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aventurineswife · 13 days ago

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(I don't know if your request is open or not since Tumblr can be glitch? If not,plz ignore it or if you have done it before!!)

So what if Reader is the butler,like they are kinda hard to be understand by everyone (you know,emotional like that OR maybe you can make the reader act like any butler anime character that you know if you get it).

So the request is I want to see how the butler reader interact with Aventurine and how they slowly develop their feelings to each other (maybe you can make it a little angst with comfort if you want)

“Behind every mask, there's a person”

Summary: You, a stoic and emotionally guarded butler, serve the enigmatic and charismatic Aventurine, a high-ranking executive in the IPC. Though you remain distant and composed, Aventurine’s calculated charm and underlying vulnerability begin to draw you in. Over time, the two of you develop an unlikely connection, built on shared silence, understanding, and an unspoken bond. As Aventurine reveals more of his past and his emotional turmoil, you find yourself staying not just out of duty, but because, for the first time, you’ve found someone worth staying for.

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Slow Burn, Angst, Comfort, Emotional Growth, Fluff, Vulnerability, Butler!Reader, Protective Aventurine, Complex Relationships, Mutual Understanding.

Warnings: Themes of trauma, Survivor’s guilt, Emotional tension, Manipulation (though not harmful in this context), Introspection. Contains some elements of angst but ends on a note of comfort and emotional resolution.

The opulent suite was a sanctuary of indulgence and design, a blend of decadence and meticulous taste that perfectly reflected Aventurine himself. Velvet curtains in hues of green and gold framed the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, which offered an unobstructed view of the city skyline below. Crystal chandeliers cast shimmering patterns across the polished marble floor, and the air carried a faint scent of peacock orchids, exotic and rare.

At the center of this luxurious space stood Aventurine, his silhouette illuminated by the soft glow of the evening cityscape. His overcoat hung loosely over his shoulders, and his glasses caught the light as he gazed at the roulette wheel centerpiece on the table before him.

You, his butler, stood quietly by the entrance, your hands clasped behind your back. You had served many powerful figures in your time, but none were quite like Aventurine. He was a puzzle—a man of contradictions. His flamboyant charm often clashed with the quiet melancholy that lingered in his eyes when he thought no one was watching.

But you were always watching. Observing. Analyzing. It was your job, after all.

“You’ve been standing there for five minutes, my dear,” Aventurine said suddenly, his voice smooth and playful. He didn’t turn to face you, instead tracing a finger along the edge of the roulette wheel. “Should I take that as a sign of silent judgment or quiet admiration?”

“I was waiting for you to summon me,” you replied evenly, your tone devoid of the warmth most would use in addressing him. It was one of the reasons others found you difficult to understand; your words often lacked inflection, making it hard to tell what you truly felt.

Aventurine finally turned, his eyes locking onto yours. His ever-present smile curved upward, but there was a flicker of something unreadable behind it. “Ah, always so proper. I do admire your discipline, though I must admit, I sometimes wonder what lies beneath that stoic exterior of yours.”

You tilted your head slightly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I could say the same of you, sir.”

His laughter rang out, light and carefree. “Touché.”

The days passed, and your interactions followed a similar rhythm. Aventurine would tease, test, and prod, while you maintained your unshakable composure. Yet, over time, the cracks in both of your facades began to show.

One evening, as you adjusted the cuffs of his overcoat before an event, your hand brushed against his. You felt him flinch—just barely—but it was enough to make you glance up. For a moment, his mask slipped, and you saw it: the weariness, the loneliness, the pain he hid so well.

“Apologies,” you said softly, withdrawing your hand.

Aventurine’s smile returned, but it was different this time. Smaller. Sadder. “No need. It seems even I am not immune to the occasional slip.”

It was a stormy night when everything changed. Aventurine had canceled his meetings and retreated to his suite, leaving you to your duties. As the rain lashed against the windows, you entered the study to find him sitting on the floor by the fireplace, a glass of wine in hand. His hat and glasses were discarded, and his sandy blond hair was a disheveled mess.

“You’re off the clock, aren’t you?” he asked without looking up.

“I am here to serve you, sir,” you replied.

“Serve me,” he echoed, his tone bitter. He swirled the wine in his glass before downing it in one go. “Do you ever tire of it? This life of servitude? Of burying yourself in the shadows of others?”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Aventurine had always been a master of deflection, but tonight his words carried a vulnerability you had never heard before.

“I do what I must,” you finally replied, keeping your tone neutral. “Much like you.”

Aventurine let out a humorless chuckle. “Touché again. You’re consistent, if nothing else.” He set the empty glass down beside him and rested his arms on his knees, staring into the fire. “But tell me, truly—why stay? Why not leave? Surely, there are less exhausting lives to lead.”

The question struck a chord within you, one you hadn’t realized was there. You had served many, each with their own quirks and flaws, but Aventurine was different. Despite his arrogance, his risks, and the chaos he carried with him, you had come to admire him—not just for his brilliance, but for the humanity he hid behind his flamboyant facade.

“I stay because I choose to,” you said, your voice quiet but firm. “You are… difficult, sir. Flawed, reckless, and exhausting, as you said. But I have seen what lies beneath all of that. I have seen the man you try so hard to hide. And I believe he is worth serving.”

Aventurine froze, his pupils narrowing as he processed your words. For once, he seemed at a loss. “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You took a step closer, emboldened by the uncharacteristic openness he was showing. “You speak of masks, of facades. But I see the way you carry the weight of your past, the way you bury your guilt beneath charm and games. You pretend to be untouchable, but you are just as human as the rest of us.”

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Then, Aventurine spoke, his voice tinged with a vulnerability you had never heard before.

“And yet, you stay,” he said, looking up at you. “Despite knowing all of that, you stay.”

“Yes,” you said simply. “I stay.”

For a long moment, Aventurine just stared at you, his magenta and cyan eyes searching yours as if trying to find the catch, the hidden motive. When he found none, his expression softened, and for the first time, his smile felt genuine.

“You are either the bravest or the most foolish person I’ve ever met,” he said, his tone somewhere between amusement and gratitude. “But I… I’m glad you’re here.”

The words were simple, but coming from Aventurine, they carried a weight that made your chest tighten. You gave a small bow, trying to hide the faint warmth spreading through you.

“It is my honor, sir.”

That night marked a shift between you. Aventurine’s teasing became less pointed, his smiles less forced. He began to trust you in ways he trusted no one else, and in turn, you found yourself opening up to him in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

It wasn’t a grand declaration or a dramatic moment that solidified your bond. It was the quiet, stolen moments—the shared silences, the lingering glances, the unspoken understanding that grew between you.

And as you stood by his side, watching him face the endless gambles and risks of his life, you realized something else: you weren’t just staying because it was your duty. You were staying because, for the first time, you had found someone worth staying for.

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ireadwithmyears · 5 months ago

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Hi! Would you be able to write something for the clones (any of them) with a reader who has a guide dog. I've been running into a lot of issues with people trying to distract her and borderline harassing us (the president of my university follows us around with his unleashed dog running up to us, someone grabbed her nose when we were on a bus and then screamed at us, I'm a biology/genetics major so we get some subtle discrimination in academic opportunities like research projects, etc). Also I don't currently live somewhere with public transportation so I have to take Uber to get anywhere which is a whole other nightmare (a driver dropped us off at the wrong location and I was stuck in a sketchy part of town for 45 minutes while drivers kept denying us a ride). Maybe something with how the clones would comfort/handle their SO dealing with these things. Obviously you don't have to write about all of these scenarios, just some ideas

You don't have to of course, but I figured it was worth an ask:)

Looking Out for You:Part 1

Pairing: Commander Fox/fem Reader

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Visually impaired reader masterlist

Word count: 4.1 K

Tags/warnings: Visually impaired reader, meet cute, grumpy x sunshine vibes, denial of feelings(Fox falls first, he falls hard, and he denies it every single step of the way because he’s Fox), guide dog cuteness, brief mention of ableism(this chapter is pretty tame, but in future installments, I intend to explore these elements more deeply, specifically as they pertain to service dog users. These topics aren’t always the most comfortable to discuss. But I feel they are important to bring awareness to)

Summary: Making the transition from your small, rural homeworld to Coruscant already promises to be tough. But when you’re employed to work at the Senate buildings directly under senator Organa and you’re also a guide dog user, things quickly become more complicated, in a variety of ways. Luckily, you seem to have caught the eye of a certain Marshal commander, who swears up and down that he’s not falling in love with you, but who, regardless, always has your back, and is always looking out for you.

A.k.a.

The three times Fox makes sure that you get home safely. Plus the one time he ends up following you inside

Authors note: Hii anon. I was so happy to hear from you and received this request. As a fellow guide dog user, I have so many different experiences that I feel are worth sharing, so that more people are aware of the trials we face because as amazing as it is that we have these incredible animals, it isn’t always just a nice walk in the park. Which leads me to my next point. Because of all of these experiences that I want to highlight, this 1shot quickly evolved into a four part series, to give it the proper breathing room that I feel it deserves. I hope that’s okay, and I hope you still like this one. If you’d like to message me privately so that I can make sure you’re tagged in each subsequent update, please do. I’d be happy to do that

The first time it happens, Fox is admittedly running on his default, which is to say in plain terms that he is annoyed.

“Why is this my problem?”

Fox winces upon hearing the barely concealed snarl in his own voice through his helmet speakers. He could have phrased that better. He should have at least taken the courtesy to add “with all due respect” when leading into that sentence, even if both he and the trooper who has the misfortune of being at the other end of the line are both fully aware that he doesn’t intend to sound respectful in the slightest.

There’s a pause, a hesitation on the other end of the coms, which causes Fox to silently berate himself for his initial sharp tone. He reminds himself, as he does about 500 times daily, that he needs to be more careful with it.

This warning, for some reason, always falls on deaf ears. But still, Fox wagers that he at least keeps trying, and who knows, maybe one of these days, it’ll actually stick. It probably won’t.

“It’s just that the issue is occurring at the entrance closest to your office, sir,” the trooper begins before rushing to add, “but if you’re busy, we can send—”

“Don’t bother,” Fox sighs. “I’m already on my way there.”

Maybe he shouldn’t be on such a high horse, but really, being sent to investigate a loitering complaint is far above what he, as a marshall commander, should be doing. Despite this though, he privately admits that he’s been looking for an excuse to stand up from his desk chair and stretch his legs. Maybe if he’s lucky, he'll manage to shake off the aching twinge in his left shoulder, hunched from filling out a last-minute stack of crime reports that he had been on the scene of, all from the previous night between the hours of 1 to 3 in the morning. So really, he rationalizes, can anyone blame him for being more than a little bit pissed off at the interruption?

Maybe it’s a sign that he needs a refill on his caf.

He rounds the corner and, with what is in hindsight probably more force than is necessary, smacks a hand against an access panel. The door slides open, and a cool breeze hits him as he steps outside into the open air.

His eyes scan through the visor of his helmet, and to his annoyance he doesn’t see the suspected loiterer that he had been warned of, at least not at first.

Sighing, he steps further out and past the awning above the entrance. Though the air is cool, the sun still shines, and the slight glow causes his eyes to catch on the gloss of your hair as you walk past, eyes nervous as they flick around. Sensing his presence, you pause, shoulders stiffening slightly as you turn to face him with trepidation. Fox also takes notice, his eyes widening in momentary surprise when he observes the guide dog harnessed at your left side, looking up at you with big brown eyes, as if silently trying to understand your sudden hesitance.

You, of course, have every reason to be suspicious of any unannounced or unidentified presence in your vicinity, especially now that you’re living on Coruscant. But, if you’re honest, you’re already on edge, and even though it’s still morning, the day has promised to be shit if the beginning of it is any indication.

Senator Organa isn’t in the habit of firing his junior staff for small mistakes like this, you remind yourself. Still, the thought, no matter how many times you’ve repeated it like a mantra at this point, doesn’t manage to calm your growing nerves, because regardless you’re still lost, and you’re still running late. You silently curse the pitfalls of being blind and using a ride-sharing service, and then you have to restrain yourself from cursing aloud when your eyes land on the silhouette parked a few meters in front of you.

You don’t have much vision. But with what you do have, it’s enough to deduce bright, contrasting colors. And the red splotches against white armor has you stopping dead in your tracks, because within the span of two seconds, a cold clarity settles within your stomach, because the red and white armor is distinctly and unmistakably that of a Coruscant Guard member, the visor of his helmet tilted, looking no doubt with suspicion directly at you.

Resisting the urge to bemoan the shortage of orientation and mobility droids designed to assist with transitions like this—which would have ensured that you would have been able to smoothly get yourself out of this situation in the first place—you bring your guide dog to heel before gesturing for her to sit, then slowly and hesitantly raise your eyes to the trooper, already feeling a mix of anxiety and guilt stirring in the pit of your stomach.

There’s a small sound from his helmet, a hesitation as he seems to clear his throat before speaking.

“Personal Senatorial aides aren’t permitted to use this entrance,” he says, gesturing to the badge on the lanyard that hangs around your neck.

He speaks as if this is a reminder that he’s given more than once, which you’re sure he has. Still, there’s an underlying sharpness to it that makes you jump despite your efforts not to react.

“I, I know,” you say, swallowing before rushing to continue. “I didn’t mean to be dropped off here, sir. I took a Speedershare to get here this morning, and I didn’t realize the driver dropped me off at this entrance until I got out, and by that point it was too late, and I should have asked to verify which one he was going to but—”

“Hey, easy. Slow down.”

The trooper steps closer to you, and it’s only then that you register that you’ve been rambling, your anxiety ratcheting up with each word. Now that you’re silent, you can feel the way your heart is pounding. You’ve seen the Guard around, of course, but you’ve never really interacted with any of them. He’s tall, you realize as he stands in front of you and you look up into the visor of his helmet. Tall and broad, and you were already nervous before he showed up.

But his hands are raised, in supplication or as an offering of peace, you’re not sure. But regardless, he doesn’t seem on the verge of scolding you further for your silly mistake, which is good, because your nerves are still so frayed from getting out of your ride only to realize that you had no idea where you were, and that apart from knowing that you were somewhere at the Senate building, you were effectively lost and alone. A scolding, delivered with just the right amount of displeasure, would probably be enough to make you start crying, which would make this day go from being the worst to certifiably irredeemable.

“Speedershare isn’t always the most reliable service. Your employer is Senator Organa,” he says, eyes once again scanning over your badge. “I’m sure he could arrange an alternate transportation service that is much more consistent and professional for you to use.”

“I don’t want his charity,” you say, and you can’t help the hard edge that creeps into your voice when you speak.

But really, you don’t. You know that he could, and knowing Senator Organa, he would be happy to do so. But it’s unnecessary. You grew up needing extra accommodations and things that, despite your teachers’ constant stream of reassurances, always made you feel singled out.

You’re an adult now, and you don’t want that. You don’t need his charity, his pity, or to be added to his ever-growing list of things to worry about at the beginning and end of each day—an item to be checked off.

As far as you’re concerned, the best thing you can do for the both of you is to keep this to yourself, and you’ll figure out how to manage sooner or later.

Fox takes a step back, able to recognize your quick deflection of his suggestion as a sign that he’s slightly overstepped, and he nods, glancing towards the door.

“Well,” he says, forcing his voice to sound lighter. “I suppose I could let you off the hook this once and let you use this entrance.”

“Thank you,” you say, before hesitantly adding, “I, I’m not familiar with the route to get to Senator Organa’s office from where we are. Would you, I mean, you don’t have to if you’re busy, but—”

“I’ll take you there,” he cuts you off, finality in his voice. “Do you, uh, need a guide or anything?”

Fox internally kicks himself for not knowing how to handle a situation like this, but you give your head a small shake, which allows him a moment of relief.

“The color on your armor is bright,” you respond, and for the first time in this interaction, you smile. He can’t help but admire the way it seems to transform you, your previous nerves and worry disappearing like the sun breaking through the clouds. It’s quite lovely, he observes, and then internally kicks himself just a bit harder as punishment for that traitorous thought.

Useless, he scolds. Unnecessary. But it’s already been thought, and he can’t take it back. He’s grateful for the helmet concealing his face, hiding the way his lips repeatedly twitch in an effort to turn upward as he hears you, your voice giving a soft, encouraging command, and the slight pitter patter of paws against pavement as your guide dog leads you to follow after him.

He firmly resolves not to speak unless necessary until he’s taken you to the senator's office.

This resolve lasts for less than two minutes before he feels the slight brush of a wet nose against his hand and hears a small sniffing sound at his hip. Turning his head, he finds your guide dog, who has stopped walking and is sniffing at a pouch around his waist, and you looking sheepish as you stand behind him.

“Mandalore, leave it,” you scold, your voice lower than he’s heard it and with a suddenly authoritative edge that has his eyes widening slightly. You’re so little, he thinks, and all you’ve ever been whilst interacting with him is timid and quiet like a mouse. Seeing that side of you, as if flipped on by a switch, well...he can’t help but be taken by slight surprise. You pull back the harness, giving it a slight shake and the dog, with obvious reluctance, backs off, abandoning its curiosity.

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, your cheeks heating with a blush. His hand twitches of its own accord, struck with an unexplained urge to reach out and touch, wondering if he would feel the warmth of your cheek beneath his gloved fingers.

Kriff, his internal monologue groans, disgusted. What the fuck is wrong with you today? He refocuses, looking down at you and shaking his head.

“Your dog’s name is Mandalore?” he asks, genuinely curious and unable to hide the amusement in his voice.

You laugh, nodding your head. “The one and only,” you grin. “Certain training schools do things differently. But the one we went to likes to name each litter by theme, and hers happened to be planets.”

You lower your voice, leaning in conspiratorially with a slight twinkle in your eye.

“You know, for a Mandalore, she doesn’t look very intimidating, does she?” you ask, and he’s surprised, startled even, to hear the snort of laughter that is pulled from him as he nods his head, looking down at the guide dog who’s unaffected, her professional mask barely concealed behind a tail that wags at him and big, pleading eyes that seem to pierce through his soul.

“No, she really doesn’t,” he agrees, and your grin widens.

“I’ve always joked that if a burglar broke into my house, she wouldn’t bark or growl or try to bite at them,” you say, still smiling as you continue to walk. “She would simply flop down on the ground at their feet and roll over to demand a belly rub.”

“Well…” he says, and faintly, in the back of his head, he registers that he’s

actually smiling. Huh, he thinks, taken slightly off-guard by the strange feeling. He can’t remember the last time that’s happened. It’s almost slightly disturbing. “If she’s not a fighter, she at least has some good distraction tactics.”

You laugh, your previous nerves surrounding getting lost and being late all but forgotten. It’s a nice sound, bright and lively, and Fox, the Maker help him, finds that he wants to hear it again.

“She probably smells the treats I keep in my pouch for Grizzer,” Fox explains, slightly rueful. He rolls his eyes and pretends to dislike it every time Hound brings the massiff to his office, citing that his panting is distracting, and that his drool gets everywhere, which is disgusting. Those things are both true. But Fox also can’t help but appreciate the warm weight of Grizzer’s head against his leg or the large, imploring eyes the massiff gives him when he knows that Fox has food.

“I figured it would be unprofessional of me to offer one to her,” he continues, and you nod your head, glancing down.

“It would, but...” you begin slowly, calculating as you clock the staircase you’re approaching and turning your head to look up at him as a slow smile pulls at the corners of your lips. “If you give it to me, I could give it to her by proxy if you want.”

He nods, unzipping the small pouch, guiding you to hold out your hand as he places several small treats on the palm of it, which already has the dog vibrating with eagerness. But you don’t give in right away.

“Forward,” you say, gesturing your head to the small set of stairs. The added incentive makes the dog quick on her feet, and you have to tell her to slow down as she rushes to comply, guiding you towards the stairs, barely able to contain the excited trot in her step. “Okay, Mandalore, show me where the railing is.”

The guide dog turns slightly, changing course to lead you towards the railing on the far right, placing her front paws up on the stairs and pausing, turning her head to look up at you for approval.

“Yes,” you beam, stroking a hand along her head. “You learn so fast. Good girl.”

Fox watches, a smile on his face as you hold out your hand with the treats, giving it a few taps against the railing before opening your palm, offering it to her. She eagerly gobbles them up without hesitation, her tail never ceasing its happy little wiggles, which makes Fox want to laugh.

“You know,” he says, stepping up beside you and beginning to mount the stairs. “On second thought, maybe she is a fighter. I mean, she looked like she was ready to take off your fingers along with the treats.”

“When it comes to food, she definitely is,” you say with a grin, following after him. “If only all burglars came covered in peanut butter or dog treats, I’d feel much safer about our odds.”

You both snicker, and the rest of the journey up to the senators’ offices passes in a relatively comfortable silence apart from Fox giving you a few quiet directions as you make your way through the halls. You never fail to turn your head and smile at him each time he warns you of a crowd of people incoming so you can maybe take a step to the side, or if you need to turn left or right at this next intersection.

He isn’t sure how to describe it, but his heart does something strange each time you do.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience...” you trail off, uncertain of the trooper’s name as you stand outside the doorway to Senator Organa’s office.

“Fox,” he responds, and he’s quickly struck by the strangeness of how he felt compelled to give you his chosen name first instead of his rank. That, he thinks, is definitely odd and out of the ordinary, but he recovers himself quickly. “Commander Fox,” he adds, and your cheeks rapidly heat with a blush.

“Oh, Force,” you groan, covering your cheeks with your hands and closing your eyes, mortified. “I’m sorry, Commander. I didn’t mean to inconvenience so much of your time.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, and the brush of gloved fingers against your arm is barely there, brief and gone in an instant, but it’s enough to startle you out of your embarrassment, your eyes widening as you look up at him. “It wasn’t an inconvenience,” he says, sounding so sincere that you lose any ability to respond to that, falling into a silence in which the both of you simply stand, contemplating each other.

Fox, for his part, is struck by the realization that, for once, he means every word he’s just said.

“Well,” you say, blinking as you try to shake yourself out of your stupor. “Regardless of the circumstances, it was lovely to meet you, Commander, and if we ever encounter each other again, you may want to introduce yourself by name if we speak. Every trooper shares the same voice, which makes it much harder for me to differentiate between you all, and I’d hate to mistake you for someone else and embarrass the both of us any further. At least, more than I probably already have.”

“Right,” he says, equally as slowly and strangely hesitant for this conversation to end but not knowing what else to add. “Understood.”

“I should go,” you say, feeling suddenly shy as you give him a small smile and turn to the door. “See you around, Commander,” you murmur, giving him a playful wink.

You step into the office, not waiting for his response. It takes him a full 30 seconds of just standing there out in the hall listening to the sound of dog paws tapping against the floor, growing distant as you move out of his listening range, to realize that you left him—completely and deliberately if the smirk that was pulling at the corners of your lips was any indication—with a blind joke.

He chokes, uncertain of if he’s allowed to laugh—of if it would be completely inappropriate for him to laugh. His cheeks heat with belated awkward embarrassment. He shakes his head, making a note as he forces his feet to move and forces himself to walk away, heading back in the direction of his office.

The next time he sees you—and he can’t help the strange and foreign hope that twinges in his chest at even the thought of seeing you again—he’ll have to ask you.

Until then, he thinks, giving himself a firm shake as he maneuvers himself through the halls of the Senate building. He resolves to keep you—the girl with the pretty smile, the hair that looks like it was made to run fingers through, and the infectious laugh that he still hears clear as a bell even now that you’re gone—far from his thoughts, ordering himself to stop acting like some sort of lovesick puppy and for kriff sake to just get back to work.

Fox, to his consternation, is unsuccessful.

The whole day, as he goes about his tasks—filling out reports, sending requisitions to the Senate, doing patrol—he can’t stop thinking about you.

Your smile as you tilted your head to look up at him, your warm, encouraging demeanor as you worked with your guide dog, the excitable pup looking up at you like you’re her whole galaxy, the way that he had been able to make you genuinely laugh...

Okay, maybe his bar for sharing friendly interactions with natborns was insanely low up to this point. But knowing that he had brought that out of you had felt strangely good, leaving a warm, unfamiliar feeling in his stomach that lingered every time he thought of it.

He’s so unsuccessful at keeping his mind off of you during the workday that it’s still early in the afternoon when he pulls up your file on the database, scrolls through your work schedule, and at the end of the day is standing outside of Senator Organa’s office waiting for your shift to end.

When he sees you come out, Mandalore, sensing his presence before you do, happily begins to waggle her tail, her footsteps quickening as she leads you out of the office. He calls out to you, and you turn, searching for the voice.

“It’s Fox,” he says, removing his helmet and tucking it beneath his arm. “From this morning.”

Is he imagining it, or do your eyes actually light up when you spot him?

“I just wanted to make sure that your ride picks you up without complication,” he continues. “Not that I don’t think you can do that on your own,” he rushes to add, his cheeks heating slightly. He’s already gotten the sense that you don’t like being underestimated, and he respects that. “I can make sure that you have detailed instructions in the app so that your driver knows exactly which entrance to collect you.”

“That would actually be super helpful!” you exclaim, and there’s no masking the relief in your voice as you pull out your comm, fiddling with it for a second before passing it to him. “I’ve been meaning to ask someone to update them, because I have a vague idea of what each entrance looks like and how to describe them, but honestly, I don’t think it’s enough to be helpful.”

He takes the device from you, and working quickly, types up detailed directions on how to get to the staff entrance along with a description of its surroundings. He pastes a copy into your notes for good measure so that you’re able to keep reusing it at your convenience. He explains all this to you as he passes it back, letting you know your ride is booked.

“You’re an angel, Fox,” you say in a relieved breath, beaming up at him. “Moving here has been so stressful as it is, and getting used to the transit options is just one more thing on top of that.”

You miss the way his cheeks go pink, but you do catch his quiet, breathy chuckle as he awkwardly avoids your gaze.

“Right, well,” he scratches at the back of his neck, looking down at the ground. “Your ride should be here soon. Want me to come with you and make sure it shows up?”

“I don’t want to hold you up if you have other things to do,” you say uncertainly, biting your lip.

The truth is, you so badly want to say yes. Waiting for a Speedershare on your own can be anxiety inducing. So many things can go wrong. Your driver might not be able to find you, and when they call and ask you for directions, you aren’t able to provide them with much help. They could drive past and cancel altogether once they realize you have a service dog. Or worse, they can turn it into a full out yelling confrontation. In all cases, you’ve learned, your anxiety is significantly lessened if someone else is with you, ready to back you up at a moment's notice.

It’s true, you’ve only met Fox today. But his presence is steady, safe, and you get the sense that he would stay without question and without hesitation. But you also don’t want to become his burden.

“You’re not,” he states, hooking his helmet to his belt. “And I’m not. Come on, let’s go find your ride.”

And that’s exactly what he does.

He leads you out towards the pick-up point, and when the speeder gets there, he verifies the plates, opens the door, and helps you inside, waiting patiently for your guide dog to tuck in her tail before beginning to let it close. Before it does though, before it drives away and you’re left wondering if and when you’ll ever see him again, he speaks, his voice low and carrying the softest, lightest undertone of teasing.

“See you around, mesh’la.”

It takes you a moment, but as you drive off, the echo of the words you had jokingly thrown over your shoulder at him just this morning flashes through your memory, and before you know it, you’re tipping your head back against the headrest of the seat, quietly laughing to yourself, uncaring of the driver giving you a funny look from the corner of his eye as he picks up speed, driving away from the Senate building.

You’re still smiling as the speeder rounds the corner, and the building, as well as Marshall Commander Fox, disappears from view.

If you like and enjoy this story, please consider dropping a reblog, as you might help someone else find something they enjoy just as much. Thank you :-) and thank you to @strangergraphics-archive for such cute puppy dividers

#commander fox x reader #commander fox x you #marshall commander fox #commander fox #cc 1010 #clone commander fox #star wars fanfiction #The clone wars fanfiction #star wars #tcw #fanfiction #sw the clone wars #the clone wars #clone wars #star wars the clone wars #tcw fox #Ireadwithmyears fics

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ladykailitha · 7 months ago

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A Love Connection Part 3

Hey, all! Welcome to first of two posts today.

I've really got to ask, are you guys seeing these posts? I dropped from 70-80 notes on a post at the beginning of the month to barely cracking 40-50 these days and then it slowly works up as more people see it, but it's taking weeks to get that when it used to take a day maybe two.

I did change my schedule but the people I'm tagging should be able to see them right? And the people that have me on notifications?

Also I've seen a sharp drop in people that used to comment and reblog all the time, from anywhere from not seeing them at all to them only liking a post.

I'm not trying to dog anyone, I'm just curious about the sudden change.

Any advice would be helpful.

This morning's chapter includes the cutest kitten (Sorry Nermal), a Robin apology, and Chrissy and Robin have a confession to make.

Part 1 Part 2

Steve pulled up to the apartment building and turned off his car. He put his head on the steering wheel with a heavy sigh. He was about to hit his head on the horn when he heard it. He lifted his head and tilted it.

There!

Steve scrambled to get out of the car. He rushed toward the sound. He skidded on the wet and icy pavement as he tried to come to a stop, nearly toppling over in the process. Near the dumpsters was a wet cardboard box, falling apart in the thick snow.

He scrambled toward it, trying to keep his feet under him. He knelt in the snow and peeled back as sagging corner of the box to reveal the sweetest thing he had ever seen. There, all alone in the destroyed box was a small cream colored kitten with dark brown ears. It looked up at Steve and mewled in the weakest, most plaintive meow imaginable.

He sank to his knees and with gentle hands scooped the wet creature into his arms. It clung to him as he stood shakily to his feet.

“Hey, little guy,” he murmured. “Don’t you know outside is no place to be at this time of year?”

It mewled again and clung a little harder to Steve’s coat. “There’s no place open for me to get you checked out, little one, but let’s get you inside and dried off at the very least, then I’ll see what I have that you can eat until I can get you some proper food. How does that sound?”

“Mew!”

Steve chuckled. “I figured you’d be down with that.”

He turned away from the now fully collapsed box, that once had read on the outside “KITTENS FREE TO GOOD HOME”

Before Steve even gotten the kitten dried and fed, he knew he was going to keep it. The poor little thing was as alone as he was feeling in that moment.

He looked up vet services and vowed to make a run to the pet store for supplies first thing in the morning.

He looked up everything he could; like how old the kitten was likely to be, what kind of nutrition the little thing needed, how to tell the sex of his new friend, what toys it would need, proper bedding.

He fell asleep reading how to tell how big a kitten was going to grow up to be, the kitten nestled under his chin.

Steve woke up to distressed mewling. He shot up when he realized it, no not it, he, was no longer on his chest. At first he couldn’t see him, but then he caught sight of the small little paw located near the distressed meows.

He peered over the sofa and burst out laughing. Somehow the kitten had gotten one of his claws caught in the afghan Joyce had given him his first year as a teacher. Something she did for all new teachers at her school regardless of their years being a teacher.

He reached over and gently untangled the little thing from the blanket. “There you go. What were you doing up there anyway?”

“Merrow!” he meowed.

Steve checked his watch and was pleased to note it was barely seven. Which meant he had plenty of time to get dressed, get the little tyke checked out and to stop by the pet store for supplies.

He set him down on the sofa and immediately the kitten tried to walk off the edge. “All all kittens this dumb or is it just you?”

“Meroh!” the kitten cried.

He laughed and scooped him up into his arms. He set the kitten in the middle of the bed so he could change his clothes. Steve laughed every time he had to stop what he was doing and rescue him from the edge, placing him in the center of the bed once again.

Finally he was ready to go. He placed the kitten in his coat to keep it from getting stuck under the car seat and for Steve’s own piece of mind.

He drove to the nearest vet and hoped it wouldn’t cost him an arm and a leg to get the little guy checked out.

The vet was quick and painless. On his wallet too. The nice lady at the desk got him set up with a vaccination schedule and the adoption papers.

“All right,” she said warmly, “all he needs is a name.”

Steve chewed on his lip for a moment before he wrote in big capital letters “ODIE”.

She raised her eyebrow but before she could comment the vet’s assistant came out with the little rascal. “That has got be the stupidest or the most fearless kitten I’ve ever met.”

The desk lady looked back at the vet’s assistant and then back at Steve who was trying very hard to hide his smile and failing miserably.

She sighed and helped put the kitten in a cardboard carrier. “There you go, Odie is all set.”

The vet’s assistant burst out laughing. “I like it.”

Steve was about to ask for her number when he noticed a ring on her left hand. Damn.

Oh well, he couldn’t win them all. He thanked them both and took his new friend out to his car.

“Come on, Odie,” he murmured, buckling the carrier into the passenger seat, “lets go get you everything you’ll need.”

Steve had just gotten into the car when his cell phone pinged. He opened it to reveal a text from Robin telling him to call her.

He dialed her number. “Hey, Bobbin.”

“So, um...my girlfriend is mad at me for ditching you,” she began nervously, “and making you watch the AV club when last night was supposed to be about hanging out with you before we left.”

Steve sighed. Which meant that Robin had lied to Chrissy about him joining them later and she only found out this morning that was never the plan. “How much hot water are you in?”

“A lot,” Robin admitted. “Like if this trip hadn’t been planned for months, I wouldn’t be going kind of hot water.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand and sighed. “Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Is she doing the thing with her bottom lip and watery eyes?”

“Yes!” she wailed. “Now I feel horrible!”

“About upsetting your girlfriend or for ditching me?” he asked because he felt it was a very important distinction she needed to make.

“Shit!” she hissed. “Of course I feel horrible about leaving you with seven little demons. I know I wasn’t last night when you were messaging me, but I filled with booze. When I got home I was filled with regret. I’m the one that told her about ditching you, she didn’t find out any other way. I promise. You know how get with pretty ladies. Chrissy had showed me what she planned to wear out last night, yesterday morning and that the only thought in my head all day. And when you kept messaging me, and Chrissy kept asking me when you were coming out, I just dug a hole for myself and just kept digging. I’m really sorry.”

She paused for a moment. “I probably should have led with that instead of the upset girlfriend, huh?”

Steve clicked his tongue. “Yeah, probably. So when are you two leaving?”

“In a few minutes,” she murmured. “We have everything packed up and ready to go, we just need to get to the airport and get checked in.”

“Are you sure you two don’t want me to take you?” Steve asked. “I could be there in five minutes. That way you don’t have to take an Uber or pay for long term parking.”

Suddenly there was BEEP, BEEP!

“Looks like our ride is here,” Robin said. “Chrissy got one of her friends to take us because they live closer. But you better pick us up, okay? I’ll miss your stupid face.”

“Your face is stupider,” Steve teased back. “You two ladies have a great trip and I’ll see you in a week.”

Robin sighed dramatically. “Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“I can’t,” Steve said, “you’re taking all the stupid with you.”

“Hey!” she protested as he hung up on her. He chuckled at the immediate message he got after the call disconnected.

He looked over at the new cat carrier he bought. It was much bigger than Odie currently needed but Steve wanted to give him room to grow into. The kitten was currently asleep in it. Having passed out while Steve was shopping. This is didn’t count as doing something stupid while she was gone, he reasoned, because she was still here.

Once Steve got home, he setup the cat bed in the living room, the food and water dishes in the kitchen and the litterbox in the bathroom. He would need to be trained to use the litterbox, but the nice ladies at the vet said it was fairly easy because it was pretty much their instinct to want to bury their wastes.

Steve just had to be consistent. Which was perfect because he had the next two weeks off.

He put the pet toys in his room and settled Odie in. He had been fed and shown the litterbox where he promptly did his business. Steve turned on the latest season of “A Love Connection” and Odie immediately curled up on Steve’s chest right under his chin.

Yeah, this was going to work out just fine.

Over the next week Steve and Odie got used to each other and Steve learned that Odie was more fearless than stupid. He wouldn’t go anywhere he might actually get hurt, once he knew where the limits were. But he was always testing those limits.

Steve knew that he would probably have to find a bigger place once Odie had grown up because of all the jumping the little thing tried to do.

The kitten was aptly named in one sense though, he followed Steve around like a dog. Always at Steve’s heels.

He wasn’t sure how many times he almost stepped on Odie, but it was a lot. But he had good reflexes and he sure put them to the test.

A week later, Chrissy and Robin showed up at the apartment with a six pack of his favorite beer, a large bag of gummy worms, and of course his Christmas presents. But it was the guilty expressions that really sold it.

“So um...” Robin began looking at Chrissy for help. “In early November, ‘Love Connection’ posted online for a casting call for their all queer season of their show. I think it’s a little rude that it’ll be for the thirteenth season, but–”

Chrissy put her hand on Robin’s arm. “What Robin is trying to say is that we sent in your application as a joke. We didn’t think that they would pick it. It was one in a couple million shot, you know? Anyway, I think they must have recognized my email as the one attached to my Twitter account and well...”

Steve put his face in his hands. “You didn’t...come on, guys. I don’t want to go on a game show to find love. I’m not that desperate yet.”

“We brought you gummy bears and beer!” Robin said hold up her prizes like that would help the matter. At all.

Steve was ready to open his mouth to shut this down when he got the best idea. “I’ll do the show on one condition,” he said with a blinding smile.

Chrissy and Robin shared a shocked glance. They didn’t think he would agree so easily.

“Yeah, okay,” Chrissy said warily, not sure where this was going.

Steve dashed into the bedroom and came back holding the kitten Lion King style. “I get to keep Odie!”

Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Tag List: FIVE SLOTS LEFT

1-@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 @a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @cryptid-system

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @justforthedead89 @irregular-child @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji

5- @anne-bennett-cosplayer @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @lingeringmirth

8- @gutterflower77 @a-lovely-craziness @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss

9- @dreamercec @wheneverfeasible @themoonagainstmers @garden-of-gay @little-birch-boy

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailtiha writes #game show au #buckingham #everyone is gay #not billy hargrove friendly #tommy hagan

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bittertincture · 29 days ago

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Turn My Eyes | Chapter Three | Burnt Offerings | Priest!Joel

The Rating: Explicit (18+)

The Story: You return home with nothing but the remnants of a life you barely recognize. Your childhood home with its creaking floors and oppressive memories welcomes you like a ghost that never left. The divorce papers are signed, your name scrawled across the wreckage of vows once spoken in blind hope. You tell yourself that this is a new beginning. A quiet one. A safe one. Then, you meet Father Joel Miller.

The Chapter Summary: At the potluck, you meet Father Joel Miller, a seemingly calm and charismatic figure who exudes an unsettling air of sincerity that feels more like a mask than a virtue. Despite the sunlit beauty of the day and the simplicity of the gathering, the ghosts of your past begin to stir beneath the surface, leaving you with an unease you can’t shake, especially under Father Joel’s watchful gaze.

The Tags: I would like to withhold some tags for the sake of the story. But I will tell you that this story will deal with the following: Religion (which may be offensive to some readers), Religious Imagery, Religious Trauma, Violence, Explicit and Consenting Sexual Acts between Adults, Forbidden Relationship, Power Exchange, Mentions of Death, Angst. There is much more but those are the pertinent ones.

The MC: The female character of “You” is able bodied with hair long enough to be grabbed. She is English speaking and while I wrote her from a white, former Catholic woman’s perspective, I hope the language I use is inclusive enough that many walks of life you can imagine themselves as her.

The Author’s Notes: This is my first time venturing into this sort of fan fiction and it’s both exciting and a little nerve wracking as I write this summary. This story isn’t meant to offend or challenge anyone’s beliefs, it’s simply me working through my own experiences with faith, guilt, and desire. Writing has always been a way for me to process complicated emotions and this piece is no exception. If you choose to read I appreciate you taking this journey with me.

The Credits: The Line Dividers are by @saradika-graphics The Story Image is made by myself. If you would like to use it please give proper credit.

I hate, I despise your feast days, And I do not savor your sacred assemblies. Though you offer Me burnt offerings and your grain offerings, I will not accept them - Amos 5:21

The heavy oak doors groan as you shove them open, the sunlight hitting you like an accusation. It’s a perfect golden afternoon with the kind of warmth that should feel like a blessing. But to you, it’s anything but. It feels stifling with rays that cause sweat to pool at your spine, causing your dress to cling uncomfortably there.

The scent of freshly cut grass and grilled meat drifts through the air mingling with the cloying floral perfumes of those church ladies from before clustered near the gate. You tug at the collar of your shirt, already itching to be free of the whole ordeal.

Your Nana stands next to you blinking into the sunlight before turning to you with a look of what you read as relief.

“See that wasn’t so bad. And now we get to enjoy a delicious lunch,” she says her voice thick with a kind of hope that made your stomach turn. As if a Sunday service and a plate of potato salad could fix you. As if anything could.

“Maybe you’ll come again with me next week.”

Fat chance of that happening.

You step onto the lawn and away from her comment, watching the congregation spill out in clusters, easy smiles and warm greetings exchanged like currency. The name on everyone’s lips? Joel.

Father Joel Miller. The Priest.

The room had swayed with him earlier, nodding at his words, drinking them in like parched ground soaking up rain. But you? You had scoffed. Out loud. The sound had been small, almost swallowed by the creak of wooden pews and shifting bodies, but he had heard.

And now, as you follow your Nana through the throngs of people with their paper plates and sickly sweet lemonade you can’t help but wonder if he was offended. You had seen the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the subtle tilt of his head as he registered the resistance. You don’t think you recall irritation but you’ve never been able to read men all that well.

After making your way toward the long tables you follow your Nana to the large field behind the church. You settle onto a rickety folding chair, your plate balanced on your lap, the food in front of you more of a prop than anything you actually intend to eat. The smell of charred meat and sugary barbecue sauce is thick in the air, but it does nothing to stir your appetite.

Nana is a staple here at the church, sweet as pie and as immovable as stone. The kind of woman everyone craves to have in their corner. She’s immediately swept up into conversation with the nearby couple; the woman’s abdomen swollen. You look away.

You don’t know if its intentional, but your gaze drifts through the parting crowd until it lands on the tall figure at the drinks table.

Father Joel’s posture composed but subtly tense, like a man accustomed to maneuvering through delicate situations. And right now, that situation is a trio of young women hanging onto his every word, their eyes bright with the kind of admiration that isn’t exactly spiritual.

You recognize the dynamic immediately. It’s not that he encourages it; if anything, he looks politely trapped, offering warm yet noncommittal smiles with his hands loosely clasped in front of him like a man prepared to deflect. But they linger, eager, giggling at things that aren’t jokes, shifting closer as if proximity might spark something in him that he has no intention of igniting.

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. It’s almost funny, in a secondhand embarrassment kind of way. He’s good-looking in that effortless, unassuming way that makes people project things onto him. Safe, steady, soft-spoken; someone who listens. That alone is enough to make people fall a little in love. But you can tell it rolls off him like rain off a roof.

And then he feels your eyes.

His gaze snaps up, brows rising ever so slightly when he finds you watching. For a brief second, something flickers across his face. Is it curiosity? Recognition? Amusement? You can’t quite tell. But he doesn’t look away.

Neither do you.

You lift your plastic glass of lemonade to your lips, taking a slow sip, letting the moment stretch just enough to make it feel intentional. Then with a tiny flick of your eyes to your plate you glance away first, dismissing him entirely.

“How nice to see a new face.”

The shift in energy is unmistakable accompanied by the faintest whiff of floral perfume. You don’t have to look up to know she’s the type who thrives in places like this, where schedules need organizing, volunteers need wrangling and power is exercised through a well-placed smile rather than direct orders.

“Hello there,” she says, her voice all honey and magnolia, dripping with a hospitality so refined it loops right back around to feeling hostile.

You finally glance up, keeping your expression neutral. She’s exactly as you expected; immaculately put together, with a carefully curated warmth that doesn't quite reach her hazel eyes.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” She smiles, but you catch the slight tightening around her mouth. “I’m Margaret. I help organize things around here.”

Ah. The Margaret. The one Nana talks about with thinly veiled irritation.

Every church has one; The silent force that keeps everything running, the gatekeeper, the unspoken authority just beneath the preacher himself. You wonder if she’s the one who strong-arms people into the choir, into baking for fundraisers, into showing up when they’d rather be anywhere else.

“Pleased to meet you,” you say, which isn’t exactly true, but not exactly a lie either. The two of you shake hands but it feels like the drawing of swords.

“I saw you at the service.” Her smile sharpens, just a fraction.

The words hang there, deceptively light, but you hear the real meaning underneath. I heard you. I saw you scoff. I know exactly what kind of person you are.

You match her smile, equally thin. “Did you? Guess I must’ve made an impression.”

Her lashes flutter, the only outward sign that she wasn’t expecting you to be so direct. “Father Joel’s sermons are usually quite moving,” she says, with the precision of someone laying down a gauntlet. “Most people find them comforting.”

You lean back in your chair, feigning thoughtfulness. “Huh. Guess I’m not most people.”

Something flickers behind her eyes, but she recovers quickly, smoothing her features into an expression of practiced concern. “Change can be difficult,” she offers, as if that explains you, as if that excuses you. “Moving back home, starting over… I imagine it’s been an adjustment.”

There it is. The reminder that you are a guest here. That she knows exactly why you’re back, why you’ve washed up in this tiny world she presides over.

You take another slow sip of your lemonade, letting the sour taste burn the back of your throat.

“Yeah,” you say, voice casual. “But I’m getting the hang of things.”

Her eyes narrow just the slightest bit before she straightens, smoothing down the front of her blouse like she’s already dismissed you. “Well,” she says, tone clipped but still laced with that razor-thin politeness, “if you ever decide to really get involved, let me know. We’re always looking for extra hands.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer before she turns and strides off, her presence lingering like the too-sweet scent of her perfume.

You watch her go, suppressing the urge to laugh. Margaret doesn’t waste time. The moment she leaves your table, she makes a beeline straight for Joel, her stride full of purpose, her spine ramrod straight. You don’t need to hear the conversation to know exactly what’s being said. Her lips move with clipped precision, her expression carefully measured, but there’s a tension in the way she gestures, a slight tilt of her head in your direction that makes it obvious.

Joel listens, nodding occasionally, his face unreadable. And then, just as you expect, his gaze flickers back to you. Not in a predatory way, not in a way that gives you an easy excuse to hate him on sight. No, his gaze is something worse, it’s patient and curious. The kind of look that suggests he’s willing to wait you out. You grimace at the sight of it before turning back to your Nana.

“I think there’s some pie bein’ served,” she says with a tired smile, her cane propped against her seat. “Do you mind, sweetheart?”

“Of course not.”

You push up from your seat, feigning nonchalance, making your way toward the dessert table as if you can’t still feel Margaret’s glare brushing against your back. The spread is what you’d expect from such an event; plates of cookies wrapped in plastic, fruit salads that no one will touch, and pies lined up in perfect formation.

You let your fingers hover over a slice of pecan pie, already imagining the sticky sweetness on your tongue, when a low, impossible to ignore voice breaks through the din of the gathering.

“You’re new,” he says, his voice as calm as it was at the pulpit. It isn’t a question. You didn’t realize before but he’s not dressed in his cassock anymore. He’s got on jeans and a charcoal sweater. Formal and a bit stuffy for such a bright day.

He holds a paper plate with two cookies and a slice of cake on it. You watch moving his hand towards a cupcake with the unhurried grace of someone who knows they belong here. He has a sweet tooth. Something about that makes you smirk to yourself.

His eyes haven’t left your face and now you meet them, curious to note they don’t appear accusing or even wary, just curious. Like he’s trying to decide what, exactly, to make of you.

You balk under the scrutiny, turning away and fixing your eyes on the pie as if it holds the secret to escape. “Moved back,” you say, keeping it short.

“I saw you in service,” he continues, tone gentle but probing. “I noticed you didn’t seem too impressed.”

You let out a humorless breath of laughter in response.

He doesn’t waver. “I’d like to know why if that’s alright.”

You finally look at him then, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are kind, but not naïve. He’s met people like you before, you can tell. He thinks he knows what this is; pain wrapped in cynicism, a wounded thing lashing out. But he doesn’t know you. Not really.

There’s something about Joel’s unwavering calm that grates on you, like he’s too measured, too patient, like nothing ever truly rattles him. It doesn’t feel natural; it feels like a performance, a well-rehearsed mask of kindness that makes you wonder what’s really underneath.

Your past has shown you how men who wear that mask of serenity can hide monstrous things beneath, and the thought of him pretending to be something he’s not fills you with a quiet, deep revulsion. The kind of feeling that makes you skin itch and your mouth twist.

You turn to Joel with the kind of look that makes it clear you aren’t interested in a drawn-out conversation. “Enjoy the rest of the potluck, Father,” you say, grabbing the pecan pie you came for.

You don’t wait for his reply before you pivot, making your way back toward Nana, ignoring the way his gaze lingers like an itch between your shoulder blades.

Nana is exactly where you left her, sitting with the same practiced poise she’s had your whole life, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “There you are,” she says with quiet authority, like she hadn’t been keeping tabs on you the whole time. “Come meet the Bennett’s.”

You barely have time to set down the pie before she’s gesturing to the woman beside her. She’s small, with pale eyes and an air of nervous energy, like she’s used to shrinking into the background. “This is Evelyn,” Nana says. “Her husband just went to get dessert.”

Evelyn gives you a quick, polite smile, but recognition flickers across her face. You know it before she even speaks, before she leans in slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“I think I’ve seen your picture before,” she says hesitantly. “On a book jacket.”

Your stomach drops.

For a second, you freeze, barely holding back the instinct to glance around, to check if anyone else heard. The last thing you need is Margaret, or worse, Nana, picking up on this. You force a tight-lipped smile, keeping your voice light.

“Oh?” you say, as if you don’t already know exactly which book she’s talking about.

“You’re famous,” she adds in a voice tinged with awe.

You're not famous, not by a long shot, and you haven't written anything new in years. You live off residuals, monthly reminders of the talent you used to have.

Your books are popular pabulum sold to overburdened housewives, horny single women (and some men) who want to escape their mediocre romantic lives in favor of a man so perfect he could only exist on paper.

You write romance books with steamy scenes packaged as the next big voice in erotica. Filth as far as your critics goes, but a decent paycheck as far as you're concerned. Your nana pretends that part of your life is dead and buried when really its just on life support.

"I don't know about famous," you say with practiced humility. “I haven’t written much in the last decade or so.”

Evelyn nods, her cheeks pinking slightly, as if she’s embarrassed for even bringing it up. “I--I used to read a lot,” she adds quickly, like she’s trying to make the moment pass as painlessly as possible. “Before I met my husband.”

You clear your throat, shifting the plate of pie in your hands. “Well,” you say, willing your voice to stay even, “I hope you enjoyed it.”

She nods, but you can already see her regretting the comment, the way she suddenly finds great interest in the napkin she’s twisting in her lap. You don’t blame her. It’s one thing to recognize someone from a bestselling novel. Another thing entirely when that novel involved explicit scenes and a pen name you’d rather not have to explain to the congregation.

Evelyn’s smile is warm, but there’s something guarded in her eyes, a quiet understanding that she won’t be spilling your secret. You find gratitude buried deep within yourself. You push forward, pretending the exchange never happened. “So,” you say, voice deliberately casual, “when are you due?”

She reminds you of a mouse, large front teeth and from this angle her eyes seem wide.

“I’m expecting twins,” she says, the words spilling out with a mix of excitement and apprehension. You nod, offering the kind of polite, detached congratulations that feels practiced. Inside, though, you recoil. Children- twins, no less - terrify and confuse you. The thought of of the chaos and responsibility makes your stomach churn but you smile and nod, pretending to care.

Nana, sensing the lull in conversation, announces she’s tired and in need of a good nap after all that food, a small, quiet excuse for escape. You help her to her feet, the weight of her small frame familiar under your hand, and prepare to walk home.

As you make your way to the gate, you spot Joel lingering nearby nursing a cup of lemonade. Your Nana makes a tutting noise to herself before she calls him over with a wobbly wave and he comes quickly, his lean legs carrying him over the grass.

“Father that was such a perfect sermon,” she gushes, one hand in yours, the other grasping Joel’s as he comes to stand opposite the both of you. “It was exactly what I needed to hear this week.”

“It’s good to know I got through to some people,” he says with a brief look your way and you easily parse his meaning. “Thank you for the kind words.”

The light breeze tousles his hair, making his forty plus years seem charming and boyish when he smiles. You watch as his large palm comes to land on the top of her papery hand, sandwiching her gnarled grip between his. You muse that you were right; there are the faint crosshatch of scars on his knuckles.

“Did you both enjoy the potluck?" he asks with genuine, if misplaced, interest.

You can only offer offer a stiff nod, your heart already pulling you away from him and the suffocating atmosphere of the church.

Nana rambles on beside you, recounting the highlights of the potluck with all the enthusiasm of someone who’s lived for these little gatherings. She goes on about the desserts, the conversations, the way the church looked so "lovely" under the afternoon sun, her voice trailing in that rhythm you’ve learned to tune out over the years.

Joel nods patiently, smiling sweetly at all the right parts but his eyes keep drifting back to you, like an itch he can’t scratch. You can feel the way his gaze traces the curve of your shoulders, the tilt of your chin, the way your hands move.

It’s not the usual kind of stare, this kind appears to see through the surface and it stirs something in you that you’d rather ignore. His calm, easy smile only sharpens the effect, like he’s not just looking at you but assessing something deeper, and it makes you feel both exposed and rebellious at the same time.

"Well, Father Joel, it’s been a lovely day," your Nana finally says, her tone sweetened with politeness, but you can tell she’s tired. "We’ll be headin’ out now."

Joel’s face tightens for a moment, just barely, like he’s trying to hide something before he decides on another warm smile, accompanied by a nod.

“Take care.”

You feel Joel's eyes follow you as you both walk away, the weight of his gaze digging into your back like a physical touch. You stiffen, feeling that strange pull in your chest again, the one you wish you could shake. As you reach the sidewalk, Joel calls out to you both, his voice warm, almost rehearsed.

“I hope to see you both at service next week.”

You continue down the pavement wordlessly. You don’t have to see his face to know he’s still watching as you turn the corner.

Chapter four coming soon

#Turn My Eyes #Fanfiction #Fanfic #Joel Miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel tlou #the last of us hbo #joel miller tlou #tlou fanfiction #priest joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x oc #joel miller x original character #Joel Miller x Reader #Priest Joel Miller #Father Joel #joel miller smut #joel x reader

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viking-raider · 1 year ago

Text

Thankful

Summary: For Thanksgiving, you decide to take part of a military support group event and host a Veteran, having them over for dinner. Forming a lasting bond with a certain Captain.

Pairing: Henry Cavill/Reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warning: G - Cotton Candy Goodness, Angst, Mention of Loss of Family Member, Mourning, Cold Mother, Embarrassed!Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Alcohol Use, Fluff, Friendly Bets, Southern Charm

Inspiration: It’s for Thanksgiving. 🍗

Author’s Note: I hope you enjoy this! Line divider by @FIREFLY-GRAPHICS! My Syverson's first name is Austin.

If you would like to get notifications for my writing! Just follow my Tag List blog, @VIKING-RAIDER-TAGLISTand turn on the notifications for it! It’s that easy! @VIKING-RAIDER-LIBRARY

You had received the message from one of the countless Military support groups you were a part of about the Sponsoring a Veteran for Thanksgiving event, and if you were interested in participating. You had hesitated for a couple days, before finally caving. You didn't have much family left of your own, just your mother. Since your father passed, when you were a kid and your only sibling, a brother, had been killed in the line of duty. Which was why you were a member of the support groups, looking to keep a closeness to him, and find some sort of peace with his death.

“All right.” The lead organizer, retired Lieutenant Sarah Timmans, sighed, looking over her clipboard at the list of names of all the Veterans that had been signed up for the event. “Your mother knows you're hosting a Vet, right?” She asked, cocking a brow at you, knowing how sensitive and touchy your mother was still about being around anything directly Military.

“I told her, I was bringing a friend over.” You answered, biting your lip nervously, knowing your mother's own mood swings on the subject.

“Girl, she's going to flip out on you.” Sarah said, shaking her head, eyes bulging. “Maybe, you should just do something one-on-one with them?” She suggested, trying to bypass a disaster.

“She's expecting us, and I'll get an earful, if I skip another family gathering.”

Sarah snorted at you, smirking. “It's your KP!” She teased, going down the list to find your name and who you'd been assigned. “So, your Vet is Captain Austin Syverson. He just retired seven months ago after nineteen years in the service of the U.S Army. Special Forces.” She informed you, looking up from the clipboard to scan the crowded room for a moment.

“Ah, there he is!” She smiled, motioning behind you.

Turning around and following her gaze, you were surprised for a moment, standing on the other side of the room, in a small cluster of other Vets, was a tall, thickly muscular guy, with a shaved head and well groomed beard. Everything about him exuded authority, self-confidence and calm. He was so damn handsome in his pair of dark wash blue jeans, brown cowboy boots and fleshly ironed, black dress shirt that was tucked in, showing off his belt buckle. Your insides tingled as you stared at him, throat going dry.

“Damn, that's a Texas boy.” You mumbled under your breath.

“Sure is.” Sarah agreed, checking him out as well. “You should go introduce yourself, before he thinks you stood him up.” She added, a hint of encouragement in her voice.

“God, you're right.” You started, frightened he just might, then weaved through the crowd towards him, pausing for a moment, until he noticed you. “Hi there.” You beamed up at him, your knees like a nervous jelly.

“Ma'am.” Syverson greeted you back with a Southern drawl, tipping his head forward.

“I'm your host, Captain Syverson.” You informed him, introducing yourself.

“Oh.” He replied, giving you a proper look over, a smile pulling over his lips as he took your lovely figure in the white, knee-length dress covered in delicate yellow flowers, paired with black flats. “It's a pleasure to meet you.” He said, his bright blue eyes meeting yours once more. “You can just call me, Sy.”

“Nice to meet you as well, Sy.” You answered, cordially extending your hand.

Smirking broader, Sy gently took your hand in his, shaking it. “I'm grateful that you've allowed me impose myself on you and your family's holiday.”

“Oh, it's quite all right.” You waved it off, shrugging your shoulders. “It's really just me and my mom, so nothing major.”

“Well, I'm just a Captain, so it'll literally be nothing Major.” Sy quipped, making the group around him crackle at the inside joke.

You dropped your head, hiding your amused smile, knowing the two of you were more than likely to get along, if he had that sense of humor. “Fair.” You nodded, lifting your head. “More than fair. Well, we can leave whenever you like.”

Sy turned over his wrist to glance at his watch. “We can go now, if you like.” He replied, twisting to a chair that was behind him and picking up a black, denim Sherpa coat off the back. “I'll see you boys later. Have a good Thanksgiving.” He bid the men, patting a couple on the shoulder, before following you out of the building.

“You can follow me to my place or we can ride together.” You told Sy, standing on the sidewalk with him, chewing on your lip.

“I can follow.” Sy answered, smiling down at you. “My truck's just over there.” He said, motioning over to the big, 2021 Dodge Ram, parked a short distance away.

“Okay. I'm just right there.” You informed him, pointing out your little KIA Niro.

“On your lead then, Major.” Sy quipped, winking at you, before heading off towards his truck.

“Christ,” You huffed, watching after him for a moment, your hand moving up to a necklace around your neck. “He reminds me so much of you, Phelan.” You sighed, then made for your vehicle.

Pulling out of the parking space, your phone started to ring, so you connected the car's Bluetooth. “Mother.” You answered, glancing in your rear-view, to make sure Sy was behind you, before you started out of the parking lot and into the street.

“How much longer are you going to be?” Your mother snapped through the car's speakers.

“I'm just leaving now, mom.” You sighed, pressing your lips together. “I had to find my friend and now we're heading there now. We should be there in about ten or so minutes.”

“Why is he spending Thanksgiving with us? Doesn't he have his own family?” She demanded, clearly pacing the house.

“I'm sure he has a family, mother. But I invited him over to ours and he accepted. So, please, be nice to him. He's a very polite and outstanding person, who doesn't need to be pestered and guilt tripped, or reminded his mother is lucky, that her son is still alive and not in the military and so on.” You hoped to warn and deter her from her usual interaction with the males she came into contact with. “Let's just have a nice dinner, for once.”

“How can we, when your brother isn't here.” She growled, then the line went dead.

“At least, I'm here.” You sighed, deflated by her words. “I should really warn Sy before we get into the house.” You thought, then pushed that unpleasantness aside.

Sy managed to keep behind your car, drumming his thumbs on the steering wheel. He felt a little nervous about going to a random, pretty young lady's home to have Thanksgiving dinner with her mother. However, he didn't have any other plans for the holiday under his belt, other than staying on the ranch he'd started up on his return home with Aika.

“Idle hands are the devil's workshop.” He commented aloud, following you off the on-ramp.

It would have just been him and his pup, working the horses all day, before making another ten minute meal and sitting in front of his laptop, since he still hadn't gotten around to buying himself a proper tv for the living room. So, he let one of his buddies nag him into signing up for the event. Sy wasn't at all disappointed either.

You were more than easy on his eyes.

Finally making it outside your place, you got out and met Sy in your driveway, shifting glances between him and the front door.

“Are you all right?” Sy asked, squinting down at you.

“Okay, look.” You blurted out, not looking back at him. “My mom is super touchy about the military.” You started to explain to Sy, giving him an embarrassed glance.

“Why?” He frowned, confused.

Your shoulders slumped slightly and a tired expression washed over your face. “My brother died in Afghanistan six years ago. My mom has taken that to her heart and soul. So anything military tends to set her off.”

“Then, should I even be here?” Sy asked, concerned about causing your mother any distress.

“It's my house and you're my guest.” You told him, bluntly. “I want you here for dinner. It'll be nice to have someone over that might actually engage with me.” You said, heading up the footpath towards the front door. “And not remind me that I'm not my dead, older brother.” You added under your breath, but Sy's sharp ear heard you all the same.

“Mom!” You called out, toeing off your shoes as you stood in the entry with Sy. “We're here.”

“Took long enough.” Her voice echoed back somewhere in the house.

You looked up at Sy. “I'm so sorry.” You mouthed, shaking your head.

“It's all right.” He smiled, his hand touching the back of your arm.

“Do you want something to drink?” You asked, showing him into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge. “Got wine, a couple bottles.” You twisted your upper half to peek at an upper shelf. “Looks like she's left my Ardbeg whiskey alone.”

“I wouldn't mind a little whiskey.”

Nodding, you shut the fridge and got down two glasses with the whiskey bottle. “Straight or on the rocks?”

“What are you having?” Sy asked, leaning back against your sink, a twinkle of mischievous curiosity in his eyes.

“The rocks.” You answered, a playful smirk tugging on your lips.

Sy drew a breath in through his nose, pressing his lips together as he nodded. “Impressed.”

“Thank you.” You chuckled, grabbing a couple ice cubes from the freezer and dropped them into your glasses, then poured you and Sy a generous amount of amber liquid. “Here you go.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” Sy tipped his head, taking the glass from you and took a sip. “Damn, that's smooth.”

“Mmm, for a twenty year old bottle, it should be.” You snorted, taking a gulp of yours.

“Twenty years.” Sy choked slightly. “Damn, almost as long as I was in--” He caught himself, eyes shooting to the two kitchen entrances. “Well, you know.”

“Yeah.” You nodded, a little stiff, praying your mother was lurking nearby, and polished off your drink, before moving over to the oven, revealing a nice sized turkey, just starting to turn a golden brown, filling the kitchen with a mouth-watering scent. “I started this about an hour and a half ago, so it should have about another hour or so to go. While it does that, I can show you around.”

“And, if you're as much of a Texan as I think you are, I'll pop the football game on.”

“You don't have to put the game on.” Sy laughed, feeling called out. “We can watch whatever you and your mother want. I'd hate to impose.”

“Captain Austin Syverson, you're not imposing.” You informed him, putting your foot down.

Sy's eyes widened and he gave you a half smirk. “I do love a woman that takes charge. Yes, ma'am, if you say so.”

“Besides, I'd love to see the Chiefs kick the Cowboys ass.” You added, teasingly.

“Oh, you're a traitor to your home state!” Sy gasped, horror on his face.

“Texas isn't my home state.” You giggled at him, then tisked. “Kansas isn't either, to be far.” You snorted, amused by the banter. “But I like Mahomes.”

“What's wrong with Dak Prescott?”

“Nothing! He's a great QB. I'm just a Chiefs girl.”

“I may have to call this Thanksgiving off.” Sy said, draining his whiskey glass and set it on the counter behind him and pushed off the edge. “To eat at the same table as a Chiefs girl, may just be too much for this ol' Texas boy.”

You were worried for a moment that Sy was genuine, and felt terrible for bringing it up, until you finally noticed the look in his eye and relaxed. He had a dry humor and pulled it out on you, catching you good.

“Shoot, you had me there.” You chuckled, breathy.

He winked at you, amusing you more with his cute double blink.

“Well,” You sighed, looking at the kitchen. “This is the kitchen.”

“A very nice kitchen.” Sy echoed, nodding and rubbing a hand over the counter top. “Nice and clean.”

“Thank you, I do my best.” You replied, bowing your head. “Out that way is the dining room, where we'll be having dinner.” You said, motioning to your right, and Sy peeked in, finding a long, glass table already set for three people with nice little autumn decorations as a centerpiece. “Over here, is the living room, where we'll probably be starting our football rivalry.”

You showed him into the living room, just as your mother came downstairs, in nothing but a pair of loose shorts, a tank top and an open bathrobe, a half glass of white wine clutched in her hand. You felt a cold shard of embarrassment go down your back. You had hoped, when you told her you were going to get Sy, she would have dressed into something—anything.

“Mom, this is Sy.” You told her, keeping your voice even. “Sy, this is my mother, Dana.” You introduced them, chewing the inside of your lip to bits.

“Pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” Sy greeted her politely, nodding his head kindly, like nothing was out of place.

She looked Sy over, taking a gulp of her wine. “How do you and my daughter know each other?” She inquired, lifting a brow at him.

You stiffened, you hadn't considered fielding that question from her while Sy was over.

“Work.” Sy said, casually.

“So, she's your accountant?” Dana pressed and showed no sign of easing off.

“I am.” You chimed in, hoping to get her to drop the subject and leave Sy alone.

“That she is.” Sy confirmed, backing you up. “Helps me out with my ranch.” He told Dana, tapping that belt buckle at his waist, bearing the Hook Hill Ranch logo on it.

“Hmm.” Your mother grunted, not sounding convinced. “Why aren't you spending Thanksgiving with your family?” She asked, giving Sy a hard look.

“Mom!” You snapped, horrified.

“It's all right.” He assured you, giving you a soft smile. “I'm an only child. I've never known my father and my mother ran off, when I was ten years old, leaving me to be raised by uncle, her brother. He had a heart attack three years ago, while milkin' his cows. So, it's just me and my dog, Aika, nowadays. Your daughter was kind enough to ask me over to your Thanksgiving dinner, and I accepted.”

“Satisfied?” You asked, annoyed your mother caused Sy to divulge such personal information.

Rolling her eyes, your mother turned in a flare of her bathrobe and headed back upstairs.

“Turkey will be done in an hour!” You called after her, with no reply. “I'm so sorry.” You said, turning back to Sy.

“It's okay.” He said softly, more concerned for you. “Is there anything I can do to help you finish up with dinner?”

“Um,” You tapped your foot. “No, I don't think so. Besides, you're my guest. You should relax.” You told him, waving over to the couch. “I can handle everything.” You assured him, rounding the arm of the couch to swipe the remote of the coffee table and turned the tv on, quickly finding the football game. “Ooh, Cowboys are beating the Chiefs by two points!” You hissed, casting a glance over your shoulder at Sy.

Sy moved to join you, holding your gaze. “I bet you a round of drinks, at a later time, that the Cowboys beat your Chiefs.”

“Are you asking me out on a date, Syverson?” You asked, surprised.

“I am.” He admitted, unashamed.

“Then, you're on.” You grinned, giving him a cocky look. “But, if the Chiefs win, I want to see your ranch.”

“Bold.” Sy smirked, a chuckle rumbling in his chest. “I'll even cook for you.”

“Sold.” You agreed, extending your hand out to him.

He shook your hand, then sat down on the couch, getting comfortable to watch the game, while you returned to the kitchen. Pausing for a moment, you refilled his whiskey glass and took it out to him, giving him a soft smile as you set the cool glass down on a coaster and went back to prepping dinner. Sy watched you over the back of the couch, moving and bumping about, taking a deep breath and taking all the lovely smells of your hard work wafting towards him and making his belly rumble.

Lord have mercy, she's gorgeous.

“You sweet on my daughter?” Dana's voice came up behind him.

Sy's head swung around to look back at her, seeing she'd finally gotten dressed, now wearing a pair of black leggings and a loose, cream colored jumper, but no shoes or socks. “I just might be.” He answered, meeting her gaze head on. “She's a sweet, generous young lady.”

“Young lady, how old are you?” Dana huffed, dropping down into a recliner at the end of the couch.

“I'm thirty-eight.” Sy replied, with an odd amusement.

Dana looked Sy over, her gray eyes scrutinizing. “At least you're both in your thirties.” She huffed, curling her legs underneath her and glared at the tv.

What a curious woman. Sy blinked, shaking his head at her.

The two of them sat quietly, not speaking or interacting with each other any further. Which didn't bother either Sy or Dana. You peeked in at them from time to time, scurrying out to fill Sy's glass, whenever you noticed it was empty and always asking if he needed or wanted something, before vanishing back into the kitchen or dining room.

You wanted the dinner to be as great as possible for Sy, and your mother.

“Dinner is ready, everyone!” You declared, coming into the living room, glancing at the football score, discovering the Chiefs had recovered since the last time you'd entered, now ahead by four points.

“Smells delicious.” Sy complimented you, as he and your mother came into the dining room, finding the set table.

The turkey was juicy and golden-brown, slices already carved and on a plate beside it, with sides of stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls and cornbread muffins, yams with marshmallows, peas and asparagus, accompanied with pecan and pumpkin pie. There were two decanters of red and white wine, a bottle of Ardbeg, and a pitcher of iced tea.

“Thank you.” You grinned with shy pride, biting the inside of your lip. “Sit wherever you like and dig in.” You said, motioning to the chairs around the table, before slipping into one.

Sy joined you, winking at you, as he picked up a plate and started helping himself, piling his plate with meat, rolls, yams and cornbread. “Mmm, this is amazing.” He hummed, nodding his head and chewing his mouthful of turkey and mashed potatoes.

You were giddy that Sy was so in love with your cooking, glancing towards your mother, who was at the end of the table. But found she was sipping a glass of red and nibbling on a buttered roll, to your slight dismay. Pushing the feeling away, you fixed your plate and dug in, moaning at how tasty it was.

“So, your team was winning.” Sy commented, giving you a side brow as he continued to eat.

“Yeah, I noticed.” You smirked, feeling bubbly, as you poured yourself some wine. “Looks like we'll be spending some more time together.”

“That it does.” He nodded, feeling your mother's eyes on him. “I'll have to show you the new foal that was born last week.”

A flood of excitement filled you, you loved the thought of seeing a baby horse. “Oh! I bet they're just the cutest thing on the planet!” You gushed, eyes bright with love already. “What did you name it?”

“Oh, I haven't named the little rascal, yet.” Sy laughed, watching you just gush. “Maybe, you could help me come up with a name for her?” He suggested, looking at you over the rim of his whiskey glass.

“Hmm.” You hummed, falling into a meditative state as you brewed over a name for the baby horse.

“So,” Dana cleared her throat, eyes narrowed between you and Sy. “You're a Rancher?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Sy nodded, turning to regard her, nothing by polite respect in his expression.

“How long have you been one?” She questioned, swirling the wine in her glass.

“Ranchin' has been in my family for generations.” Sy replied, not letting her trip him up. “My many great-grandfather came over from Ireland, just after the American Revolution. Then, when the Civil War happened, my family fought and were granted land at the end, for their service. We've been doing it ever since.”

“So, your family fought for the South.” Dana said bluntly, causing you to choke on your food.

“Mother.” You rasped, eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“No, ma'am.” Sy said coolly. “We fought for the North.” He told her, and left it at that.

“Are you satisfied?” You asked her slowly, eyes still wide and mouth agape.

“No.” She answered, getting up and leaving the room.

“I'm so sorry, Sy.” You stuttered, ashamed of your mother.

“It's all right, love.” He shook his head, wiping his hands on his napkin. “It's not your fault. It's not hers either, really.” He said softly. “She's mourning her son, and doing so takes the form in many ways. That's how your Ma is coping with your brother no longer being on this Earth.” He told you, resting back in his chair and fixing his blue eyes on you. “You're coping by going to support groups and trying to understand the kind people that he was, that he worked with, that he died surrounded by.”

You bit your lip, a lump of emotion strangling you and blurring your eyes; Sy was right. You wanted to be surrounded by those like your brother. It was like still having him there, in a way. You felt the strong, rough warmth of Sy's hand slip into yours, squeezing it and rubbing his thumb over your wrist as the two of you sat there, quiet and surrounded by your Thanksgiving feast.

“You know,” Sy spoke, breaking the silence. “I could actually use an accountant for my ranch.” He said, smirking over at you. “Plus, how about drinks at my place, while you figure out a new name for my foal? Who cares who wins the game.” He chuckled, arching a suggestive brow at you.

“Are you hinting at a sort of date, Syverson?” You asked, playfully thumb warred him.

“It's possible.” Sy laughed, letting you pin his thumb. “Maybe, I'll even cook you Christmas dinner.”

“Oh, I think I'd like that.” You told him, grinning, thankful you'd decided to host him for Thanksgiving.

#Syverson #Captain Austin Syverson #Thankful *fic*#Thankful #Viking-Raider Fics #Captain Syverson x Reader #Captain Syverson/Reader #captain syverson #captain syverson fanfiction #Syverson x Reader #Syverson/Reader #Fluff #Cotton Candy Fluff #Thanksgiving #Thanksgiving Fic

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archangeldyke-all · 9 months ago

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Sevika × Great outdoors lesbian reader

Because Sevika has definitely never laid a hand on a real tree. But that's fine! She can just fall in love with somebody who knows all about trees and nature in general :)

(Maybe they can go hug some together when they're old coots)

this is hilarious

men and minors dni

sevika doesn't like nature.

she's never been one for the outdoors. as a kid, she spent most of her time in her room reading. as an adult, she spends most of her time working. being outside is something that happens to sevika only when she needs to get from one inside setting to another. she'd never choose to just... go outside.

there's bugs outside. and wind. and unpredictable weather, which always ends up with sevika sweating and getting all sticky, or getting caught in the fucking rain and being damp the rest of the day, or freezing her tits off on what was supposed to be a mild spring day.

so, no. sevika's not an outdoors-y person.

but then she meets you.

you guys hit it off instantaneously, sevika's pretty sure she falls head over heels in love with you on your first date. it's pathetic and embarrassing, but she's too enamored to care about how cheesy she is with you.

and then you ask her out on a picnic.

she tries so hard to pretend like she likes nature. she tries to pretend that the sun beaming down on her is pleasant, and not making her hot; like the grass isn't prickly and itchy; like the mosquito and flies swarming your spot aren't bothering her.

and she is having fun, don't get her wrong! she loves seeing you in the sun, she's pretty sure you've got sunshine somewhere inside you. she adores watching you make flower chains, is impressed with how patiently and gently you place a stray beetle crawling on your lap onto a plant, loves listening you babble about various birds that fly overhead, and the type of tree you're sitting under.

but, that doesn't stop her from grumpily shoving her hair out of her face when the wind blows it, or screaming when a spider crawls across her leg.

"sevika." you giggle at the end of your date. you've walked her home, and you're exchanging kisses at her front door.

"mhm?" she asks.

"if you don't like being outside, we don't have to go to the botanical gardens next weekend." you say, referring to the date you guys planned together a few hours ago. "we can go to a restaurant or catch a movie or something."

"but you're so excited for the arbor day celebration! you've been babbling about it since you picked me up!" she says. you giggle.

"yeah, but i don't want you to be miserable on our date."

"i won't be, i promise." she says, kissing your worries away. "i'll be with you-- nothing can make me miserable when i'm with you."

as your relationship progresses, sevika becomes slightly more connected to nature. how could she not, when you're constantly outside in the yard, gardening and watching birds and fucking foraging wild foods-- always rambling sweetly about the plants and animals you see?

this doesn't mean she'd ever choose to go outside. but if you're going, she'll always tag along.

she starts to like nature walks. when she's moving, the bugs can't catch her as fast. plus, she sees a ton of cute dogs on her walks with you-- that's always a plus.

she loves the more scientific side of raising a garden with you. she'll be the one to sprout all your seeds inside on a sunny windowsill, nurturing them until they're big enough to survive outside. she's also the one who'll visit the garden supply store and help you figure out ph-levels in soils, fertilizers, where you should plant each crop to get the proper amount of sun in your yard... she's into the logistics of it all.

she takes care of all the houseplants too-- she's got a little schedule written for herself on a post-it about which plant to water when. it's really cute.

you're most likely to get her to spend a day in the park with you when it's fall.

it's her favorite season. the sun is always hiding behind grey clouds, which means she gets less migraines. the bugs have all gone away for the season, and the coolish weather is the perfect temperature for her. plus, she loves the smell of the dying leaves.

(you know she likes the way the leaves change colors too-- but she'll never say something so romantic and cheesy out loud.)

her favorite outdoor activity, however, is sitting on your screened in back-porch-- a pair of binoculars hanging from her neck, both of you waiting for pretty birds to come visit the various feeders you have scattered around your property. she gets to sit and smoke, she gets to be kinda inside, and she gets to watch the way you grin when you see a bird you've never seen before.

sure, she finds the birds pretty, but she finds your reactions much prettier.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re

@raphaellearp @iamastar @sevikitty

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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cal-daisies-and-briars · 1 year ago

Text

Fic Update: Pennsylvania Under Me

HI! HAPPY SEASON 8 RENEWAL DAY!

To celebrate, here's chapter four, the penultimate chapter :)

Summary:

Buck is determined to have one good day in Pennsylvania before they drive home.

Snippet:

Somewhere on the drive back to Hershey, on their fourth, uninterrupted Fleetwood Mac song, they pull onto a quiet country road that Eddie doesn’t remember driving on earlier.

“What’s this?” Chris asks, looking out the window the cracked pavement and shallow ditches, overgrown with weeds and wildflowers.

“ This is the road where I learned how to drive,” Buck says. “Figured I’d take the small detour, for old time’s sake.”

Something snakes inside Eddie’s stomach at the thought. To be honest? Learning to drive is not an experience with which Eddie has a positive association. The first time he drove anything, it had been his father’s truck, right into the side of the garage, intending to drive his mother, in labor, to the emergency room. He’d been eight. After that - after the severity of the punishment that followed, despite the terror of it all being punishment enough - Eddie never really lived down the mistake. When it was time, finally, for his dad to teach him to drive as a teenager, the experience had been marked by impatience, humiliation, door handle clutching, and shouting. It had honestly taken Eddie years after that not to jolt any time something remotely surprising happened while he was behind the wheel.

“Did your father teach you?” Chris asks Buck.

“Mm, no,” Buck says. “My parents paid for a driving instructor, but never did it themselves.”

“So the driving instructor took you here ?” Chris asks.

“Nope,” Buck says. “She just let me drive around Hershey. No, my buddy on the football team, he was a couple years older, had his license. He did it. Took me out here one weekend, before my proper lessons started, because I was kinda jittery about the whole thing. He had his mom’s old minivan. Was super nice about it. Good guy.”

Something about that makes Eddie feel more sad than maybe it should.

---

Tagging @epicbuddieficrecs @theotherbuckley @sevenweeksofunrepression @slowlyfoggydestiny @devonwritesstuff @diazsdimples @exhuastedpigeon @aquamarineglitter @loserdiaz @steadfastsaturnsrings @your-catfish-friend @incorrect9-1-1 @hawaiianlove808 @babytrapperdiaz @watchyourbuck @lyricfulloflight @tizniz @aroeddiediaz @estheticpotaeto @buddieswhvre

#daisies and briars writes #911 fanfic #pennsylvania under me fic #911 fic #911 #buddie 911 #evan buckley #eddie x buck #buddie fanfic #eddie diaz

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lifeafterpsychiatry · 6 months ago

Note

I'd say to just reblog the ones with the vetting in their ask sent or pinned post as you see them, or perhaps dedicate a few min at a specific moment in the day/week/etc for going through the ones in your inbox/saved from your dash (via drafting maybe?) with said vetting.

generally you dont need to do the vetting yourself as many of the people doing outreach asks will include their vetting sources with a link to show its real, and the majority of them are very legit vetting processes. there is undoubtedly also a list out there of the legit vetting orgs and individuals to verify the vetting source linked in the ask/post is legitimate

otherwise if you cannot do that, with each individual donation post, a compromise can be to add the links to the official google docs etc in a pinned or regularly queued post where vetted fundraisers continually get added to, including ones of congo sudan etc

↳ this post would be an option for that; (insert tumblr period com part here since if i do my ask doesnt deliver)/soft-zawa-png/753900486558695424/fundraisers-gazasudancongo-more-google

and perhaps since people will undoubtedly complain at you like crazy about how it i'd say to do it with another one of your personalised post distinguishing tags (like your getting personal/asks/serious etc ones) that doesn't as clearly end up filtered out automatically (as many people prefer to not have it tagged as just donation/boost etc for various reasons w the filtering and spam stuff of the site)

sidenote; i also dont doubt you'll get a crazy amt of zionists and racist people using the "everyone is a scammer dont risk it" interactions abt this discussion so do make sure to keep in mind that yknow, lotta racism and zionism abt it all n to not believe the UMMM ITS ALL SPAM!!!!! things nor give them the time of day with spewing bigoted ideology etc

I absolutely get that "doing some work to check which campaigns are real/properly vetted" would be the ideal approach here. But I am not exaggerating or just being stubborn when I say I can't do that work, and that this lack of skill also includes figuring out who to trust to do accurate vetting. I am not capable of doing any kind of work and research associated with prioritizing between campaigns and checking for proper vetting. I am not saying this means that I shouldn't share any campaigns ever, but please stop suggesting "checking if a campaign is verified/checking people's vetting sources" as the solution here. I can't do that. I already said I can't do that work. And that includes doing it sometimes/once a day and checking people's sources to see if other people are actually doing their vetting correctly. When I ask "what should I do if I can't do any of the research work associated with vetting campaigns" telling me to "just do some of it sometimes" misses the point quite a bit.

#chat with kat #discourse tw

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getinthefuckingcarkitten · 9 months ago

Text

Something i wrote a while ago trying to figure out some stuff. No content warnings, this time.

The vision of that brat slumped face-down on the couch would be almost amusing if Bailey wasn't already having a shit day. She had to leave soon, and that would be much easier if that idiot hadn't picked the couch in front of her office to go comatose on.

Already impatient, she reached for the brat and started to shake her awake.

"Get the hell up." She mumbled, between clenched teeth. "You have your own damn bed, get the fuck up from the couch..."

It took a while, but eventually bleary dark eyes started to flutter open.

"Mmm... Can't i go to your bed instead?~" The brat slurred, half-unconscious.

At least the face Veronica made when she opened her eyes fully, lifted her head and saw Bailey was pretty fucking funny. It was a shame that it wasn't funny enough to make Bailey feel any less irritated at her antics.

"Who do you think you're talking to?" Bailey asked, full of venom.

"...You..." The brat clenched her fist, then. She tried to look angry, but just ended up looking like she had a stomachache. "Shit. Where's Robin?!"

"How the fuck should i know." Bailey gritted her teeth again. "Go to your room, Veronica."

"You have something to do with it, you asshole." The brat accused her again, but Bailey just let out an impatient breath. She seemed to lose confidence, then. "You do, don't you?"

"I don't even want to know what the fuck is going on between you two dimwits." Bailey started to pull her up by the arm, and she didn't resist much. Judging by the stench of alcohol coming off of her, it figured. "Just don't bother me about it."

She pulled Veronica upwards, and then forced her to lean her body weight in a way that made it easier for Bailey to drag her ass back to her proper room. That brat was becoming more and more difficult as time passed. Well, rowdy for sure she had always heen, but she mostly tried to keep her messes away from Bailey's eyes instead of involving her in any of it, and seeing her veering dangerously in the opposite direction was infinitely more infuriating as it only meant more work.

Maybe Bailey had been too soft on her lately, which could had been what convinced Veronica she could lounge about in front of Bailey's office and try to make her deal with her missing puppy (well, between the one who was missing and the one letting out pitifully sad noises over Bailey's shoulder, it was actually hard to know which one was the puppy) as if it was her problem.

If it had been her problem, she would've had let the pathetic brat on her arm that she had heard her birdie was flying about Remy's estate, the sight of one of Bailey's brats trying to look tough while tagging along with some of Remy's hired help nearly enough to drive the guy who had told her so to tears of laughter. But it wasn't her problem, and she sure as hell just hoped that whatever was going on, it helped pay their rent on time.

Her only problem was making sure that she didn't break Veronica's neck as she threw her onto the creaking bed, and then get out and solve the rest of her actual, more pressing problems as quickly as possible.

"Bailey..." Veronica reached a hand to Bailey's cuff that was promptly slapped away, but she continued to try and get up nevertheless.

"For heaven's sake." Bailey had to touch her again, then, pushing her head down on the pillows against her will. "Down."

"But i..." Veronica blinked a bit, a few teardrops escaping her wet eyes. "Robin, she wouldn't..."

"The brat is fine." Bailey finally let out, impatient. "None of my goddamned business, but she's fine."

"...Would you go get her if she was in trouble?" She asked, now seeming to believe Bailey.

"I'm not your fucking mother." Bailey snapped at her.

The brat let out a stupid little chuckle that left Bailey strongly considering banging her head on the headboard. Maybe it's be better to leave already and let her figure the rest out on her own. If she hit her head trying to do something stupid, it'd be her own fault

"I know." Veronica said, and wisely choose to let the subject die at once. "But..."

"Yes, fucking hell, didn't i go get your ass from that creepy basement?" Bailey sighed in deeply. "Now stay quiet."

"Oh." The brat finally seemed to accept whatever was happening. Then, just as Bailey was turning around to finally leave, she had to speak again. "I thought i was special."

If crying herself to sleep on the couch as she had likely done earlier hadn't sobered her up, that resounding smack to her head just now might as well have done it. On her way out, a few orphans peeked out of their rooms anxiously as Bailey left Veronica's room. Her withering glare made them all scurry back inside like mice as she stomped out of the orphanage and into her car. Fucking brats, she thought.

#robin just needed some time alone. wren will take care of her 👍#dol bailey #ronnie the prince #bailey ronnie lore is so fucking funny to me. i just need to puzzle together their dynamic

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mercy-thompson-fanfiction · 1 month ago

Text

Bingo Slot: Fainting for @badthingshappenbingo

Fandom: Mercy Thompson Series - Patricia Briggs / Alpha & Omega Series - Patricia Briggs

Relationships: Bran/Leah, Sherwood/Leah

Characters: Leah, Sherwood, Bran

Tags: This was born of a third Thursday and I apologize

Warnings: Noncon mating bond

Summary: Bran just barely got enough lead time to realize she was going to pass out that he was able to make sure her head didn’t hit the glass. Instead, it sliced into him like a million little razors as he scrambled to her like a mad man.

Maybe he was.

Sherwood sat up, thoughtfully watching Bran as he cradled Leah’s head in his hands carefully so as not to cut her with any glass he’d picked up on his fingers or palm.

“Why that name?” Bran muttered. His brother had a hundred others over the years, some far more important.

“I think it felt more mysterious.”

Read more on AO3

The entire thing is posted below the "Keep Reading" but it's split into chapters in the proper way on AO3.

The man in front of her hushed her with his lips. This was different, Leah wasn’t sure why. She should be bashful, embarrassed, inexperienced even.

She definitely shouldn’t be trying to climb him like the trees she used to play in when her mother tried to call her in to help with the house, and yet.

The man’s chest rumbled, vibrating against her as he laughed and broke the kiss.

“Plenty of time for that, Leah.” His teeth tugged gently on her ear. “Do me a favor first. I need you to protect yourself.”

Her whole body tensed and she pulled back from him embrace fractionally.

“He controls your mind. I cannot promise we are out of His range.” His voice grew quieter still. “But He can’t have you because I want all of you, and I am a very possessive, old thing.”

He wasn’t old. Leah knew he looked maybe her own age, maybe fractionally older. This was just something men said, she thought it might be endearing in their heads but it sounded stupid aloud. Still, she opened her mouth to speak.

“Let me show you how to break Him.”

And he did.

***

Bran hated the remnants of his magic most of the time, and with everything in him. It was those fragmented pieces that told him when his brother needed him.

His brother whom he hadn’t seen in innumerable seasons at this point. Bran couldn’t even recall the last they’d spoken and there was no other way to exchange correspondence. The same brother who he hadn’t known about, who had escaped the witch long before Bran had even been captured. The one whose stories perhaps didn’t rival his so much as they had interwoven beyond recognition. Bran was perhaps more infamous abroad than he had ever meant to be because he and his brother couldn’t separate the stories about them. Very truly, neither of them could confidently determine who did what.

One of them had been the true beast in France. They hadn’t a clue which, though Bran personally suspected his brother. He was pretty certain he himself had been in what was now Germany. At the time, he didn’t think he had much paid attention to where he wandered.

His brother had thought he was in Italy so it might have, of course, been Bran anyways. He would have probably been a little closer.

Finally, he spotted a figure in the distance.

Not good. There was more than one. The scene reeked of death.

“What did you do?” Bran, half-mad himself, picked up the pace. It looked as if he had slaughtered a village.

Witches. The scent of borderline-grey magic stung the air. His brother was only half his brother, his magic more similar to Charles’ in that it was mixed with something too natural to truly be witchcraft. This wasn’t him.

This was the dead around him.

“What did you do?” He repeated, but his brother was out of it. Maybe they had been wandering for days, Bran couldn’t tell. This didn’t look like someplace anyone might have settled.

Some of them were rotting already. Bran wondered idly, as he nudged one with his foot, if some of them were decaying before they actually passed. He had seen that plenty, it wasn’t uncommon. He couldn’t imagine his brother here, surrounded by this for long enough that he was still human.

And then he saw her. One woman, beside his own kin was still breathing.

Barely.

It sounded like a rattle, the way the dead sounded.

His mind started whirring, picking up the pieces of the destroyed world around them. His wolf’s eyes told him this woman was tied, entwined with his brother who was trying to keep her alive. Her wounds were actual wounds—not the mere starvation and superficial scrapes of a suffering man’s battle. She was near-savaged. His brother was trying to save her, funneling what he’d stolen off the dead.

“I didn’t know you could still do that.” Bran muttered. His brother hadn’t experimented with suffering in a long time to his own knowledge, his was truly a magic given freely by the world around him.

Perhaps this was similar. Those dead around them were just part of a gift to him.

What a terrible thought.

His brother fell, collapsed as if his legs could no longer hold him and the woman, with whatever strength she had in her, curled into his side.

Bran growled.

“You have always been trouble and here I am saving your hide again.”

His brother was not a healer, despite his magic. Samuel was. He had been trying to manage a power share that he couldn’t offer her, not without her being his well and truly.

The rattle grew louder, maybe it was just his imagination. A scene like this, his brother could have been feeding her for weeks. She should have pulled through by now.

Ah.

It was difficult to tell. The young woman was a little worse for wear, it was possible she didn’t look a thing like the baby only a few short feet away. Bran knelt down this time, more respectfully brushed the blond hair from the young one’s face. His skin was far less damaged by the elements than the others.

As he kept her alive, she kept him. But this was not his brother’s son. There was little by way of resemblance and the magic didn’t smell right, wasn’t strong enough even in death.

He turned to his brother and the woman again.

Bran didn’t think he could save both. His talent, similar to his brother’s, didn’t bend well in that aspect. And just as he approached, on his own hands and knees, to roll his stupid brother’s limp body over to better look at him, he realized a fatal flaw.

Anything Bran gave him, went straight to the girl.

“You really are something.” If he were still standing, he might very well have punched him.

When he was still human, when he and Samuel had gone through this together, he had been able to read minds still. It worked better with blood relation. He didn’t still have that, but he could speak to her if he tied them.

Ignoring the weak protest by his ever-diminishing kin, Bran kissed her, open-mouthed and lips bloodied by his own teeth. It was easier than making her swallow something.

“You can thank me later.” He wiped the blood away from his own mouth with the back of his hand and snapped at his brother. “She’s going to die if she’s not pack.”

He wouldn’t be able to force her through.

His Change took longer than necessary, but he wasn’t in great form either and he couldn’t pull more from the man before him than absolutely necessary if this were to work. The woman was on Death’s door, but hadn’t been damaged enough for the Change to ultimately take. The tie was frazzled, struggling. Bran didn’t have enough time or even wherewithal to really understand what had happened there to cause it to be that way.

The task at hand was something he’d done a million times before. It didn’t always work, but he didn’t always have the ability to make it.

Right now, in this moment, he had enough to probably stoke all of them until they could manage to hunt.

What he hadn’t expected, maybe he did and didn’t want to admit it, was to pull her further. Bran had needed to sever the thing between her and his brother to keep the funnel from working wrong and undoing everything he was trying to accomplish. The pack bond had formed fine but he’d needed more edge.

If he had still been able to read minds, the bare minimum pack bond would have given him everything he needed to know to push her to the other side. Bran would have seen why there was a connection between the two of them to begin with. He would have understood how tiny her own magic was, and what it was. He would have seen their suffering and understood. Bran would have gotten full view of the extent of knowledge she was already at that time lacking—the time she had lost to her capture.

He might not have done what he was about to do.

But once he’d tied her to him, had forced her into a deeper connection, he would have offered to let her go.

Except that he felt quiet for the first time in a decade. His wolf had something to hold onto, to call his. There was no pack here yet, just himself, his youngest, his eldest who kept wandering, and this man before him who similarly tended to disappear. There was nothing that existed as his to keep and protect.

Except her.

His brother came to and said nothing of what Bran had done. Leah, with only her name and some vague familial information, was similarly at a loss.

And he kept her.

***

Her memories returning startled Leah enough to make her disappear. Typically, Bran would come and seek her out. More often than not, he would sit outside of wherever she was in his wolf form. It was meant to be comforting, she thought.

It wasn’t.

There was a nagging in the pit of her stomach that made eating difficult. It made her feel as if she were drowning in guilt for staying when he had offered her to leave.

But there was nothing to leave for. No one would take her, they didn’t like her. He had made sure of that when he’d brought her home. The whole continent, if not the whole world, knew of her. How could he ever undo the damage to her character enough to make it look like it was an amicable choice for her to leave.

And once cast out, once a pariah in the world she helped to build for him, she would be on the bottom. After all of these years, female werewolves were still subject to passing fancies of men far more dominant than they because of rules—not because of anything biologically driven.

Leah had paid her dues. She wouldn’t spend another century or more doing someone’s bidding, warming their bed, being the object of their desire but not their heart.

It was like something squeezed her as she thought of that. Leah looked up and across the room where Bran lay, looking like nothing more threatening than a massive house pet with his sad golden eyes and his pitiful whine.

“I’m ok.” She promised, because he had felt her distress as she began over-thinking.

And there were other things. Bran was being gentle, giving her time to cope. He didn’t fault her when she pushed his advances away. He didn’t push her to accept him when he craved touch, nor did she feel like she was being manipulated for once.

“Would you like to sleep?” He murmured later that night as she curled herself into a ball and tried very hard not to think about why he was asking.

It made her feel broken, the way that he asked. She wasn’t. She had lived nearly two-hundred years without worry. This should be nothing. The memories being back shouldn’t matter.

“I think so.” She admitted, allowing him to pull her closer to him only because it brought a strange sort of comforting peace with it.

This went on for months before the wind changed and brought with it a sneaky little traveler. Sherwood Post had quietly, without alerting anyone, returned to their home for a short and clandestine visit.

The Columbia Basin Pack, of which he was a part, still was estranged from Marrok territory. It was bad to have him there in the heart of it with them.

“Oh. Sherwood.” Leah blinked, eyes not quite processing the people in front of her as fast as her nose had.

The air felt thick, the body language too tense.

Bran looked confused when she said it, but Sherwood smiled a little sheepishly. Had she realized the last time, when he’d first been brought back again, that they appeared so similar?

“It is good to see you, Leah.”

She thought it felt good to see him, too. At least now she actually remembered having known him before.

“I hear you taught Charles’ mate what I taught you.” There might have been a flicker of sadness there, in his smile. Leah couldn’t for the life of her place why. “I am very happy for you that you’ve killed Him. I knew you would.”

This surprised her.

“Did you know then?”

Sherwood shrugged and stood up. It was only then that she remembered the prosthetic.

“I suspected. Terrible things are difficult to kill.” There was a sideways glance at Bran complete with an expression of boredom that she recognized as one of Bran’s but was on the wrong face. “Unless you eat them.”

Sherwood left the next morning with a polite and respectful kiss on the cheek and a “thank you for having me.” Her fingertips brushed the spot as he left and she stood in the doorway confused as to why it felt familiar until Bran returned without their guest.

“Is he your brother?” She asked as he kicked off his shoes.

Bran’s shoulders tensed and he raised his head to look at her, his own confusion evident on his features.

“Yes, Leah.” It was said as if she was meant to know that somehow. “Half. He’s much older than I.”

This surprised her more than anything else in the past twenty-four hours could possibly have. Bran straightened up altogether and frowned.

“Did you not know that?”

“You have a half brother? By which side?” She demanded.

“Several, I should expect. By the witch. He escaped, I didn’t know him until after Samuel was born. Probably long after, but still long before I was ever Changed. He was part of her first litter, if you’d like to call it that. And she did not like that he escaped, but she knew to keep me at arm’s length because he had hurt her, too.” His tone grew bitter. “She was older than she’d have liked to admit. I don’t know that his family was her first, either, but we’re the only two we ever found.”

She thought about this. Two survivors of the Witch’s offspring. Sherwood had been older. He might have told Bran how best to do it.

“And Samuel.”

“And Samuel,” Bran agreed. “Just us three survived.”

Leah thought she knew more about the Witch that had been Bran’s mother than most others. He had told her plenty about her, about how he had been made and not Changed.

“He’s not very good at finishing the job, is he?”

Sherwood hadn’t killed his mother or the Singer. At this, Bran’s darkness brightened to amusement. He smiled at her, crooked and playful.

“No,“ His eyes crinkled at the sides as his smile widened. “He is not.”

***

Bran didn’t love answering questions about his past, but his brother turning up caused Leah to have plenty. The worst had been the inevitable leg question.

It was the worst because it had been haunting Bran this entire time.

How does a werewolf who escapes their mother’s abuses turn up and lose a leg to another witch entirely? His brother had two legs as long as he’d known him. Then he showed up in Seattle sans leg, sans memory, and with some new tricks Bran hadn’t known him to have.

“I suspect either they tortured him enough that it happened in time.” But it used to take his mother probably centuries to do that so either these witches had been practicing at an entirely unsustainable rate or, “Or that it was our mother’s doing. It’s possible that time doesn’t heal what she had done to us and that it was only a matter of time before he lost it.”

Bran had never been brought that far himself, but he remembered it. He remembered Adda specifically, that one had hurt.

“And those witches just…found him?”

Bran closed his eyes.

“Yes.” Because it had likely been complete coincidence. Who else were they going to randomly bump into? His brother went missing all of the time and Bran didn’t go looking. It was like murdering a runaway or a drug addict in the 1980s, there wasn’t necessarily someone who knew to be looking for them.

But he should have known.

“We have survivors of our lineage—not,” Because without looking he already knew Leah was going to make a comment. “Just the baby. There are others. Just because Samuel’s children didn’t survive doesn’t mean no one’s did. And my brother probably sired several.”

Given their combined memory and the stories they were confused within—Bran’s and his brother’s—probably more than several.

“None of the old families have really survived, nor has their power. But it’s likely our lineage is in some of the new. My mother didn’t exactly kill every one of her own siblings, though I do think she killed her mother.”

He wasn’t so sure of that fact. Some nights, he wasn’t so certain he’d actually killed or eaten his own mother.

It haunted him.

Leah seemed satisfied with their question-and-answer session. That was good, he was very much trying to be more open with her. She turned to leave and he wondered a moment if he should ask why she still called him “Sherwood.” When the name had passed her lips, it had startled Bran thoroughly.

With Leah’s memory returning, he assumed the shock of seeing the man who had ultimately sacrificed himself to try and save her would bring the name forward. He had expected to hear her swoon, maybe it was his own self-loathing and guilt doing that to him, torturing him with the idea of Leah rekindling love lost.

He wanted very much to ask.

And he didn’t.

Instead, he followed her to the kitchen and sat at the counter. Bran doodled while Leah cooked. Doodling was a guilty pastime of his, it just let him think while his body kept physically busy. A couple of times, Leah’s emotion spiked and he’d look up. Usually he’d catch her staring out the window over the sink or touching her face thoughtfully. She was doing that more these days, like she was testing that her body was still there, that she was still who and when she thought she was.

“Leah,” Bran called to her softly, as her anxiety spiked and her fingers brushed her cheek. “I care for you.”

He was trying to say little things like that more recently as well.

Leah chewed her lip thoughtfully, frozen in place with glassy eyes, and said nothing.

It didn’t bother him. Not much bothered him when it came to her, not these days, because he knew she was drowning a little in it all. There had been a lot of change very quickly, lies brought to the surface, and her past uncovered in ways even he hadn’t been able to dig up.

Bran let her continue working in silence.

***

Leah missed their intimacy. It had changed since she came back, disappearing altogether and then creeping in piece-by-piece. They kissed now, anywhere in the house Bran might lean in for a quick peck or something more sensual. It depended greatly on his mood and he invited her to return in kind. She didn’t much, she still wasn’t used to that level of familiarity and comfort with each other in what was such a public space. Their home was open to the pack and the idea that anyone could walk in while Bran had his tongue in her mouth and his hand up her shirt in the kitchen was terrifying.

But she missed their nighttime routine. Bran had been slower to reintroduce sex to their lives. So slow, in fact, that she’d practically forgone her own rules for public decency and jumped him in their living room.

You did do that. She remembered so thy embarrassing clarity just barely tugging his pants down and not even bothering with her own underwear, just pushing it aside and letting her skirt drape over the both of them. Bran had laughed at her enthusiasm until he was breathless in more ways than one.

Since then, it had mostly gone back to normal, albeit with more kissing and emotions—almost more human. The idea of it was strange.

Bran’s lips were at her throat, kissing upwards to her lips as he moved inside of her. He connected their mouths, pressing his body further against hers. Leah gasped out.

And suddenly his weight, the warmth of another body on hers, was gone. It took a moment, Leah blinked the haze of lust from her eyes. Her body was still buzzing with the thrill of anticipation, but Bran was terrified. Her eyebrows knit together as she scrambled up to sitting, tugging the mess they’d made of the blankets around her because she was embarrassed for no reason.

His eyes were wild, his back pressed against the far wall next to the door.

“What did you call me?” He asked, voice shaking. It wasn’t the only thing, his whole body was practically vibrating.

Leah frowned because she hadn’t said anything, let alone called him something. Or, she didn’t think she had.

“You called me something. You went away for a bit when you…” He trailed off, his own panic dying away to be replaced by guilt. Of all things, guilt was not something she was prepared for. Bran swallowed. “I’ll sleep in the other room tonight. I’m sorry.”

And he, Bran Cornick, fled. There was no other word for it. The door shut behind him and his steps echoed down the hall. He hadn’t even gathered his things, his phone was still in the room. Rejection flooded her senses, made tears prick at her eyes.

He had locked her out of their bond again and she felt empty, wolf practically pacing as if she’d done something wrong.

Leah laid on her side for long minutes, maybe even hours, neither bothering to dress nor caring to clean up. Her skin still smelled of him and she wanted it that way. She fell asleep watching his phone, praying it would light up so she had an excuse to tap on his door and confront him.

It never did.

They didn’t speak for two days after. Bran cloistered himself away between the bedroom he had claimed and the office, only emerging to eat and run back upstairs.

It wasn’t until the weekend that he approached her wordlessly and kissed her on the cheek, ticking a sort-of odd memory she couldn’t initially place, and then suddenly he apologized.

“I shouldn’t have continued to have sex with you when I realized you were gone.” Bran admitted, sounding properly guilty, “I knew that. I saw the signs. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“This is why you’ve been funny about sex.” Leah sighed, the realization dawning on her.

“You go away sometimes, like you’re lost in a memory or you’re trying to process one. It worries me in context of our intimacy, yes.” He agreed.

Leah kissed him this time, just a gentle peck on the lips. Her husband seemed a little less guilty and perhaps a little more pleased with himself. She felt a little smile grace her own face before she remembered something pressing.

“You told me I said something.”

Bran shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

***

Bran had a funny feeling all of Friday which revealed itself on Saturday to just have been the impending doom that was a visit by his own kin.

Again.

“To what do I owe the pleasure now?” Bran muttered, stepping aside because he’d be polite about their new guest even if he didn’t want to be. There wasn’t really an option to leave him outside in case someone else saw him. There were people who, if they were to visit, would be less polite about someone from Adam’s pack being here than others.

His brother blinked at him curiously. “You didn’t call?”

Similar to his sons, it was hard to put on a perfectly good mask for this particular family member. It didn’t matter that they’d barely had a relationship before. It certainly didn’t matter that he’d been missing for nearly ninety? Ninety-five years? His brother could read him like a book.

“She called me?”

“You gave her your name?” Bran hissed. “What possessed you to do that?”

Except he knew what had possessed him. It was the same thing that possessed men across the globe and throughout the centuries to do stupid things and make foolish mistakes.

“One of them.” Was all he said.

And Bran could guess in one try which one. He’d just been called by it in bed only a week prior. Humiliating.

His brother led the way to the kitchen as if he owned the house. It made Bran bristle because why not? Why not own the house? He practically owned Bran’s own wife at this point what with her memory slowly returning to her and filling in gaps that Bran didn’t want filled. He hadn’t lied to her about what happened, but he’d certainly left out a key detail.

Their mating had already failed. He reminded himself. There was no saving it.

Except he knew that wasn’t true. Bran had helped plenty of others return from worse points—example: Mercy and Adam. Theirs hadn’t settled right either, had nearly caused Mercy to be lost to them.

It wasn’t impossible to fix. If he’d given them a chance after he’d brought them back.

They had already lost their memories. They barely knew each other. His brother went off wandering again. It didn’t matter then. It didn’t matter now.

His brother was grinning again now that he had turned to look at him.

“You reek of guilt and jealousy.” It was a taunt as if they’d ever grown up together, known each other as boys. It didn’t matter, Bran knew his brother and that he was one person who had always gotten under his skin.

Leah was right. He never did anything right. He was lazy, he half-assed it, skirted by. His brother knew how to do the bare minimum to save his own skin and cared for nothing else.

He saved you. Bran’s mind supplied. Because he had. Because his brother had told him how to overcome the Witch.

It didn’t matter. The man before him couldn’t save himself when it mattered and he’d done just as poorly for Leah.

Not to mention he’d gone off and subsequently lost a leg. Idiot.

“You remembered.” Was all he said in reply and he tried to keep it polite while he gestured to the chairs.

“I’ve remembered for a while.” His brother agreed and sat while Bran made himself comfortable on the top of the table itself. “I remembered last time. She hadn’t. You always did like being tall.”

Bran glared at him.

“When did she remember?”

It was Saturday now. They hadn’t spoken for a morning or two after she’d uttered the name. Bran finally approached her the previous Friday. He did the math.

“Tuesday. Last week.” He said finally.

His brother nodded. The tattoos had always been irritating, results of magic. Bran thought Charles could probably manage them, too, as he had piercings. He himself had never tried, he didn’t find them all that attractive even when they were more acceptable.

But his brother’s all had meaning. They weren’t traditional in the typical sense. They were magic etched into his literal skin. It was why he still was able to do so many more things than Bran could.

That, and his brother had sought out training in a different sense, a more literal sense. Bran had bound his own magic to performance and music.

“Around the time I felt it.”

Bran nodded stiffly because probably. How was he really meant to know?

“That was late, wasn’t it? Woke me up.”

Bran grit his teeth as his brother’s grin widened.

“Did she?” His brother raised a taunting eyebrow. “Did she—“

“Don’t,” The chair his brother had been in fell as Bran launched himself from the table into him. “Utter another insinuating thing about my wife. I still remember how to remove your other leg.”

His brother had caught his arm before Bran could get him into a chokehold, which was unfortunate because it really killed any sense of urgency or drama that he was trying to convey.

“—remember whose name it was.” His brother finished. “But thank you for giving me the cruder details. Interesting she remembered in that moment.”

Bran snarled wordlessly before he heard something drop and shatter to the right of him. He’d been so distracted that Leah’s approach had gone unnoticed. The vase she’d been holding of flowers she’d collected from the garden lay in little, crystal shards all around them.

“Merfyn.” She breathed, eyes wide.

Bran just barely got enough lead time to realize she was going to pass out that he was able to make sure her head didn’t hit the glass. Instead, it sliced into him like a million little razors as he scrambled to her like a mad man.

Maybe he was.

Sherwood sat up, thoughtfully watching Bran as he cradled Leah’s head in his hands carefully so as not to cut her with any glass he’d picked up on his fingers or palm.

“Why that name?” Bran muttered. His brother had a hundred others over the years, some far more important.

“I think it felt more mysterious.”

***

Leah didn’t remember much of the lead up. Forgetfulness was rapidly becoming a trend in her life, it seemed. She remembered she had gone outside to tend the garden. She sometimes brought a vase with her to collect flowers. Unlike some people in the pack, Leah enjoyed having fresh cut flowers. Specifically, she liked ones from her garden because she specifically kept flowers whose scents didn’t give her headaches.

There had been a twinge in her periphery, something of Bran’s. He’d reacted to something, but he reacted to a lot of things and she didn’t really pay attention to it. Probably, someone had called him with news or Asil had come over to harass him the way he sometimes did.

Without thinking, maybe five minutes later or maybe less, she stepped through the glass door into their kitchen. It took her a fraction of a second to really process it all. Bran was on top of someone and he was angry, but they weren’t actively violent. The man in question didn’t initially strike her as someone she knew until she really looked at their profiles (all she could see of either of them) side-by-side.

The surprise made her drop the flowers she was carrying. The sound of the vase hitting the ground didn’t even register. Her heart pounded in her chest, sending blood rushing to her ears and drowning out the sound of anything else. She couldn’t breathe, she felt lightheaded.

“Merfyn?” It was like something had snapped into place finally, the missing puzzle pieces. The finally remainder of anything she’d ever manage to recover.

Her vision went black.

“You fainted.” Bran told her, sounding more worried than she thought he really needed to be. “I cleaned up the glass once I got you in bed. Are you ok?”

Leah swallowed only to choke because her mouth was impossibly dry. Apparently, her husband had already thought of that. He handed her a glass and waited patiently as she sat up.

“My brother is downstairs.” He sounded pleasant, even if his eyes looked like murder. “He wishes to speak to you.”

She took in her surroundings. Their rooms were soundproofed. They could mostly speak freely. Bran nodded as if he understood her thoughts.

Maybe he did.

“Is that his name?”

“One of them.” Bran agreed. “He’s gone by a few. Usually they’re poet’s names. He took to calling himself ‘Jesus’ once—just to be a nuisance, I think.”

One of them. Leah tried to connect the dots, but she had only known Sherwood by Sherwood outside of that.

“When did he leave us?”

“Shortly after I found you. He seemed better and he’s hard to keep, quite truthfully. It was easier to let him go.” Bran answered easily. “He was almost like Charles, before there was Charles. You remember? We called him Theodore then. He helped us gather all of the packs under a central body.”

Bran’s own. Yes, Leah vaguely recalled there being someone. Interesting. They had corresponded with him via mail, that was around when they’d gotten a post office that was more local.

“He was Theodore.” She hummed thoughtfully. “And then he disappeared, I remember.”

“And then he was Sherwood. I perhaps was being a nuisance myself when I named him. Part of me thought if I annoyed him enough, he might snap out of whatever he’d done to himself, but…”

They’d talked about it even in Aspen Creek, who Sherwood might be.

“Is he Robin Hood?”

Bran made a face and looked as if he was struggling to find an answer. Leah sat up straighter because he didn’t often not know something.

“We don’t remember.”

“We?” She hissed, surprised. “What does that mean?”

Bran shrugged, smile a little sheepish. Unhelpful as always, he added, “He also might have been Merlin. It’s possible we made Merlin up? He might’ve been Sir Marrok.”

This was news if she’d ever heard it.

“You were—one of you was Merlin?”

“That’s what Merfyn—it’s the same name, Leah.” Bran admitted. “But it’s more likely one of us made him up just for the stories. There are small holes when you live so long, pockets that blur together.”

“He’s the Marrok!” She shrieked and he clapped his hand over her mouth.

She bit him and he yanked it back with a growl.

“I’m the Marrok. It’s possible he was the original Sir Marrok of legend.” Bran shook out his hand and then wiped it on the comforter beneath him. “And Robin Hood probably didn’t exist except possibly he did and it may have been my brother who goes by Sherwood currently and he apparently loves it.”

Bran sounded a little bitter about the last bit, but it was hard not to love such a mysterious name. It made you truly wonder who he was, even without the memory loss.

Bran has memory holes. Of course she mostly knew that, but he remembered everything. Bran told stories, sang songs that he’d known for seemingly millennia. He remembered all of Samuel’s lives even when his son wanted nothing more than to destroy all which was left of them—himself included.

Her husband could have been Robin Hood.

This was horrifying.

“Before you speak to him,” Bran interrupted her thoughts. “I need to be honest. I wasn’t honest. I should have been, I knew it was likely this would come up. I was fooling myself hoping that it wouldn’t.”

Leah waited as patiently as she could, but her fingers drummed on her thigh. It was difficult to be patient, she was still mostly-panicking.

“When I found you both, this I’ve already told you, I thought to save him.” Bran had told her this, he was correct. It was one of the first things he had confessed to her. “But when I looked closer, it wasn’t just his magic keeping you alive like I’d thought. He was holding you because he was already bonded to you.”

Leah blinked, not understanding.

“There was a very patchwork mating bond, Leah. He had tried, I didn’t know at the time that it was probably an issue of the creature you escaped’s magic. I thought he had maybe forced it a little. You had a baby with you, I didn’t think for a second that it was his. It seemed more likely it was his way of pulling you through. I was wrong.” Leah’s eyes widened as Bran’s voice uncharacteristically cracked at the admission. “I was wrong. He wanted you. I should have, I could have released you and let nature run its course and whatever had happened, whomever you had chosen…it may have been neither of us. I never would have let you go, but you had a fondness for others that were with us. Charles’ uncle…”

Bran cleared his throat and Leah shakily offered him her own glass, which he declined with a shake of his head.

“Neither of you remembered. You hardly remembered your own names, let alone each other. You were definitively worse for wear, but he had the unfair advantage of dealing with magic of the mind. It’s what our family did.”

Of course, Leah knew this, too.

“I just needed you to know. And I offered before, I will—“ He cleared his throat again, nervously this time. “I will offer that you leave, again. But, Leah, I…”

I care for you. Her mind supplied. He’d been saying that often now, unwilling to say the other thing. It seemed to be a word that would bring about his ruin, the way he avoided it.

But she loved him. She thought she loved him. She’d loved him for over a hundred years, had grown into it slowly and then all at once…

“I love you.” He admitted, and it was like the dam had cracked. This wasn’t the intentional flood of emotion he’d shown her months ago, it was him collapsing on himself. “I love you. I can’t lose you, Leah. I’m sorry. I am so sorry, I would rather kill us both.”

Leah took his face in both of her hands and kissed him.

#bad things happen bingo #bthb #leah cornick #bran cornick #Leah/Bran

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on-leatheredwings · 1 year ago

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Main Dami thought, including specific sub thoughts!

Doing any type of skin, body or hair care with him turns into him doing them for you. 1) he wants you to rely on him and show you that he can take care of you, and one way he slowly starts that process is insisting on "pampering" you. 2) he thinks he knows best and the proper products you should be using. Alot of organic products that are handmade or prestige and luxury that you couldn't dream of affording, the hand made ones are from his mother I feel like, with your personal preferences in mind.

-i feel like he would see you shaving with a disposable razor or even just a plastic one and be appalled. He will shave you with a straight razor, which he's very good at. Steady hands and all that blade training coming in handy. He would also learn how to wax/sugar if that's what you prefer. If you insisted, and I mean full blown conniption fit several times, he will call someone to privately do it. It might be someone from the league.....it might not. Who's to say?

It doesn't matter what hair texture or style you have, he WILL be giving you a scalp massage and oiling it. He will also be putting in whatever hair products you use for you. He's desperately touchstarved so he loves the fact that the scents he associates with you linger on his hands, even if they're not his preferred scents.

-i feel like he would have a fairly clean scent to him. Nothing to musky or sweet. Some sort of herb and tea mixture. Like a matcha/green tea with a bit of honey, amber, chamomile and maybe even a bit of dark cocoa/chocolate to bring that initial almost bitterness back. Well balanced, green florals with a tad bit of sweetness that doesn't get cloying and a hint of earthiness. Uses a plain peppermint lip balm.

Also the process of explaining things like everything showers or girl dinner/math to him would be similar to explaining what a cell phone is to a Victorian child.

Much love from Damian anon (I really need to figure out a shorter sign off, even just Damian anon is still long as frick)

god this kinna hit the spot i needed the relaxation today EHEHEH... DAMIAN SPA DAY.... IM HAVING IDEAS

as a grower of body hair thank you for the clean shave dami 🙏🏾 (kinda a fantasy for a guy to shave me with no disgust . im sure that stems from some trauma of being a woman <3 we live in a society <3)

every black damian fan screamed BEGGING YOU TO BRAID MY HAIR FOR ME DAMI....S AVE ME DAMIAN SAVE ME DAMIAN, DAMIAN SAVE ME

oh god i agree i think he'd have such a nice "clean" scent to him... refreshing... maybe like match or mint like you said... and some lightly-sweet aromatics idk . lord i dont know smells <3

this was eggcellent im putting it in my recs tag

now im going to search up what everything showers are bc i know girl dinner/math but not that . if i told damian about girl dinner he'd be appalled . he'd be like "That's a level of desolate nutrition I've only experienced during assassin training or a mission in the Alps."

#recommend #ask

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randomfoxehs-belly · 5 months ago

Text

Still thinking Dragon Quest thoughts but DQ11 is running out of steam for me so I'm switching to DQ3's remake properly lol

And that game is making me think of a different noms oriented DQ inspired idea track I've had, with a bunny preyboy protagonist instead >3> Name of Mudison, because his dad would be name Muda.

Thinking of basically like, he was taken in as an orphan by a foxeh who used to be an devil demon king overlord final boss dude who was in charge of a nation of monsters (predators), but that was a long time ago and now he's just living in seclusion. Found the bunny infant after his home was destroyed during a storm and his family was gobbled up by preds, so he took the child in and raised him to be a 勇者 "yuusha" (the "hero" title in japanese in Dragon Quest) because he thought that'd be funny.

was basically ruling the world being a walking natural disaster and kingdom devourer, then one day was like "okay this is boring I'm done" and just up and disappeared. Various stories about what happened to him, but no one really knows the truth. That he just dipped lol. Found prey protag boy alone and was like "this might be fun for a while I guess" and adopted him raised him to be RPG protagonist OP busted O-o

Finally once he turns 16 his dad boots him out to go become an adventuring hero dude, and the bunny is all like " c= " cuz he's a real boy scout paragon type who wants to help everyone and solve problems.

Dressed up like this cuz I DO love the Erdrick costume lol

Heads into the closest castle town to get his start, first person he runs into literally runs into him because she's a thief-y mouse girl. She yoinks his coinpurse but he snatches her hand. And while she's like >.>'' he's just like " =3 hi, speaking of my money, know where I can get some more? Don't think I have enough to buy some proper adventuring gear with." And she's like =x well you can always go gamble it at the town Arena.

And he's like oh cool an Arena, I can fight in that and get prize money maybe, good suggestion ^^

And mouse girl is like =/ yeah no, I said you should try betting on the fights, not actually JOIN the fights. Little bunny boy like you would get gobbled up instantly.

But he's already heading towards the fight pits and she's like >.> and follows along. He enters to fight despite all skeptism, and uses the Arena provided sword and shield gear. Gets sent out to fight some "Monsters"

In this setting I'm basically imagining it just being furries. Prey species furries as the "civilized" ones with towns and castles and whatnot. Pred animals just being overworld and dungeon dwelling random encounter dudes. In place of the typical fantasy monster races, you'd just have carnivore furries. like going through the monster manual and just making them lions and tigers and bears instead lol. Instead of harpies, you'd have raptors like eagles and hawks. Instead of orcs, you'd have boars. Ect. Probably still would be dragons though cuz dragons HAVE been pretty much coopted by furries lol.

So he goes out in the Arena to fight the Arena preds, like beefy tiger dude and wolf dude and bear dude. And long story short he totally wins in a darkhorse victory. Using unique Yuusha magic like Zap to pull out the win. Gets the prize money for beating the Arena. And as he leaves the mouse thief girl is like hey wow good job not getting eaten, and it turns out she bet on him and made BANK because he was the underdog. Her name is Hazel. He wants to start an adventuring party which he invites her to join. She says she'll think about it, but the next day after he buys some Adventure gear she meets up with him at the pub where they go to recruit two more Party members.

First recruited party member to join is a black mage squirrel boy, big hat logan sized wizard hat and he casts from a spell book. He's a squeaky book worm type. He joins up because the news about a bunny boy winning at the arena was making waves in the city so he figured he should tag along with a strong adventurer and go out and get some practical experience.

Last to join the party is a white mage dog girl. Canines are predators, but dogs are domesticated and it's a whole world building thing. Dogs are the only carnivores accepted in prey society, because they can be trusted to at least ask prey permission before eating them and know that No means No. But the mousie and squirrelly would still be a little nervous about her asking to join them, because she's have MASSIVE fat voluptuous knockers. Just huge boobs. And preds having weight on them like that is an overt indication that they've eaten people - like her tits are obviously that big because she ate some dudes and they went to being padding on her breasts. But she promises that they were willing prey and in fact she has offered to let them out, but they like being a part of her, she's a good girl she promises. Bunny boy has no scruples about letting her join since he was raised by a predator anyway so he's nonplussed about it anyway (he does not reveal this information naturally.)

So we got Yuusha (hero) bunny boy, thief mouse girl, black mage squirrel, and white mage doggy. Going on QUESTS

#dragon quest #dragon quest noms #foxeh #discussing vore #v0re #soft vore

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excadrill · 2 years ago

Text

tagged by @yj-98 ilyyy 🫶🫶🤍

RULES: Reveal the titles of the documents in your WIP folder and tag as many people as there are documents. Let others ask questions about the ones that interest them and post snippets or explain the contents as you see fit!

tag as many people as their are wips.. eep.. sorry i'd put this under a cut but it's not working on mobile 😭

ankhgiveaway.sai [i held an art giveaway in february and havent finished the prizes even tho i keep looking at them and going 'i need to and Want to finish this..']

yuukigiveaway.sai [same as above but the person who requested this one deactivated so i. don't know if i'm still gonna finish it]

sonomomo.sai [my current priority 'For Me' wip.. ive shared this wip w some people but ive never done a proper piece for the 'cycle of life and death' thing for them so that's what this one is..💙❤️]

exozinewip5.sai [pokemon zine oc piece, not supposed to share zine wips so idk if i should say more but it's of my beloved gymsona.. this zine will be free + digital and i'll ofc be promoting it more when it's done but it's soooo cute keep your eyes out for this one :3c '5' not bc im contributing multiple pieces but bc this piece is big and slightly intimidating for me so i keep saving different versions when i do major merges]

pocketzine-nymble.sai [another pokemon zine piece, so i can't really say more But it's not the only thing im contributing to this zine, ive just finished all my other stuff already]

oczine-thumbs.sai [thumbs for an oc zine i signed up for that i'll probably drop out of bc im not feeling like a vibe w everyone else there >w>;;; ]

philip.sai [philip piece ive had sitting around basically since i finished W.. about a year ago now i think ? but i transferred it to my '23 wips folder bc i still wanna finish it..it was supposed to be a 'this one will be quick and easy so i'll have smthn i Finished this month outside of zine stuff' but. zine stuff took up all my time and energy oops]

mrtourism.sai [this one's a silly post-canon kirihiko art i've Also had sitting around for like a year. i chip away at this one sometimes but then keep restarting bc im unsatisfied with the lines i wish i could just sit down and finish it bc i Love Him]

platform.sai [ummm silly ryotaro thing i drew after watching the den-o final stage ^__^ not a high priority one but it's cute so like. maybe one day]

punkjackhelmet.sai [file name was bc i was originally doing helmet studies before it turned into a full sketch. punkjack with the beat buckle bc i was doing this right after his special came out 🎃🫶]

colourwheel.sai [ummm well. yeah im not good at finishing art memes when theyre still on trend. i did all the sketches for these but i probably won't finish at this point..]

poppyangel.sai [poppy ex-aid i sketched as a break between big stuff the other day that i like a lot so. maybe will finish but might just post unfinished if i cant find the energy to get to this one sooner. feel bad that i like ex-aid so much but don't have any clean art done for it..]

millirider.sai [toku oc planning :3 i was saying last night i finally figured the helmet out which ive been struggling with for ages so hopefullyyyy i get around to doing a proper ref sheet]

im not at my laptop rn so im doing this off the top of my head but i THINK that's everything.. tagging umm @ankhisms @heartvisor @madaraki @circeancity @horrorcomedies @yu3s @pleuvoire @kosukeiichi @danothan @seashrine @asticassia @eclipse-song @kirider only if you guys wanna 🤍🤍

#simon says

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padfootdaredmetoo · 2 years ago

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Please can I have a Tommy x daughter fluffy fic where as her mums died she asks him to come with her to try on ballgowns with her and he doesn’t like a few for different reasons but he gets emotional when she finds the perfect one

Hey Anon,

Hope this does it justice - this request got me in the feels. Thanks for waiting. <3

Warnings: Teen drama, mentions of funerals and death - peaky related stuff

There were a lot of things you kept to yourself when it came to your father. Most of which Esme and Polly would wrangle out of you and give you advice for.

You were close with each other the same way you suspected other fathers and daughters were. He was there to comfort you in his own way (mostly just holding you tightly) when you needed him, he gave you books to read and would try to remember to ask you questions about how you enjoyed them.

He was away a lot for business but he always called you before bed to ask how your day was. Some moments when he’d drank to much you saw the pain in his eyes when he looked at you, a spitting image of your mother but with his eyes.

You adored him, and rarely ever asked him for difficult things knowing he was always stressed.

“Awe, you miss us, don't you? Next time we go you’ll be old enough to tag along. An extra week won't kill you darling.” Esme’s voice rang out over the phone and your stomach sank. You were in a proper situation now. You said your goodbyes but didn't tell her why her taking an extra week's vacation with Pol was a problem for you.

You lit a cigarette and slid down the kitchen wall. They would be home the day of the big charity ball, not the type of event you could get a dress for the morning of. They must have forgotten that they’d promised to take you when they got back. You didn't blame them, this was the one time they got away from kids and the business.

You could ask… Lizzie? She hung around the family, worked for your dad, and seemed nice enough to you when you came by the office. She’d probably be able to help you.

You needed a backup plan, Linda still hadn’t forgiven you for an outburst you’d had at dinner a few weeks ago, but maybe John would help you?

You thought about getting ready with Esme he’d always tell her what looked good. Well, mostly how he enjoyed the way it looked on her, but still Esme always looked very happy with his commentary.

You got up and flicked your cigarette out the window before going to ask for a ride to the office.

You showed up and Lizzie greeted you with a large smile.

“Here to see your dad are you?”

“Well, I was actually - I -” The words got caught in your throat, she was far too pretty. Thinking of her seeing your awkward body in dresses made you shrink away. “Have you seen Uncle John?” You said quickly.

“Should be in his office.” She gave you a look and you thanked her. You knocked on the door and his voice called out.

“Hey kiddo,” he said looking up from a mess of papers. “Your da’s got me right tangled in this stupid paperwork. Give him a kick in the shin when you see him next will ya.”

“Sure.” You laughed. “Guess you're pretty busy then?”

“Be lucky if we survive another week with the hens gone.” He sighed, there was no way he’d be out of this mess any time soon, but maybe he could just tell you what to wear.

“What erm- What types of things does Esme wear that you like?” He looked confused by the question.

“Trying to impress a lad then? Odd person to come to for advice on that.” He scratched the back of his head but before you could fix what you said he’d already carried on.

“Look if he doesn't like you as you are then there's no point in going after him. Gal’s seem to think we care about all the fuss when really - we’re going to see eve-”

“What are you doing, love?” Your father's voice called from the doorway. Happier than ever to see him you sprang up from your seat and moved to give him a hug. Jarred by what you figured John was implying you decided to just pluck up the courage to ask him to go.

“Get that shit done John, needs to be out by tomorrow morning,” John swore at him and you followed your father out of the room his arm steering you into his office.

“What did you need from John?” He asked moving behind his desk.

“Well, I didn't want to bother you.”

“Trust me, love if it's worth asking, it’s not worthy of Johns's advice.”

“Ah, well, I need a dress for the ball.” You stated, and he gave you a curious look. “Um, well it's my first time really going, for the dinner and dancing and everything.” You coughed awkwardly. For a moment you hoped that he would just understand where this was going and tell you he’d help you, but you looked at his face and knew he was lost as ever.

“SO” you said a little too loudly. “I erm - need to get a proper dress, Polly and Esme said they would take me but they won't be back in time.”

You brought your gaze from the wallpaper once more to still see him still looking confused.

“You can have any dress you want, just give me the receipt.” He shrugged.

‘No- I erm. I just- need someone to go with me.” You confessed sounding irritated. “I don't know what looks good - I’m not good at that type of stuff. John always tells Esme what he thinks about her dresses when we get ready so I figured he would be a good person to ask.”

“I’ll take you.” He said uncomfortably. “We can go after-” He looked down at his schedule. “Can it wait till after dinner?”

“Oh, yeah - thanks”

“No problem,” He said with a nod looking only slightly put off.

“I’ll head back to the house -”

“I’ll grab you at 7”

You gave him a nod and then left the office saying bye to Lizzie.

Dinner was nice, you rarely ever went out to eat. You rambled on about a book you were reading and your dad followed along. Eventually, you started to tuck into your meal and he sighed.

“So there's a boy then?” He asked looking pained.

“No?” You said startled with a mouth full of mashed potatoes.

“No?” Tommy repeated looking at you with the look he gave when he felt you were lying. As a kid, you thought he had superpowers and could see in your mind.

“No” You shook your head grabbing your glass of water.

“John mentioned -”

“He didn't understand what I was asking. Don't need to be interested in a boy just because I don't want to show up in front of all those people wearing something embarrassing.” You said defensively, face flushing.

Tommy let out a hum and finished the last of his drink. Your last comment seemed to put him off even more.

You finished up dinner and then headed to a fancy-looking shop. The sign on the door said closed but you followed behind your dad as he pushed the door open.

The lady barely took notice of you as she shook your dad's hand, ensuring she would take care of anything he needs. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as she touched his arm.

He turned to you “alright free rein of the place, go pick some out that you like. I’ll start on this side.”

You almost wanted to laugh as if it was a joke but your father moved passed the woman and started on the far wall. She looked over your body and began pointing out some to try on.

You thought about her suggestions and said you would try them to be polite. If you turned up looking like a frosted cupcake Esme would never let you hear the end of it.

You moved to the long dresses and found a nice dark red one. It was a shimmery fabric but it was dark enough that it wouldn't bring too much attention. You had a feeling that it was the right one, but with the lower neckline you felt it might be a fight to take it home. You decided it was worth it and asked the woman to take it to the dressing room for you.

You found another few that you liked well enough, all of them were black and made of various materials.

You met back up with your dad in the lounge and saw him sipping another glass of amber liquid, a cigarette in his hand. He met your gaze and held his hands up in mock surrender.

“Wasnt much help out in the field but it’s only because I have faith in your abilities.”

You gave him a smile, happy to see him in better spirits. You put the first one on and hated it immediately. It was much too tight and it would be impossible to dance in.

“Not very practical.” You waddled out and you watched him point back to the dressing room sternly. “Alrighty then,” you murmured feeling embarrassed.

You tried the cupcake one on next and fought to work up the courage to walk out in it. You struggled to get it through the doorway and your father actually laughed.

A proper healthy loud laugh that was contagious.

“I feel like Esme would take the piss for ages if I wore this.” You looked yourself over in the mirror.

“Not just Esme. Didn’t think it would be possible to make you look anything less than gorgeous. In that line of thinking it might not be so bad after all. Don’t want this mystery boy enjoying himself too much.”

“Dad!” You snapped before fighting back into the dressing room. “There is no boy.”

“If you say so.”

You wore one of the black ones next. You walked out feeling comfortable, you thought the black would go with any jewelry and looked classy.

You looked at your dad and his face twisted slightly.

“No black.” His tone of voice took you off guard.

“Why not? You’ll be wearing black?” you asked trying not to get worked up.

“No black.” He said firmly and you knew better than to challenge him when he sounded like that.

You went back into the room.

“Ah - that leaves one left.”

“Give it a go,” he called back.

You pulled on the red one and loved it instantly. It was grown up, hugging you in all the right spots without showing too much skin. The color made your blue eyes seem electric.

You liked it so much you didn't want to show it. What if he hated it as much as the black dress? Or thought it was stupid like the pink one.

You took a deep breath and called out. “Don’t be mean.” Then stepped out.

You looked at the mirror avoiding your father. It looked even better in the lighting. Eventually, the silence was too much.

You watched him take the dress in and thought you saw tears in his eyes. You wanted to run back and hide. Why was he being so weird? Even if there was a boy, it’s not uncommon at this age. Heck, most of Esme’s sisters were married by 16.

“That’s the one eh?” He finally said looking at you.

“Yeah. Think I look grown up, but not to - erm- showy”

“Grown up, is one way to put it.” He finished his drink and smiled at you. “I think you look lovely. Your mother has a necklace that will match with the color” He said softly. “-if you want to wear it.” He added hurriedly. For a long time, he thought her things might have been cursed, until one day he came home from a very long trip and said it was him that was cursed. You shivered remembering that night. You always avoided touching her things, her room untouched but not forgotten.

“I would really like that.” You said feeling emotional, you realized that the panic was about wanting to look nice, but some of it was anger that your mother was not there to help you. “Did she wear this color then?”

“Always red.” He nodded.

“Ah - well, I can see why.” You looked back in the mirror.

“Look - I know this sort of thing would have been more fun with Pol or Esme- and you probably miss your mum a lot these days. Lots of changes and whatnot.” He waved his hand uncomfortably. “But - well, I enjoyed this. I don’t mind being around for this stuff. I wouldn't have liked you more as a boy or anything like that” He cleared his throat.

Tears started to spill over something you hadn't even realized you were worried about.

“I love you.” You said. Felt strange standing on a platform saying it down to him as a saleswoman was probably judging them from the shadows somewhere.

“Love you too.”

On the ride home you both made jokes about different things, Arthur and John weren't very good at taking over for Pol and Esme and you enjoyed your dad’s commentary about trying to keep the place running.

When things quieted down you finally felt that you needed to end this boy nonsense.

“Dad?” You asked wondering how he kept the car straight while fumbling with getting a cigarette out and lighting it.

“Yeah?”

“There really isn't a boy, if there was John is the last person I would ask. One time he picked me up from school, years ago, and a boy, Tim Weatherby, had waved to me. He ran his car into the back of his parent's car three times before driving off.”

You watched your father let out another laugh. “Always classy.”

“I’d tell you first obviously. Esme would get too excited, and Pol would worry.”

“And what would I do then Eh?” He asked raising an eyebrow.

“Probably meet him and scare his pants off.” You answered honestly.

“That’s a good thing then?”

“Obviously. If he comes back it's because he really likes me.”

__________________________________

EXTRA - Tommy's POV

Watching her walk out in a black dress made the fleeting moments of humor leave him. He sort of saw her in the gown but his mind flashed back to that scared little girl all dressed in black.

“No black.” He said slightly out of control of the feelings biting into him.

“Why not? You’ll be wearing black?” He could see that you wanted to argue but he couldn't stand to see you in that dress any longer.

“No black.” He said firmly and you looked a bit deflated before retreating back to the dressing room. His mind pulled him back to that day. You attached firmly to his side, dressed in all black. The way you tried so hard to behave, tucking your face into his neck to cry as they lit the vardo on fire. How you even tried to hit Polly when she tried to take you from him. How you would panic if he was out of your sight for more than a few minutes.

No black. He ran his fingers through his hair.

The next dress hurt nearly as bad. Tears he had not cried in years welled up in his eyes as he looked at you taking in your body in the mirror.

So much like your mother, the style of the dress, the color. You were going to be an adult in a blink of an eye. Only small traces of that little girl left in your features. Now there would be boys and time left with it being just the two of you would start to slip away.

He thought the dress was much too showy, you didn't understand that yet though. Considering you would be standing next to him the whole night he figured it would be alright. You could pair it with your mother's jewelry and he could get Pol to convince you to wear it with a shall or something.

Eventually, your eyes looked at him for approval and he felt guilty for snapping at you. There was a very evident look of self-consciousness on your features. He wished it came more naturally to him.

“That’s the one, eh?” He said and enjoyed the way your eyes lit up. He may not be the best dad, but he would try hard to spend the last time he had with you. Find things to do with you, before you became busy with the rest of the world.

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