#okay look I don't genuinely think mute has a thing for animals

[papirouge]

in an unfortunate turn of event (me visiting my sister who scheduled a movie seance for my niece), I went to see The Little Mermaid🥴

Cliffs **spoilers** :

- Halle is breathtakingly beautiful... Like- it was lowkey distracting lol. She was perfect for that role. She has those outlandish features that are perfect to pull off the look of a mythical creature such as a mermaid (I feel the same for Michaela Coel). Something tells me the fact she's so pretty and Black AND paired with a White man is one of the reason White Conservative/ANTI/NLOG pickmes seethed particularly hard at that casting🥴

- it's obvious that the story is based in the Caribbeans so Ariel being Black is totally coherent. There's absolutely no "Black in the middle of the snow" syndrome since the cast is extremely diverse and multiracial (Creole type of demographic). The (White) Prince is an adoptee of the Black queen, and most islanders look mixed to some degree. And it's echoing what's happening in the sea kindgom since Ariel and her sisters are supposed to represent the 7 seas (2 mermaids are Black, 2 are White, 1 Arabic, 1 East Asian, 1 Indian) so screaming about White erasure is stupid lol

Oh, And let's not forget King Triton who's Latino LMAO (Javier Bardem)

In the end of the day, directors are entitled to make remake through their own perspective and a Creole Little Mermaid was an interesting and convincing move considering how well put together and highlighted this culture is throughout the entire movie (and let's no forget that even in the OG Little Mermaid Sebastian already had a Creole accent so the call was from inside the building at this point). In retrospective, the whole outrage surrounding this movie lookw even more embarrassing & stupid...

- kinda off that Ariel is 15 years old while the Prince is 21...🥴

- the songs are good - there are 3 additional songs - of which one sang by the Prince (which is okay but still a bit awkward lol). "Under the Sea" SLAPS and is visually marvelous. Scuffle ragga song is funny idc lol

- the CGI looks better in motion (especially Sebastian), but the realism kinda kills the mood. Although I suspect they made this choice so that the animals aren't too much out of place when interacting with humans (which happens A LOT in the movie). It's not like Finding Nemo where humans were only a tiny fraction of screen time.

- the building up of the romance is surprisingly cute. The chemistry between the 2 actors is very convincing. The Creole dancing scene is absolutely lovely. Their bonding around their curiosity for the world and exploration is very credible and fleshes out their romance beyond the 'Prince fell in love with mute unknown girl'/'mermaid falls in love at first sight' thing. I like how they added in the scenario that Ariel forgot that she had to kiss the prince to remain human forever (it was a ruse from Ursula to prevent Ariel of reaching that goal, but also a scenaristic ploy to avoid Ariel rushing to kiss the Prince who quickly felt in love with her) so their romance looked more genuine.

- the Prince is pretty handsome 👀 that's a first for a live action Disney movie imo I also think we dodged a bullet concerning the rumors of Harry Styles being initially casted for the role

- the final fight with (giant) Ursula is kinda underwhelming

- from a Christian perspective: this movie is a total rehabilitation of mermaids. At some point, when Ariel reverts to a mermaid right before the prince and his mom, the Queen says (talking to the prince) "I told you the creatures from the kingdom of sea were DEMONIC" ....and the thing is.... she's supposed to be the evil one for rejecting the mermaids. There's an obvious satanic demon acceptance agenda so don't get it twisted to the purpose of that movie.. it's Disney after all....

[beeceit]

Is there something about itbotb Purple's design/characterisation that you didn't expect to include but ended up liking too much to leave out? And/or what's the biggest change from when you started putting together ideas to now?

I absolutely love this question!! It really made me think and I appreciate that SO MUCH I accidentally deleted the first version of my answer (That I was super proud of ):< ) but let's see if I can recreate it bc I have A LOT to say

Okay so Purple's design was absolutely NOT what I expected in any way shape or form! He was originally going to be very sleek and techno, taking some inspiration from Shelldon and the rest from 80s sci-fi (long black coats my beloved) and then I got the Firefly theme stuck in my head and was struck with A Vision and remembered that Donnie was the only one hyping up Leo's cowboy fit in Clothes Don't Make The Turtle. I wanted to make him similar enough to my design for the Renegade Animation (not abandoned, btw, just... lacking time and energy to really work on it rn) that it could be seen as an If-Things-Went-Differently look at him, as Renegade has Donnie as 29 and vengeful where Purple is much calmer. I'm using a lot of Grim Reaper imagery for Renegade and absolutely fell in love with Donnie having a scythe and cloak, so Purple has a western style version of that. That's also where the first thoughts about giving him a skeleton arm came from. A lot of the details about the prosthetic arm are going to be coming in a future chapter so I won't say much about the arm itself here. I think that Donnie makes things to cope, and the more fucked up he is about whatever he's coping from the more intricate it'll be. So the arm he lost is both meant to match Blue's missing arm, and to show what Purple can do when he's not so crunched for time and materials. He lost that arm pretty close to the initial invasion, even before Raph died, so there were plenty of materials around to salvage and food wasn't scarce yet so he could give the arm his whole focus. The silly little black glasses were just kinda me fucking around and then they became central to the design, same with the snake bite piercings. I was driving myself crazy, could not come up with anything, and then as soon as I tried out those the rest of his look came so naturally. Stonertello started as a joke also, but the more I thought about it the more I went "Oh that fucks actually, let's explore that." Frankly, I don't think Donnie, at least how I characterize him, would be able to cope with all the Everything without some sort of chemical intervention. I've seen multiple people's version of f!donnie smoking, but I don't approve of cigarettes, so I tweaked it to marijuana which I'm more okay with. For that I'm heavily relying on my friends who use, specifically my autistic friends and how they've described marijuana helping with their symptoms. With his marijuana use I also wanted to give Blue a bit of a background for dealing with helping a loved one struggling with addiction, so he's not coming out of the gate entirely with helping Leo. Purple's use genuinely started healthy but as things got worse the more he isolated and relied on it until it became an addiction. Purple's characterization is actually very personal to me bc I'm trying to mesh Donnie's canon character with what I remember of my uncle, and we're going to see a lot of his character through Casey, not just from Blue. My Uncle Jim passed away from cancer when I was 11 and I can't remember a time before we knew, so I very much grew up watching him slowly deteriorate and I really don't remember any version of him that wasn't very weak and muted. (Except for that time he tickled me until I pissed myself in front of god and everyone at a family gathering. I don't care if I was like 7 and you're dead now, I hold grudges /j) I love Purple so much, I may even like him more than Blue tbh

As far as changes to the story as a whole, I have SO MUCH to say about that too, but this is already ungodly long so I'll go into that later :)

[kiruuuuu]

Smoke/Mute oneshot in which, as usual, utter chaos happens and I attempt an explanation as to where these pink Siege skins came from. (Rating M, crack + some sexiness going on, ~2.7k words) - written for @glockchen​ who asked me to write anything about these skins and I could never say no to you ♥♥♥

.

It starts with a simple drawing.

As it’s a perfectly normal morning in Hereford, the canteen, including the kitchen, is in complete and utter chaos: Caveira has followed through with her threat of disgustedly pouring what she calls bleached bullshit (also known as refined sugar) into Dokkaebi’s collar because the Korean woman forgot to buy ‘proper’ sugar, sparking a small war in their corner of the room, Blitz is currently burning the third batch of eggs and looking to his boyfriend for approval (and Rook reacts with a pained smile), and Bandit is surreptitiously trying to trip everyone walking past while pretending to be an angel in Montagne’s direction.

Mute and Smoke are sitting somewhere in the middle of all this, only half listening to Sledge’s tired mantra of they’re all adults they can clean up after themselves don’t get up let them make their own mistakes and learn.

“Gargle is such a typical, ugly English word”, Maestro muses and feeds the Scotsman a bite of his cheesecake because who needs breakfast food when there’s cake. “It’s onomatopoeic, agreed, but if the love of my life told me ‘I just gargled with maple syrup’ I wouldn’t care how sweet the kisses were because it’d be the same as if I proclaimed myself to be moist. Ugh.”

“I dunno, it can be pretty romantic”, Smoke shrugs and surreptitiously rolls his eyes at Mute – it’s clear why, the two lovebirds next to them are once again wholly lost in each other. “I sometimes gargle with Mark’s come and he never complains.”

Sledge chokes on the cheesecake and looks like he’s about to protest the mention of bodily fluids while he’s eating (and Mute gets ready to retaliate by pointing out the bright purple lovebites peeking over the Scot’s collar as well as the faint bruises on Maestro’s neck), when there’s a sudden, dramatic entrance. The door flies open and in strides Tachanka, head held high, stance proud and a fond smile on his lips.

Most of the ruckus dies down over the abrupt change in mood as the Russian makes a beeline for the fridge, carefully stepping over Bandit’s outstretched foot, avoiding the two flailing women and ignoring the sharp smell emanating from the stove. Now Mute notices the piece of paper in Tachanka's hand which he unfolds and then pins to the fridge door with a few magnets. From this distance, all Mute can see is a whole lot of pink.

Seeing as most pairs of eyes are glued to the old man by now, Tachanka grins and addresses the room with his booming voice: “If you ever ask yourself why the hell you’re still here – this is why.”

Curious, Mute leaves the quiet argument of what constitutes as revolting behind and joins the small crowd gathering around Tachanka, catching a better look of what seems to be a child’s drawing. It’s hard to make out at first as more than half of it is just a mix of different shades of pink, but eventually he identifies it as Tachanka himself holding what looks like a little girl, only his uniform has been recoloured from his usual olive and he’s displaying a horn as well as a mane and even a tail.

If he’s honest, it’s adorable. He knows the story, Glaz told it with a sheepish Tachanka modestly brushing him off but smiling appreciatively anyway: on their last mission, the old man heroically rescued a girl and made sure to carry her to safety and even reunite her with her parents. Judging by Tachanka's expression, it’s one of the most touching fan letters he’s received and he’s immensely proud, as he should be.

At least until Blackbeard steps up and snorts at the display. “Not at all your colour, I’m sorry to say, this looks like the gayest version of you”, he points out. “Absolutely ridiculous.”

“Says the guy with the man bun”, Pulse shoots back immediately.

“Is that bold-faced envy I hear? At least I have hair, Jack.”

“Yes. Too much of it. I’m just waiting for you to start stealing Sébastien’s plaid shirts.”

“I am comfortable enough in my masculinity to experiment with non-traditional looks, thank you very much. When’s the last time you changed anything about your appearance? I’ve seen your driver’s license. The only new thing about you are your wrinkles.”

Mute considers texting Smoke to stop demonstrating his ability to shove an entire piece of cake into his mouth and instead witness this rare American-on-American smackdown but forgets all about it when Tachanka, who’s been listening with a decidedly unimpressed scowl, chimes in: “You call yourself confident but mock this gift I got? Just because it’s pink?”

Belatedly, Blackbeard realises his mistake of potentially angering Tachanka of all people and tries to backtrack. “Well, I mean – only because you’d look silly wearing it. The picture is cute, but you in a pink uniform -”

“What’s wrong with a pink uniform?”

“It’s not really – it’s too visible, and you in pink is just laughable.”

“What’s wrong with me in a pink uniform?”

Mute is failing to suppress a grin by now. While Tachanka sounds perfectly calm and pleasant, Blackbeard is getting more and more flustered by the second. “It’s not a manly colour. You agree with me on that, right? You’d look stupid.”

“Pink used to be a boy’s colour, you know. A softer red, in a way. I think it’d suit you, it’d go with your hair.”

“I’d rather drop dead than be caught wearing something like this”, Blackbeard mutters and then wisely retreats before Tachanka's good mood dissolves into something else.

Amused, the Russian turns to Mute and mirrors his grin. “Confident in his masculinity, hm?”, he repeats doubtfully.

“We can actually make a pink uniform for you”, Mute suggests, causing Tachanka to perk up. “James has dyed clothes before.”

“Would you? I’m beginning to like the idea more and more. I can wear it during training and dazzle everyone.”

“I’ll even do you one better. Just wait a few days.” The two of them nod at each other and Mute returns to his table where Maestro is currently praising the soothing quality of green tea for an upset stomach. “James, I know what we’re going to do today”, he announces with a glint in his eye.

.

“Are you sure these are the correct measurements?”, Smoke complains for the nth time around the needles between his lips. Doubtfully, he holds up the patterned trousers and frowns at them, visibly dissatisfied. “They look too short, babe. They look like they’d fit me.”

Odd, isn’t it?, Mute thinks and bites his cheek until he trusts himself to reply without sounding highly entertained. “Those are definitely the correct measurements, I’m sure.”

“I bet you’re bloody grateful I can sew or else you’d still be watching Youtube tutorials.”

“I’m glad your mum made you fix the clothes you ripped on the daily, yes. Teaches you about the value of your time.”

“Teaches me not to buy expensive garb, more like. How’s your unicorn coming along?”

Mute takes a moment to inspect his work. After airbrushing one of Tachanka's helmets a lovely shade of pink, he started to add a few more personal touches he expects the Russian to enjoy: a pair of bear ears which Bandit owned – and no, Mute didn’t ask for details –, an actual unicorn horn he improvised out of a few available materials plus a mane made from faux fur which Frost generously donated once she caught wind of their project. He’s currently gluing letters onto the monstrosity since the rainbow he added for good measure has dried already. All in all, it’s solid work and he’s happy with it. If this doesn’t make Tachanka's teammates question some of what they thought they knew about him, then nothing will.

“See, I get why we’re making two of these abominations, babe, even if you haven’t told me the reason outright”, Smoke murmurs more to himself than directed at Mute, “but why three? Did anyone else want one? Are we gifting one to Dom? You know he’d wear it, especially with this sexy leopard print. Christ, we’re not giving the old man the leopard, are we? Because I’m sure he’d say something like ‘I have the underwear to match it’ and thank you, now we’ll need some brain bleach.”

“He’s not the only one I know who’d have matching knickers”, Mute states drily. “And Dom isn’t the only one I know who’d wear this.”

Smoke stops messing with the hem and throws him a deeply distrustful look. “Babe. Are you serious?”

“I have the perfect ears to go with it too.”

His quiet statement makes his lover’s brows rise. “They’re for me, aren’t they.” It’s not a question and so Mute doesn’t answer. “Really though – are you taking the piss or does the thought of me wearing this stuff actually turn you on?” Mute steadfastly refuses to respond and instead focuses on lining up the letters playfully. Maybe he could add glitter, yes, in any case he needs to not think about Smoke in a leopard print uniform, absolutely not squirming on his lap, the rappel harness flattering his thighs and soft mewls -

The rustling of clothes catches his attention and when he looks up, Smoke is half naked already. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on, what does it look like? You want me to wear this, so I will.” He pulls on the finished pieces of his uniform and poses only partly jokingly. His arse looks amazing and Mute forgets how breathing works for a moment, resisting the urge to reach out and cop a feel because then they’ll never get it all done. “Bloody hell, this is tight.”

“Yeah”, Mute agrees distractedly and openly disregards the concept of eye contact entirely in favour of ogling other body parts, “like I said: definitely the correct measurements.”

Grinning, Smoke walks over to where he’s sitting and buries a hand in Mute’s hair to drag his head forward and smush his face into his exceedingly prominent bulge, ignoring the slight resistance and massaging Mute’s scalp once he’s started mouthing at the growing erection rubbing against his cheek. “Why don’t you get the ears, babe?”, Smoke hums and seems not at all perturbed by his unusual attire.

.

A few days later, Mute stands outside of Blackbeard's room, taking a deep breath and checking the time again. The American’s daily schedule is rigid and thus he’s been asleep for more than an hour at this point, not at all disturbed by the commotion outside of the base. They invited everyone interested, distributed beverages and promised a show, meaning there’s a sizeable crowd outside waiting for the main event to happen – whatever it’s supposed to entail.

Tachanka's uniform garnered a lot of approval, and Mute was especially proud to hear almost everyone complimenting his admittedly fabulous helmet, but the real treat hasn’t even surfaced yet.

Once he deems himself ready, he barges into the room and starts shaking Blackbeard awake rudely. “Get up, Jenson, come on, we need you, there’s a situation.” He does his best to appear urgent, and to his credit, Blackbeard is up on his feet before he’s even processed anything that’s going on. “Hostage taken in London, we need to fly out ASAP, get dressed and let’s go!”

He left the door open to let just enough light in for the American to not crash into his furniture as he stumbles about the room, getting dressed and mumbling something incoherent. Mute leaves him no time to think, talking rapidly out of his arse and ushering him out of the room and down the corridor. Blearily, Blackbeard allows himself to be manhandled and merely responds with a few grunts, but once they’re outside and in the middle of the sizeable gathering, he realises that something is off.

Being greeted with cheers, Blackbeard looks around in confusion until his gaze lands on Tachanka toasting him with a can of beer. “The fuck are you wearing?”, he asks and eyes the unicorn helmet in disbelief.

“The fuck are you wearing?”, Tachanka shoots back good-naturedly.

Finally, Blackbeard looks down at himself. He’s clad entirely in pink, mirroring the Russian perfectly. “What”, he says helplessly.

“I told you it’d go with your hair.”

And while the two start bickering immediately, with Blackbeard pompously proclaiming his intent to undress this instant and Tachanka amusedly egging him on, much to the audience’s delight, Mute feels a tug on his sleeve, turns around and mutters a curse under his breath. “I told you not to wear this outside”, he hisses and tries his best not to glance down at Smoke’s dangerously tight trousers.

He’s wearing the full outfit sans mask, and the cat ears which allegedly pick up on brain activity and move accordingly are perked up in excitement. Smoke was amazed by them the first time he put them on and refused to take them off for an entire evening – and admittedly, Mute’s heart melted a little every time Smoke looked over at him and the ears shot up instantly.

Right now, however, his heart isn’t the body part most touched by Smoke’s appearance.

“I’ve been a naughty kitty”, Smoke purrs and begins wrapping himself around the taller man, “you should punish me.”

And while the whole thing in itself has nothing erotic about it, it achieves the desired effect nonetheless as Mute is overcome by the sudden urge to stuff Smoke’s mouth.

Before he can act on it though, Bandit appears by their side, ignoring Blackbeard's repeated insistences that while pink is apparently a feminine colour, there’s nothing wrong with femininity, it’s just not for him (and Tachanka merely lets him talk with a partly disbelieving, partly entertained smile). “Have you seen Gilles? I don’t know where he is.”

“He said something like ‘I have one of these’ when he saw Chanka and then disappeared”, Smoke informs him helpfully and receives a concerned frown. “No idea what he was on about but he seemed excited.”

“Well, he better not be -”

Bandit trails off in horror and neglects to shut his mouth, so Mute and Smoke follow his line of sight while most of the noise around them dies down as well. It quickly becomes clear why: Montagne’s standing in the doorway to the base, wearing – well. What is he wearing?

Only on the second glance does Mute discern the butterfly pattern, noticing that it even continues over his balaclava, harmonises well with the hot pink helmet and – are those feelers?

Montagne catches sight of Smoke’s attire and nods approvingly. “That’s… a choice”, he states. “Maybe a little too racy but I don’t dislike it.”

“What do you think is going on here?”, Bandit addresses him weakly and looks torn between wanting the ground to swallow him whole and wanting the ground to swallow Montagne.

Now the Frenchman seems to be questioning himself, expression turning sheepish. “Isn’t this… these aren’t designs for breast cancer awareness? I thought -”

“See! That would be the only acceptable occasion for a man to ever wear pink!”, Blackbeard tells Tachanka triumphantly while pointing almost accusingly at Montagne, sparking yet another discussion now involving most of the people present.

“Does it look bad?”, Montagne wants to know sadly and only cheers up once Bandit has walked over to reassure him and started to play with his antennae – Mute can only imagine the amount of willpower it takes for Bandit not to make a thousand inappropriate and/or sarcastic jokes at once.

Not that he’s in a much better situation, seeing as Smoke is attempting to seductively meow in his direction. Sighing, he grabs Smoke’s wrist and drags him along. “You look hot but please never pretend to be a cat again. Promise me, James.”

“If I do, am I allowed to wear this on a mission?”

Smoke’s bright smile is going to be his doom one day, he knows this. He predicts quite a lot of arguing about the use of this particular outfit but can’t really say that he minds, not when they do most of their fighting in bed.

And maybe he’ll tell Smoke to put the mask on this time as well.

[glitchstoxicwaste]

Matchups I see 👀 may I request one for slashers?

I'm 19, though soon 20, and nonbinary with any pronouns. I'm 4'11, and am a slut for height difference (but that's not very hard to get lol)

My style is emo/grunge/goth mix, lots of black, chains, spikes, ripped jeans, etc.. I don't usually wear makeup, but if I do it's usually gothic/emo. My hair is shoulder length, purple, and very curly!

I'm mute, and communicate by writing on my phone or in a notebook. I love drawing, scultping, painting, and writing. I'm a huge horror fan, most of my art is of slashers or horror OCs. I've got a huge sweet tooth, but honestly? Salads are also very good.

I'm hyperempathetic, and try to be nice to everyone I meet. I'm often by myself, watching movies or playing games or drawing. And, despite my style of dressing, I absolutely adore stuffed animals and other very cutesy things. I can be very patient and calm, however if I know you well I can act completely feral.

I'm hypersexual and am romantically interested in men.

Hope this was okay!

"Aw shit, I forgot to say how I act in a relationship!

19 goin on 20 enby anon here again, you can throw this in with my previous ask.

I'm usually very caring, supportive and accepting of whatever they want to do. I absolutely hate conflict, and will try to communicate calmly. Since I can't talk, arguing is frustrating, and I'll usually just end up crying out of anger. I'm hesitant to touch but once I get comfortable I can be clingy, but always not going too far for my partners comfort. I like cooking for people, and staying in to spend time with them. I have nightmares, and sharing a bed helps, so sharing a bed it is! If my partner is struggling I try my best to comfort them.

I'm very much a "mother" hen, but also very obedient when need be.

Sorry for not adding this to my last ask, I forgot!"

2nd part to the whole ask from this anon!

TW: Slight sexual themes and insecurities mentioned!

You're grunge too?! Awesome! Also you didn't have to add it, it just helps me get a better match is all, but thank you for telling me!

Any who I have the man for you!

He is:

Vincent Sinclair!

Height difference- all I gotta say-

Your style is stunning to him, he's never seen anything quite like it, especially with your hair being dyed, absolutely beautiful.

He adores how you look without makeup, will automatically want to draw you without it, but he also enjoys when you put on makeup, it's unique and interesting, wants to draw you with makeup on too.

With you both being mute it'll push him to learn sign language, but he will also communicate with you through writing if it's easier for you.

Always wants you to be in the basement with him, he personally finds it to be a quiet and safe space to work on art, so you are the only person allowed to go into and stay in the basement whenever you like.

Admires you while you work, your delicate hands working on something so beautiful, his heart could burst.

If you draw anything gory or murderous he wont judge, to him all art is beautiful, that's why he gave you the nickname "Art".

He personally doesn't have a sweet tooth, but he will make Bo go get you candy when you want them, and Vincent will happily make you a salad if you want it.

With you being hyperempathetic he feels you are the only one who genuinely will try to understand him as a person, will look beyond the murder and making living people into wax covered sculptures around Ambrose.

He feels you wont be too disturbed with the scar on the side of his face, or how he's missing an eye, but he still is warry about it, thinking you might be disgusted with him and will avoid him or even leave him for the scar.

Whenever you wanna be by yourself he accepts it, understanding perfectly.

He fixed up a small house in Ambrose for you, the only house with WIFI, Internet access, has a TV with Netflix, Hulu, Crunchyroll, any any other things you want to have to watch movies and shows.

It also has Xbox's and/or PlayStation's, a laptop, and other electronics for you to game, including a full gaming setup in a grunge/emo/goth aesthetic, boxes of band posters and other items for you to decorate the house however you want, a free space only you can go into, he wont step foot inside unless given permission.

He took up sewing and embroidering to make you little stuffies, unique one of a kind gifts for you because you're worth it, you're unique so you should have unique things.

But he will have Bo buy you stuffies if you don't like the ones Vincent made you.

When you first started showing your feral side he was a little concerned, but when you explain to him that it's how you are when comfortable he will get flustered.

If you befriend Lester and/or Jonesy his heart will swell, you trust his little brother and became friends with him, you're accepted by not only Vincent but by Lester, Jonesy, and maybe Bo if you don't annoy him that much.

He isn't a very sexual person, but if you are in need of some sexy affection he will help out however you need, but be careful at first, baby boy is a virgin.

With you being a supportive person he will feel more confident in the relationship and with himself, but still fears you'll hate him or secretly hate him for what he does to visitors in Ambrose.

He too hates conflict, especially due to how he grew up and what his parents did to Bo, so he tries to understand where you're coming from and tries to calmly explain his side, although, lack of verbal communication is rather tricky, he will keep his patience with you.

But if Bo ever corners you and causes you to cry out of anger, then Vincent will loose his patience and will be at your side in less than a second, he will straighten up to full height, hold you close to cry in his chest, and will glare daggers into Bo as a warning to fuck off.

He's not used to physical affection, its new to him, so at first he will be uncomfortable, but after a while he will be more than happy to hold you or have you sit on his lap.

With you cooking for him -and maybe Bo and Lester since Les doesn't know how to cook and Bo can't cook for shit- he feels a sense of domesticity around him, it makes him smile -a rarity- and will wrap his arms around your waist, burring his face in the crook of your neck, proud to have you in his life.

You staying inside makes him happy, you're safe inside the house or in your private sanctuary, Ambrose is a dangerous place and he couldn't live with himself if you got hurt at all.

He understands you need for sharing a bed, he will happily cuddle you or be the big spoon, if a nightmare wakes you up he is there to pull you close and center you, remind you of where you are, and kiss your face gently to help ground you more.

The "Mother Hen" instinct and obedience comes in handy, when he says Bo is "Working" and so you need to stay inside, and you listen, makes him worry a little less, he still fears you'll get hurt, that'll always be a fear, but knowing you wont leave the house makes him less anxious and on edge.

He appreciates when you want to help him when he is struggling, if it's art he's struggling with then he will hold you close, tight but not crushingly tight, and will calm down in your embrace.

If he's struggling with his appearance, his insecurities involving his scar and his mothers constant berating about him not being perfect and making him wear a mask, he will get anxious and insecure around you, feeling you'll hate him for the scar.

He loves you and wants to protect you, keeping you safe and enjoying art by his side fills him with pride he never had, you make him feel like he's more than a disfigured murderous monster, but a human with a heart and a sense of purpose.

[kbstories]

And with this third chapter, the fic is complete!

Only Lost The Night

Tags: Recovery, First Kiss, Fishing (non-graphic)

No additional spoilers apply.

>>Read on AO3

<<First Chapter

<<Second Chapter

The coffee comes out of the pot piping hot, quickly warming his mug and filling the morning air with its scent.

Arthur downs it in big gulps, wincing as it burns down his throat. The bad taste in his mouth is gone, though, and his queasy stomach settles with something to digest. The cold sweat he wakes up in every morning, or the tremor in his hands, well – recovery, as it turns out, is one tough son of a bitch, much more so when your alcohol supply is out of reach.

A sigh worms its way out his mouth, clouding white in front of him. There's precious little for him to do in camp – he can barely raise his left arm higher than chest height without pulling some wound or other – and most of the gang's inner workings come along well without his input.

This must be the longest Arthur's been off duty in... a while. It's disorienting, to say the least.

It doesn't help that, additionally to Miss Grimshaw's care – a duty she caries out with a gruff undertone in her voice but an indulgent glint in her eyes –, Charles has been watching him like a hawk, grumbling about his hard work going to waste otherwise.

Arthur would be the first to admit that drinking himself into a stupor a week into his mandatory bedrest was not his brightest moment. It definitely beat sitting on his ass all day long, doing fuck-all to earn his keep.

At this rate, he'll end up going to the dogs like Uncle. Isn't that a fun thought to entertain?

Even now he can feel the man's gaze on him, all the way across camp. Arthur raises his mug in the general direction of Charles's usual post, and plants himself on one of the logs surrounding the camp fire. See, I can be good, too.

A lazy salute is his meagre reward. Arthur shakes his head, only noticing the smile on his own face when he goes to light a cigarette. Drawing deep, he exhales slowly, finding himself enjoying the bite of nicotine on his tongue instead of merely going through the motions.

Maybe he can ask Hosea for one of them crime novels he's been so involved with lately. How was the author called again? Arthur flicks the excess ash to the ground, chasing the name on the tip of his tongue. Nope, gone. Never been his strongest suit, books, but Jack's seems interested too as of late, and with how things have been, the boy deserves some hero's tale or other to dream of.

… not one of Hosea's, then. God knows the kid sees enough blood and death as is.

Gaze lost in the fire and with nowhere else to go, Arthur's thoughts drift like smoke in the wind. To Jack, and how somewhere in this mess, he became Uncle Arthur to him. About that boy Kieran, so desperate for somewhere to belong it's painful to watch at times, and John, who had it all and disappeared who-knows-where all the same. Dutch and Hosea and that ever-shifting dream they keep chasing.

And yet his fingers itch for... something more, something to touch, to hold on to, like a pen or a gun or–

A genuine connection, to tether his very being to something bigger than himself. What if, Arthur thinks.

What if, what if.

He blows another puff into the sky and watches it disappear into nothingness.

*

“Okay. Hunting. Nothin' fancy, just a doe or two. Need practice with that bow, right? Takes a lifetime to master, an' all that–”

“No.”

“Oh for... One ride. To– to the general store in Rhodes, or, uh, to the tree line and back. A glimpse at the fields.”

Charles hitches his elbow on his knee, hand under his chin. “No”, he repeats, the low, serious timbre of his voice crumbling with veiled amusement. A searching gaze is leveled on Arthur, the kind to reveal every weakness hiding under his skin.

“Is that what it takes, Morgan? Two weeks in camp?”

“Ain't beggin' yet”, Arthur mumbles under his breath and throws Charles an unhappy look – Charles, who is currently sitting cross-legged on his saddle stand, confident as a king and entitled like one, too. Behind him, Dyani sniffs Charles's hair and pushes it around with her nose, rubbing his shoulder in the process.

It took Arthur weeks of constant work (and treats) to get the hang of the Andalusian's fickle temper and here they are, chummy like old friends. Traitors, the lot of them. Arthur's shoulders slump in defeat.

“Fine, have it your way.”

The statement isn't immediately followed by action, however. The mere thought of wasting more hours walking a line into the dirt, watching people come and go and feeling their sympathetic eyes on him is revolting to an almost physical degree. Arthur stares at his cot, just a few feet away, and can't bring himself to move.

“Arthur.”

Just his name, without pity. He closes his eyes and rubs his neck, staring at his boots as he struggles to find the right words.

“Just feelin' useless, is all. Can't do nothin' for weeks now an' with the O'Driscolls and whoever else breathin' down our necks... Ain't the man I am, Charles. To sit around an' wait for things to happen.”

A rustle of movement makes him glance up. Charles hops to his feet, easy as anything, and Arthur barely registers he's throwing something until he's grabbed it. A fishing rod? Arthur tilts his head with a frown.

“But you–”

“Teach me”, Charles says simply, and all Arthur can do is shut his mouth and nod, trying (and failing) to ignore how warm his chest feels.

*

Little by little, the smooth lines of graphite connect, fill in blank space, spill over the shadowed fold between the pages and beyond.

The gentle rocking of the boat, the rhythmic lapping of water against lacquered wood, the sting of a wound, still healing – it all fades into the background, there but muted as his attention is bracketed by the edges of his journal.

With the sun warming his back, Arthur draws.

In front of him sits Charles, leaning back just as he is, feet propped up against the boat's curved hull. Rod and line in place, his eyes are alert and search the surface of the lake for any movement, the very picture of endless patience. The breeze plays with a loose strand of his hair before he reaches up and tucks it away.

Charles fishes, and Arthur draws... him.

(Arthur's sketch of Charles by @ISpitznagel)

His shoulder doesn't allow him to sit as he usually does, legs folded close to his chest and journal balanced on his knees, angled away so nobody can see what he's working on. The members of the gang quickly learned that whoever tries is more likely to catch a fist to the jaw than a glimpse at his sketches. What is to others a collection of landscapes and animals and the odd person, to Arthur, well...

Things in his life don't have the best relationship with permanence, as it were. He'd rather commit what he can to paper before they inevitably disappear too.

Charles asks later, “What do you think of when you draw?”, when the light has grown too weak to keep going and Arthur reached for his pack of cigs to occupy his hands instead. Arthur, who drew in his lap instead of on his knees and knows that Charles saw.

He finds he doesn't mind one bit.

“Depends”, he mutters, stretching his legs out as far as the narrow boat allows, bumping against Charles's hip. “Sometimes nothin', sometimes somethin' I can't put words to just yet. Just keepin' track of things, in my own way. Makes 'em less unfathomable, if I may borrow one of them fancy terms.”

Charles snorts, “You may”, his grin there and gone in a flash. He's set aside the fishing rod – with the bucket they brought along filled to the brim with fish, there wouldn't be anywhere to put them anyways –, merely watching Arthur smoke now.

“Never was much the artistic type, myself. Looks all a bit like magic to me.”

Arthur grins back, offering him a cig of his own. Charles shrugs and takes one out of the box, leaning close to the match Arthur lights for him; his face is momentarily lit by its flaring tip, his eyes reflecting the embers' glow.

Their fingers brush and Arthur hums, exhales another smoke-filled breath into the night sky.

“Well I'd show you how, Charles, but if you take to it as quickly as fishin', what unique skills would that leave me with?”

Charles shrugs. “I can think of some”, he counters easily, another step in this dance of theirs that they slip into on nights like these. Teasing words wrapped around tender spots and soft-spoken secrets. Arthur takes the compliment for what it is, shaking his head fondly.

They smoke. Arthur tells Charles of the time he went fishing with Jack, months ago now; how hard it had been for the kid to focus on the fish, and less so on picking flowers.

“Seems the creative sort, you know? Better to let 'em make things. Kid's too young for all this crap we keep puttin' him through.”

“Does Marston know, though?” Charles sighs. “Some days it seems to me like you're more of a father to that boy than he is.”

Arthur frowns, rubs at his chest and that dull ache that, years later, is still there.

“Well, in some ways... Can't up and leave for a year an' expect things to remain the same, I guess. But John cares, or at least I think he does.” A pause. “'cause that's the thing, ain't it? Dutch taught us to give a shit 'bout family an' whatnot but, John an' I, we ain't got the same charisma he does. 's one of those things that's easier said than done.”

For a while, Charles says nothing. Just sits and smokes, looking into the distance. Turning some thought or other in his head, Arthur assumes. Eventually: “Guess you're right. Just doesn't feel good, seeing a kid on the run. Too much of that, as of late.”

“Ain't that the truth”, Arthur nods, righting himself to shake off some of the somber mood weighing on his shoulders. Smirking, he nudges Charles's knee with his own. “Just glad he stuck by that when them O'Driscolls got me. Didn't know I was even worthy of the best damn rescue squad we got.”

Charles's eyes snap to his then, narrowing a fraction. “Huh?”

“Dutch, I mean. An' you.”

“Oh.” That peculiar expression vanishes, Charles's face all-too-neutral. “Guess so”, he repeats, and Arthur draws back a little.

“Did I, uh–“ Glancing down, Arthur fiddles with the burned-out stub, staining his fingers with ash. “Didn't mean no offense, Charles. Been complainin' a lot but I wouldn't be here at all without you. Just wanted to let you know, 'm takin' none of that for granted.”

Suddenly Charles's hand is there, giving Arthur's a gentle squeeze. “Hey. That's not what I meant. Was just somewhere else, there.”

Automatically, Arthur squeezes back.

“Point still stands. Thank you.”

A quiet chuckle reels him back in, as it always does these days, “I'd do it again in a heartbeat, you know that”, and Arthur can't not look up at those words, searching his expression for– What, exactly?

What if, what if. The distance is gone, Charles's gaze warming further as Arthur's thumb brushes over the scarred back of his hand, feeling the calm rhythm of his pulse against his.

“What are we doing, Charles?”

The question is soft, said without any idea where it's headed: a road untraveled, missing from every map yet waiting to be explored.

Charles blinks, taken off guard. He opens his mouth, hesitates, admits, “Whatever you want us to”, sounding just as vulnerable as Arthur feels.

A split-second decision: Arthur tugs, Charles follows, catching himself against the boat. “Arthur”, he whispers, close enough Arthur can feel his breath on his face.

Arthur rasps, “Tell me to stop”, but Charles never does; he leans in, interlacing their fingers in the same moment their lips meet, tentatively – Arthur's eyes flutter shut, his fingers find the collar of Charles's shirt blindly, pull him ever-closer as he melts into it.

They barely part between one kiss and the next; Arthur murmurs Charles's name with the little breath he can catch, and “Fuck”, as Charles's tongue pushes into his mouth and he tastes smoke. His blood sings, throbbing in his veins in a dizzying rush, all the more prominent when Charles's thigh slides between his, caging him in–

The white-hot flash of pain comes so unexpected Arthur gasps, twisting his shoulder away from the pressure. Charles flinches, leans back, “Shit, sorry”, he pants out, mouth spit-slick and eyes wide.

Arthur can barely hear it over how loud his heart is, drumming away in his chest– “'m okay”, he says because Charles looks like he needs to hear it, but he doesn't let go, not yet.

“Come back. Please?”

Charles sways like he's drunk, nods – presses his forehead against Arthur's, noses brushing, but his tone is cautious, now. “We– This is not wise. You need time to heal.”

Arthur laughs, more than a little husky. “Do I look like I care about wise right now? Fuck, Charles.”

Charles's voice isn't faring much better; he hums a low “mmhm” before he kisses Arthur again, fleetingly. “Fuck me, indeed. I swear I had pure intentions with this.”

“You hate fishing. Dunno why you tried to convince me otherwise.”

“... I do, sorry.”

They share a smile, and Arthur shakes his head, tracing the curve of Charles's lips with his thumb.

“I don't mind. I prefer the alternative, too.”

>>Read on AO3