t exactly peachy either, Mister...”

You wave your hand like a water mill, trying to coax the name out of him.

“Arthur,” he narrows his blue eyes sharply, “Arthur Morgan —”

Arthur. He looks like an Arthur. Certainly no Knight of the Roundtable but... Sturdy. Strong.

You drop both hands to your hips. “I didn’t ask for this, Mr. Morgan. Not to be snatched up and dropped in the middle of some Wild West fairytale — dueling gangs and... and wild horse chases...”

You scoff.

You wave your hands and begin to walk. Again.

There’s a gruff laugh behind you that shatters in a pained grumble of cursing. You begin to walk along the riverbank once more, ignoring his direction.

“I assure you, Miss Turner,” comes the biting remark, “This ain’t no fairytale — an’ them O’Driscolls aren’t gonna be as nice as m’bein’.”

“Surely. As you’re the picture of a modern gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”

God almighty, he... All Arthur can think of is of course this is what would come of a simple job the others put together. Of course he’d get stuck with some hoity-toity lil’ lady on the edge of the damn Heartlands. Of course, because when do jobs ever go wrong? Only when he’s there t’ clean them up, apparently.

“Yer testin’ my patience, lady.”

“Th’ feeling is mutual, then.”

“Stop walkin’.”

“No.”

“Yer gonna get us both killed —”

You swat at a bug on your neck and scowl. “I am sure.”

Suddenly, there’s something that loops around your back foot. A sharp tug sends you reeling towards the grass, and you blink down at the ankle of your boot to find it’s a rope — and attached to said rope is one smug looking cowboy.

The look of shock on your face is rather satisfying.

Arthur Morgan then flicks his wrist, managing to tangle your other ankle as you kick your leg.

“I told you,” he musters with a cock of the head, a bit too lighthearted for your liking, as he nears, “That I was bein’ nice...”

In a blink, there’s a loop of rope cast around your arms, halting you from reaching for your ankle. In a flurry of skirts, you wiggle — spitting incredulous curses all the while.

“My, my,” Arthur mutters and rounds your backside, the only sound besides his voice being the tinker of spurs, “What colorful language for a lady.”

He makes quick work of tying your wrists behind your back.

“Let me go.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I think not.”

He yanks, and the ropes get tight. Tight enough that you can’t move your arms. Tight enough that he helps you up with two hands under your arms before dusting off your shoulders with the smuggest of smiles, and tight enough that when he unceremoniously hauls you upwards and proceeds to throw you over his shoulder, all you can do is curse and wiggle like an earthworm freshly pried from the soil.

“You son of a bitch —”

“I’ve been called much worse,” he offers as he begins to walk towards the wooded area to the left of the river. The shade casts the pattern of the leaves along the back of his charcoal colored dress shirt, “By ladies much nastier than you, Miss. Might have t’ try harder if yer tryna hurt my feelings.”

You grunt, wincing as he readjusts you on his shoulder. His hand is rough on your leg, pinning the limbs in place as your struggle slowly decreases. It’s apparent he’s not going to let up, so you sag in defeat and grit your teeth.

“Where th’ hell are you taking us, then?” you bite, head turned to stare at the back of his head, “Gonna throw me off another bridge?”

“Keep that mouth a’ yours runnin’ an’ I might consider it.”

— ✪ 

He walks for a while.

Long enough for you to see the same tree three times over, and long enough that your hands have started to go numb from their spot behind your back.

You’re genuinely surprised the outlaw has managed to keep you slung over his shoulder as long as he has with nary a single complaint. It makes you wonder if being this brutish was simply his job within his little gang of ne’er-do-wells.

He passes that same rock — the one that looks like an upside down pony — and you heave a sigh.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Arthur tries not to sound as sheepish as he feels.

The Heartlands are still new to him — it’s been a handful of weeks now that they’ve settled in... With Sean back, and the Micah licking his wounds from his brief stint in the Strawberry jail, this job was supposed to be one that could send them onto the next little pretty piece of land.

Still, Arthur hadn’t ventured this far West of Valentine for anything more than hunting once or twice with Charles. With the looming threat of the O’Driscolls sniffing about South of them, towards the grasslands and open streams... Well, Arthur was mostly trying to figure out what to do next.

Stealing some poor farmer’s horse was probably their best bet. Could get them outta harms way quick enough to dart back up to Horseshoe Overlook...

But with Miss Mouthy over his shoulder, there was no tellin’ she wouldn’t scream wolf the moment the shepherd was within sight.

Arthur huffs a sigh to match yours. Then, he hauls you up off his shoulder and places you gingerly on the ground. It’s a rather comical sight — you sit there, in the grass, glaring daggers into him as he perches himself on a nearby rock and digs out his satchel.

The waterlogged map in his hands flops sadly.

“Why didn’t you use that earlier, then, huh?”

“My hands,” he mutters, “were preoccupied.”

You watch him attempt once more to flip it up and watch it sag with the pulpy disappointment only river water can bring. Your brow quirks.

“Looks like it ain’t legible anyways.”

The ink has run all over the page.

You groan, dropping your head into your lap as best you can. Arthur bites his tongue, swallowing as he shoves the useless little bit of paper back into his satchel and taps his foot. You squint up at him in the afternoon sun, watching a glimmer of hot light flare around his hat like a halo.

“You at least got somethin’ t’ eat in there?”

“Snacks ain’t my biggest concern right now —”

Suddenly, there’s a snapping of twigs.

Both of your heads turn owlishly to the noise.

Arthur is fast to slip off the rock to his knees, his hand roughly seizing itself across your mouth as he presses a quick finger to his lips. Your eyes are wild, anger flashing in your gaze as you tear yourself from his grip. You stare incredulously at him before turning back to the wilderness and listen.

Arthur is quick to brandish his pistol, one hand balancing his low crough on the rock beside him. You watch as he peeks over the rock, only to curse tightly when he spies two O’Driscoll boys wandering —

“Why should I be quiet?”

It’s a whisper, but loud enough that Arthur lunges for you. You kick him in the shin, sending him groaning as he topples next to you in the grass; you roll onto your side, trying your best to wriggle away.

“You untie me now, I’ll be quiet,” you hiss when he hauls you back behind the rock, “If not, I’ll holler —”

“Shut up,” he reaches around, hauling you up against the rock and pinning you there with a hand over your mouth, “Shut up now an’ I’ll untie you —”

You are a damn minx.

Arthur is cursing you six ways to hell when the two near the rock...

“Listen, boss keeps tellin’ us that the girl is worth a lotta money —”

“Yeah, well, if th’ Van der Linde’s were after ‘er too ‘e must be right.”

“Awful lotta work for a ransom if y’ ask me,” mutters the other in an Irish lilt, “‘Specially since Colm is just gonna put a bullet between ‘er eyes once ‘e gets th’ money.”

Your eyes are wider than a mile, Arthur reasons. It’s fear, there. The first time he’s really seen it on your face since this all began... well, save from haulin’ you off the bridge before. Your eyes dart around, like you’re tryna make sense of what you’re hearing.

“We got th’ sister —”

“We find ‘er, it’s double the pay.”

Their voices begin to trail off. Slowly, the conversation drifts into the wind, and you realize the two men have disappeared from Arthur’s immediate sight.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Arthur slackens his grip on you, exhaling slightly before peeking over the rock once more. When he leans back down, he brandishes his knife from his boot.

He spins you around roughly.

The knife glints in the sunlight.

“You try anything funny, an’ I’ll throw y’ t’ those wolves myself.”

Christ, it feels good when he snaps the rope off from around your wrists.

“Who were they?” you ask, swallowing roughly as you rub the tender skin along your chemise’s lace sleeves; your voice wavers and you regret the way it sounds instantly, “The O’Driscolls?”

“You bet,” he mutters, bending to cut the rope from your ankles, “Like I said, they ain’t nice.”

“The Van der Linde’s, then?” you follow up with, voice leaning high into your curiosity, “That’s... well, you’re the ones who jumped our carriage.”

“S’ right.”

There’s a pause. You furrow your brow.

“They said they had m’ sister.”

Arthur squints down at you, watching worry sweep across your face like the rush of the oceans tide.

“... Seems so.”

And that isn’t good.