#not to mention writing and drawing again!...

[grandline-fics]

Hello! I just found your blog and I am reading everything that you have (while working🤐)

I have to say I am in love with your writing. You are amazing, can't put the phone down.

I would love to be in the tag list for everything that you will write in the future.

Also if you don't mind can I ask for the Promp "Conforting Kisses" where the reader had a nightmare of the getting badly hurt and they give them kisses to forget maybe?

If you can do it for Luffy, Ace and Shanks I will be thankful for ever. If you don't want to write it is okey💕

Hope you have a great day! 💕

Thank you again for writing💕💖

DESCRIPTION: Prompt: Comforting Kisses

WARNINGS:  descriptions of injury, mentions of death. slight angst. hurt to comfort

CHARACTERS: Luffy, Shanks

WORDS: 1,340

A/N: Thank you so much for your support and this request! I made a mistake and mis-read it to think you wanted the reader to do the comforting. I also only managed to get something for Luffy and Shanks for this but I hope this is still to your liking and you enjoy how it turned out.

*REQUESTS ARE OPEN*

DIRECTORY | PROMPT LIST

———————

LUFFY

He was so much stronger than he had been when you first met and joined him on the crew. Luffy had spent two years under Rayleigh’s instruction to ensure he’d never lose anyone else close to him again. So now why was he staring in horror, completely helpless and unable to intervene as you were overwhelmed by multiple heavy hitting opponents he’d defeated in the past. Each one got hit after hit on you, ignoring Luffy’s yells for them to leave you alone. As strong as a fighter as you were normally you were no match against these monsters striking all at once. You didn’t even seem to notice Luffy as he screamed and struggled to get to you. The Captain could only watch as your attackers fell back into shadows while you fell to your knees as a wave of Magellan’s poison and Akainu’s magma came crashing over you.

Luffy awoke with a shuddering gasp, limbs locked tightly and body trembling as the cold sweat broke over his skin. With every rapid breath he took, the images he’d just detached himself from flashed in his mind in the dark. Every desperate gulp of air just brought more of a panic, drawing him back to the darkest, lowest point in his life when he’d realised he was weak and couldn’t save his brother. What would he do if he lost you? Before a new panic could set in, he caught the sound of soft footsteps approaching. Immediately he was out of bed and approaching the door, opening it before you could even knock. “Oh, couldn’t sleep either Lu-”

Before you could finish your question, Luffy had his arms out like a shot and pulled you against him. Laying his head against your chest the sound of your heartbeat finally began to ground him, rooting him in reality and not the horrible nightmare that still clung to him. You’d initially tensed at the hug Luffy drew you into, not because of it being unexpected-it wasn’t given how affectionate he was with everyone-but because of how timid he seemed. This wasn’t a usual Luffy hug, filled with warmth and happiness. As you wrapped your arms around his shoulders you could feel the tremor in his frame and took note of how every so often his arms would try to pull you closer. Angling one hand you settled your finger’s against the back of his head, moving in gentle motions to help him relax from whatever nightmare he’d clearly had. 

Lightly you pressed a kiss against the top of Luffy’s head, a small smile tugging at your lips when Luffy slowly lifted his head to meet your gaze. It was reassuring to see he seemed more himself albeit still a little shaken. “Can you do that again? Felt nice.”

“Sure.” Leaning forward you pressed a longer but just as gentle kiss against his forehead, your smile growing to hear and feel Luffy’s body relax from the comforting action. You pulled back to watch him carefully. “Ready to go back to bed? I can stay with you if it helps.”

Unsurprisingly Luffy’s gaze hardened at the suggestion. He was tired, he wasn’t going to lie but at the same time he hesitated. The last thing he wanted was to have that nightmare all over against your offer of staying helped him greatly. 

Together you moved back into Luffy’s room and lay down in the bed. Taking naps with Luffy was never anything new but since starting a relationship with him this was the first time you were going to spend the night in his bed. As much as you didn't like the circumstances that led to this but you couldn’t deny how right it felt to lie in Luffy’s arms, pressing comforting kisses against his head as he fell asleep to keep his nightmares away. 

SHANKS

Shanks knew this image well. Loguetown’s town square filled to the brim of people, their heads turned towards the towering execution block and awaiting the procession to appear on the top podium. Overhead thick grey clouds quickly swept in and darkened the clear morning, rain falling heavily as the winds began to shriek. Shanks lifted his arm to shield his eyes, his gaze firmly on the Marines who appeared. Your name was shouted out for the audience to hear and immediately Shanks’ body froze when the two Marines stepped aside and you were roughly shoved onto your knees. 

Your body looked so frail and small on top of the execution block. Even from where he stood he could see the bruises and cuts against your body as you knelt, hands held firmly by the heavy iron shackles and chains. Shanks quickly began to push through the crowd, trying to get to you but for every person he moved out of his way more replaced them. No, this couldn’t be happening. While the two Marines drew their weapons in preparation of what was to come, another stepped forward to begin calling out the charges. 

“You have been found guilty for aiding and abetting, harbouring, and consorting with known Pirate Emperor Red Hair Shanks on multiple accounts spanning years. For this clear defection of the World Government’s rule and repeated alliance with dangerous criminals we can only treat you as a pirate and deem only one punishment is suitable; death.” Over the pelting rain and thunder, Shank’s yell for you was swallowed and you defeatedly hung your head. Your eyes slid closed as you waiting the swinging of the blades, arcing straight for you. 

Shanks woke sharply, a deep pit of ice twisting painfully in his stomach as his heart thundered loudly in his ears. It was so incredibly rare for Shanks to feel powerless or weak, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a nightmare and any that came to mind paled in comparison to what he’d just seen. He’d never allow any harm to come to you, in all the years he’d known you and loved you he’d made sure the Marines and any pirate rivals he had knew nothing about you. Glancing down he saw you sleeping peacefully against his chest. Logic told him you were fine, you were safe. He could feel your warmth and feel your soft breath against his skin but still it couldn’t replace the images of your beaten body about to be put to death. 

Knowing it was irrational and stupid, he couldn’t help himself. Lightly he spoke your name and gently shook your shoulder. Immediately you stirred, a hum of sleep thickened confusion breaking from your lips. Shifting so you were on your stomach you blinked through the haze and looked to Shanks in sleepy concern, knowing he’d never wake you unless it was necessary. “Shanks? What’s wrong?”

“Sorry love, really I am.” Shanks explained softly, letting his fingers gently move in soothing patterns against your skin. Seeing you awake and hearing your voice already doing wonders to dispel the hurt his subconsciousness had created. “Had a bad nightmare. Just needed you.”

Immediately your gaze sharpened enough and you nodded in understanding. It wasn’t often but anytime you had a nightmare and Shanks was there he’d wake and be there with you until you’d calmed. Now it was your turn. 

Slowly you pulled yourself up and inched closer. With a feather-light touch you pushed the stray strands of red hair from his face before caressing his jaw. Leaning in you pressed sweet, caring kisses against his face. You started at his eyes, paying close attention to his scars before moving to his temple, then the bridge of his nose, his cheeks before finally settling your lips against Shanks’ pulling him into a deep, tender kiss, clearing the remnants of his nightmare away. Breaking apart you lay your forehead against Shanks’, smiling when he lifted your hand to his mouth, kissing your wrist, a clear sign he was becoming more like his usual self. “When the crew and I leave this time, you want to come with me?”

——————————————-

TAG LIST (If I’ve missed anyone or if you want to be added just let me know) @3v37773, @tsaaps , @i-am-all-love-puns-and-lazy , @sanemisnonexistenteyebrow , @fiery-captain-spider-santa, @kabloswrld , @atanukileaf , @ane5e , @stuckinthewrongworld , @deathsmajestysworld , @cloudysunset04 , @chillerkiller , @extremely-ashtridic , @decayingpizza , @liesatemyocean , @ace-for-ace , @nerium-lil , @destynelseclipsa , @dreamcastgirl99 , @my-name-is-heartache , @iamn1ya ,  @yunho-leeknow , @hinata7346 , @h0oouwlss , @missrandomdreamer , @sleepykittycx , @ddawn111 , @jaygrl22 , @sylum , @acehyacinth , @resident-cryptid , @treelogirl , @maellem , @its-a-dam-blue-brick , @thulhu , @appalost , @dindjarins1ut , @irumawife , @laidenbreecatchall

[lala056]

Exhausting

I have no respect for billford shippers that look down on stancest shippers.

Oh what, you’d have me believe a genetic tie to a partner is somehow worse than being with someone that stabs through your hands, forces you to swallow live spiders, and also SA’s you by having yourself forcibly strip down in public and swing your clothes over your head like a helicopter? (sorry but anyone that forcibly removes your clothes and exposes your body, even if you’re a guy/lacking breasts and it’s just your chest, is committing SA against you. They’re exposing your body against your will plain and simple. Try to write that off how you like but that’s the facts)

The logic behind this baffles me honestly.

There’s a reason Alex titled that kissing drawing as "the worst drawing in the world" and then linked to an amazon BIBLE page (yeah I know that was part of a joke well guess what he frequently uses the bible joke for shipping in general so yeah).

Because he knows it’s BAD, TOXIC, PROBLEMATIC AS YOU GUYS LIKE TO LABEL THINGS. What I see people incorrectly accuse PROSHIPPERS to REPRESENT rather than the actual representation of the LIVE AND LET LIVE CREDO OF SHIPPING.

Ever stop to consider that maybe Alex didn’t do stancest or art involving Wendy/Dipper because he simply a) didn’t like those ships, which is valid since everyone has their own tastes, and he did base some of these characters on his own family so it’s close to home for him, or b) knows how toxic and chronically online a lot of haters are? That he wanted to avoid drama for this stream that he’s trying to milk every cent out of for CHARITY? (It's ridiculous how many times he felt obligated to say "REMEMBER IT'S FOR CHARITY" when shipping came up just to try and prevent any meltdowns from uptight fans and viewers. And even then he still didn't do some because he knew the fact of it being for charity still wouldn't fly for some- because a lot of people would rather watch REAL PEOPLE SUFFER to preserve their fictional sensitivities)

Not to mention he still works with Disney (chibiverse hello), any backlash (the form of false pedo accusations or incest apologist accusations being what happens to be thrown around all willy nilly nowadays over fictional bullshit) could get him blocked not only from working with the company ever again, but lose any input he might have over his beloved passion project and baby Gravity Falls itself?

This is a man who has said COUNTLESSLY that he doesn’t care about ships, has even encouraged people to "be weirder" and made omelet hypotheticals for how much HE DOESN’T CARE BECAUSE FICTIONAL SHIPS DON’T MATTER.

Alex Hirsch is a KING.

And it’s sad to see that so many of his loyal subjets are so bigoted and blind to ignore his own feelings in order to justify their own, or to somehow perform the mental gymnastics in order to absolve themselves of "thought crimes" so that they can feel like they aren’t bad people under the imposition of conservative purity culture.

The terms "cest" and "age" are trigger words now. If those show up in any form, pitchforks come out and roofs get burned. Companies overreact and overcompensate. He said Disney people were watching, so of course he’s gonna say and act in what is deemed an appropriate manner because even companies apparently prefer abusive relationships to ones that have a blood tie even if blood ties are wholesomely depicted.

The age old double standards.

And don’t get me started on bringing up Dipper Goes To Taco Bell. Alex and cast know of that story, they’ve made references to it in a video game and such, immortalized it. They engage with all corners of their fandom, also shown by Jason’s "saving the town" reference on stream.

Another thing, anyone notice how they laughed off the Dipper and Wendy suggestion Jason made, rather than exploded? BECAUSE THEY DON'T CARE IT'S NOT THAT SERIOUS - and most likely turned them down because they know there's more drama about characters being aged up and crap so it wouldn't have mattered if they're adults now, there are people who will always see them as "kids".

Point is - If there was such a strong hate on Alex’s part about the darker side of fiction or taboos he’d do all in his power to make sure they were never mentioned again and be active against them. 

He’s a kind, caring man that obviously likes to just get along with people, but he does put his foot down when he feels something is awful. He’s made political posts about presidents he feels are corrupt and spoken out against social injustice. You honestly think he wouldn’t speak out about those taboo ships in frank language if he thought that they shouldn’t exist and that the people who create for them are awful?

Newsflash, he would. Yes, he’d isolate a sadly small part of his fanbase, but he’s shown time and again he doesn’t care about being liked. He cares about what’s right.

And abusing others over which made up character kisses who, isn’t.

If you’re someone that mislabels proshippers too, to mean "problematic shippers", then as a billford shipper you’re one by definition. And yes, I'm including you AU billford shippers too because there is always some degree of toxicity.

Knock the hate and abuse off. People that go off about why their ship is justified and another isn't are the reason people leave fandoms and leave amazing works often unfinished, even Gen writers and artists.

[dollwrites]

Hi doll 👋 I noticed you write for Psycho Pass, so can I request a Kogami x fem reader, oral fixation?

Psycho Pass smut is hard to come by, thank you for your service ❤️

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｔｙｐｅ ┊ shorthand / request

ｃｏｎｔｅｎｔ ｗａｒｎｉｎｇｓ ┊ smut ( minors dni ), oral fixation ( pillow biting & thumb sucking ), missionary, mentions of minor injuries, cumshot, all characters featured are aged 18+

ｉｍｐｏｒｔａｎｔ ┊ please reblog && leave feedback. not proofread so there’s probably mistakes. thanks for reading < 3

Kogami was, on typical, a quiet lover. aside from the ragged breathing, only the occasional moan or grunt or, “Fuck,” would escape his parted lips in a baritone so husky and wanton that it always made your head spin. and, of course, there was the closeness. it was as if he wanted every, single inch of his body to mold into yours, to pin you to the bed with his hard, muscular frame, and allow his strong legs to anchor himself there. with his chest smashing against yours, and his fists at your wrists on either side of your head, locking your hands— palms towards the ceiling in surrender to his lovemaking, you couldn’t exactly bite on your fingertips. it was a habit you’d always had, and he knew that, but he enjoyed the way you submitted to him, enjoyed watching your hands clench into semi-fists when he hit just the right spot, and the crescent shaped scratch marks left on your palms when you unfurled them.

still, your mouth needed to be occupied, in order to keep yourself from biting on your lower lip. the tier was already split in the corner from a scuffle during the night’s assignment, and any amount of nipping would surely reopen the wound that had only just begun to stop throbbing. so, instead, you’d curled to your left, nuzzling your head against the pillow beneath it. the cotton was already damp with sweat, but you couldn’t help but take it between your teeth. it muffled your own whimpering, and brought you a mild amount of comfort as Kogami’s steady bucking of his hips rocked your bed, the legs scraping against the floorboards.

Kogami had perfected his strokes, whether he’d learned from fucking a thousand women before you or he was simply born with a gift for it, you didn’t really care to know. what you knew was that he was with you now, and that his thrusts were deep and slow and maddening. hilting himself in your guts, giving you a breath or two to really feel him throbbing inside you, and then withdrawing nearly to the point of the engorged, pink tip popping free of your clenching cunt before he would dive back in. and, when he was his deepest, he would grind himself into you, stirring his cock against your spongy, inner walls and nerves until you were mewling and arching and needy.

your tongue presses itself flat against the pillowcase, drawing a wad of it up into your mouth and suckling hard as your eyes roll happily— your legs wrapped around his waist trembled and tightened, your bare heels digging into his lower back to push him deeper, a silent plea for him not to pull out. you can taste the salt of your cocktailed perspiration in the fabric in your mouth, and it only heightens your senses, makes you more acutely aware of how deep he is in you.

Kogami groans, releasing both of your hands at once. once of his arms hooks just along the blade of your shoulder, his hand cupping the crook where your shoulder and neck meet from behind, and he pulls it back as flat against the bed as he can, demanding you pull away from the pillow and instead, lay flat for him to loom over again. “You’re close,” he murmured, amidst heavy panting. “And I don’t want you hiding like a little girl when you cum.” his free hand snakes along your chest, taking a moment to grope your jiggling breast as affectionately as possible, running his calloused thumb over the pebbled nipple, before his hand careens up the side of your neck and grasps your face. four fingers curl beneath your chin, stabilizing your head flush and back against the pillow, whilst his thumb runs along the shape of your couplet. first, the top, tracing your Cupid’s bow and gathering the beaded sweat that gathered along it. and then, swiping along your lower lip, being gentle against the gash in the corner. dark eyes fixed and lidded on your mouth as he traced it, his thin brows furrowed in pleasure. “I want you looking up at me.”

it was instinctual. the way your lips parted, and your teeth sank into the flesh of his thumb to pull it into your warm mouth. you couldn’t help yourself, not when he was offering it up so perfectly. and he didn’t resist your need to suck, he pushed the digit deeper until you sealed your lips around the knuckle. your tongue flattens out, and your teeth graze his salty skin. but, even as the delight of being fucked so deeply and his thumb crowding your mouth began to draw out a powerful, body-wracking orgasm, you didn’t look away. you locked your eyes with his, pouring every ounce of passion into the gaze that you could muster. your body had begun to tighten up, which in turn, was driving Kogami wild. a breathless grunt of approval falls from his lips when he feels your inner walls spasming, tightening around him, milking his aching cock for what he’s worth. his arm muscles bulge against your back, his fingers gripping your shoulder tight enough to leave faint, white marks beneath them, and his balls draw up tight, even as they smack against your ass. “Fuck,” he hissed again, this time with much less self control as he drives himself into you a few more times, right up until the moment he was about to lose all control, before he snarled and begrudgingly pulled out of you.

you trusted him, trusted his control, but you couldn’t help the whimper of disappointment that always escaped whenever he had to pull out of you to cum. of course, pregnancy was completely out of the question for two enforcers, but you had always wanted to know what it would feel like if he spilled inside you.

you wouldn’t get your wish tonight, however, as Kogami was as diligent as ever, snorting like a beast as he leans back on his haunches, releasing your shoulder to instead grab hold of the base of his twitching cock. he ran the organ, dribbling with his release, along your slit, each time the head catches your swollen clit and sends a jolt of pleasure through your body as it helps to keep the waves of your own climax still rippling. ivory globs of his release webbed to your nerherlips, leaving your core a sticky, dripping mess of his cum. Kogami stared down at his handiwork, the sight of you, fucked out and still sucking on his thumb, your body splayed out before him, heated and slick, and your lovely cunt, marked with his cum. it was almost enough to make his cock hard again. but he knew that you couldn’t take another round, not without rest, so he rolled his eyes at his own vigor and ignored the semi-hard member. instead, he slid up the length of your body to lay beside you, pulling you close to his chest. “Stay like that for as long as you need to.” he muttered, gesturing to his thumb that you still kept quite the tight grip on, suckling away. “I’m not going anywhere.” with your back still against the mattress, shoulder jammed against his sweaty chest, you did just that, allowing the taste of his digit in your mouth and the exhaustion of a good fucking to lull you into a deep sleep.

[sainteclectic]

oh and in case anyone needs it, here's my process for describing my art:

what kind of drawing is it? is it a sketch? a painted piece? is it traditional or digital? are the lines messy, clean, or do they not exist at all? how much of the person is showing? I always put this part first {i.e. "A digital full-body painting of [...]", "A traditional bust shot sketch of..."}

who's the subject of the drawing? if their appearance is relevant or markedly different from their canonical appearance, describe it here. you don't need to describe every detail, just enough for it to be a clear visual in your mind. also, don't get too bogged down in the technical names of things {i.e. "he wears a strapless red ball gown" vs "he wears a vermillion ball gown with a semi-sweetheart neckline and a basque waist". the common reader will probably get tripped up by all the specifics, even if it is more accurate}. if the outfits aren't particularly relevant to the piece, or it's an already established design, you dont have to describe them every time.

what is the person doing? describe the pose—this can get tricky, so i like to take it one step at a time. what position are they in? leaning, sitting, standing? do the position of their limbs stand out in any way {i.e. hands on their hips}? if they're interacting with another person, what are they doing together? again, you dont have to describe every detail of their posture, just things that would stick out as relevant to the piece or the character's personality in it.

what's the general mood of the piece? does the character look happy? is the lighting moody? don't get too subjective here. focus on what the character is feeling, not what the audience might feel looking at them {i.e. "he looks down with a conflicted expression" vs "the drawing looks incredibly sad"}

if there's a detailed background, I like to describe it after the character since it's probably noticed by viewers in that order. describe the relevant parts a person looking at it would be likely to notice {i.e. not every book on a shelf, but noting that it is a bookshelf, and only mentioning titles if they're relevant to the imagery as a whole}

finally, if there's any text on the image, whether it be typed or written, write those down exactly as they come up naturally in the description {i.e. describe dialogue in the same part you describe that part of the drawing, but save things like bios until after the main description}

aaaand that's basically it! I use this as a general checklist for every description I make, and I think it's an easy way to start if you're intimidated by image descriptions. remember, it doesn't have to be a perfect description of every detail - because realistically, most people viewing it wouldn't notice those details, and you want to keep the description as close to the visual experience as possible

and any description is better than no description! every step towards accessibility is worth taking, even if it seems like a small one ^-^

[butterfly-ribbon]

i was thinking about mizuki's gender being listed as unknown again and how everyone else has an explicit mention. people tried to point at that to say she's either not trans OR that she isn't a tgirl (instead a different kind of trans) at some point, but i think that… actively misunderstands the internal intent of the game. like this was done so people wouldn't assume she's a cis girl and i also think there's an active intent in noting that, but not wanting to say "gender = male" bc this would be misgendering (duh) and for a character who's burying so much of her gender struggles bc of how others deny it, i think it makes sense. there's a struggle, i think, in writing and exploring trans narratives that engage with that… question? idk. maybe it would be better if she was just noted as female from the start and i think she's overdue for that especially after ena5, but i also think there's so much nuance in how she's portrayed that i see saying her gender is "?" isn't meant to actually be a declaration of her gender or meant for the reader to question what her gender is.

in many cases, trans girls are already automatically shunted into that expectation of either a fetish or wish fulfillment (which in many ways are the same thing at a certain point) and that's the conceit of her introduction in the main story in terms of how everyone treats her as an exhibition at school - she's fetishistically mythologized and vilified as an Other type of girl, which is something she tries to reclaim by hiding behind the facade of the Mysterious Manic Pixie Dream (Cis) Girl when she's around niigo bc it's the only way she feels like she can be with them without imposing on them or getting close enough to them to the point of having to reveal her secret due to her desire to avoid being hurt. it's wild to me that the consensus in the past about her was that she's anything but a trans girl when the treatment she's subjected to at the school is textbook transmisogyny and this is something we see immediately in the main story.

people are constantly fetishizing her and treating her like an object to be ogled at. she's constantly under the threat of violence. even when she puts so much work into pushing back just through being full of energy and looking "past" it all, they never stop. there's nothing she can do about a society that refuses to recognize her as a person, much like mafuyu can't do anything to change her own mother.

at most she gets told by others that this person is "just not used to her yet". terrible implications all around bc she's made to feel as though people are just putting up with her existence instead of making the effort to understand something that should be simple about who she is, which makes her feel terrible after she's put so much effort into both explaining herself and making herself as palatable as possible?

i think there are some valid criticism to be raised about how marking mizuki as "unknown" and how it might've contributed to people writing her off as "neither a girl nor boy" and the unfortunate parallels with degendering/third sexing therein. if i were to engage in good faith, i'd say the intent is draw attention to mizuki's gender struggles and make the reader interrogate that (and then ideally arriving at the answer being that she's a trans girl), but i still stand by my take that ena5 should've had her refer to herself as a girl explicitly to reclaim the way she was outed previously. it also always felt like the equivalent of mafumom being 'hidden' due to mafuyu's perception of her as a figure of authority rather than a person until kanade saw her for the awful person she is. in this case mizuki's "unknown" is also meant to tie into her own internalized transmisogyny (e.g. referring to herself as an artificial flower in many songs). mizuki herself plays into the degendering she's been subjected to for her entire life in many ways … we know that in the beginning of high school she actually made effort to explain herself to others and they didn't get it? she presumably said that she's a trans girl but she wasn't taken seriously. now she just finds it exhausting to explain anything and she doesn't want to feel like she constantly has to prove that a trans girl is just a type of girl so she's just like "that's me. i do this bc i wanna be me. this is the person i am, why the hell do you think i would do this, why would i dress this way, why would I put up with people like you if it wasn't obvious." i think there's also a lot we can engage with in terms of the presentation of mizuki which is wholly under her own control vs that which is outside of her control... mizuki finds comfort in niigo and connecting with girls over discord bc she can rewrite her life in such a way to as to obscure her own transness like when she narrates her backstory. the fact that the details of her trauma are so carefully hidden carries a strong intent bc it reads as mizuki's renarrativization due to not wanting to get too much into detail about her own trauma? it feels very meta considering mizuki's genre saviness and the fact that most transfeminine narratives tend to indulge in transmisogynistic violence in really voyeuristic ways... we know mizuki had numerous traumatic coming out moments and i think there's so much to read into the ambiguity around this... she's frankly constantly under the treat of SA as well as a trans girl, but i just appreciate that this is something the writing treats respectfully and affords her so much dignity. to be trans in many contexts is to be expected to give over so much of yourself to people who frequently won't care, won't actually understand how much of yourself you're giving over, and will actively rewrite your narrative to define who you are for you based on their own prejudices… and mizuki communicates that well bc she's allowed to be almost wholly in control of her presentation and her narrative.

[starlit1daydream]

rewatching marble hornets again has made me realise i think i actually undervalued the cast's talent for developing character the first few times i got into it; they're really fucking good writers

like, yeah, mh's primary draw is the horror aspect of it but especially in the later seasons where there's a lot of character-driven moments, the whole main cast feels real in a way that you don't get in a lot of found footage

even the characters whose characterisation is more implicit than explicitly shown (brian as hoody) are really well-done, and what you can glean just furthers your interest in what else there might be

not to mention the relationship developments - i could write a whole essay on the progression of the bond between tim & jay and the tragedy of how it ends for the both of them

[nininikki]

𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒹𝒶𝒹𝒹𝓎 𝒾 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝒾𝓂

⨾༊󠀺 summary: a beautiful socialite and a starving artist come to terms with what their love really means.

⨾༊󠀺 warnings: angst (sorry), class differences, arguing/yelling, reader is a spoiled brat and eren loves her anyway (lmk if i missed anything!)

⨾༊󠀺 author’s note: just a little something i wrote 🙈 nikki write something happy challenge GO

⨾༊󠀺 word count: 2.5k

8:17 PM

“this is the last time i’ll tell ya, (y/n),” the penetrating force of your father’s voice coupled with the strangled squeak of chair legs against the hardwood floor made your spine tense. as though someone had reached into your back and pulled it taut. “i don’t want ya seein’ that boy.”

was your head about to explode? could that be the reason for the ringing that filled your ears? the sudden heaviness of your tongue? as he rose from his seat, you couldn’t help but notice how utterly cloaked you were under the shadow of his stature. “why, daddy?” you hardly registered the force with which you pushed your own chair away from his desk as you stood. “‘cause he’s poor? ‘cause he’s not goin’ to yale? ‘cause he doesn’t have a membership at the club? ‘cause he actually wants to somethin’ worthwhile with his life?”

“tch, worthwhile.” he scoffed as he breached the exit of his study. “the boy wants to do art. he draws pictures, for crying out loud!”

“you’ve seen his paintings, daddy. they’re beautiful.” you staunchly defended, hot on his heels through the hallway and nearing the stairs. “and his name is eren.” the single, thin string of gold around your neck seemed to grow warmer and heavier with the mention of his name. 

“i don’t care if his name was picasso,” your father spat, “you’re not seein’ him again, and that’s that!” 

tears welled in your eyes, but refused to fall. a sob lodged uncomfortably within your throat. “but, daddy, i love him.”

for the first time since the topic arose, your father’s eyes met yours. halfway down the stairs, with the vein in his temple pulsing incorrigibly, he turned to look at you. “you don’t know what love is.”

an incredulous scoff escaped your mouth, and that is when the tears began to trail down your cheeks. not from despair, or heartbreak, but anger. “and you do?” you retorted, gingerly making your way closer to him. “you haven’t loved anyone since mom.”

“i have loved you,” he jabbed his finger in the direction of your face, stopping less than an inch away from the bridge of your nose. “and that has been enough.” his scotch scented breath fanned over your face in the most infuriating, condescending way imaginable. “since your mother died, i have given my life to loving you. protecting you!” you had never heard him sound so eerily vulnerable in your entire life. “and this is the thanks i get? you running off into the sun with dr. seuss?”

you took a step backward up the staircase, your chest heaving rapidly and face surely streaked with sloppy lines of mascara. “how could you say that, daddy? he makes me so happy. how could you say that?”

“well, the things that make us happy hardly ever benefit us, do they, honey?” you caught him chuckling beneath his breath, as if the idea of you having your own opinion was something so funny. “you don’t see it now, but one day you’ll thank me for this.”

then, he circled around you like a vulture, loosening his tie as he ascended the stairs and ventured in the direction of his room. “you’re not seein’ ‘im again. that’s final.”

in the last bit of protest left in your lungs, you shouted, “you can’t make me!”

his hoof-like footsteps came to a halt, but he hadn’t even turned to look at you. “if you love this boy more than your trust fund, i guess i can’t.” 

11:27 PM

hey

talk didn’t go so well

can i come over in like 30

the texts had hardly delivered fully before you were yanking the pajamas off your body and shoving your limbs into the fancy fabric of a stray, hanging dress. a pair of sandals was next. then, eren’s leather jacket. then, your purse. your body was on autopilot as it pried your window open and climbed down the trellis outside of your room. as you pulled your bmw from the driveway and didn’t stop it until you were outside eren’s apartment.

only then did you finally stop to look at your phone. through blurred vision you made out a text that said, just knock when you’re up.

***

eren was beginning to really detest the smell of cigarettes. he had a smoker for a father, and the smell clung to him like a second skin growing up. so it wasn’t as though it was unusual. resentment would be a more fitting word, he concluded. 

the first time he brought you to his place, you sneezed violently upon reaching his floor. his neighbor was an avid smoker, but he wasn’t aware the smell was strong enough to warrant any bodily reaction past a slight gag. it wasn’t your fault, he knew that. he had taken you all around the city that day, and your delicate nose had not agreed with any of it. “i’ve got some zyrtec inside, if you want.” he offered.

“it’s fine, ‘ren, seriously. this is, like, my third sneeze all day.”

it was actually your ninth. he had been counting.

so, yes, resentment was probably the best word. 

as your signature triad of knocks sounded against his door, eren couldn’t help but hope his neighbor had up and kicked the habit. if not forever, then just for this night of all nights.

talk didn’t go so well

he mentally recounted the text as he braced himself against the doorknob. didn’t go so well could have meant any number of things, and he would have no way of knowing for sure until—

another set of knocks disrupted his train of thought, this time accompanied by a wet sniffle.

eren had barely gotten the chance to look at you after nearly swinging the door off its hinges. he could feel you crying. the uncontrollable spasming in your arms and shoulders, choppy breaths turned to weak coughs, your mouth frozen agape in a muffled scream, forehead burrowing itself into his wishbone.

“hey, talk to me,” he whispered, trying to pull your face out of his shirt, hoping it would give you room to breathe if just for a moment. what little he could see of your face was soaked with tears tinged with tension. “it’s gonna be okay, baby, just talk to me.”

it took a couple minutes, wherein eren had led you into his bedroom, freed your shaking shoulders from his jacket, and just barely managed to get you to produce coherent sentences. 

“i’m sorry, eren.” you sighed in what seemed to be utter defeat. your feet swinging to and fro off the side of his bed, bare after you kicked your sandals off. “i tried to make him understand, but he’s never gonna.” at the last word, you let your forehead collapse onto his shoulder with another deep sigh.

as another tear fell from your eye and rolled into the groove above your top lip, eren began to wonder exactly what it was your father had said. he was the very embodiment of foreboding. they had met only once, and eren couldn’t recall him conveying anything resembling approval or even warmth. not in his eyes, his demeanor, or the half-grunts he had substituted for speech.

“hey, hey, look at me.” gently, he took your face in his hands, coaxing your eyes in his direction whilst thumbing away stray tears. “what’d you tell me a couple days ago, hm?” you batted your eyes in a way that made his heart skip before petulantly rolling them. with your face bunched up so delicately in his hands, your fluffy lashes casting soft shadows against your wet cheeks and eyes swimming in vulnerability he could see his reflection in, eren felt for a moment the two of you could transcend all those superficial labels that made loving one another such a challenge.

you were not rich, nor was he poor. there was no yale pre-law track in your future, and he was not an artist struggling to support himself. when you gazed into each other’s eyes with such soft yearning, you were just a man and a woman.

“nobody had to understand but us.” you muttered under a sniffle, momentarily closing your eyes as though the act of optimism physically pained you. just when eren thought he was about to smile, you spoke again. “but, ‘ren, it’s worse this time. he said he didn’t wan’ me seein’ you anymore. or else he’d take away my trust fund.”

in the latter bit of your sentence, your voice became eerily resolved for someone vocalizing every rich kid’s nightmare. the sudden calmness frightened him eons more than your crying. because try as you might to hide it, eren knew you loved being rich. you wore your gold and diamonds like a second skin, almost like a coat of armor. he knew you loved horseback riding, as well as excursions on your father’s yacht. you very scarcely discussed it with him (out of respect, he assumed), but he had become content with the fact that you would choose your money over him every single time.

“i won’t ask you to choose me.”

“what?” your voice cracked over the word. “eren, that’s what i came here to do.”

“well then stop it,” the words flew from eren’s mouth almost instinctively, as though something in his very biology felt that you were too good for him. although there was no denying that as the truth. everything about you—from the heavenly sound that was your laugh to the stack of golden cartier bracelets adorning your wrist. you were better than him, so much so that there wasn’t even a way to describe it. “please, (y/n), just stop.”

you scoffed, dipping your hands into his as incredulity knitted itself within your eyebrows. “stop? stop? no, eren, you don’t get it.” you shook your head vigorously, face straightening out as though you were regaining sense with every movement. “i came here to tell you that i’m choosing you. you’re what i want.”

he studied the curve of your trembling lip, silently wondering if you had gone mad and forgotten exactly what world you were living in. you spoke with the easiness of a girl who never had a worry in her life. eren loved that about you, even now when you sounded more foolish than anything. 

“and you know i can’t let you do that, right?” eren massaged the center of your palm with his thumb in an attempt to remain grounded. he knew it would be all too easy to let himself fall face first into your little fantasy, if only to keep you just a little longer. if he were a more selfish man, he would have. “i won’t let you do that.”

“won’t let me?” you pulled one of your trembling hands away to wipe the fresh tears spilling on your cheek. “please, eren, you’re startin’ to sound like my daddy.”

“well, maybe if he couldn’t talk some sense into you, i can.”

even as eren watched you process each word from his mouth, he was still shocked when you yanked your hands out of his altogether. “don’t tell me…” shakily, you got to your feet. “y-you’re turnin’ me away? you’re sending me back to him?”

“if by him you mean your father who loves you—”

you wasted no time at all interrupting him. it wasn’t exactly hard to tell that you were still grappling with the idea of being told no. “—oh for fuck’s sake, eren! how could you even say that knowing—”

“—and wants the best for you, then yes—”

“—how he feels about you? about us—”

“then yes, i’m sending you back to him!” the words erupted from his mouth and filled the air like poisonous smoke. he was standing now, towering over you, trying to convey the seriousness of the situation through a facade of dominance. had he ever screamed at you before now? the answer was written all over your face in big, wet eyes and a mouth contorted open in a silent cry.

“why?” a sob wracked your body. “i mean, why, eren? i thought you loved me.”

“more than anything, baby. and that‘ll never change. but sometimes love just isn’t enough.”

“love is the only reason i’m here! do you think i would be giving up my entire life if i didn’t love you?”

“and you think i would just let you do that if i loved you?” eren breathed as he fixed the strap of your dress that hung loosely off your shoulder. he tried his hardest to concentrate on how beautiful you looked, and not how he would never be able to afford to buy you anything this nice. “i won’t let you ruin your life so you can play house with me, okay? i care too much for you.”

you crossed your arms over your chest, and said something eren never imagined he would hear you say, “fine.” you said it with such an obvious facade of resolution that eren knew it was too easy to be real. “look me in the eyes and tell me you want me to go away.”

“don’t ask me to do that.”

“it’s the only way you’re getting me out of here.”

eren took a moment to look into your eyes. he had become so good at drawing them that he could do it blindfolded. he brought his hands to either side of your neck and felt your pulse begin to thump at the contact. he wished he could sketch that sweet sound and keep it tucked so close to his own heart that the beats began to synchronize. god, why did you have to make this so hard? 

he kissed you before he could even stop himself. he wanted to curse himself for being so weak, but he was hardly in his right mind whenever he kissed you. he savored the taste of your tongue and the softness of your lips. he kissed you until he could taste the bitterness of your tears. he kissed you so deeply, so passionately that he almost forgot why he was kissing you in the first place. almost.

eren broke away, and did his very best to keep his eyes trained on yours. “(y/n),” a mascara-colored tear streak stained the side of your nose. it’s not fair, eren lamented, holding your face in his hands as steadily as he could. “please go. go live your life, and don’t come back here.”

“you want me to leave?” you whispered as though you were saying some horrible curse word. “is that what you’re saying?”

“yes,” he took his hands off you and moved back a few paces, more for his sanity than yours. “i want you to go.”

silently, you moved across the room to slide your shoes back over your feet before exiting the room in a flurry of ferocious clicks against the floor. 

eren trailed awkwardly behind you, hoping to see you out despite knowing it would only twist the knife deeper inside him. “you’ll thank me for this one day.” he called out as you swung open his apartment door.

without even turning to face him, you sniffled, “fuck you, eren.” before slamming the door behind you and disappearing down the hall.

[unicyclehippo]

Hey, Ollie, you mentioned AGES ago that Show Me the Way Home (Avatrice) had a second chapter, it just wasn't perfect yet-- do you think you'll ever post it? Or is that officially an abandoned fic?

its not abandoned, i actually did some minor editing on it the other day. the problem is that its a very seasonally locked piece in my mind & also im lazy & also a perfectionist & also i want to watch wn again before i keep writing it bc i need to rmbr what the characters are like & basically any one of those obstacles are enough to shut me right down so.

it actually is a four part story & if u want, i can share a little with u now? maybe that'll make me feel better for not posting it yet lmao

thursday 22nd december

// 6:55 //

Beatrice stood by the doorway of her apartment, phone in hand and duffel bag at her feet, and wished she was already at her parent’s holiday home. 

It wasn’t that she thought their reunion would be simple or pleasant; it was more that today had started hot and was getting hotter and her parents kept their home at a crisp twenty-three degrees at all hours of the day and night, environmental impact be damned. As the humidity clung to her, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck, Beatrice’s thoughts drifted to the crystal blue pool and the ocean wind that would blow up from the cove and she checked her phone again for any word from her driver. 

Camila’s voice travelled from the kitchen. ‘Maybe you should take the can opener with you. I mean, what if you need to open a can and you don’t have one? There might be beans. Baked beans, cannellini beans, red kidney beans.’

‘I’m sure my parents have one. They do have a kitchen. And a personal chef.’

Camila heard her. The apartment was too small for her not to have heard but she continued listing off every tinned item she could think of. 

‘Lentils, obviously. Diced tomatoes, crushed tomatoes, peeled tomatoes, puréed tomatoes.’ There was a long pause. Beatrice wondered if Camila was reading the labels of what they had in the pantry; if she was, those lentils had been there for a very long time. ‘Tinned peaches.’

‘I think those come with a tab now,’ Beatrice pointed out. She kept her voice mild, not really wanting to draw Camila’s attention to her hiding place by the door. 

At some point over the last few days, the nerves buzzing under Beatrice’s skin had jumped ship and now Camila was the one pacing the confines of their apartment. She’d picked over every inch of the house in search of things Beatrice might need—which ranged from the useful, like the good phone charger she’d “found” (definitely hadn’t stolen out of her room a month ago) to what could be charitably called not useful, like the can opener—and now she stood at the end of the hall bearing the can opener and a dark frown befitting a serial killer. 

Beatrice cleared her throat. Carefully, she said, ‘I really don’t think I need it.’

Camila looked down at her weapon. ‘Oh. Right. No, sure, of course not.’ She tossed it backward into the living room; it missed the couch, landing instead on the floor with a loud thud, the sound of their rental bond being instantly halved. Beatrice winced. Camila seemed not to have noticed, though, and with her hands now empty she returned to chewing nervously at her thumb nail. She scanned the living room, hawkish, before fixing her attention on Beatrice once more. 

‘Can I help you?’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Camila…’

‘Because you don’t have to. You know that, don’t you? It’s not your only option—you could come home with me again! My parents would love it, we’d all love it, I promise. And you wouldn’t be intruding at all, I swear. The boys ask about you all the time and when you’re coming to visit again.’

‘They’re very sweet.’

‘Sweet! When they want something, sure! They’re still hoping you’ll teach them how to throw people—they bring up your match with Conner every time I call home.’

‘Tell them I’ll think about it.’

‘That can be your Christmas present for them. And Pop, he says you’re the only good one of the bunch.’

‘It’s because I don’t talk.’

‘I know. Poor guy. Christmas in a household of me’s. It’s so loud we have to mime everything for him.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘He turns off his hearing aids.’

‘What? That sneak!’

‘Don’t tell him I was the one that dobbed him in.’

‘It’ll be the very first thing I say—then you won’t be his favourite anymore and the rest of us will have a fair shot.’ Laughter shone in her eyes; it faded a little as she stared at Beatrice, gaze flicking down to the duffel at her feet. ‘I’m serious, Bea. You could call up your parents and tell them you’re not coming anymore. I’d prefer you tell them to go fuck themselves but.’ She sucked in a breath, shook her head. ‘Bea. Don’t waste your time on them. Spend your holiday with people who want you around. Who love you.’

It was a tempting offer. Of course it was.

From the day they met, Camila had been Beatrice’s friend; from the second, her sister. She’d gone out of her way to be all that a sister could be—kind, understanding, supportive, deeply irritating—and offered it all without cost. Her family was just the same. 

Beatrice remembered last Christmas fondly. The singing, the laughter, her chair squashed up to the end of the table next to Camila’s, the friendly chatter, the elbows bumping, the squabbles breaking out, the yet more guests arriving and pulling up a chair, the pass the salt, pass the butter, pass the damn water would you I’m dying over here, where’s the champagne, Arthur we don’t need another bottle of champagne it’s not even midday for Christssake, Beatrice do you want a second serve help yourself sweetheart, when do we open the presents. It had been loud, sometimes overwhelming, and wonderful all the same. 

But. 

Beatrice shook her head. 

Camila sighed. ‘I had to try, obviously.’

‘I know. Thank you.’ She set her hand on Camila’s wrist and squeezed. ‘I appreciate it, very much. Please tell them… Please tell everyone I miss them and that I’ll see them soon.’

‘You mean for your surprise birthday party?’

Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Good. Because mum’s going to need a menu from you—’

‘I thought we agreed we’d buy the food, Camila, I’m not making your mum cook for me.’

‘She likes to cook for her kids. Unless you want me to tell her you’d prefer eating a stranger’s food over hers?’ Beatrice scowled at the bold threat. ‘That’s what I thought. Pick what you want and I’ll tell her. Better yet, text her yourself.’

‘If I know your mother, she has something in mind already.’

‘More like eleven somethings.’ 

They shared an identical grin. Camila’s mother had a small habit of going overboard for parties and events. A buzz broke the moment. They both glanced down at Beatrice’s phone. 

Mr. Morris I have arrived

Beatrice Thank you. I will be there momentarily.

Beatrice nodded. This was it. She slid her phone into her pocket. ‘Mister Morris is here. I should go.’ To Camila’s suddenly stricken expression, she soothed, ‘It will be fine, Camila.’ And, because she was not completely oblivious to Camila’s concern, ‘I will be fine.’

‘I know that. Of course I know that. But I want—you don’t have to be just fine. You should be having fun. You’re my best friend, Bea, I want you to be happy.’

Beatrice paused. She struggled for a moment to think of a way to explain the purpose of this holiday to Camila, explain her purpose, in a way that she would understand and accept. 

‘It means so much,’ she began, carefully, ‘to be welcome in your family. But they will always be your family.’

‘Bea…’

‘You and they are all beyond generous.’ She held up a hand to stop Camila interrupting. ‘I know they love me, and I love them. I do love Christmas with your family. It’s always wonderful and comfortable and fun.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘But this is - this is about me,’ she admitted with difficulty, and was rewarded for the effort when Camila softened. ‘I want to go. I need to find out whether I have a place with them or not. And I’ve been so uncertain of how it might turn out that I haven’t tried. But this invitation is an opportunity. One would like to make the most of.’

Camila grabbed both of her hands and pulled her close. Very intensely, she said, ‘Okay.'

'Okay? Just like that?' Beatrice asked, doubtful.

'Yeah. I’m not going to say I understand because I don’t. It honestly makes me furious and a little bit sick to think of you going back to them. But I love you and I trust you and I want you to call me if you need anything. And whatever happens, Beatrice, you always have a place with me. Always.’

Beatrice smiled. Shifted so that she was the one holding Camila’s hands. Her friend wouldn’t let her go willingly and there was a big part of Beatrice that wanted to let herself be held tight and give in to her friend’s protectiveness, to be bundled safely up into Camila’s terrifying little car and trundling off to visit family. 

It was hard to pull free. 

Beatrice stepped back and opened the door.

‘There’s no need to fret, Camila. I’ll have Ava with me, remember?’

‘Yeah. I know. It’ll be great, you’ll see.’ The tightness around her eyes told Beatrice she didn’t quite believe her own words. ‘And you’ll call me.’

‘Every day.’

With one last hug, Beatrice picked up her bags and left. 

// 7:03 //

The town car waited for her outside the apartment. It was sleek and black, washed and polished; the only evidence of the recent storms were faint specks of grey mud deep in the tyre wells.

Beatrice stopped at the bottom of the stairs, observing the car and its driver—Mister Morris, patiently stood at the kerb—and swallowed around a lump in her throat. He looked the same as when she had left. A little more silver in his hair.

He might not have changed much but she had. Now that she was grown (or perhaps, now that she was not in that household), she found herself full of questions—where was it that Mister Morris had driven from? Where did he live? Had the storms been bad on his side of town? How had he passed the time? Had they lost power? (She and Camila had huddled in their living room—it was, Camila had insisted, the perfect weather for a marathon of gory slashers—and the rain had hammered against the windows with frightening strength but had done no damage. She knew others had not been so fortunate.) Most pressing of all, how had he been? Questions that could not be answered by hiding.

Beatrice gripped the strap of her duffel and, setting her shoulders, marched to meet him.

‘Good morning, Mister Morris.’

‘Miss Turner,’ he greeted her, his smile small but true. ‘A pleasure to see you again. How are you?’

‘Quite well, thank you.’ Then, keeping her tone light and brisk, ‘And yourself?’

‘Very well, Miss Turner. Very well.’ It looked as if he wanted to say something more but then he only smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Your luggage, Miss?’

‘I can see to it myself.’

Beatrice stashed her duffel in the boot then folded herself neatly into the backseat. Mr. Morris retook the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beatrice fixed her eyes on the headrest in front of her.

‘We have another stop to make, Mr Morris.’

‘Yes, miss. Do you have the address?’

‘I do.’ She ran a finger along the inside of her watchband, rubbing away the sweat that had gathered there. She made it a notch tighter, then loosened once more. ‘They are - That is to say, she is my—’

Mr. Morris met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. His were green and kind. The kindness did not make it easier to say.

‘She is my girlfriend.’ 

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Oh.’

‘Though your mother used slightly different terminology. Companion, I believe she said.’ He kept his eyes locked onto the rearview mirror. When Beatrice glanced into it again, he said warmly, ‘Congratulations, miss. That’s wonderful. I’m very glad to hear it.’

When she had been younger, there had been a stretch of time where running away had seemed very appealing. Each time she attempted it, Beatrice had never made it further than the park four streets from her home. She’d been too pragmatic, even at ten years old, but she’d also been stubborn so Beatrice had say there in the swing until someone noticed; whomever did notice, it was always Mr. Morris who collected her. She was reminded of it as he started the engine. The sound of its growl scared old memories out of hiding—she remembered how the plastic swing creaked, the feel of the metal chain in her little hands, how the gravel of the park entry had crunched beneath the town car tyres. How the headlights had washed over her and away with the tilt of his park and how invisible she’d felt when the lights turned off. Like a ghost haunting the playground.

Beatrice stared thoughtfully at his back, remembering how he would climb out of the car and sit next to her on a too-small swing until she’d been ready to return.

‘Thank you, Mr Morris.’

He nodded. Then, ‘I do still need her address, miss.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

[red-doll-face]

Snow Angel 11

Chapter 11: fevered Series Masterlist

low - medium honor Arthur Morgan x fem. Reader

Arthur has been living by himself, laying low (for real this time) somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. After the whole Pinkerton and Micah debacle, he has been hiding away, waiting for it all to blow over, occasionally getting letters from the people who still know that he’s alive. He’s been alone awhile and at first, he thought he could handle a little loneliness. He has been wrong before. Lucky for him, you look like the perfect thing to break up the monotony.

Warnings: dubious consent, arthur’s mental health is kind of not so good…VERY low honor Arthur, darkish fic, a bit of naive reader. Reader has dated and period typical ideals, not very good ideas about men and marriage… if you want reader to be strong and a fighter… this is not for you sorry. suggestive themes. Huge HUGe Voyeurism bit, arthur being a perv 🤨👀 huge weirdo energy LMAO small mention of wanting death, WC: 7780 Hello snow angels : ) here is chapter 11!!! this chapter will be from arthurs perspective so very exciting 😳 i had a ton of fun just getting nasty with him and writing his fucked up little thoughts 😈 arthur inner monologue was a bit weird at first but im sure ill get better at it by actually attempting to do it LMAO i hope you guys enjoy and pls let me know what you think!!! i wanna thank everyone who has left replies and asks about this series, all of you have been so supportive and amazing, couldnt do it without you guys 🥹🥹💖💖💖 also this ended up way too long so sorry Tags: lots of angst todayyy, no TB, weird but not that toxic relationship, Arthur being a menace.Arthur being rude as always just… low honor arthur as a warning lol - What does it matter if the man who saved your life is a little strange?

It must be dusk falling too soon. Slow deprivation of heat and light; does things to his head, as if that wasn’t half screwed off already. Arthur’s fingers clutch the dusty curtain in front of one of two main windows at the front of his cabin; his eyes swear they can see…something out in the treeline. At first he thought of Pinkertons; to collect that bounty they were on about. Why they would follow him to the ends of the earth for that would be beyond him but Arthur had been known to do stupid things for a big payout. And of course, he hadn’t lived this long without a healthy amount of paranoia. Or what he called caution. Or perhaps Charles should have left his ass at the nearest asylum.

But he can sense that he’s wrong when nothing comes of it. No gunshots, no desperate shoot out for his life. Just the quiet again. In a minute, he’ll look out the window and watch the figure disappear. And he’ll shake his head, rub his calloused fingers over his tired eyes. He drops the curtain, pouring another cup of coffee at the silver percolator in the kitchen. He is not losing his grip; he isn’t. He’d leave that to Dutch. 

It’s gotten worse with the winter; those strange things he sees from time to time. They make him feel more out of place than he already does. As if there’s something wrong with him, wrong with this moment. The frost grows over the windows like mold.

The summer sun kept the darkness from slipping in and leaking into his vision. But that’s long gone, been gone for a month. Shit weather up here, long dragging winters. Summers that were too short for his liking and an autumn that was beautiful but also short lived. The winter is too heavy now to do much of anything but loop out to the stable and back. Not much sightseeing to do, the same shock white landscape to see everyday. 

In spite of how beautiful the mountain is; with its sprawling forest, creeks like liquid glass, the fresh winter air… Arthur finds it arduous to see it. Closing himself inside his cabin is easier. He could go and hunt something, draw the scenery. But was that any better than the fireplace? The comfort and simultaneous unease of staying inside the confines of his new home drag him in opposite directions. And even if his paranoid visions are just residue from another time in his life; he knows there are people who could be still searching, who might remember his face. Bad things had a way of following Arthur wherever he went. 

Even more loathsome is the lack of sunlight. The sun disappears around 4 or 5 and it feels like it was midnight by 6. The windows of his wooden cabin blacken like soot, leaving him tired and groggy. 

Arthur tries to keep himself going with bitterness like always. Coffee, cigarettes, and alcohol. He thinks the lack of light plays with his head. It’s easy to mistake shadows for ghosts, trusting himself was hard as it was. 

Damn snow, cuts to the bone.

The stunning silence surprises him still at these odd moments in the day. Arthur thought that maybe the peace would do him some good. But there was a need that scratched incessantly at the front of his skull. Over and over and over. 

He spent a long time being needed by other people. Dutch made him feel needed at the very least. Like he was part of something that symbolized how free a man could be. And he had devoted every shred of himself to the vision that Dutch had for the world. It was all that mattered to Arthur. His fealty was really all he had to give and so he gave it. 

God, had he felt the fool on the last day he saw him, when Dutch walked away, as if everything Arthur had ever done was nothing to him. Twenty goddamn years of his life. If he was being honest, he knew that his loyalty was wasted before that day but he had waited to see if the man he knew would emerge. If he could kill that gutless rat and show Dutch the truth but he refused, leaving Arthur with nothing to show for it. Helping John, Abigail and Jack to safety was barely a comfort when he thought of all that he wasted. All he did was hand another man a chance at the life that he wanted. 

But it was too late. As always with Arthur. (Everything was always too little; too late) Providing for others was embedded deeply in his being. It was something he had done for years, especially when he decided to get his shit together. He might have dallied, thoroughly enjoying his youth. But he learned (through several extremely painful lessons) why it was important that he pick up the slack. Loyalty isn’t represented by inaction. He hadn’t been all too kind to people but he had kept his comfort that in some part, his work was what kept that camp running. And when that fell apart; he really did try to help the less fortunate.

Really, he was making up for his failures to the people he cared about most. Arthur questioned if he had cared enough. If he did, maybe things would have ended differently between him and the people he harmed by being selfish.

Maybe Dutch put some modicum of power in his hands and Arthur had wielded it badly, went around acting like the cesspool he felt like most of the time. But at the end of the day, the camp ate because of him, they had medicine because of him, hell, they even drank because it was him that brought back more money than anyone else. 

There is no one who needs him now. Arthur scrubs his hand over his face then down to rub over his shoulders. Leans his head back. At first it was nice. The independence. No more debt collecting for Strauss, no more worrying if there’s enough food for Pearson, no more looking out for O’Driscolls. He thought he would like only having one person to worry about; he had been lying to himself. Although he still had other things missing from him. They’re like phantom limbs. He can feel where they were supposed to be but when he looks down they’re gone. Hosea’s guidance was missing from him. Even if he was terrible at following it. The sound of the girl’s giggling and gossiping. Even Uncle and Swanson ambling around, drunker than he thought was possible. Dutch looming, watching through his haze of maduro sweetened smoke. He keeps looking down but they’re gone.  

The fire crackles and the wind howls; picks up the silence. Sometimes the wind from the flue sounds like the breeze over Flat Iron Lake. The fire doesn’t sound any different than it did when it crackled warmly around a circle of a mismatched band of criminals singing songs together, alongside the chatter and the drunken crooning. When it was the background noise to thick Irish blabbering. The poor kid. He was going places, as most of the younger ones were, he and Lenny would have run that gang when they got past their growing pains. He could have told them that when they were living, that sentiment would have meant something then. 

It’s been a year or two, the days sort of connect like train cars and chug along, not because he wants them to but because that’s how life goes. It’s an endless drag, an endless struggle. He can’t see how this is much better than being dead. Arthur Morgan is one of the few people who knows how precious life can be, he spent a lifetime taking it away from people as he pleased. 

He tries to savor this peace (as if he knows how to). Tries to remember what it was like, not having any time to himself, always at Dutch’s beck and call. Barely any time to take a piss, let alone really rest, really give himself room to be anything but what others wanted. How he loathes those memories. The years he spent dedicating himself to another man's dreams. Watched all those years slip away, ashes in a smoke stack, rising forever upwards until they’re forgotten. 

Arthur refuses to recall how many things he gave up for that life; down to the simple pleasures. Love, privacy, a family. He convinced himself that anything else wasn’t living, that he couldn’t ever be tied down. That old life was just… what he had. There was nowhere else to go and when he was old enough to go his own way, there were kids like him with nothing left; nothing to return to, no one to look after them. He might not have been anyone to look up to. Maybe he was a shining example of what not to be. It was Arthur who was there to keep people in line, to show them how to be killers for Dutch’s aspirations. He’s sure he ruined lives more than he taught them anything useful.

Nothing about that life was rooted in anything real, substantial to the world. Pipe dreams. Vague imaginings of living free in the west or some such tropical paradise. What a waste. Just the thought of a secluded island with palm trees on it summons a bitter laugh. 

He sits and watches the fire. Tries to ignore the shadow in the corner. It's thin and wavering. Today, it looks a bit too much like Hosea for his taste. Especially when the log on the hearth cracks, it sounds like that ominous cough that followed the graying conniver everywhere he went. 

Arthur lights another cigarette. He’s been making (quite frankly, just awful) attempts at rationing and this is his allotted second cigarette of the day. He’s two for five. He curses himself every time he forgets to take the drags and it crumbles to ash too quickly, landing on the rug beneath his boots. He hisses, a singe on his fingers snaps him back to the present moment. It burns his fingers when he forgets that he’s holding one entirely, too busy drilling holes in the walls with his eyes. He can’t stand it but he doesn’t have another choice. The silence has the mysterious property of making Arthur lose track of himself. He should have listened but he never learns. 

This deep into winter, not too far from the base of Mt. Pàtu, he can’t just head out on the road and get more cigarettes. The nearest town is a six or seven hour ride and that isn’t happening, not in this weather. He might take Currant out for a light trot so he can get some exercise but he can tell something big is coming soon. The bellows of air from the west have him readying for storm weather. Best to get a move on now if he were to be going out. 

It’s dinner now. He’s not sure where the time went but he doesn’t mind too much. He’s got coffee and he’s got hot food. Salt pork with potatoes, boiled in the salt water from soaking the corns of salt off the meat. He’s gotten better at cooking at least. Arthur scoffs at the thought of the slop he used to be eating. He takes a glass out and sets it on the counter, along with his fifth bottle of Kentucky bourbon. He’s allowed 6 bottles a month. By anyone else’s standards it might be a lot but where he spent most of his time; around other drunkards and degenerates, it’s not enough. 

The storm hits full force now, there’s gonna be snow all the way up to the porch by tomorrow morning. But the air inside of his cabin is still and smoky. From the window, he checks the stable to see if the doors stay closed. It’s well insulated so Currant should be fine. The storm will have scared most of the game into hiding away, he contemplates when he’ll head back out for hunting. He takes a seat at his plain dining table, spends a while on the same glass of bourbon. The smell of cedar and salt is nice.  So is the warmth of his cabin but it’s all lost to him. His sense for how fortunate he is to be here and not dead in a ditch is dull. Only he could be the man to crave chaos and blood and the sound of gunshots while sitting on his ass all day, sipping bourbon. 

He thinks he’ll read a boring book or pretend to keep busy by stoking the fire. Arthur listens to the silence, waiting to hear something but the crackling and the draft from a small crack in the wall. But there’s nothing. He should have listened to Charles. But he insisted that he would be fine. He can’t go back on that now, he’s always been fine by himself. He’ll just wear the groove into his leather chair even further like the sorry bastard he is, trying to ignore how small and stiflingly warm the room feels.  

The blizzard gets louder and louder. Dozing off on the sofa or in his chair sounds like as good a time as any. But he isn’t exhausted, just annoyingly groggy. Bouncing his knee does not count as activity. Neither does all the fidgeting he does, twitching his fingers, putting his legs up and bringing them back down. He tries to pace a little but wearing treads on the floorboards isn’t doing any good either. He puts his hands on his hips. 

 He grabs his journal but he doesn’t have much to write. What would he write about? Surely, the exciting things he experiences everyday. Waking up feeling like hot shit on a platter after having too much whiskey was not the kind of thing worth memorializing in his journal anymore. He’s a little past the shame now too, the embarrassment. He lets his fingers feel the blank page, the tooth of the paper. 

He lets his hand form images of spring, the point of his pencil worn into a dull tip, recollected as best as possible. It’s nothing but a pale comparison. 

There’s a pat on the door. It’s soft and weak. And just as softly, there’s a voice pleading for help, asking if anyone is inside. A light shining in through the cracks of his world. 

He pushes himself up. He knows he hasn’t had that much to drink tonight. The worst possible outcomes play in his head. A ruse from bounty hunters, a local gang taking advantage (not a whole lot better than he would have done only 3 years ago), or another ghost from his past (the ones that play at the corner of his eye). His chest gets a little tight but he’s been good at keeping unease from holding him back. Arthur shakes his hand out, placing the book on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Who’s out there?” It’s an oddity. To hear another voice. One that isn’t his own. It’s a beautiful noise, a pleasing beckon. But he’s no fool. He doesn’t even particularly want to be here, why would anyone be here if they didn’t have to be? He grabs his revolver from the small table next to the entrance, one of the only loaded guns in the house. “Please, sir, I promise it’s just me,” and the earnestness in that voice, he has to believe that promise is true. He has to open the door. With a deep sigh, he stuffs the gun away after a second thought. 

The figure is much too bundled up to gather any immediate details. She’s not very much, standing there out in the cold icy fluff. It isn’t until he nods his head to direct her does she realize she should probably come in. He peeks out at the tracks, just one long line of horse tracks in the process of getting blown over by the harsh wind and the lashing ice. Her struggle up to the porch marked in snow. Arthur scans the tree line for any of those dark silhouettes but they’ve blown away in the wind, they’re pushed from his mind when he turns back and closes the door shut behind the both of them. 

He turns to her, he doesn’t mind the way she shrinks away from his body, skittish and slight. Such a small girl, alone in a snowstorm. He can’t think of a single good reason why she would be going it alone and what she could possibly need more than a night in. She should be warming her hands next to a fire. He could do it for her, could gather them and breathe on them. He tosses that behind him like an empty tin can. He has other things to focus on, mostly trying to get a better look at her and prying an answer out of her as to why she’s out here like this. 

He’s more rude than he intended to be but a little rudeness is nothing new to him. “What the hell were you doin’ out there?” He has been described as coarse. Intentionally and unintentionally. He’s a little bit like a puffed up rooster when he catches her looking him over, marveling at the size of him. But he lets that fall away, surely she needed no old man assuming things on her part. He knows he ain’t much to look at. At his gruff tone, she has no response. The poor thing is so cold, her teeth chatter, whatever she mustered up to yell at him over the storm has run out. Arthur feels a little of his hard veneer chip away. 

He thinks to take her coat, covered in frost and not nearly as insulated as he had hoped, it’s damp with melting ice now that she’s inside. But he feels like he’s dreaming again, peeling her coat off and hanging it on the rack, a faux gentleman. He doesn't know why he’s trying to impress but there’s a chance that she’d like a man like that. So he plays, pretends. He’s surely done that before.

When her coat is shed, all of those visions he’s been having must have caught up to him. 

Jesus, Morgan. You’ve really lost it now. 

This disease of loneliness he’s been given has surely destroyed the vestiges of his sanity. He must be imagining some young soft handed girl with warm bright eyes and vibrant, shiny hair. Face of an angel, looking hopeful; grateful. Her eyes on him burn like hellfire. He feels strange, watching much too close at how her tongue wets her lips; chapped from the cold. Beautiful; she must be someone’s girl, he hopes for a widow who had lost her husband to the winter frost. He’d gladly pick up where the fucker left off. Pry her from his cold hands. Could just be the loneliness talking. He can’t bring himself to care all that much about it. 

Arthur can feel shame eating away at him, like ants at the corners of a scrap fallen off the table. He could have found himself sick to his stomach not too short a time ago. A girl as young as her and he, an old dog with even older tricks have no business together. He knows it too. But he was done with that crushing feeling of dread that ate away at his very soul some days. He had enough of his life to feel awful about. Blood on the floorboards, forgotten promises, disregarded words of affection. Just these moments, where he can hoard the vision that is this girl to himself after so long of giving pieces of himself away. 

What has that shame ever done but made you worse? 

If there isn’t the will to keep his eyes off the girl then there’s the give in him. Like a levy, it cracks a little, breaks into a million pieces of splintered wood for her. It’s been too long since he’s seen something so pretty. All flesh and blood. No graphite on paper; recollections of the women from his past, no Gem of Beauty cigarette card. She carries the smell of soap and perfumed cotton. He thinks it's geranium scented or another delicate flower crushed to pieces to make her smell like she came from heaven too. It’s a weakness he hadn’t culled. 

This girl of his; she must be something quite real. His wishful daydream would have diverted to more intimate topics by now, and he’d probably imagine a woman he’s at least met before. Deciding if he’d prefer her to be real or a misty figment of his imagination; he can’t make heads nor tails of it. Arthur knows he’d probably end up disappointing a real person more than he could offend a figure cooked up in his mind. He sighs. He turns to the iron stove beside the dining table. There’s still coffee and he can distract himself from his ridiculous train of thought by clumsily pouring it out for her. 

Hopeful bastard.

“You mute, girl? Asked you a question.” He knows she isn't but he wants to hear her talk some more. And maybe if she hears what a brute he makes himself out to be most of the time, she’ll turn her nose up at him the way she’s supposed to. Lots of women have, she wouldn’t be the first warned away by his attitude like a bad smell. He could almost let that temptation win. To change who he is at this moment. If only for the selfish purpose of luring her further into his home. However, he’s too impulsive and his tongue is too practiced at offending. He has words that are about as gentle as a fist to the nose. 

He sets her cup down on the table. Arthur doesn’t wait for her to figure herself out, grabbing another cigarette, swiping them off of the coffee table in front of the fireplace. To hell with the rations. It was a special day after all, a goddamned holiday. He strikes the match on the table, lighting it as she tentatively steps forward. Nearly singes his finger on the match he forgot to put out, wincing and waving it out to put out the flame. 

She’s a pearl, surrounded by the ugly oyster that is the less than stellar home he keeps. Carefully, she steps into his space. Suddenly, he’s hyper aware of every thing she could find awful or garish; his hunting trophies or the weapons or the wall. Or the mess of papers on the desk in the corner. It has him gripping his cigarette a bit too tight. Her face hardly moves in any particular reaction, as if used to him already. A simple neutrality is what takes her as she looks at some of the things over the mantle, then her eyes track over the small hallway, leading to the bedroom and some storage. She’s quick to bring her attention back to him, a soft smile that stuns him graces her face, kicking up some long buried hope of his.

 If there was a woman who should be a lady, it’s her. She sets herself down on the sofa, neatly keeping her hands to herself, reaching for the cup he set out for her. But first checking to see if it wasn’t for him with a nervous flick of her eyes up to his own. He can hardly ignore how it pulls at him. She holds the blue speckled cup on her thigh. 

“No, I…was getting something for my granny…” She explains she couldn’t make it to the doctor in the almost fatal weather outside. He has a humorless laugh. How could anyone send her out for the sake of some old hag; already knocking on death's door? Selfless girl but stupid. Defenseless. Her own mother, too. He supposes he can relate. The man he regarded as his father had been the one to let him down the most.

 It’s always the ones you trust. 

He makes his opinion known to her, maybe he can talk some sense into her. 

“I can imagine. What kinda mother sends a pretty thing like you on a fool's errand? You really thought you was gonna bring your ol’ granny a doctor in this?” He reprimands her, she might need it. 

Little girl gone out by herself. Needs you, don’t she?

What she probably needs is someone to keep her from doing things that risk her life for nothing at all. Doesn’t have to be him but he won’t turn the thought away. Breaking her open on her marriage bed. Such a pretty thing, a distracted smile into her cup of coffee. Lost in a snow drift because no one cared enough to keep her inside. 

And she does nip back. Trying to give a rebuttal but he won’t have it. He knows he’s right, giving his idea of a light hearted joke, his particular brand of poking humor. Heavy handed as always. 

“Your granny probably already kicked the bucket while you were out here, damn near gettin’ yourself killed.” 

 Perhaps insinuating her grandmother was already dead wasn’t the best attempt at familiarizing her with himself, her face tinges with an expression he’s used to seeing. Dutch said he had a sharper tongue than people thought. Hosea said it was too blunt. 

“And if it weren’t for me, well…” she’d be dead. Forgotten somewhere in the snow with a dead horse for company. Such an image should hopefully be sobering for her. It’s a harsh reality but one he would prevent from happening.  His hand comes up to scratch at his brambly jaw. She probably thought his slightly overgrown beard was ugly and unkempt. His fingers raise the delicate rolled cigarette to his lips. A nice calming drag helps his nerves calm down, they quit jumping under his skin every time her eyes pull over him, over his scarred face and his crooked nose and his gnarled hands. She looks like she holds something back. Her tongue, he thinks. He wished she would have just come out and said it. 

But she’s a polite little thing, stifling herself with another drink of the coffee. The satisfaction on her face and the small droop in her shoulders now that she’s warm makes him smile. 

She speaks up with a tremor stuck to her words. “I’m sorry mister,” her nose scrunches a little, doesn’t even know how darling he finds it. “but I don’t think you gave me your name…” 

In a well practiced motion, he leans and ashes his cigarette. It took him a while to remember that he can’t just ash them on the ground anymore. He had floors and a permanent roof now. He tends to get the hang of things at some point. He kicks his legs up on the table, gently so as to not frighten the girl on his sofa, warming herself by his fire, and drinking his coffee. The thoughts tickle that provider’s instinct so deeply embedded in his being. His name, he almost forgets all about that, looking into her pretty eyes, blinking curiously. Right. 

“Arthur. You married?” He never liked small talk too much. Never one for the surface level bullshit people put on. He watches each of her features form into something like a smile but not. Too nerve-y, falls into something else when she presses her lips together, her brows twitch as they pull together and her fingers scrunch in her gloves. 

As if she’d marry you, ain’t exactly the pick of the litter, are ya?

His fingers twitch, squeeze his short nails into the give of his palm. Then why does she call him? So enticing, then, looking at him with soft eyes, her legs pressed together and slanted. A real proper girl. Cute thing. Naive enough not to recognize someone like him at first glance. He’s something to be avoided. He wishes he could see a ring glittering on her finger, to ward away the seething heat in his head and his gut. Like a prayer muttered in the presence of evil but he doubted it’d be strong enough. 

“No, I’m afraid not,” her voice is like velvet, the rub of a rose petal between his fingers. Her eyes flick away and her teeth press gently into her bottom lip, sweet looking. No man to look after her besides her worthless father, left her out here to freeze. Alone, really. Or she might as well be. The world has been known to be cruel to women. To his mother, to a woman whose life he had ruined, to Mary even, to Susan and Molly. Well, most every woman he knew. It wasn’t fair but many things in their lives were disparagingly slanted away from them, scales always uneven. 

“Young lady like you, unwed and caring for your Ma, Pa, all by yourself?” Arthur scoffs, even as he points out her tragedy. “Now that’s just sad, is what it is,” His fingers push his cigarette into the ash tray a bit too hard, twisting it. And he looks at her blouse, drawing the outline of her with his eyes. He’d put it to paper later. She has a small nod for him. A shining opportunity. But he has to introduce his own dingy reality. The one where he was probably old enough to have been able to hold her when she had just been born. 

“You are… a sight, for an old ugly bastard like me is all,” Honest words slip from him, too loose for him to keep them behind his teeth. The bashful look crosses over her face makes his lip curl up just a little. She deserved to have someone tell her how pretty she is, who wouldn’t ever let her forget for a second how lovely she looked. Where all of these sappy things come from is beyond him. They ooze into his mind anyway.

Delicately, she sets the cup down on the table littered with other cups he had forgotten to put away and empty packages of cigarettes. He rolls his eyes at himself, of course he doesn’t clean up the day he has company.

“I left my horse in the stable out front, I hope you don’t mind,” her hands pet at her thighs, he can see where the fabric is damp. Immediately, his mind clicks into place, thinking on how he can fix it. That’s what the fairer sex truly craved, wasn’t it? Not some puffed up egomaniac. A fixer. A solution. His hands itch to move. To pick up the pieces of her problems and push them back into the shape of something whole. “Ain’t no trouble,” the relieved sag in her shoulders tells him that she actually worried about it. 

So Arthur does, he’s nothing if not a man of action. “Why don’t I get you somethin’ dry to wear? Should be turnin’ in soon. Gettin’ late.” He’s up before he can hear a protest. But she doesn’t give much of one. In his bedroom, his hands swipe his hair backwards. The small mirror he usually keeps around strictly for shaving catches the light of the small oil lamp. 

God, his best years are way behind him. So say the lines at the corners of his eyes, the gouges of his age on his forehead and the delicate webbing of wrinkles under his eyes. All of the evidence of his lifestyle glares back at him. There’s a ruddiness over the higher planes of his cheekbones from burning them under the sun. Some of the fist and knife fights from his youth have left permanent evidence of his misgivings on his face. Mostly in the form of scars and his odd nose. 

You disgust her, don’t go kidding yourself. 

If he ever told her the truth of himself, he’s sure a girl like her would go running, suddenly not minding the cold. He never was good at keeping beautiful things by his side. They rotted or wilted, or blew away with the wind. His rough fingers rub at the back of his neck. He stares deep into his own eyes. Trying to force some normalcy, some sense into himself but it’s all in vain. He grunts, paying mind to other things. 

He opens his cabinet, all of the simple clothes he keeps. Something new and not so weathered, or dirty, something clean. Like her. Some nice cotton knit union suit, something he bought when he was preparing for winter. He grips them tight and hesitates at the door. 

Just go n’ give it to her, and try not to be an idiot; for god’s sake. 

And the sweet smile he sees knocks whatever sense he had gathered out of him, he can hardly form a word. He just holds the fabric out to her like an oaf. And she rises, as to keep things comfortable, good at reading his brutish signaling, taking them gently and skirting around him. And then she’s in his bedroom. With a mental cuss, he realizes that he forgot to clean the room before he left. 

Ah, she’ll find out how pathetic you are at some point. Just a matter a’ when… 

All those empty bottles and habits he’s formed from living alone. Dirty clothes piled somewhere and sheets that probably smelled a bit too much like sweat. Christ. He sighs, pinching his nose. He’s not sure why he’s putting so much thought into this. He doesn’t care. Not a care at all. Right…sure.

At first, he distracts himself with preparing food, his leftovers, hopefully enough for her. Doing this is an action which is perhaps a bit selfish. He wants to make it clear that he can give her things she needs. He could figure out wants later.. Typically, he hadn’t thought too much of what women wanted but with her he makes lists, takes out the fine brandy. Sometimes he took after Dutch more than he would like to admit, the man was all too good at forgetting about a woman’s wants and needs.

The food hasn’t gone too cold. His hands look for things to do, stirring unnecessarily. Fumbling the dish he places it on. However, the little comfort he gains from activity fades. He can only grip the counter like a vice while staring out the window above his sink for so long. The shades of brown and orange that make up his cabin blur into nothing, the wood grain isn’t as grounding as he wants it to be. 

But then his legs drift in the opposite direction, He can hear a soft sigh and the rustle of clothing behind the door. He wets his dry throat. Arthur shouldn’t salivate. He does anyway.

You’re a creep. Something in his head laughs at him. 

Been too long since you had a woman this close to your bed and she ain’t even in it with ya…c’mon. C’mon, just open the damn door. 

His heart is about to pound his ribs into dust. He’s among the worst of the worst but this… pushes boundaries. Lines drawn in the sand. Peeping on women wasn’t something he was raised to do. And if he saw something he wasn’t supposed to see, it was an accident. 

You ain’t that bad.

He’s used to letting the tide wash those out so he can draw new ones. And here is a new one. When his fingers push at the door and he can see the sliver where she bares her own flesh. Rubs her hands up her thighs, stepping out of her clothes. His throat goes dry, his teeth bite bluntly at the tip of his tongue as his jaw gets tense. 

His eyes follow the natural plush curve of her body, pale yellow lamp light glancing off of her. He’d kill a man to touch her and he’d kill a man for touching her. Devouring every inch, his eyes soak it all up, dedicating her to memory. 

 And then she’s stepping into the creamy cotton of his clothes. Doing up the buttons at her front. Unbidden by him, his cock fills out, half hard, pressing uncomfortably at just the sight of her. The perfection of her hips, her hair brushing over her back. 

The guilt is chewing a hole in his conscience. It’s like there are termites gnawing away at the foundation of whatever restraint he had. He’s felt less disgusting after killing a man, making him choke on his own blood as it fills his lungs. But the reward had never been so delightful. A sweet girl, so trusting, putting her hand to her chest and smiling as she realizes he’s there. It doesn’t feel good at all, the realization that he’s drooling over her like a mutt. All she has given him is reluctance, nervous glances. She doesn’t touch him or leave her hand to linger. A sweet-as-cream smile is all he has, enough to tide him over. He wants her anyway, needs her to stay. Letting her walk out after this will be next to impossible. 

“You scared me, Mister…” Mister. So polite, an angel delivered unto him. He can feel how his body is tense, tight like a spring. How she doesn’t notice the evidence of his wrongdoing, pressing at the front of his pants is luck or her naivety. His expression must be dazed, a foolish look because all he can do is stare, unable to stop himself. Observing the way his clothes drape over her, exaggerating how much smaller she is in comparison. How stunning she’d look, sprawled over his bed sheets. Precious girl; struggling not to cry when she gets all stretched out on something wholly too big for her. In his mind's eye, she mouths his name, looks at him like all she wants is him inside of her. Right. His name again. 

He dips back into his own ease in which he controls all of himself with. He is self assured and well handled. And he certainly doesn’t curl in on himself. Lets her see how big he is, slips back into old habits with the ease that comes with capability. “Morgan, Arthur Morgan,” his real name, no Kilgore’s or Calahan’s. She should know it anyhow, if he has any real intention in giving it to her.

It’s dangerous and it’s like she can feel it, somewhere in her body is that base instinct. One she was born with to protect herself from people with bad intentions. But she has another instinct, bares her neck to him. Arthur has always been good at suppressing his hunger, desire for soft pretty things. Settling like sediment on them was the control he had, buried them and buried them and buried them. She's a rainstorm, flooding his mind, washing out his carefully maintained resistance. Leaves his want raw and exposed and actionable. He wants her too much, wants her more than he has any right to. 

He feels what little control he has over his urges begin to slip with that thought.  Usually, he let them take over. Let whatever pain and anguish in him manifest into pure rage, cold and unadulterated. At first, it revolted him, his actions. And the reputation he built to go along with them. But they began to grow over him like a second skin until they encased whatever hope he had for a better life completely. His self induced hatred hid whatever pieces of him weren't supposed to be his to have and to share. The things he had to hide from himself even to feel like a whole person at any given moment. And he let himself be that awful thing people thought he was. Arthur Morgan. A force of nature. 

But he deserved it, didn't he? Everyone should keep their distance anyway. He has a habit of making things worse than when he found them. But all he wanted was for her to be close. Sure, he could play the vulnerable man who could pine after his sweetheart, go out riding after her, guide her home where she would forget all about him. Just a kind man out to help the world.

That's not what he wanted. He wanted her to stay here. Can’t bear the thought of being a good man, sending her away when the storm blows over. In sickness and in health, til’ death do us part. That’s what he sees when he closes his eyes. She’s standing in the kitchen, turning the spoils of his hunts into dinner. With that easy smile. His too empty house just wouldn’t feel like a home without her in it. He’s sick, he knows; but he’s sure she can cure him. 

Arthur Morgan has always wanted more than he could have. He chews on the thought like tobacco. Bitter but eventually he begins to need the taste, to crave it. 

“Put somethin’ on the stove for ya, man can’t leave no woman hungry…” God, his tongue feels too thick in his mouth and his jaw aches from gritting his teeth too hard. And of course, he lays all his cards on the table. Man can’t leave his woman hungry.

Every little gesture she makes, wrapping her arms shyly around herself, the gentle tilt of her head and the small affirmative gesture she makes is in no way unordinary. But they’re all dripping with her appeal. How can she smile at him like he doesn't look the way he does? Like he hasn't made the world worse just by existing in it?

 He soils her just by laying greedy eyes on her neck, on her nipples which he can make out through the fabric of his union suit. And when she opens her mouth, he knows he’ll end up calling her what she is. Sweet and syrupy, soothing on his throat. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I really appreciate your kindness,” Arthur is convinced he heard her wrong. But her honesty is in those radiant eyes, in her easy posture. It must be meant to be, it’s not every day a woman talked to him like that. Or talked to him at all. He was perhaps too busy making sure they knew what they would be getting into; dealing with him. 

It may just be the respectful manners instilled in her. He supposed her parents had given her that; mannerisms that made her quite the catch. Utter perfection. But really, even that was a disservice. They damned her to him. Makes him see glimpses of a life he could have. Hundreds of conversations, every iteration of the precious babe they'd have together with his hair and her eyes, a son or a daughter. Two of each perhaps. Hours and hours of her gentle, refined voice taking up the empty room. He bows his head as if he can keep his disbelief and joy under the brim of his hat, currently hanging by his front door. 

She comes nearer. He can smell her cotton scent, can see the way the light casts around her hair, feathering over her, turning it into gold. His body moves to make the smallest space for her. Hoping she’ll nudge against him. He doesn’t even realize the way he’s formed himself to keep her here for just a moment. So close, Arthur nearly loses track of what he was supposed to be doing.  

“Been a long time since somebody called me a kind man, usually it was the opposite,” apprehension floods her body, her features. Her eyes focus on him, waiting for something terrible to happen. Arthur sees how she bristles. He only meant to be honest but she’s already read between his lines. Smart girl. 

He shows her just what he means. Even when he knows better, even if he’s never been this far. It’s like he has to touch though. No where uncomfortable, just to be sure she isn’t a sign that he’s truly gone from this world. 

“Please, I-” 

Her plea goes down his spine. It rakes its teeth over the parts of him that are wrong. That weren’t formed with gentleness, aren’t intricate. Just instinct that he’s indulged. 

He may not be a good man. But he can behave well enough to keep her. Now that he has the room for her. He doesn’t live in a drafty tent. He’s not a dog chained to the hand that fed him too many years ago. He would never treat her like an object to display or a mistake made in a drunken night of pleasure. He wouldn’t throw this away, this one chance at having something real. Wouldn’t lay waste to this opportunity to fill a hole in him that yawned empty for what felt like eternity. She’d be his wife and he; her man. A husband. Mister and Missus Arthur Morgan. A crock of shit, he would have said a month ago.

That ain’t the hand you been dealt and you know it. You’ve made a mess of things enough.

 But now… it's a dreamy reality. It hasn’t quite taken shape but he can get it there. Determination starts to crystallize over the idea. She’s something good; doesn’t need him. He could try to make something better too, could make the best of a situation, try to show her the best in him. But he knows it’d never be enough for her. He always throws these good things away, always ruins it somehow. But he grips and shakes like a mutt at this idea, gnaws it until it's raw. He can just take what he wants. Done that before, hasn’t he?

Just leave’er alone. God, you never learn, goddamned fool…

His fingers graze over the skin on her neck, uncovered by the collar of the union suit he lent her. Here in the dark of the small hallway, he can swear there’s something in the way she breathes, shudders. “I think you need a man to take care of you, honey, need a man to keep you inside- wouldn’t let you go out alone like this if you was my woman… Lemme show you how a man looks after a girl like you,” He’s aware that he sounds like a right bastard but he’s only telling the truth. His hand settles at her back, like it’s supposed to be there. They’re meant to be, all he has to do is show her. 

ok yall how we feeling LMAO i think his perspective was interesting and fun for me to write but idk if its any good, but i hope with practice ill get more confident 🥹🥹 bro is a freak sooo yeah it was fun to write him as a freak he is very conflicted about everything and he is super weird but also sexy sooo😳 i hope you guys enjoyed this lil backstory on why arthur is a weirdo 😊😊😭😭 lmk what you guys think !!

[vigilante-3073]

Would it be possible to write another Rosalie x reader x emmett fic? Reader would accidentally imprint on the couple and how they deal with the wolf. Sorry English isn’t my first language.

The Invisible String

Rosalie Hale x Emmett Cullen x Female Werewolf Reader

Summary: The relationship between the Cullen family and Quileute shape-shifters becomes complicated when an imprint brings them together once again.

TW: Mentions of death, nudity, violence, and relationships.

The invisible string theory states that certain people can be connected to each other by an unseen bond. This bond can exist for a person's entire life, drawing them closer to the one they were meant for throughout their lifetime.

It is believed that a person needs to endure certain challenges and changes within their life before they are ready to meet their soulmate. The universe has a plan for everyone and it will always work out how it was intended to.

Y/N had been a member of the Quileute pack since her sixteenth birthday. Her transformation had been incredibly difficult for her and fitting in with the tribe was also a challenge. Y/N had been the only female werewolf for years until Leah Clearwater joined the pack.

Leah's arrival made things easier, but Y/N still felt like she didn't fit in with the wolves. Y/N befriended Jacob and they quickly became close, she didn't have many other friends and she cherished their relationship.

Y/N's newfound bond with Jacob helped her to feel closer to the pack. They were her family and should be everything she needed, but she still felt like something was missing.

Y/N learned about the existence of imprinting, she knew that her person had to be out there somewhere, but she began to lose hope as the years went by. She watched as other members of the pack found their imprints, trying to be supportive while feeling her heart break. Y/N figured that there was an exception to every rule and maybe she was it, maybe there wasn't anyone out there for her.

Some people just never got a happy ending and she thought that she could learn to accept that.

Then she met Emmett and Rosalie.

The feeling was impossible to explain, it was like her whole world had been turned on its axis and the ground fell out from beneath her feet. Her entire life had been leading up to this moment, all of her growth, changing and suffering finally felt like it had served its purpose.

Y/N was ready to lay down her life for these people and she didn't even know their names. Edward almost couldn't contain himself when he realized what had happened, looking between them with a smirk.

Y/N stared at Emmett and Rosalie with an awestruck expression. Her heart was racing in her chest and butterflies were fluttering around in her stomach. Y/N was at a loss for words and a part of her just wanted to leave the house and never return.

Jacob felt the change in his friend and looked between the vampires in the room nervously. The newfound bond could be viewed with hostility and he knew that Y/N would never recover if she was rejected.

Y/N had longed to fit in for her entire life and although their life together would never be conventionally normal, it could be beautiful. The relationship would be complicated, but Bella had managed to maintain her relationship with Edward despite their differences. It was possible and Jacob hoped that they would consider it without shutting her down.

Edward scoffed softly, listening to the flurry of thoughts coming from the two werewolves in the room, "This is Y/N and she just imprinted on the two of you," Edward stated, looking over at Rosalie and Emmett.

The room fell eerily silent as Emmett and Rosalie shared a look. Alice smiled to herself as she watched Emmett step away from Rosalie and approach Y/N.

"I'm sorry," Y/N mumbled instinctively.

"Welcome to the family," Emmett smiled, leaning down to wrap his arms around her in a tight hug. He lifted her off her feet, holding her close as her eyes filled with tears.

Jacob smiled softly, glancing over at Renesmee as he remembered what the imprint had felt like. It was overwhelming, but it was also a kind of love that he had never experienced before.

Emmett set Y/N on her feet and rested his hand on her back, guiding her over to where Rosalie stood.

"I'm Emmett and this is Rosalie," He said, gesturing to his partner.

"I'm Y/N," She said softly.

"It's nice to meet you, Y/N," Rosalie smiled.

Jacob watched them as they talked, he wondered if his own imprint had softened them to the idea of Y/N's. He had to admit that his imprint had definitely occurred under some rather extreme circumstances. Jacob hoped that he helped the Cullen family to understand what it truly meant to imprint.

The universe had an intricate plan and everyone had a part to play, allowing things to unfold exactly as they were supposed to. Y/N may have taken more time to find her imprints than other members of the pack, but the waiting was definitely worth it.

...

Y/N slept soundly in the large king-size bed that Rosalie and Emmett had procured for her. Her nighttime activities often left her exhausted and having a private space to sleep in the Cullen home made sense.

Y/N often found herself wandering out of the woods and into their bed in the early hours of the morning. The time that Rosalie and Emmett spent watching over their little wolf while she slept had quickly become their favorite part of the day.

The fridge was stocked with food and the doors were always open for Y/N whenever she needed. Rosalie had even taken up cooking in order to feed Y/N healthy meals while she stayed in their home.

Y/N rarely returned to her own house at this point, instead choosing to spend every waking moment with the Cullens. The family had welcomed her with open arms, never questioning their love for each other.

Their relationship began quickly after Y/N imprinted, the connection between them was elaborate and intense. The vampires were fiercely protective of their mate and made sure that she had everything she could possibly need.

Emmett made his way into the bedroom, smirking when he noticed a small twig sticking out of Y/N's tangled hair. He reached for it before his hand was smacked away by Rosalie, she sent him a look before moving to the other side of the bed.

Emmett and Rosalie got into the bed carefully, trying their best to avoid disturbing their mate. Rosalie picked up her book from the nightstand and opened it to her previously bookmarked page. Emmett laid on his back, smiling to himself when Y/N turned in her sleep and snuggled into his side. Her arm draped across his stomach, her leg slipping between his as she shifted closer to him. Her skin was boiling hot and Emmett enjoyed feeling the heat that radiated from her body.

They stayed with her for hours, simply enjoying their closeness as the sun began to filter in through the large windows. Rosalie had offered to purchase some blinds to keep the sunlight out, but Y/N refused. She liked waking up to the sun, basking in the warm rays as she recovered from her nighttime activities.

The vampires never rushed her, always allowing her to wake up in her own time. Emmett loved to hold her, laying in bed by her side for hours at a time. Rosalie joined them on a few occasions, but she preferred to sit beside them reading books or flipping through magazines.

Rosalie had always been more reserved with her affection, she showed her love through acts of service and gift giving whereas Emmett elected to offer words of affirmation and physical touch.

They were everything Y/N could possibly hope to find and she knew that they were meant for one another.

...

Y/N eventually stirred from her slumber in the late afternoon, snuggling closer to Emmett with a soft hum. He looked down at her with a smile, lips pressing to the crown of her head.

"You finally coming back around, sweetheart?" He questioned.

She nodded wordlessly, eyes fluttering open slowly as she adjusted to the light in the room. Rosalie set aside her book, reaching over to carefully pick the twigs and leaves from Y/N's hair.

"What did you get into last night, my love? You're bringing the entire forest into bed," Rosalie teased softly, setting the debris on the bedside table.

"I don't know," Y/N mumbled.

"Busy night, huh?" Emmett teased, she nodded.

"Do you want me to draw you a bath?" Rosalie offered.

"Only if you join me," Y/N replied.

"I could never say no to you," Rosalie stated, tucking a strand of hair behind Y/N's ear. She hummed, tilting her head in the direction of the gentle touch.

"Hey, where's my invite?" Emmett asked.

"She might need two baths with all the debris I just pulled out of her hair," Rosalie mused with a smile.

Y/N opened her eyes as her stomach began to growl loudly, "Jeez, someone's hungry," Emmett laughed.

"I'll go make you something. Why don't you help her get washed up, Emmett," Rosalie proposed.

"It's my pleasure," He smirked, Rosalie shook her head with a smile before she got out of the bed.

Rosalie went to the kitchen in order to make some food while Emmett slid out of the bed. Y/N watched him walk into the ensuite bathroom, listening as he began to fill the bathtub with warm water. He returned to the bedroom after a few minutes, watching Y/N stretch with a large yawn.

Emmett slid his arms underneath her body, lifting her into his arms easily before carrying her into the bathroom. Y/N shivered as he set her down on her feet, "Just a minute, babe," He muttered.

Emmett helped her undress, holding her hand as she stepped into the bathtub before sinking into the warm bubble bath with a sigh. Emmett watched her with a smile, "Hot enough for you, sweetness?" He questioned.

"Perfect," Y/N nodded, settling back against the tub. Emmett sat down on the stool behind her, hands settling on her shoulders as his thumbs kneaded her tense muscles.

Y/N's eyes fluttered shut, "You sore today?" He asked.

"Yeah, but I'll be fine," Y/N said.

"You sure? I can see if Carlisle has anything for you," Emmett offered, still massaging her shoulders.

"No, I'm okay," Y/N assured.

Rosalie made her way into the bathroom with a bowl of fruit and some toast on a tray, "I didn't make anything fancy today," Rosalie stated.

"Everything you make for me is amazing," Y/N assured.

"Let me get out of your way," Emmett said, standing up from the stool, "Mind if I join you in there?" He questioned, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Y/N smiled, "Not at all," She said.

Emmett undressed and Y/N moved forward in the bathtub. Emmett settled into the water behind her easily, guiding her body back against his chest as his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Ah, that's the stuff," He sighed.

Rosalie sat down on the stool, poking a fork into a piece of fruit before holding it up to Y/N. She took the fruit into her mouth with an appreciative hum.

Rosalie continued to feed her until the tray was empty, she set it aside and grabbed a magazine to flip through while Emmett helped Y/N wash up.

"Ready to get out?" Rosalie questioned, Y/N nodded.

The blonde stood up from her stool, grabbing a fluffy towel from the rack before holding out a hand to Y/N. She settled her hand in her mate's, rising from the water and stepping out of bathtub.

Rosalie wrapped the towel around her before cupping her cheeks gently, "There, that's better," Rosalie mused. She leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to her partner's lips.

"Thank you for taking care of me... Both of you," Y/N said.

"I have never known a greater joy in my life," Rosalie stated, running her hands down Y/N's arms before taking her hands. She gave them a gentle squeeze before tilting her head, "Go pick out your clothes. I bought a few new things for you," Rosalie said. She reached out and grabbed another towel for Emmett from the rack.

"You spoil me," Y/N smiled.

"You deserve it," Emmett replied, stepping out of the tub and accepting the towel that Rosalie held out to him.

Emmett wrapped the towel around his waist before his hands found Y/N's hips and pulled her body closer to him. She smiled, tilting her head up and meeting his lips in a passionate kiss.

Y/N pulled away, looking between her mates, "I'm really happy that I met you two," Y/N said.

"We're happy that we met you two, baby," Rosalie smiled.

[nereidof40k]

I had to write this. Might expand later as always, but I like it.

Corvus Reacts

There’s a rustle of feathers behind Lion, and when he turns around , there’s his brother Corvus. More feathery than before, but obviously Corvus.

Lion claps a hand on his shoulder. “Good to see you, brother.” A sentiment echoed by Roboute seconds later, even if it doesn’t quite erase the frown of concern.

“Did I interrupt something?” Corvus croaks.

“I think you need to see this.” Roboute gestures to the techmarine to show the first vid again.

Corvus feels his hearts break at the sight of the young woman among Night Lords. Her face is all the proof he needs. Not to mention the way she appears out of nowhere. She looks so much like him. Why didn’t he know he had a daughter? Frak, where has she been? Did whoever raised her treat her well? He wishes he could have been there to tuck her in at night, teach her things, tell her stories. He might have frakked it up, but he would have loved the chance to try.

“How?” His voice sounds as cracked as his hearts.

“Cawl’s creation.” Roboute answers mournfully. “I took her away from him, but then she disappeared.”

The way Sevatar on the screen puts his hands all over his daughter’s body, Roboute doesn’t have to elaborate. How dare that bastard? Why isn’t she hitting him? Why is she acting like she’d let him do things to her?

As Corvus is starting to spiral into anger and self recrimination, the terminal they’re watching dings, and a message pops up. With his name on it. He opens it before he can stop himself. Roboute and Lion looking over his shoulders.

The three Primarchs read with increasing horror the partial schematics for a truly horrifying chip. The glowing green lines say it all. Necron tech.

The part that comes after feels like a lightning claw to the gut.

“Cawl put one of these in your daughter’s head. We took it out.”

Corvus hates and loves the attached pict. It is a pict of his daughter, looking healthy and happy. Close enough to see that she has a gap between her front teeth, dimples when she smiles, and a sparkle in her eyes he never had.

But the corroded device she is holding up is horrifying. Matches the schematics perfectly.

And then there’s the muscular arm wrapped around her middle. As pale as her, with black clawlike nails. Sevatar’s chin rests on the top of her head. His daughter is sitting on Sevatar’s lap. Wearing his sigil on a necklace.

With a cry of anger born of anguish that would make Khorne smile, Corvus whirls around, Cawl suddenly surrounded by warp ravens, pecking and clawing, drawing blood.

While Cawl’s assistants are trying to save him from the relentless assault, a tall metal skeleton in a cloak strolls into the lab.

Trazyn, delighted at the opportunity for a raid, wastes no time in locating his goal. There, in a tank, floats a perfect clone of Ferrus Manus. His pet Primarch will be so happy, he’s sure. Primarchs do need company for their health.

Within seconds the entire tank is missing, and no sign of Trazyn.

[atombonniebaby]

Okay, but apparently, yesterday marked my 2yr autism diagnosis anniversary!

Needless to say...

I have embraced the fuck out of it!

Tumblr lets me share my favoritest little guy with other humans! I love you all!

There is a reason I like to take screenshots. (Note the mug warmer for all that coffee/tea I used to let go cold.)

All my Oversized 🙌🏻 COMFY🙌🏻 Tees ❤️

I'm also hanging with the cat (literally...I'm in a hammock chair!) - her name is Mia as she is a dick. (in an adoring way)

(Oh and it'll be 3yrs in October for the ADHD diagnosis...but I'll probably forget about that...so have an 'I didn't know I was ADHD' memory)

As you were...

[patheticbatman]

I haven't seen any posts about this yet but l've seen some fan art that makes me feel this needs to be said:

Don't forget Leah Sava Jeffries has darker skin when making Annabeth Chase fan art!

She is much closer to Lupita Nyong'o than Zoe Kravitz when it comes to shading, reflection, and complementary color usage :).

Lighting for dark skin is different on light skin. Light skin gets changed by lighting, and dark skin reflects the lighting. Below is a lovely shot of Nyong'o's character from Wakanda Forever in mourning. The filmmakers emphasize the umber qualities of her skin in contrast to the funereal white and (arguably harsh) light across her shoulder below.

Try to pick spots that aren't directly in or near the light, and try mixing 3 or more! You can put it into a color mixer online, or even color pick, lower the opacity, and lay the shades over each other until you find one that fits. And of course, the more 'realistic' you want to go with shading and lighting, the more shades you're going to want to be able to explore vivaciously :D.

Let's take a look at the same 3 beautiful actresses I mentioned at the beginning, with a bad color picked area and a better-ish color picked area. (Please keep in mind, these are not perfect comparisons, as I was not able to find pictures of all 3 actresses under the same kind of lighting.)

Kravitz's has a clear difference between the two, but they aren't too far apart, in comparison to Nyong’o’s and Jeffries’s. Note the dullness in the poorly picked shades as opposed to the better ones. Also keep in mind that while Kravitz has a rosy undertone (at least in that picture - it’s from The Batman, which has stylized coloring) Nyong’o has a slight cool undertone (I can’t pin down quite what, but the picture is definitely not stylized like Kravitz’s).

Jeffries runs more ochre or russet, but neither of those are pink. They are more red than terracotta or umber, but to call Jeffries’s face rosy would be wrong. Err more towards the golden when drawing her.

^^saved an image from a writing tutorial long ago, but can’t seem to find it. If someone recognizes it, I’ll link it. EDIT: it’s from this post. Thanks @autumnrowancollector ! <3

And also, the darker skin gets, the less likely warm undertones are going to appear. Don't be afraid to use blue or purple or even green on occasion!

Additionally, cool lighting on dark skin is always a win imo.

(I was going to use that picture of Jeffries as Annabeth by the lightning bolt, but then I realized the lighting on her face doesn’t quite match up with where it should hit from that angle, and I realized they kind of just turned everything bluer, so screenshot time!)

(Also if you want another really great live action example, check out anything Aldis Hodge is in, like Leverage and Black Adam)(and of course there’s Spiderverse <3 but I want to post pictures of Hodge)

Now, to here’s a list of more experienced people’s advice:

Black facial features & hair

Shading digitally for a (somewhat) monotone Black character

Stylistic choices and places to start looking for inspiration (besides a search engine).

Coloring Black people’s lips

A better coloration tutorial

Also a nice tutorial for Indigenous skin tones, just in case yall want to draw Piper or use this information for other dark skinned characters :).

EDIT: Some actresses who are closer in skintone to use for Annabeth, provided by the lovely @blackfemmecharacterdependency ! If you can’t find a reference for Jeffries in a specific lighting, maybe check out these ladies’ pictures! It’s a reblog, so scroll down.

TLDR: Don’t make Annabeth pink and pale, make her dark and golden.

[dykedvonte]

I keep seeing fanarts of ppl's OC's being on the ship, so do you think that if there was 6st crewmember (specifically, another woman) Anya would've been more safe? Like, someone to actually call Jimmy's begaviour out, someone Anya might wanna trust? Is there a possibility something might have changed (even if a little) or it would not have mattered at all?

-💀

I feel like the game would make it part of the commentary on where she would believe and help Anya but still be sort of dismissive? Like the whole “don’t waste time crying and being scared keep going and move on, don’t let him win”. It’s supposed to be positive and reinforcing but sometimes it does more damage in those times of mourning and grief, it feels patronizing, like you don’t understand what you’re going through but they do. Even if they did call out his behavior it’s still on Curly to act and while another voice would help, it’s still 4 against 2 on guys that don’t get it until they have to vs women who always have to.

I don’t mind mouthwashing OCs but I do get a bit bored as they tend to be borderline saviors or like Jimmy aligned. They are either more complicit than Curly or just Jimmy haters for no reason, outside of what the creators know about what he did to Anya. I am never irked by OCs but in a story like mouthwashing you really need to think about what your character adds to the commentary, especially if they are there during the crash. It’s nice to have like characters on Anya’s side more whole heartedly and interesting to see characters who placate Jimmy but sometimes it’s one note.

I can’t and don’t want to police peoples OCs it’s never my intention when I comment on trends I notice, but I do feel like the way people make their OCs interact with these two characters and especially Curly, really show a grave misunderstanding of the narrative and these characters as people vs roles in the story. Still, I know people just make up characters for fun and that’s fine. Great even, but I guys I’m focusing more on OCs that are supposed to have those serious dynamics. My favs tend to be pretty-Tulpar or post-Tulpar au OCs.

The inevitably of the crash is on Jimmy. He did that not because he wasn’t stopped but because all his means to kill Anya were taken. The gun, the axe. Even if Curly did strip him of his co-pilot privileges and try to keep him contained there’s only so many people. An extra body helps but they have jobs they have to do, he’s the only one steering the whole ship and Jimmy would likely have an out: food, bathroom, etc. He’s not new and if he couldn’t crash the ship directly, who’s to say he wouldn’t sabotage something else? A clunker like the Tulpar wouldn’t take much. An extra person helps but it’s just another thing that prolongs what a person like Jimmy is willing to do to shirk responsibility.

It’s more than just needing someone to stand up to him and think that’s what is missing when it comes to inserting a character into the mouthwashing setting.

[amethystina]

hey i hope you're doing fine <3 i just wanted to drop by and scream over the recent WHTD chapter, you blew me away with the perfectly written gut wrenching yearning like i. was. on. the. floor. yohan literally being unable to ignore a distressed gaon even tho he is literally dying himself we love to see it!! and gaon with the hoodie??? oh my sweet boy, i feel bad for you (even tho you bought this upon yourself lol) anyways i can't wait to see where we go from here, i can't express enough just how excited i am for their journey...

while we're on that topic, i was recently re-reading 'it is mine to avenge' and as we know, they are established in that fic and it got me so curious on how that happened like what led to that first kiss and who initiated it? would you be so kind to entertain me cuz i cannot stop thinking ab it lol (also im going to absolutely lose it when they finally kiss in WHTD like im scared for myself)

ok i'll shut up now, thank you for your beautiful stories they bring me so much comfort and joy, you and your works are so so loved so thank you <33 i hope you're feeling better now and please take care of yourself!! <3

I'm so glad you enjoyed the latest chapter! That last scene with Ga On and Yo Han was so very heartbreaking to write because they both yearn so incredibly much but have their reasons for trying to hold back. And it has reached the point where not even Yo Han is in full control anymore, his desire to help and protect Ga On overruling his iron will. I think that says a lot.

And yeah, the hoodie scene made me feel bad for Ga On but also made me want to shake my head at him. Ga On, my sweet baby deer — you are a disaster.

But a disaster I adore, so he's got that going for him, at least.

I hope the rest of the journey will be enjoyable as well! The coming chapters are going to be full of scenes I've been dying to write for ages — and I mean that literally since I've been writing this fic for three years now. Hopefully, you will find them as exciting as I do!

As for It Is Mine to Avenge, it was Ga On who initiated their first kiss, which Yo Han points out in the story itself:

"And Yo Han knew — had known, from the very first time Ga On had kissed him, bold and unafraid — that he would never find that anywhere else."

Aside from that, the only detail I've decided on is that they didn't get together until after the drama. But I can't say if it was days, weeks, or months after. Or exactly what the scene looked like. Mainly because it wasn't relevant to the main story and, in some ways, I want to leave it as open as possible for my readers to decide for themselves.

I mean, some might even want to put It Is Mine to Avenge in the same universe as Who Holds the Devil, which is totally fine by me.

Like, we're not even at the one-year mark after the drama in Who Holds the Devil and It Is Mine to Avenge is set two years after Yo Han faked his death. So it's possible 😉 And Yo Han never mentions exactly what it is that Ga On does to bring change and fight for equality. It could be the Justice Project. But it could also be something else entirely. It's your choice!

... and I guess that means I just spoiled who will kiss who first in Who Holds the Devil but I think that's pretty obvious by now considering Yo Han's desire to be chosen. He's not going to be the one to kiss Ga On because he wants Ga On to pick him and show how much he wants to be with him — even if it means Yo Han is going to be waiting for a while still.

(Also: No, I'm not saying that It Is Mine to Avenge and Who Holds the Devil are in the same universe, but I'm not going to stop anyone from having that as their headcanon)

So yeah! I've intentionally left things vague in It Is Mine to Avenge because I didn't want to ruin anyone's theories. Which I guess is the boring answer since you wanted to be entertained? Sorry about that 😂

I know I say I have a plan for almost everything and that's still true, it just so happens that my plan this time was to not have an answer because I thought it would be more interesting for people to come up with their own theories and ideas.

So, really, a better question would be what YOU think led to that first kiss 😉

Thank you so much for your kind words and encouragement. I admit I really need them right now because things are, unfortunately, not getting any better. I still haven't recovered from my burnout but there's a risk I have to go back to working full-time anyway because of bureaucracy. And I'm kind of scared of what that will do to my overall health, both mental and physical. And having to deal with that anxiety is exhausting all on its own, never mind the strain of working full-time.

Plus, my former stepdad (my mum and he broke up about two years ago but were together for twenty years so he's been there for more than half of my life) is in the hospital with sepsis. They found bacteria in his heart and he's currently getting antibiotics every sixth hour in an attempt to keep it from killing him 🙃

So, uh, life is kind of shit? I've barely had time to deal with the previous loss and now I'm terrified I'll be hit with another.

(It probably won't happen since he's being carefully monitored and he sounds surprisingly cheerful for someone who's going to be pumped full of antibiotics for four weeks straight, but yeah. Tell that to my brain)

So thank you, truly, for caring about me and for all the kindness. It means a lot to me 💜

[elizabethzoopzoop986]

I miss Mei so much you don’t understand :( bring her back AidaIro. Also Yako and Hakubo

I hate how the school mysteries (other than Hanako, Mitsuba and Akane) get there one arc where you really get to know them and care about them and then they just go away forever. GIVE THEM BACK PLS AIDAIRO LET THEM OUT OF THE CLOSET THEYVE DONE NOTHING WRONG