#old drained ponds

[kisblle]

Dark Paradise IV

Pairing: Low Honor Arthur Morgan x female reader

Part One Part Two Part Three

Word Count: 7,396

Summary: You're reminded that happiness doesn't last forever, especially with Arthur Morgan.

Tags: Heavy angst, pnv, toxic relationship, smut, porn with plot, 18+, MDNI

Author's note: Sorry this took longer than usual to get out, I really wanted to perfect this one because I've had this chapter and the next in my drafts since I got on Tumblr, I just decided to merge it into this story line. Also life has just been so draining lately with my new job and all, I make a lot of money, but at what cost? I feel like I have little time for enjoyable things nowadays.

In a steady, unrelenting rhythm, Arthur moves inside you - again and again. His sweat slicked skin sticks to yours with each powerful thrust, droplets rolling down from his forhead not only from the intensity of your bodies merging, but from the thick, humid air that laces the land of Lemoyne.

He looks down at you gorgeous, wild, and undone. Naked as the day you were born, your hair sprawling like a halo across a patch of shaded grass on the bank of Ringneck Creek. Your breasts bare to the breeze, your warmth wrapped around him, pulling him deeper. The green hues of the grass blend beautifully with the glow of your skin, your eyes telling him everything.

Just the two of you, naked and untamed, lost in the wilderness like creatures meant to mate under open skies. Feral. Primal. Right. Wild. Just animals ritualistically fucking in nothing but the bodies they were born in.

With one final thrust, his eyes lock on your lip between your teeth. “I - I love you,” he gasps, voice breaking as he reaches his climax, pulling out to spill across your soft, heavy chest. He collapses beside you moments later, the earth cool beneath his back, breath catching in his throat as he stares up at the blue sky broken up by branches swaying in the soft wind above him.

Had he really just said that?

Your stomach flips for a moment before he exhales slowly, still smiling, before turning on his side to face you. You wanted to say it back, say those three little, enchanting words as he stares at you completely spent. But something had stopped you. The nerves maybe, or the way he had said it almost too casually, like it had slipped out by accident. But soon, you're not even sure why you're arguing with yourself. The moment fades, lost in the way his lips curve into that boyish grin. He doesn’t bring it up again, and either do you. But those three little words still hang at the end of your tongue, waiting for just the right moment to say them back.

“Lucky no one saw us,” he mutters with a chuckle, breaking you out of your daze. Without thought, he lifts up his hand and scratches his day old stubble before resting his hand on your thigh.

You arch a brow with wide eyes, “You said this was some secret spot you found?”

Arthur laughs, running a hand through his messy hair as he glances toward the pond that curls off the creek. He just laughs, “It's actually a real popular fishin' spot Javier showed me some time ago."

“You bastard.” You purse your lips, pressing a hand to your chest to try and protect your non-extistant modesty as you scan the nearby grass for your discarded dress.

But Arthur only grins wider. Catching your hand before gently pulling you back onto his lap, your bare body melting into him. “C’mon,” he groans softly. “Let’s enjoy it a bit longer. Take a swim? Cool down?”

And when you look into those deep pools of blue when he smiles at you with that chipped tooth grin - it’s damn near impossible to say no.

He holds you bridal style in his broad arms, standing up as he walks to the creek bank, wading in slowly before the sting of the cold pond water hits your bottom, and in a second he drops you from his arms. The chill of water making your nipples peak, catching the attention a a certain pair of wandering blue eyes.

It felt like living inside a storybook, a fairytale you never expected to be part of.

It hadn’t been long since Clemen’s Point, maybe a month and a half, but in that short time, Arthur had done his best to keep the promises he'd made to you. He cared for you in every way he said he would. Steadily and real, like he had promised.

When Sean died, he didn’t pull away like you'd feared. He held you close instead, comforted you not just with touch, but with presence and support.

And then, as the gang's luck soured further, Shady Belle became the saving grace that everyone had needed.

For the first time in what felt like forever, life had rhythm. You were still on chore duty most days, same as always, but Jack was home and safe, and the boys were mostly just laying low. A robbery here, a stagecoach there - even a fancy party hosted by some Brönte guy you knew little about. And for once, everything felt right. Right in a way your godforsaken life rarely allowed.

Maybe it had taken Arthur nearly dying to shake something loose, to snap the both of you into reality. At first, you kept yourself guarded, unsure whether to give him all of you. But slowly, in the quietest ways, you began to trust him.

Falling asleep in his bed. Riding along on his little side quests. The way he actually looked at you like he liked you - needed you, even.

It was such a stark contrast from the months before, it almost felt like he’d turned into someone entirely new, but not new, just changed. His rough edges were still there, his sharp tongue and occasional arrogance - but all of it felt familiar now. Manageable. Nothing you hadn’t already endured.

Arthur smiles as he lowers himself into the water, vanishing beneath the surface for just a breath before rising again, water trickling down his chest and stubble. He gives himself a quick, careless rinse - splashing under his arms, through his light facial hair, and even lifting the girth of himself to splash down there too...his version a bath apparently.

You roll your eyes before dipping lower, letting the cool pond water wash his spend from your body. The tips of your long hair dance across the surface before dipping beneath the waterline, the cool sensation absolutely heavenly against the humidity. You fall into the moment, letting the cool water baptize your skin, letting each curve of your body fall to refreshing sensation.

That is until a strong, wet hand seizes your arm and yanks you up with a jolt.

“Arthur!” you snap, voice sharp with surprise.

“Shhh,” he hisses quickly. “Someone’s comin’. Go hide behind that oak, I’ll grab our stuff.”

Without a second thought, you scramble from the water, feet slipping in the grass as you make for the tree. Behind you, Arthur snatches your disgarded dress with one hand and the rest of his belongings in the other. And just as he fumbles behind the large oak, two men mosey down the creek with fishing poles resting on their shoulders.

They’re too far to see anything crude, but Arthur is still smiling like he's gotten away with murder. Which he has....several times. The cowboy lets out a soft chuckle as you rip your dress out of his hands and quickly slip it over your slicked body, the fabric catching on your curved body from the droplets of water still scattered across your frame. The dress is all that hides you - no bloomers, no chemise, just the thin cloth of light blue dress, one that nearly matches the soft glow of Arthur Morgan's delicate eyes.

“That was a close one,” he laughs, pulling his corduroys over his bare hips, reaching down his fly to adjust his member as he smiles at you with a toothy grin.

Your lips purse under a furrowed brow as he buttons his pants, his eyes not leaving you as he reaches for your hips to pull you close. In a swift motion he pins you to the tree, locking his lips to yours as you wrap your legs around his frame. Wild and free.

You swear there’s a part of him that likes being nearly caught. No matter how much he insists it’s embarrassing, there had been too many close calls for it to just be an accident. Too many actual incidents for you to know that he really doesn't care if he gets caught anyway. Sure there was the incident with Ms. Grimshaw, but that incident with Dutch....that had been too far for you. Yet here he is again, with a grin and flushed cheeks. Like he’s chasing the thrill of being seen out in the open with you, doing something utterly vulgar with two sets of unknowing eyes just a few yards away.

Still, he doesn't care.

It's several minutes before his mouth leave yours, your lips sore and red from how he curls around you. He drops you to your feet, all smiles before he places two fingers between his lips, eyes still focused on you; whistling for that damn nag of his

-

By the time you and Arthur return to Shady Belle, the sun dips low behind the moss covered trees. The air is still thick, but the worst of the heat had passed. Your heart is still heavy and your mind still swollen frome those three little words he had said to you just a few hours ago - but you try and act like you hadn’t even heard them. Arthur dismounts his nag first, then takes you by the waist and lifts you down gently - hand lingering just a second too long as he palms your ass with a firm, deliberate squeeze.

You swat at him, “Oh, stop it,” you scold with a soft laugh, stepping ahead of him with your head turned over your shoulder.

He doesn’t apologize, just watches you walk away with a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, like he knows exactly who you belong to. Like he enjoys annoying you.

But the tender moment is short lived.

“Arthur,” a familiar voice calls out.

It’s Hosea, standing at the edge of the bridge, tipping his hat as you pass. Then his eyes settle on Arthur. “Mind if we have a chat?”

Arthur’s gaze flickers to you, almost as if he's asking for your permission. You turn over your shoulder with a smile, still not used to the way he's become almost so attached he doesn't want to leave your side. But with a raised brow, you smile. “I’m gonna find Mary-Beth.” Excusing yourself into camp without another word.

Arthur watches you walk away for a few beats too long, dazy smile resting on his face. Utterly hyptonitized by the way your hips swing back and forth, turned on knowing there was nothing beneath that dress of yours.

But Hosea’s already walking, motioning with his head toward the small dock poking out near the Lannahechee River.

The gunslinger follows, completely ignorant to whatever Hosea plans to chat about - his mind still only focused on one thing; you.

“What’s this about?” Arthur asks, half paying attention, half not.

Hosea doesn’t answer right away. Just stares out at the river, at the soft ripples reflecting the light of the dying sun.

“You remember Bessie, Arthur?” Hosea says finally, turning to the outlaw with a wise smile.

The gunslinger is taken aback, but he answers, "How could I forget?"

Hosea chuckles for a moment “Course you do.” His eyes seemingly fogging over like he's trying to recall a distant memory. "I remember when she nearly tossed your entire wardrobe into the Montana, claimed it was too smelly for her to wash."

Arthur lets out a soft humorous exhale, recalling the moment from his boy hood. "Woman knew how to make her point."

Hosea's eyes lose the memory, turning to Arthur with a stiff, serious presence. “I loved her you know." The old man waits a few long seconds before turning his gaze deep into Shady Belle. “And that girl of yours… she make you happy?”

Arthur scratches at his beard, caught off guard by the question. He might have been flaunting you around camp these past two months, sure. But that didn’t mean he wanted to sit around and chat about his relationship with you, especially not with his patriarch.

Still, Arthur follows Hosea’s gaze back toward camp, where your laughter carries from the porch. You’re leaned over with Mary-Beth, face glowing, mouth wide open in pure joy as you hit her arm in amusement.

God, you’re beautiful. You were finally starting to get that glow back you once had before he took it all away from you, all those months ago.

With a soft hum and a smirk he doesn’t even realize he's staring as if he's hyptnotized by your laugh. Shaking himself out of his daze before responding, "she's a fine woman.”

Hosea’s eyes flick back to him in a matter of seconds. “But do you love her?"

Arthur’s caught off guard again, brows furrowing as he tears his gaze from you and focuses back on the older man, his voice sharp and confused. "Now why you askin' me a question like that?"

Hosea just chuckles as he notices his son's discomfort, "Cause she brings out somethin' in you that we'd all thought you lost Arthur."

A line forms between Arthur's brows before Hosea lets out a loud exhale. "You were goin' down a bad path for a while son. We all saw how you treated her back at Horshoe Overlook."

A blush of embarassment creeps onto the cowboys cheeks, knowing Hosea wasn't wrong. But even more, recalling all the unwanted chaos and hurt he'd brought you by his actions, and how embaressed he was that he was even capable of such acts.

"I know," Arthur manages to say, voice low and rough.

"She's a good girl that one. Not like you and me." Hosea goes on, his voice soft but positive. "Reminds me of my Bessie."

The cowboy looks down at the tips of his boots before shaking his head back and forth, only looking back up at Hosea as his lips part. "Now I mean no harm, Hosea," he says, squinting slightly as he hooks his thumbs into the loops of his gunbelt. "But why we talkin' bout this?"

Hosea just shakes his head, turning his gaze back to the setting sun bleeding over the river. "I went to pick up the mail yesterday, Arthur," the older man says, straightening up a bit.

Arthurs lips part, but he doesn't make a sound.

Hosea hesitates, then reaches into his satchel, fingers lingering there a moment longer than necessary. "Now, I know you're a grown man." he says, voice low and rough. "And you don't have to listen to an old fool like me."

Slowly, he pulls out a letter, the edges brushing against his wrinkled fingers. Hosea studies the envelope for a long moment, thumbs gently tracing the smooth paper, as he stares at the handwriting. But finally, his gaze lifts, steady and weighted with meaning. "I'm trustin' you not to hurt that girl again," Hosea says, voice stern with something between caution and warning.

The old man presses the envelope into Arthur’s hands, his touch firm, before throwing him one last hesitant look. And before Arthur could even reply, the patriarch turns and walks away, disseapearing back into the heart of Shady Belle.

Arthur’s eyes drop, shoulders stiff as he stares down at the letter in his hands. That damned pale purple envelope. He doesn’t need to open it to know who it’s from, he’d recognize that messy curl of handwriting anywhere.

Mary Linton.

He sighs, long and tired.

What the hell did she want now?

Part of him wants to rip the thing to shreds and throw it into the river without even opening it. But the other part, the bitter, bruised part of him remembers her voice too well. Remembers that last day in Valentine, the look in her eyes before she stepped onto that train like everything she'd ever gone through was his fault.

And it pisses him off.

But worse.

It makes him curious.

His thumb runs under the wax seal, opening the letter against better judgement. And then he’s reading it, eyes skimming over Mary Linton's wonderfully messy handwriting like she was writing to him like they were twenty two again.

A thanks for helping Jamie.

Blaming him, again, for not being the man she could marry.

And a new request; come see her in Saint Denis.

Of course she’s in Saint Denis.

Out of all the places a woman of her standing could be, she just had to be in the same city Arthur was no more than an hour's ride from.

Of course it had to be like that.

It didn’t matter where she went. Mary Linton could’ve written from the edge of Earth, and she knew Arthur Morgan would find a way to get to her. That was the kind of man she had made him into.

Nothing more than a pathetic dog.

But this time, something felt changed.

He’s read that damn letter four times before he lifts his head up from it, holding it tighter than he should have. And as he walks back into camp, he can't help but to feel completely conflicted.

His heart doesn’t belong to Mary anymore, not all of it at the least, Maybe half. Maybe less. The rest... that part was yours. You’d stolen it so quietly he hadn’t even noticed how far it had slipped out of his control.

Hosea had been right, he had become a miserable bastard. But with you, things felt... less so. You made him better. Or tried to. And he wanted to be that man, for you.

But still.

He felt torn in two. Like a man wrestling with a giant.

He shoves the letter into his coat pocket, muttering a curse under his breath, as he trudges towards the center of camp. The cowboy grabs a bowl of stew from the pot bubbling over the open flame, and then a bottle of warm beer from Pearson’s wagon, doing his best to try and clear his mind, and fill his stomach.

He finds the table at the center of camp, empty besides a couple scattered dishes. It only takes a handful of minutes until his spoon is scraping the bottom of the tin bowl as he takes his final bite, but his mind is still caught in the mess of the past. Confliction and guilt tearing him up inside .

But then theres you - bouncing over, smiling like nothing’s wrong in the whole damn world. You drop into his lap with a laugh, arms winding around his neck, eyes soft and wide.

Still wearing nothing underneath.

Your fingers trace his chest, up to his chin, thumb brushing against the roughness of his jaw with a smile. You hesitate for just a moment before saying the words that have been eating you up inside since the afternoon.

“I love you too.”

Four words. Light and easy. But to a man like Arthur Morgan, it was nothing but bullets raining from your mouth.

The gunslinger stiffens. His brow furrowing, nose scrunching like he’s confused, irritated even.

“Why’s you say that?” he mutters, voice low and almost offended.

Your smile instantly drops, freezing for just a moment in his arms before slipping out of his lap and standing up. Blinking at him like he's pulled out his Cattleman's Revolver and shot you straight in the gut.

“Well... this afternoon...” you swallow uncertainly as a worry line forms between your brows, thumbs tangling together in something between frustration and worry.

And then, in the midst of everything, he remembers what he said when he was inside you just hours ago. Flushed and stupid, in the heat of the moment.

He hadn’t lied.

But he also never planned on saying those words so carelessly. Forgetting that he had even admitted that so recklessly to you. The words had flowed from his mouth like instinct, yet, he hadn't thought you'd take them seriously.

For god sake's he was balls deep inside you - you should have known better.

“Yeah, I remember,” he interupts you, much colder than what he means to be. “Just... don’t wanna talk about it right now.”

Your jaw sets and something tightens behind your ribs.

Don’t wanna talk about it?

Talk about what?

Could he not even say it to you?

You fold your arms, bitter laughter bubbling in your gut before you can stop yourself.

“What? Can only say you love me when you’re eight inches deep?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, sighing as his fingers reach for his temples, “You know that ain’t what I meant.”

But you do. You do know. Because this is Arthur Morgan. And no matter how much you love him, no matter how much he'd swear he's changed. He hadn't. Wouldn't. And more than likely - couldn't change. And tonight, he makes you feel like a fool for trying to believe otherwise.

Without thinking a bitter scowl deepens on your face as you grab his beer and dump what’s left of it on his shirt, dropping the glass bottle rather dramatically on the grass next to him. The stew stained tin clatters as he pushes back from the table, arms jolting as he tries to shake off the warm beer now soaking his chest. His jaw sets like stone as his eyes cling to you with nothing but frustration. But before he can say anything, you turn around and shuffle away with tears in your eyes.

“Stupid whore!” He barks after you, the words cutting much deeper than they would have just months ago, when things weren't so serious.

And it’s not until you’re far enough away to cry without being seen, that it really sinks in.

Arthur Morgan couldn't change.

...

It feels like he’d been punched in the gut.

Arthur drags himself up the splintered, rotting staircase of Shady Belle, the weight of everything on his shoulders making him feel that with any step he could fall through. And against better judgement, halfway up the staircase he yanks the damn letter from his pocket again, eyes scanning the words he already knew by heart.

Mary Linton.

God, he was such a fool.

Why hadn’t he just said it back? Why couldn’t he have been normal for once - just said I love you, kissed you breathless, carried you upstairs and fucked you so good you’d say it again and again until he forgot anyone else ever existed?

But no.

You had to say it then, when Mary was still sitting heavy on his chest like a ghost that refused to let go. Right when his heart was stuck in a tug of war. Unsure if he was ready to let go of the past or ready to start really choosing you.

And now, with you gone and that broken look still burned in his memory, all he had was silence. And no matter what the silence meant, he knew one thing.

That his small bed would feel much bigger without you in it tonight.

Arthur tosses the letter onto the chipped old armoire in the corner his room, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. He strips off his beer soaked overshirt, finding his way to his bed as his rubs at his temples. Everything from Mary Linton to you, running a marathon through his brain.

And it isn't more than a few seconds later that he leans back, trying to atleast dream to forget the day.

...

Arthur wakes up later than usual, head foggy, and eyes heavy. Light from the cracked window bleeds into dusty room like some open wound. He blinks, the slight haze from his tired eyes clearing just enough that he could sense movement.

His body stiffens.

You were there.

Standing near the armoire, you're wearing nothing but a thin, pale chemise that catches the light just right. Your nipples peak through the silky fabric in such a way that Arthur almost forgets yesterday as a whole. You look like an angel, something so pure, so opposite of the man he was.

But your eyes... your eyes were wide and wet, lip trembling as he watches you gulp in horror.

And in your hand.

That letter.

He sits up fast, breath catching in his throat. A surge of heat burning in his chest. Guilt, rage and shame. Twisting together into something dangerous.

Your eyes catch him, looking down at him as if he's shot you like some dirty O'driscoll.

“Came up here to apologize,” you gulp, voice cracking like you might break in two. “Don’t even know why" you nearly laugh as you roll your eyes to the ceiling. "Apologizin?...... Apoligizin' for tellin’ you I love you…”

You wipe several tears away with the back of your hand, trying to hide the emotion now lacing your voice. “Well now I know why.”

Arthur’s jaw ticks.

Doesn't speak.

After a nearly restless night, Arthur had decided Mary wasn’t even worth the trouble in the end. But if you were so damn hell bent on painting him as the bad guy then fine. He’d play the damn part.

He's always been good at it anyway.

He sneers as he gets up from the bed, angry that you were already throwing baseless accusations at him at the crack of dawn. But as heat stirs in his chest, he ruffles through his wardrobe anyway. Searching for some nice overshirt that he'd know Mary would at least appreciate, and maybe one that could teach you lesson.

For snooping. For touching things that weren’t yours.

It didn't take a scholar to figure out that he was pissed.

Not just at you for going through his things but at himself, for leaving the damn letter out in the first place. For getting close enough to you that stupid shit like this even mattered. It was Mary for god sake, it's not like she'd even ever want him back.

Just a game of back and forth that they'd always play, and he'd entertain.

You step toward him as he finishes buttoning his shirt. “Don’t ignore me,” you snap, voice cracking under the weight of every emotion you've ever had for him.

He turns to you slowly, something hard and venomous behind his eyes and the look he gives you is poisonous.

“You had no right to go through my things,” he growls, nose flaring like a wild dog. “Ain’t your business what I do. Think just ‘cause I fuck you that means you get to own me?”

The words were sharp, cruel, meant to slice deep. And as much as every flick of his tongue stabbed you, you couldn't help but to feel that he was lying.

You had seen it for a while now, last night even, when had asked you with his eyes for permission to talk to Hosea. Deep down you knew he was just projecting.

But you still flinch, lip trembling again, eyes wide with something between disbelief and heartbreak. Mary's letter still fresh on your mind, his words still bleeding you dry.

And without another word, he brushes past you, out his bedroom door, down the creaking staircase.

You don't hesitate to chase after him. Mary’s letter still crushed in your fist, your feet pounding down the stairs after him. You loved him for god sake, you refused to believe any of his fighting words. Refused to believe that he would choose some ghost of a woman over you.

He storms through the front doors like he was being chased by something a hell of a lot worse than the woman barely stumbling behind him. But your mouth still spits hell fire. "You goin’ to see her?" you accuse him.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn't even look at you.

You follow him into the heart of camp, the morning air cool and damp against your bare feet. Your voice raising, louder now. Angry, so that anyone could hear.

“So all of this... nothin’ to you?!” Your eyes widen in worry as you march after him like a bat out of hell. "Jus' some waste of my time?"

People turn and watch, but Arthur doesn't stop. Face laced with an etched scowl, eyes locked on his Turkoman and nothing else.

"You bastard!" you shout, grabbing at his shoulder, trying to pull him back to you. Stop him from leaving. "Least look at me! Say it to my face! Tell me I wasn’t enough! Tell me you don’t want me.”

He turns so fast you take a step backward on instinct. His glare vicious, jaw clenched, nostrils flared. An entirely different man than you'd come to know...come to love.

“You weren’t,” he snaps, voice low and mean, like he wantsto hurt you. “And you’ll ain’t ever be her.”

Your mouth drops open, wind knocking from you like a punch to the ribs.

Sure, you’d never be Mary. But you swore that what you and Arthur had shared was more real than the dress sitting on your damn body, then the mud stained to his boots.

You had seen it. Saw it. Nursed it back from the fucking dead.

Just to lose him to some woman that'd never let him go.

In one last act, you grab at his shoulder, letting him hear your final plea as he starts to mount his horse. You heart nearly breaking in two.

"If you ride off to see her, I'm done, Arthur," you spit, voice shaking with a mix of fury and sadness. "I’m leavin'.... won't be here when you come ridin' back."

Arthur’s hand freezes on the reins.

Then, slowly, he looks down at you.

Sneering.

With a jerk of his arm, he violently pulls his arm out of your grip - hard enough to send you stumbling. You trip on a raised root, falling straight onto your behind in the overgrown grass. Legs cocked open pathetically, palms weighing heavy on the ground. Gulping like he'd shoved you down with the force of a million words.

He leans forward in the saddle, adjusting himself as his cold eyes stare at your sad excuse of a body.

“And where you gonna even go?” he asks, voice sharp and cruel, almost as a laugh because in reality he knew you had no one. He gives you one hard stare before digging his spurs into his nag. Leaving you with nothing but the echo of his departure, and the last pieces of your dignity.

For moments you sit there, on the knotting grass. Horses shuffling all around you as tears stream hot down your flushed cheeks, fists clenched in the grass, chest heaving with the reality of your situation.

Caught up in a mess of Arthur Morgan once again.

And the worst part?

He was right.

You had nowhere to go. And he knew it. Knew that you couldn’t go if you tried, no money, no family, just the familiarity of the Van Der Linde gang that was starting to eat each other from the inside.

But in a mess of feelings and tears, you feel the rush of a set of arms engulfing you into a warm hug. It’s Abigail Roberts, her frame slight but her hold firm. She sits with you, stroking your hair, whispering soft comforts even as her voice shakes with something that sounds like fury. “That no good son of a bitch,” she mutters, pulling back just enough to wipe away your tears with her thumbs.

Your eyes meet hers, they're icy and firm, telling a million stories but also a million warnings. “I love him,” you croak, barely able to get the words out.

Abigail had known that kind of heart splintering pain. She’d felt it more times than she could count with John. But you? Still young, still unshackled, no child clinging to your hip, no ring on your finger. The black haired beauty was smarter than what she gave off, she knew what had to happen.

“You gotta get out of here, darlin’,” she says, rising to her feet and offering a hand to help you up.

You sob.

That was your last promise to Arthur anyway, wasn’t it?

“He's right. Got no money. Nowhere to go,” you cry, shaking your head, voice breaking as all you wanted truly was to be gone. Forget him. Forget everything. Respect yourself enough to stop playing outlaw.

Abigail’s mouth tightens, leading you beneath the shade of her tent, easing you down on her cot. She rifles through her wardrobe as broken sobs escape your mouth. But in the midst of it all, she pulls out a thick, lumpy sock, and turns back toward you. “Was gonna use this for myself, once upon a time,” she says, tugging out a fistful of cash, slapping it on her hand a few times. “But it’s too late for me. Not for you.”

Your eyes are wide, still glistening, staring at the chunk of bills resting in her hand. Your lips parting as she attempts to slip the wad into your hand.

“I - I can’t...” you whisper, cheeks wet with tears and hesitation.

“No, you are,” she cuts in, firmer than you’ve ever heard from her. Something maternal in her tone, something resolute. “Trust me, a girl like you’s got a future. A bright one. Brighter than whatever all this is.” She pauses, her voice softer now. “And Arthur....better leave now before you wake up a few days late with a swollen stomach."

Your gaze locks with hers, wide and wordless.

Her words hit you harder than you thought they would.

And suddenly you understood.

It was time to go.

...

Twenty minutes later, you’re back in the room you’ve shared with Arthur for the past month. His clothes are still scattered around, his beer stained overshirt from last night crumpled at the foot of his bed. You wonder who’ll wash it now, it wouldn't be you this time.

You gulp and reach beneath the bed, pulling out the old suitcase you brought with you to Milwaukee all those years ago, chasing something better. It had belonged to your mother before Typhoid took her.

You pop it open. Inside: a few forgotten pieces of a past life. A locket with your parents’ faces inside. A shirt you never wore but couldn’t throw away. And a small black and white portrait from Blackwater, the one you took just hours before Arthur took your innocence.

You stare at the photo. Less than a year had passed, but you hardly recognize the girl in it. Smiling, light still untouched. So different from who you are now. Used and broken.

And before you pack the last of your things, you set the portrait on the table beside Arthur’s bed.

You wanted to forget him, forget the hurt.

But part of you, wanted him to remember.

Wanted him haunted.

...

Outside the rotting mansion, Hosea stands waiting. Pulling you into a soft, fatherly hug, his voice low with sorrow. “I’m sorry, girl,” he murmurs.

He’d seen it all. Last night’s heartbreak, this morning’s silence. He watched Arthur ride off, watched Abigail hand you that money with trembling hands and a tight jaw. Heard her beg you to go. Guilt weighing on his shoulders as he knew the cowboy would still be here if he hadn't handed him the letter.

But Arthur was a god damn adult. And Hosea had agreed with Abigail, better to leave now before other circumstances could tie you to him.

And as much as it hurt Hosea to see you go, he couldn't help to feel relieved. To at least know someone was getting out, someone good.

You swallow hard. Tears gone, but grief remains.

You weren’t just leaving Arthur.

You were leaving the only family you’d known for years. The people that had taken you in when you had nothing to show, and no one to care for you. Family more than friends at this point.

“Say your goodbyes,” Hosea says gently, rubbing your arm with his thumb. “I’ll take you to Rhodes. Buy you a train ticket to wherever you need to go.”

...

The streets of Saint Denis buzz with life, hooves clicking on cobblestone as the sun shines high in the midst of the Lemoyne sky. Mary Linton’s delicate arm loops through Arthur’s as they step out of the Rauler Theatre, both of them smiling.

Arthur could admit it, he’d had a good time. How could he not? Mary had once been his world. Maybe part of him would always feel something for her. But as they strolled toward the trolley stop, shoulder to shoulder through the heavy air of the city, something felt utterly different.

Hollow.

There was no fire in his chest. No ache. No heat behind his eyes.

It felt less like love and more like memory, a good time with an old friend. Sonething he could cheerish, but didn't need to survive.

And that’s when he remembered you.

The way you made his pulse jump with just your smile. The way your voice sounded like angel's singing, even if you were just telling him off. He remembers the way you smiled even when he didn’t deserve it. And then, above everything, he remembers the way you looked at him the last time. Eyes full of hurt, mouth trembling as he shoved you away.

While Arthur just didn't want to feel controlled, you felt betrayed.

And now all he felt was sick.

His boots slow on the busy sidewalk. Coming to a full stop without truly realizing where he was or who he was with.

“Arthur?” Mary’s voice breaks through his deep haze.

He blinks, realizing he hadn’t heard a word she had said since they left the old threatre. “Sorry,” he mutters.

She watches him for a beat, her chocolate eyes unreadable. “I said... is it too late for us?” Her voice cracking slightly, more a plea than a question as she holds his hands tighter.

Arthur inhales through his nose, heavy and ragged. He knew the answer. Had known it for a long time.

“I can’t lie, Mary. I... I got a woman back home” he says quietly, almost embaressed. Gently slipping her arm from his.

Mary’s expression falters for a brief moment, her face clearing from any found emotion. But in a few short seconds she grins with a sense of meloncholy.

“And I ain’t even really sure why I’m here,” Arthur adds, voice breaking with sudden clarity, the weight of his betrayal sinking in. “I shouldn’t’ve come. I’m sorry.”

Mary nods, her composure surprisingly steady despite the slight shimmer in her eyes. “Treat her better than me,” she says simply.

And in a second, Arthur turns and leaves, heart pounding, stomach in knots.

He’d fucked up.

But more than anything did he want to fix it.

Not with words. Not with excuses. But with a promise.

By the time he reached the jeweler, his hand was already on the wad of cash. He didn’t want something stolen. Didn’t want some rag tag ring from a fence.

No, this had to be real. Something with weight. With meaning.

Something that said: I’m yours. For good.

Something with a promise.

...

Back at the train station, the sky had started to turn grey. Rain slightly drizzling over the covered platform as Hosea tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch gentle as always.

“Don’t cry,” he murmurs, a small tear falling down your cheek.

“I’m scared,” you admit, glancing down at the train ticket in your hand. You hadn’t told him where you were going. You figured it was safer that way, for everyone involved. Hosea hadn’t asked either. Maybe he didn’t want to know. Maybe he just didn’t want Arthur beating it out of him in the long run.

It didn't take much for you to imagine the storm of Arthur riding back into camp. Throwing tongue every which way when he realized his bed whore had gone missing.

The twisted thought slightly comforted you. You knew Arthur well enough to atleast know he would be mad at your departure, no matter what he had told you before he left

“You can always write,” he says, voice full of hope “Don’t know how long we’ll be at Shady Belle, though. You know Dutch.”

You manage a watery laugh." Oh, I know." You falter for a few moments as you gaze into the wisdom laced eyes of Hosea, his soft look sending you into a spin of tears. “I’m just scared of being…”'

"Alone," he finishes your sentence.

He chuckles. “We can’t be such a great bunch that you think there’s no one better out there.”

You give him a humorous look, tears still staining your cheeks. A happy goodbye. “You know that ain’t what I mean.”

The train’s whistle shrieks in the distance. Passengers begining to stir from their seats, grabbing bags, shuffling to the edge of the platform.

Hosea turns to face the tracks, then glances back to you. “Promise me one thing,” he says, his voice low and firm.

You look up, eyes wide like a doe.

“Don’t come back lookin' for us. Save yourself."

...

Arthur’s horse thunders down the muddy path toward Shady Belle, his coat soaked and his wallet a few hundred dollars lighter. The gold ring in his pocket - a golden band with a pearl in the center - feeling like it weighed a thousand pounds.

He imagined you wearing it. Naked on the banks of Ringneck Creek, riding him, the ring catching sunlight as your hand brushes over his hair.

Utterly his.

The camp is quiet as he gallops in. He doesn't even bother to untack his horse, too charged with excitement. He leaps off and storms through like a mad man, eyes scanning the outlaw camp for a sillouette of you.

You weren’t there.

But your strange dissapearence doesn't even register until two small fists beat into his back.

“You no good son of a...”

He spins, catching Abigail Roberts wrists mid swing. She thrashes against his grip, wild with rage.

“What the hell?” Arthur stammers, confused and surprised it wasn't you beating on him. He would understand if it was you, warranted in fact.

But Abigail?

“She’s gone, you bastard!” the black haired beauty snarls, driving her boot into his groin as hard she can.

Arthur collapses, wheezing as he drops her arms from his grip.

From across camp, John jogs over, pulling his wife's arms behind her back in anyway to control her outburst.

Arthur's painful wheezes dissapear in a moment's time, turning to an almost panic.

“What...what she mean? She's gone?” he coughs as he looks up at John for clarification, moving back to his feet.

John grimaces. “She’s gone, Arthur. She left."

Arthur froze.

Gone?

No.

You didn't know how to ride, wouldn't dare try to find your way in swamps like these. And above everything - you had said you loved him, just last night.

You wouldn't leave.

And he was ready now. Finally ready to love you back the way you deserved.

His stomach twisting, panic shifting to fury, anger.

He turned to John, eyes flashing. “Where did you take her? Couldn’t stand that I was happy for one good time in my life.”

John face drops, angry at just the accusation. "I ain't take nowhere," John sneers, continueing to hold Abigail back from trying to rip Arthur to pieces. "But I don't blame her for leavin' you either."

If John hadn't been using Abigail as if she was a human sheild, Arthur would have torn his brooding equal to shreds at that very moment. But before he could push the black haired woman away, a gentle voice cuts through the shouting.

Arthur turns, all eyes finding the small frame of Hosea Matthews. The old man sits at the dominoes table, calm as ever. Standing up and pushing his chair in without his eyes leaving the game.

"I took her to the train station in Rhodes," he speaks

Arthur’s anger breaks, replaced by something broken and raw. Lips parting.

“I told you not to hurt her,” Hosea says, eyes finally meeting the cowboys. More dissapointed than ever.

Arthur couldn’t keep his gaze. His eyes dipping to the tips of his boots. Shame rolling over him like a wave. If it had been anyone else -John, Bill, even Dutch, he’d have thrown fists.

But it was Hosea.

The one who warned him.

The only who told him to do better.

Arthur’s voice cracks as he breaks the silence, barely above a whisper. “Where is she?”

Hosea shakes his head.

“Gone, she's gone Arthur."

[larkandkatydid]

There are many ways to be a big weirdo and I think that some are more conducive than others to a happy life and/or to a life where your weirdness can have a positive effect on the world.

So, for example, let's say one is naturally introverted and also naturally imaginative, bright, prone to coming up with ideas about how we could just fix everything if only we tried this one thing. This is describing many tumblrinas and many Aquariuses. And if one spends too much time alone, pondering great, world-changing ideas, then that weirdness starts to fester into something unhelpful. One becomes something between the Unabomer and a person with annoying bad ideas.

A commune, like a college dorm or a nursing home can be so helpful for the introverted because it takes no extra work at all to find people to socialize with. These days, I have to challenge myself to get up, leave the house and go to the volunteer session or protest or concernt or group activity that I know is good for me. It was way easier when all those things were happening in my kitchen.

And most improtantly, I think a person with a lot of utopian ideas for how the world could work benefits from a chance to try those ideas out! And especially benefits from having a social circle that is pre-selected to be into trying out your utopian plan. Should we replace the toilet with a bucket of sawdust and the shower with a grey-water system leading a duck pond? YES! Should we move to having only 1 cup and 1 plate per person in order to master our dishes problem? YES! Should we raise tilapia in the bathtub and quail in the backyard YES and YES!

And one learns from failure that maybe these ideas were actually pretty bad or, most importantly, one learns and gets better at the skills required to make those ideas work. I know several people whose passion for greywater systems first dramatically fucked up their plumbing but who then, after asking for help and even taking a bunch of community college classes on plumbing, became incredibly skilled plumbers capable of creating working grey water systems and also capable of fixing their neighbor's fucked up shower drain. I personally have found that my commune-acquired ability to milk a cow has often helped me build relationships with people who figured that if I know my way around a cow, I can't possible be that much of a big city weirdo. There's an old member of the Black Panthers who has made it his life's mission to spread bathtub tilapia as a small agricultural practice. I know a dude who convinced his local city council to fund a giant mushroom farm on the city compost facility.

This is just a complicated version of touch grass, but I believe in my heart that being weird alone in your own head makes you Jack Torrance and being weird with others makes you the world's own Manic Pixie Dream Girl...and that that one is better.

[windvexer]

Brief notes on conjuring and creating to fill a void left by banishment

I've had a solid rule of thumb for many years, maybe one of the first bits of actually useful magical things I learned, and it's just that banishing and conjuring go together and inasmuch as possible you should always do them both if you're going to do one.

We can conceptualize any given life or situation or whatever is cosmically 'full.' I don't mean full of metaphysical energy, but rather that the strands of fate that weave the tapestry of life are always woven tight. Necessity and the Fates do not leave gaps.

Therefore, if you want to conjure something into your life - manifest something new - then it serves you very well to first banish something else, like slipping a thread out of the tapestry of your life, so that there is a blank space ready to be filled up with what you want to conjure.

Conversely, if you want to banish something and really keep it gone for good (and I mean, banishing spirits, cord-cutting to get people out of your life, banishing situations or even banishing likely futures), then you'd really be stacking the deck in your favor if you conjured something else to sit in that blank space and fill it up right away, so that the old thing you banished can't sneak it's way back in again.

What you conjure to fill up a banishment-hole, and what you banish to make space for conjuring, can be pretty loosey-goosey. The magic will do it's best to fit in.

To make room for what you'll conjure, try framing your banishment as a sacrifice. All magic requires sacrifice, it's sometimes said. Perhaps true, and many such cases.

Knowing that what you want to conjure will take up such-and-such energy, time out of your day, resources in your life, occupy your available slots for relationships or brainpower, what exists in your life now that you will sacrifice on your altar so its blood can nourish your seedlings of desire?

Along very much the same lines, anything you banish can be viewed as a sacrifice to let something else in (maybe a very useful mindset if the banishing is of unwanted people). The key is that you should choose what you want to bring in and cast a spell to manifest it as soon as possible, even immediately after, you cast the banishment spell.

But that being said, are there any practical considerations you should make for how to choose what you banish or conjure?

I recommend approaching it somewhat like breaking a bad habit by substituting it with something else.

A cigarette smoker trying to quit might identify the oral aspect of their addiction, the ritual of lighting a cigarette, or the quiet time alone outside as things they feel compelled to engage with, even if they don't want to.

Therefore, a smoker might choose to start chewing gum (oral stimulation), fold a paper crane (ritual focus), or repeating a prayer (calming distance) in order to replace their addiction with less harmful habits.

When you want to work a conjure-banish combo (in either order), try approaching it in the same way.

I want to conjure more hours at my job, which will require my time and labor. Maybe I sacrifice hours spent in my garden, or my gaming guild.

I want to banish a person who always makes me nervous and sad, so I pick up a habit of watching k-dramas.

I want to experience the satisfaction of attainment by seeing more money in my bank, so I sacrifice the satisfaction of attainment I get from impulse purchases.

I do not find any of the particular things to be of importance:

That the newly conjured thing be vastly different, new, or unique in your life; it only needs to be something that can expand to fill the space.

That the banished thing be unique or singular; other similar things can remain in your life, as long as their waterways don't spill over into the pond you're trying to drain.

That you must replace a banished person with a conjured person, or a banished object with a conjured object, or anything matchy-matchy like this; you can replace links with other people with hobbies, interests, an improved sleep schedule, or anything that will sufficiently blossom to fill up the space they took up in your life.

I find the following to be true and helpful:

Conjuring and banishing go hand in hand. To redouble your efforts, cast two protections: one to protect yourself against the banished thing (so it can't easily return), and one to protect the conjured thing's rightful place in your life (so it can't easily be displaced).

[[There exists magic to expand, retract, or modify the boundaries of your life so that more sum total things can be attained at once, without having to sacrifice other things; Saturn is a solid lead on that, as well as a variety of magical remediations which overlap with healing and doctoring. Basically, you want to heal, reinforce, and sometimes recondition areas of your life, like mending a broken bag, so that (say) your Financial Life can literally hold more things without dropping them.]]

[volturissideslut]

First interraction with Marcus volturi and any character you want please 💗

𝕸𝖆𝖗𝖈𝖚𝖘 𝖁𝖔𝖑𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎

It was winter in Italy, and the coldest one yet. At least in your short lifetime. Visiting family and friends who lived here was always such good fun, though there wasn't as much to do here in the small town of Volterra in comparison to home. Yes there were markets and cafe's, but it still wasn't home.

The thought was shaken from you by the cold icy breeze. When you were a child and thought 'Italy', you were surrounded by the ideas of tanning and boats, gelato and galleries. Not the current minuses in temperature and frost, nor the redness of your nose and jutter in your shoulders. Just two weeks, and then home you shall arrive. But for now this pond isn't too bad a view.

"Cold, Tesoro?" A voice shakes you from your stupor, low and gravelly. Wizzing your head around to meet his gaze, you find eyes almost as black as the depths of the murky pond, onyx in a way unseen until now.

"A little, sir." As you speak you notice him begin to remove his cloak, a black that blends in with the midnight, looking as if it were a colour sample from the night itself. Your hand somehow raises itself, a motion attempted to stop him. And yet it does not. "I'll be fine. Really."

"Doubtful" is all he gives in return, taking a place by your side as if it was the most natural thing in the world - instinct. Your brows furrow and our heart quickens just the littlest.

"Who are you, anyway?" It comes out brash, rude almost despite you not having meant it this way. It would be understandable, though. A strange man wrapping his cloak around you in the middle of the night, and staying silently by your side. Luckily enough he chuckles, obviously finding something humorous about the moment.

"Who am I?" Though you cannot see his face as you both gaze upon the pond, you can hear the grin in his voice, the amusement he finds in this little interaction. "My name is Marcus. I occupy and own the castle grounds you are trespassing on, as well as the water and fish we are watching, tesoro."

"Trespassing?" You can almost feel life itself draining from you in dread of the trouble you might have accidentally caused. Who was he? Hopefully you hadn't somehow angered the man who owns a bloody castle. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I can lea-"

He stops you from removing the cloak he had draped over you, halting your voice with a simple hand raise. Figures it works on you and not the other way round. Finally, he turns his body toward you fully and allows you to see his full face. Pale yet inviting. Old and wise, yet young and hopeful. "There will be no need for that, dearest. You are welcome here. In fact, do you wish to see my library? Perhaps it shall be yours one day too."

And though every bone inside of you should be screaming stranger danger you cannot help but trust him somehow. Somehow, when your arm links with his you can do nothing but melt into his touch. Somehow, when you enter inside him warm and inviting home and learn of it all, you can't help but bare your neck and entrust yourself. Damned Italian winter.

Though you and your husband are now eternally colder.

[just-my-latest-hyperfixation]

I keep going to the river to pray

Written for the March pop-up challenge of the @steddieholidaydrabbles

Prompt: spring

Rated: M

Tags: Italian Steve Harrington; naiad Eddie Munson; past lives

CW: child molestation (not from MC); nudity; fade to black sex

Notes: Moooom, hype is turning the blorbos into water creatures again!

Steve is five years old and the water whispers to him. 

“Steven, come back inside,” Mom scolds and yanks sharply on his hand. “Nonna told you the woods are off limits. The water is too dangerous. Heavens, I can't leave you alone for two seconds, can I?” 

Steve wants to cry. To thrash and kick and scream at the injustice of it all.

Because she is leaving him alone. All alone in this strange country where there's nothing fun to do and where nobody speaks his language, for an entire summer. How's he even supposed to listen to Nonna when he doesn’t understand her half the time? 

The only place where he finds comfort is the spring. The little pond with its crystal waters surrounded by crumpled pillars. He doesn’t know why, just knows there's something here that calls to him. 

Mom doesn't understand, and Steve is too small to fight as she drags him away. Something splashes behind them, like a large stone sinking underwater, but by the time he turns, all he can see is ripples on the surface. 

He doesn’t know why he says it, because there's nobody here. Nobody he can see. It feels like the right thing to do, though. 

“Don't worry,” he whispers to the water. “I'll be back, promise.” 

The water whispers back. 

*

Steve is thirteen and a man follows him into the woods. He's been lurking in corners and doorways in the village all day, smiling, staring, speaking saccharine words in broken English. 

Pretty boy, sweet boy, come here. 

By the time Steve notices he's trailing behind him on the lonely road in the fading daylight, it's too late to cry for help. He ducks into the shelter of the trees without thinking, not looking back when he hears the man give chase. Darkness is falling around him, but he doesn’t need to see. 

All he needs to do is follow the pull. 

The spring reflects the moon and stars, silver waves bouncing off the trees and pillars. 

“Help me,” Steve whispers, just as a hand grabs his wrist and spins him around. 

The man's face is a mask of primal hunger. His eyes glint, dark and unblinking- 

-and then they catch on something behind Steve's back and bulge. All the color drains from his face. He stumbles back, releasing Steve’s wrist, muttering a word in Italian that he doesn’t understand. Then, he turns and runs. 

Steve stares after him, heartbeat roaring in his ears. By the time he remembers to look behind him, there's nobody there. The spring lies silent in the starlight, but the water isn't smooth anymore. A circle of ripples is spreading, not far from where he's standing, waves lapping against the shore. Steve imagines he sees something slipping out of sight in the water, like dark tendrils of seaweed. Then he blinks and it's gone. 

Steve smiles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly. 

*

The water murmurs back. 

Steve is eighteen and everything is bullshit. He perches on a fallen pillar, toes dangling in the water, watching the sunset behind the trees, and feels sorry for himself. 

He can't protect his heart from being broken, can't get into college, can't even get his parents to love him. They probably believe they're punishing him by sending him back here, he thinks with a laugh. Idiots. They know nothing about him, nothing about the pull he feels towards this place. He's been feeling it more and more lately, even with an entire ocean between them. 

“Have you finally come to stay, sweetling?” 

Steve doesn’t startle. Simply blinks back from his thoughts and lowers his gaze, like it's always been the two of them out here. Maybe that’s true. 

“You're not scared,” the boy from the spring observes. His head is poking out of the water between Steve’s legs, long dark hair brushing his ankles. He's naked under the water, skin pale and smooth as marble. “Do you not fear me?” 

“Why would I? You've never given me reason to.” 

The language that slips from his lips is strange. Not English. Something closer to the butchered Italian he's picked up over the years. He frowns, briefly, but the boy's lips - pink and full and glistening with tiny droplets - curl into a smile and he forgets to wonder about it.

“Clever child.” Long fingers curl around Steve's calves, sliding up his legs. “I'd never harm what's mine.” 

The fingers slip under the hem of Steve's shorts, gracing his inner thigh, and he gasps. 

“Yours?” 

The boy hums, pulling himself from the water a little, so that his shoulders emerge. His hair is a dark, tangled halo around his pretty face. It tickles Steve’s skin as the boy noses along the inside of his knee.

“Yes, mine. You feel it, do you not? The pull.” 

Steve nods breathlessly and the boy smiles against the soft flesh of his thigh. 

“Of course you do, sweetling. It has been forever since I met someone as responsive, but you? You remember, don't you?” 

Steve pauses. Is that what pulls him here? Memories of a time he shouldn’t recall? Of a place far more splendid than the crumbling ruins around them, a place filled with song and laughter and the strange but familiar language that keeps tumbling from his mouth? 

The boy - the god - watches the shift in his face and smiles. Nimble hands settle on his hips, pulling him closer, and Steve slings his arms around slender shoulders as the pillar slips out from under him. 

His god's eyes are bright as he walks them to the middle of the pond. 

“It has been so long, sweetling, and I hunger for worship. Will you give yourself to me again?” 

“I do not need to,” Steve smiles as he is slowly lowered into the cool waters. “You've always had me.” 

His god smiles and pulls him in, and Steve sighs against those beautiful lips. 

The water welcomes him home. 

In Roman mythology, naiads (better known under the name of their Greek counterparts, nymphs) are nature spirits most commonly associated with water, guarding rivers, springs and the like. Some were worshipped as local deities, with shrines built in their honor.

[devotekuna]

Dad!Geto headcanons/drabbles

♡˗Geto who has experience rasing kids as he adopted Mimiko and Nanako, but not having experience raising babies let alone with someone else, it was nice having someone else to rely on.

☆His daughter who's called Hana is a carbon copy of him, black long hair, curly at the start but it would soon turn into long lushus locs.

☆Hana was very clingy when she was a baby, always crying when she didn't sense her father's presence, it was always so draining when he went to his little cult meetings as nothing would soothe her, not even her favourite and only aunts, Nanako and Mimiko.

☆Whenever she sees him coming towards her, crys stopping at an instant, little hands reaching out for a hug, who could blame her? She adored him despite her only being a few months old.

☆Geto who always puts her to sleep, even if you said you could do it, partially be abuse he wanted you to rest but also because his daughter loved him too much, always rocking her to sleep as she slept on his shoulder or patting her back.

☆Adores Hana reaching for something on his head, either it be his nose, earrings or hair, somehow always getting to chew it, complaints coming from his mouth as soon as he feels her release his hair and the wet surface hitting his skin.

☆Hana most definitely likes butterflies, always picking up a purple one and bringing it to him, sometimes putting it in his hair then trying to braid it, despite her efforts it still ended up flying away and the hair a mess.

☆Sometimes she gets taken to his cult meetings to keep the members off guard as she stared at her only for suguru to deal with his business.

☆She definitely dressed up like him, trying to bribe him with her cuteness and admiration for him to bring her with him, he always rejects her as he doesn't want her to see what he does only to promise to buy her Ice-cream or something.

☆Whenever they go to the park which isn't very often, he always carries her on his shoulders if she's too tired, always stopping for her to pet the cats or to go on the swings.

☆Hana loves when he cooks for her, always trying to help him, either by cutting up vegetables or helping stir the pot. She'd find a way to be close to her favourite parent, it being clear that she's a daddy's girl.

☆Whenever he falls asleep somewhere where his daughter can reach him, she takes advantage and puts sticks and felt tips all over him, but if she's feeling tired she'll grab her toys, blanket and pillows, always prodding one under his head as she sleeps on him, blanket wrapped around both of them.

☆He has a special room dedicated to her shenanigans, hiring a babysitter to do whatever she likes only if she doesn't get hurt, threatening to kill them if they upset her.

☆He's the type to walk Hana to school on the first day, wishing her a good luck and giving her a kiss on the forehead even if he was late for a meeting saying that they weren't as important as her.

"Who's/Where's my little princess?" "Papa brought you back some souvenirs!" "I'll let you braid my hair whilst I work" "Ask your mother if she wants to watch a movie with us" "It's a daddy daughter date"

☆He'd most definitely sacrifice anything for her, even if it was his own life, which goes the same for you too.

☆He captures curses which would make his daughter happy, take a curse that looks alot like a unicorn for chance, he'd spawn that in for her to ride it.

☆Hana definitely offers him some sweets or tea to make the taste of the cursed spirits go away as she hates seeing her father in discomfort. Always taking up on her offers.

☆He'd own a pond full of koi fish or a cat which he lets his daughter take care of, always loves coming home to the cat purring at his feet with his partner and daughter.

[rain-crestfall]

relentless

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x Reader Summary: You didn’t ask to be pulled into this brutal world—but now, you're fighting Titans, saving lives, and changing fates. The Scouts don’t know what to make of you, least of all Levi, who watches your every move. Still, you try to earn their trust, even as the weight of your old world clings to you. With every mission, you wonder if you’re fixing this story or breaking it further. And deep down, you miss home—more than you’ll ever admit.

================================

Chapter 1

You were born an anomaly.

On the television screen, your reflection flickered—a silhouette against the chaos, carrying a school bus filled with preschoolers, stopping it just before it could crash into an electric pole. You switched the channel.

A woman appeared on the next broadcast, speaking into a microphone, her face haggard, sweat glistening on her forehead and neck, tears brimming in her eyes. "She saved my daughter from that burning building. She's our hero!"

The screen went black. With a sigh, you tossed the remote onto the couch and headed to the bathroom, eager to wash away the dirt and ash from the fire earlier.

You never knew why you had powers. Why you were the only one.

Water streamed down your head, turning gray as it carried away the soot, swirling toward the drain.

Your parents had urged you to keep your abilities hidden until you turned eighteen. Half a decade later, saving people had become second nature. 

You suddenly remembered home. You visited your parents when you could, helping around the house—especially when your dad needed an extra hand lifting heavy things. They supported you, always, but you could sense their worry. Your mother never quite managed to hide it. You’d take her hands and squeeze them lightly, a silent reassurance.

That night, a cool breeze brushed against your skin as you gazed out of your apartment window. Feeling restless, you grabbed a jacket and stepped out for a walk in the park.

The path was quiet, save for a few couples occupying benches. The stillness was interrupted by the vibration in your pocket.

Loud music blasted through the phone’s speaker, followed by a familiar voice calling your name. "Not too late to catch up on the fun! You saved the day—come on!"

You smiled. Stephie. The only person, besides your parents, who knew your secret.

"I’ll pass on this one," you said, lightly kicking a pebble into a pond.

She chuckled, knowing you weren’t easily convinced. "Fine. I’ll treat you after work tomorrow."

"Chocolate cake?"

"Sure. Our usual spot, okay?"

You agreed, slipping your phone back into your pocket. As you neared the river, debating whether to turn back, a soft sound caught your attention.

A white cat brushed against your ankles, a green collar fastened around its neck.

"Hello," you murmured, scanning the area for its owner.

The cat meowed and padded forward, glancing back as if beckoning you to follow.

"Where’s your owner little guy?" you asked, quickening your pace as it approached a hollow in a tree trunk.

"Hey, wait!"

It meowed again, urging you on. You dropped to your knees, reaching out—

And then, darkness swallowed you whole.

You were falling.

[patheticjayce]

A scene from a wip modern au I've had in the works for awhile and its finally starting to take shape... It's not finalized but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.

Feedback is welcome, just. Don't be an asshole about it please

(A bit of context: they are at a wedding. There's been a vibe all night. Both of them independently decided to make a move that same night.

Viktor is cross-faded and Jayce is drunk by the time this happens in the story, but they’ve started to come down from it. )

There's a pleasant numbness extending from his shoulders down to his calves, buzzing soft and warm.

like someone is running their fingertips up and down his legs.

He imagines the friction of warm rough fingers on the hairs that cover his thighs, the subtle scratch of fingernails that have been left unclipped for a few days.

There's pressure around his forehead, radiating all the way down to the nape of his neck, right past his too-hot ears.

The world is fuzzy, as though painted in tiny strokes of velvet, a cacophony of drunken laughter coming out from his back molars. There's something stuck in his throat, perhaps it's gas, perhaps it's a chunk of rogue meat that Jayce managed to get past his lips…

Perhaps it's a clog of regret like slimy, wet hair in an old drain, chastising him for thinking of Jayce’s thick fingers invading his mouth,

Jayce's incandescent smile blurring out as he slowly closes his eyes and bends back his head, surrendering completely, allowing Jayce to go deeper…

…Jayce fucking his throat with his fingers, surrendering to his desires, surrendering to the invasion, surrender, surrender, Jayce, JAYCE…

The music suddenly stops playing. Someone is slurring sentimental nonsense, he can hear the drunks agreeing and cheering.

He is slouched back in his chair, his foot still keeping rhythm with the ghost of a song that lingers like the circles around a stone dropped in a pond, wider and softer as it fades out.

His stomach is tight now.

Is he nauseous? he panics for a moment, takes a deep breath.

No one has died from being too high.

He repeats the sentence in his head, at first his own voice speaking to him, slowly morphing into another voice.

A voice that looks like sweet sun tea in the summer.

the weight of an invisible hand on his shoulder feels so real…

A large palm is rubbing comforting circles on his back.

warmth, real warmth.

A purr, a tickle, like a knife dripping with icing slicing through the shell of his ear, a surge of heat from his spine to his head like a carnival hammer game, and

Why did you have to think of hammers??

A heavy swoop as the white-hot ball of lead now formed in his head falls down through the tunnel of his esophagus, burning straight through his entrails, landing with a loud clanging noise against the hollow cavern between his legs.

“...it's ok, darling, I'm going to take care of you, I'm here…”

The soft murmuring of wine-sticky lips making direct contact with his ear snaps him out of his tornado of doom.

Jayce's voice is feathery, sweeping away his anxiety. His arms are draped snugly around Viktor's shoulders, they are so heavy, and so warm...

His perfect face is tucked into the space between Viktor's logic and Viktor's self-resolve, which is feeling more like someone has peeled back the sheath from every nerve in his entire system and less like something he can keep up with at the moment.

Viktor leans back into Jayce, resting his head on the hollow of Jayce’s clavicle, lifting his face to graze the tip of his nose all the way from the base of Jayce’s neck to the crook behind his ear.

He inhales, as deep as he possibly can.

Jayce smells like cologne, like midnight sweat, like his future favorite mistake.

Jayce turns his face into his, eyes closed. His long, dark lashes cast dramatic shadows in the half-light of the patio lights strung between the tables.

They meet in the middle.

Jayce's lips taste like stale, fruity gasoline.

[jealousveronya]

Would've, could've, should've - Chapter 1

Summary:

Everyone at the Spring Court always talked about how menacing and ruthless the High Lords were, especially the strongest High Lord, the High Lord of the Night Court. And Feyre did fear him, but when the entire world seemed set on reminding her how she needed to be protected, something even her husband couldn't accomplish without her sacrificing her freedom, she couldn't help but imagine a reality where he wasn't a threat, but the one she clung to breathlessly every night.

After all, if she needed to be protected, the company of the strongest should suffice.

However, that was just a fantasy Feyre created to escape to when she couldn't get out of bed. It meant nothing. She hadn't even met the lord of the night.

But what happens when she does and can't stop a blush from creeping onto her face as she finally puts a face to all her sensual fantasies?

Read Chapter 1 on: AO3 or continue reading

Seven thrones, crafted out of purest white marble, encircled a pond that shimmered in the daylight with lotuses gently drifting across its surface. The seven thrones were meant for the seven high lords, the rulers of Prythian. Six were occupied, but one remained empty, a truth no one dared to speak of yet, nor its implications.

It had been a considerable time since the high lords held a meeting, their mutual disdain apparent in the uneasy silence that hung over the gathering.

"For how long do you intend to keep us in the dark, Beron?" Tarquin asked, scratching his chin, a hint of mockery woven into his words.

"I have a court to attend to. Explain the reason for this meeting at once, or I'll return to it." Tarquin crossed his legs. A slight wave in the pond splashed Beron's leather boots, prompting a mischievous smirk to dance on the High Lord of Summer's face.

Beron, the high lord with auburn locks, exhaled as his fingers drummed against the throne. He behaved as if he were the father of five insolent brats he'd summoned for a lecture.

"I had honestly hoped someone else would be the first to admit it, but I see it all comes down to me. Very well." He leaned back in his throne.

"A spark of my power has vanished," he declared.

Whatever smug expression had been on Tarquin's face instantly evaporated into thin air.

In a world where even a spark could mean the difference between life and death, high lord or slave, the danger of this confession did not go unnoticed.

"Am I the only one?" Beron asked, looking at the other high lords with a narrowed gaze.

"Regretfully or fortunately, you are not the only one," Kallias began. "I noticed it too. I was at breakfast when I felt it just... leave. That was about two months ago."

"I have also experienced it," Tarquin added.

The other high lords followed with their agreements.

"It's just a spark now, but who is to say how much more will vanish, how much weaker we will get?" Beron balled his hands into fists, slamming them against the throne. "It's natural to suspect Hybern—perhaps they've found a way to drain us of our power slowly; Cauldron knows how much they'd want that. But we also can't dismiss," he looked toward the seventh throne, the empty one covered in dust,

"him."

Silence flooded the room.

The seventh throne was meant for the death incarnate, the strongest high lord, the High Lord of the Night Court, Rhysand—the only male in Prythian who could make all the other high lords take a step back, even if some wouldn't admit it.

"Well, shouldn't he be here then? So we can ask him? If he's responsible, he already knows—there's no point hiding it from him." Helion broke the silence. He had been avoiding Beron's gaze the entire meeting. Although the rumors of his affair with Beron's wife were old, the bitterness between the two males was still palpable.

"And if he isn't to blame and was somehow unaffected unlike us, do we need to let him know we have grown even weaker?" The high lord of the autumn court spat.

"I have to agree. We can always plan a second meeting with him, but perhaps we don't need to tell him everything from the beginning." Tarquin followed.

"So what would be the best way to handle this?" Kallias spoke as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His power was leaking from him, so much that the part of the pond in front of him was slowly freezing.

"I recommend sending spies to the night court. We need to see if Rhysand is planning a war, and whether he is gathering armies. As strong as he is, if his goal is to weaken us so he can take over, he still won't try it without an army. If there is no army, we'll meet again to discuss what should be done further" Beron suggested.

Agreements could be heard from all sides of the hall, except for one. Beron's eyes followed the silence until they stopped at a male dressed in green, blonde strands of hair covering his already unreadable expression.

"You've been awfully quiet, Tamlin. Is there any reason for that?"

Tamlin hummed in dismissal before replying.

"No, you have just said it all. In fact, I volunteer one of my spies for the mission."

Upon the end of the meeting, Tamlin had winnowed back to his manor.

His hands were shaking slightly, his vision blurred, claws growing longer every second as the beast inside threatened to come out.

He had barely kept it inside during the discussion, gripping the armrests of the throne for dear life.

Since he'd gotten the letter from Beron that called for a meeting he had prayed to the Cauldron that this wasn't the topic. That no one had noticed the missing sparks of power. Or that if they had noticed, that they didn't care enough. They were just sparks after all. They were so insignificant compared to the entirety of a high lord's power, power capable of maintaining an entire court, keeping a season everlasting.

He took slow steps up the staircase. The weight of his secret was threatening to push him back down.

What was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to handle this? Right now they believed Rhysand or Hybern was to blame, but it's only a matter of time before they find out the truth.

The all-too-familiar scent hit his nostrils. It was the sweetest scent he had ever known. He relished in inhaling it before his feet followed its trace. 

Slowly opening the door, he peeked inside.

It was a moment to behold. Water was splashed everywhere, bubbles were spilling out of the tub. Light from the windows passing through the bubbles reflected rainbows on the marble floor. And inside the tub lay a female with golden wet hair framing her face and one leg lazily draped outside, swinging back and forth.

The sight of the female he held dear to his heart was a momentary reprieve, forcing the beast to retreat within the chamber of his soul as if her presence alone could pacify it.

As if for the first time ever, Tamlin exhaled, only for a second though  as the sight of her was also a reminder of the ever-looming threat.

The meeting had been a threat, a warning, because of who she was - because around her shoulders, that were peaking out of the water, tiny water wolves were frolicking - water wolves that she was creating. Her face wore a concentrated expression with furrowed brows as her delicate hands shaped water into wolves and gave them life.

Finally breaking her focus, taking notice of Tamlin, she looked up. Her blue orbs graced him with their sincerity as a smile found its way on her lips. Her skin started emitting a glow with intensity similar to one of the sun.

If he wasn't mesmerized he might have squinted to protect his vision.

And as the final punch to the gut, to remind him again of whaz she was, instead of speaking, she gently entered his mind.

"I missed you."

Tamlin could spend an eternity in that tub snuggled up against Feyre, kissing the nape of her neck, listening to the faintest of her moans, her fingers tangled in his hair, if the Cauldron only allowed it.

His teeth grazed her skin in between his kisses causing Feyre to shudder and pull on his hair harder.

The beast inside of him wanted him to mark her, to declare her as his as if that would protect her.

“Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked using her daemati powers, trailing her nails against the inside of his mind. As much as he was settled inside her physically, she was inside him mentally.

He bit her neck eliciting a sharp gasp from her. It wasn’t enough to mark her, just enough for her to feel the sharpness of his canines and how easy it would be for him to pierce her skin.

“I prefer it when I hear your voice.” Tamlin pulled on her plump bottom lip with his claw. He wasn’t interested in containing his claws like he had been doing at the meeting. Not with her. With her he didn’t need to hide or fake control.

And the reality from who she had gotten her daemati spark wasn’t really allowing him to even try concealing them. The fact his magic was running through her veins now was eating at his heart, especially when she was so determined on using it so frequently.

Violet eyes flashed in his mind, but he quickly composed himself.

“Fine. Are you ready to talk about what happened?” Feyre asked audibly now, pink covering her freckled cheeks.

“No,” Tamlin murmured before shifting his hips. Feyre breathed out a song of pleasure as her eyes rolled back into her head. “Fuck, Tamlin.”

He licked the sensitive place he found above the collarbone. 

He’ll protect her.

He’ll protect her from everyone. 

No one will take her from him.

His jaw closed around the curve of her neck, this time with enough force to draw blood.

“Feyre,” Tamlin started as his tongue tasted her blood.

“Hmm,” Feyre moaned.

“You’ll cook us alive.”

At that Feyre noticed the rising temperature of the water, a consequence of her skin getting hotter and hotter, almost igniting fire.

“Cauldron, sorry.”

Tamlin’s chuckle echoed against his mark.

”I can’t- I don’t know how to stop it.”

At that Tamlin picked her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he stepped out of the tub and headed towards Feyre’s bedroom. He made a point to step on one of the water wolves following them, turning it into a puddle.

“HEY!”

Tamlin only laughed in response.

“I need to practice. I need to get better at using my magic.” Feyre sounded disappointed.

“Nonsense,” Tamlin commented as he walked over to the bed, leaving a wet trail behind them.

“I could help you with the court, I could do so much.”

He lowered her onto the silky sheets. “You are already helping me.”

She looked to the side out of embarrassment.

“I could help you in other ways.”

“I am the high lord. I think I’ll manage. Besides, I want to take care of you. Not the other way around.” He kissed her breasts.

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to stop taking care of you.”

“That,” he warned “is an exception.”

His kisses started to get lower and lower. “Which we will get to later.”

“I just think that I should train, get better at using it.”

But Tamlin did not respond.

[nice-bright-colors]

Tales from NW of San Antonio.

Last night there was almost 6-1/2” and everything is sopping wet.

Rain. 6-1/2” of rain.

Yes, thought about that bit because I’m basically an old man perv.

———

Good thing I put a new roof on this grandstand building last year. So the roof is water tight. The EIFS wall covering a delaminated from the building, and the roof drain leaders are crumbling cast iron.

So, 6-1/2” of rain is filling up all the nearby detention ponds. Flooding roads. Flooding the nearby hospital construction project. And best of all….leaking all kinds of rainwater inside this fucking building.

———

The Wife™️ has left for Phoenix to visit with her sister, niece, and great nieces. I hear they are going to one of those “No King” rallies. Let’s all hope that Gov. doesn’t send in the National Guard there…like they are currently planning for in Austin.

I’m flying back home tomorrow night. This time I’m hopeful the flights will remain as is. Delta has upgraded me already. However, this flight combination tends to screw me over on missing flights. I really don’t want to change plans and fly the wrong way to catch a redeye going home.

Maybe I’ll take myself out for a special dinner tonight. Special as in not something cooked in a hotel room microwave.

[tomorrowsgardennc]

so this is how i started down the rabbit hole of wanting/needing a frog pond...

it all started when i was dumb and left my gorilla wagon outside during that hurricane that came on through, beryl betty, beejou, beetlejuice... already forgot the name. but it dumped a TON of water in the span of only 1.5 days, so of course the wagon got full super quick. i guess it also rained frogs instead of cats and dogs because some frogs laid eggs in said wagon cart. now the thing is, i own this cart wagon gorilla because i need it. i use it quite often, considering how many raised beds i've been constructing and replenishing compost for. but frogs win over me.

i've been checking my no longer gorilla but now frog wagon cart daily since then, and now i'm down to i believe 5ish tadpoles just chilling in there. and yes i washed my hands thoroughly after this video. also wave hi to me at the end.

i believe i have picked a good dedicated space for a permanent frog pond in the middle of one of my raised beds in the front yard. i plan on surrounding it with vegetable plants all year round (dinosaur kale in the winter, then next year will be purple tomatillos). i had cantaloupe plants in it before but man i couldn't reach the middle both because of my back and because the bed is just too square.

so the only remaining question i have before i commit to this is that do i need a run-off drain drilled near the top for the next downpour, or does it just do that on it's own and no worries about it?? this is an old hydroponics bin that i used once and was like 'cool. but a tower would be better' so i don't plan on using it ever again for that purpose.

thank you to soooo many people who helped me when i first panic posted about what to do: @the-thing-of-worms, @martha-anne, @roseredsnow, and @mrsjdavis. without your advice or thoughts i would not have kept going with this idea!

i now know to add plants to the water, and going to add rocks of various sizes in and around the pond. i'm debating on adding fish, because as much as i would love that idea - i'm worried about the pond freezing in winter and also not only parsley but other cats in the neighborhood just coming and eating them all. but i guess that's nature for you. totes going to put in a water pump to keep the water moving, that will be like step 1.

oh, and a photo of the frogs that live in my yard. no idea of the species, but man they are everywhere.

[mykingdomforapen]

chapter 10 of "courage of stars" will be coming next week and guys, I'm so nervous. I am so excited and I'm so nervous. This chapter is many things. It's where I got to do some things I've been really wanting to do. It's where I cross a point of no return in the story. I got to try a different style. It's where the line blurs between fanfic and a genre that I respect and fear.

It's also a huge factor in why this fic is rated M. Hoo boy.

So! In lieu of updating today, so that you won't have to face a three week wait afterwards, here's a fun little drabble/filler episode:

-

When Lu Guang was four years old, he lovingly killed three tadpoles. He had scooped them from the pond in a plastic cup and brought them home happily, convinced he would raise them into froghood. By Thursday, all three of them floated lifelessly in the surface of the bright blue tub in which he housed them. His mother poked them curiously with a chopstick while he sobbed into his grandmother's lap.

"Don't be so sad, Guangguang," Maamaa crooned as she patted Lu Guang's head. "You tried very, very hard. We all know that you did your best." 

"I killed them!" Lu Guang wailed into her skirt. "I just want them to be frogs and now they died!"

"Oh, A Guang," his mother said as she furtively plucked the dead tadpoles into a bundled newspaper for a more discreet funeral. "This is a good learning experience, right? Now you know what not to do with a frog. See, it's good to learn with the wild tadpoles, before you spend money on a pet. You know better for next time not to use tap water."

Lu Guang sobbed louder ("I meant it to be comforting!") until Yeye came home. Maamaa intercepted Yeye before he walked through the door and sent him on a mission to bring home steamed bai tang gao as a consolation, and Yeye beelined to the nearest vendor to bring home a steaming, buoyant cake of tangy sweet rice. Lu Guang chewed on it sullenly on the living room sofa after bidding the dead tadpoles goodbye into the storm drain.

Yeye sighed as he sat next to Lu Guang, stroking his grandson's little head.

"You know," he said, "when I was little, my father raised bees."

Lu Guang blinked up at Yeye with teary eyes.

"Honeybees?" he asked.

Yeye nodded. "My father was a very adventurous man, you know. A scholar, but always enjoyed the outdoors. He got it in his head that he would like to try raising a colony of honeybees. I was so excited to help him. I thought we would have hives and hives of bees, but what do you know! Only a month or so of having the bees, one day they all flew away. The queen said, no more! I was so disappointed."

Lu Guang sniffled. Yeye scratched the back of Lu Guang's head.

"After that, we stuck with chickens," Yeye said lightly. "What do you think of chickens, A Guang?"

Lu Guang shook his head.

"I like frogs," he whispered.

"You want to try raising frogs again?"

Lu Guang nodded. Yeye smiled crookedly.

"Ah, well," he said. "Chickens are smelly, anyway."

-

For Lu Guang's seventh birthday, his parents took him to the pet store.

His mother had promised him a pet frog for when he turned seven, partly because she had assumed he would grow out of frogs in three years' time. She was a woman of her word, though, when she noticed him checking out library books about frog care and frog types when he hit age six. When asked if he wanted to invite friends over to play, he shook his head and asked to go to the pet shop.

So on Sunday when Ba and Ma were off work, they took Lu Guang to the best-rated pet shop in the city, four subway stops away from Peidi University. Lu Guang was shaking with anticipation as he counted down the stops, donning his frog bucket hat in celebration and looking away solemnly when teenage girls cooed at him. All he could think about was his dream coming true.

“Now, A Guang,” his mother said breezily as she took Lu Guang’s hand to wade through foot traffic. “When you pick a frog, you have to make sure it isn’t poisonous, okay? Mommy is afraid of poisonous animals.”

“I don’t want a poison dart frog,” said Lu Guang, albeit with reservation. “They won’t have them in a pet store.” 

He did not know what sort of frogs were available in the pet store that Ma and Ba were taking him. Ba, in all his practicality, had assumed that they would go to one of the street markets and pick up a frog that was meant for the dinnerplate. He expressed mild surprise when they turned left to the subway station, so Lu Guang knew Ba wasn’t going to be any help in asking for clues. 

“All right, Guangguang,” said Ma as she ushered Lu Guang into the pet store. It was a corner shop with clean glass windows, full of tanks and cages and colorful habitat accessories. Colorful parakeets squawked and glittering snakes coiled under sunlamps, and Lu Guang’s little heart began to race with anticipation. “Only one frog, do you understand?” 

Lu Guang nodded, his eyes as wide as coins as he stared up at the tall towers of tanks. There were saltwater coral fish dancing among anemones, drowsy tarantulas (Ma squeaked at the sight of them), sunbathing turtles, bearded lizards, and–

Lu Guang felt his jaw drop. 

An Amazon milk frog. 

It was just at eye level with Lu Guang, so that when he pressed his nose to the glass he was eye to eye with the docile pale blue frog. It perched on a rock under the sunlamp, milky blue and content to stare back at Lu Guang. It was perfectly patterned, gummy blue webbed feet, and a lipless mouth that promised simplicity. 

It was, in short, the most wonderful creature that Lu Guang had ever seen. 

He stood up on his tiptoes to get a closer look at the frog. Its tiny breaths puffed in its throat in a fascinating rhythm. It was like seeing a real-life Doraemon in Lu Guang’s eyes, or Sun Wukong–a fairy-tale celebrity come to life, except instead of comic books it was Lu Guang’s frog encyclopedia. Lu Guang knew its habitat, its life cycle, its favorite foods, and now he could behold one with his own eyes. 

Seven minutes passed, and his mother touched him on the head.

“A Guang, there are other frogs you should look at too,” she said.

Lu Guang shook his head. He pressed his hands against the glass. 

“Aiyah, A Guang, not too close.” 

Lu Guang moved his nose a millimeter away from the glass, leaving a smudge. His mother looked down at him with a crooked smile. 

“Is this the one you want, then?” she said. 

He looked up to his mother and nodded. Ma turned to Ba and tapped the price tag. Ba nodded solemnly and undertook the task of haggling (unsuccessfully) with the store owner. 

“Let’s pick out a tank for him,” said Ma. 

She took Lu Guang’s hand and tugged him towards the habitat shelves, but Lu Guang refused to budge. He glued himself to the spot, maintaining unbreakable eye contact with the milk frog. 

“A Guang, come on, now,” she said. “We have to give him a home, don’t we?” 

Lu Guang huddled closer to the tanks. He was convinced that if he were to let the frog out of his sight, some other seven-year-old boy would swoop down and claim the frog as his own. 

“Ba is buying the frog right now, see?” Ma said, pointing to Ba who was conceding to the original price of the pet store while he pulled out his wallet. “There. Let’s choose a tank.” 

After another minute of convincing, Lu Guang finally followed his mother to pick out a proper tank for his frog. He picked out the soil, cleaned rocks, plants, and water source that would all go into his terrarium, but it wasn’t until Ba handed to Lu Guang a plastic covered cup with his milk frog sitting politely inside did Lu Guang feel the surge of joie de vivre. He hugged the cup to his chest, whispered his thanks to his father, and then burst into tears, precisely in that order.

-

Thanks for indulging me with this little drabble, gang. Who knows, since I'm kind of keeping up this 2 week streak for the rest of the update schedule, you might see the return of Frog Guang's adventures again...after all, if you've been on my tumblr for some time, you may recall that I have a headcanon that Lu Guang has beef with one of his cousins.

Until next week!

[mjonthetrack]

oath 3

1853 - south

Lenora was the wealthiest mistress in all of the aristocracy in Beaumont. Having residence in the old governor’s mansion she made the decades presiding the slain insolence to her liking. She’d erased all of the wealthy in the time of the governor, maimed all of the parishioners, blotted any evidence of the families of those who massacred her people and those like them. Only sparing a few children, successfully ensuring a new life to begin in the place of the old ways. As the states surrounding had still been stuck in the shadows of demonic pale hands she’d reset the area, allowing brown and black folk to remain to reclaim the lands, take over the rich homes and towns. With compulsion she controlled generations from recalling who she was if they’d ever met her twice, it stopped from exposing her nature.

No one knew but a few of her help that loyally served her for generations at the mansion after she’d freed their ancestors as paid workers. They kept her identity secret from any curious eyes, made sure she had fresh blood, and ensured travelers were unaware. She was never known for her covens name Stone as the notoriety never left the witches name even centuries after their elimination. When the eighteen thirties and forties hit the woman grew bored of watching the monotonous human life cycle, ceasing her compulsion. Lenora was the only of her kind she’d ever known, sure there had been a witch or two that would come in her audience but never much else.

The year was 1853 the woman had been around the sun more times than she’d cared for, her wealth was as dull as her lack of life. Her beautiful brown skin never lost its glow, nor did the shift of deep brown to red eyes. Her long natural hair was envied by many, her beauty portrayed in vast canvases. Her scent was an intoxicating honey and freesia, it laid thick in sweet florals, she had allured many people to her bedchambers, to either drain them or satiate the remaining human urge of lust. The ancestors still called to her in the wind, she could see their faces when her eyes closed. Her essence being reinforced by rest in her own deep oak coffin. Her rest during the sun and awakening at night was behind her illustrious parties at the grand estate. Diplomats from all over the world came to divulge into the woman’s presence, people still stuck in the darker times in the country envied and sought her demise.

Somewhere in the autumn months, as the air was cool and crisp her estate was full of people who wished to basque in the entity of the mistress. Her gardens were full of supple flowers and aromatic fruit trees that were free to anyone who was hungry. She had ponds full of fish, and constant carriages of gold and other refineries that led guests too and from the estate. Her own private orchestras were always playing outside and in the huge estate. Some of the finest patisserie chefs from Paris had come to serve there, the finest of foods and drinks were available at no cost to expensive to her account. She wore the most beautiful gowns full and elegant, the corsets highlighting her thin waist, heels that never hurt her delicate feet.

Her leading woman of the inner house broke the otherwise silence in her chambers, to which only the most trusted had awareness of. The huge room held where she lay at rest until the sun disappeared, it was where she had the remnants of her coven and father. Lenora lay undisturbed as the light echo of the violins played from the west wing of the estate, she had her eyes peacefully shut though her heightened senses could pick out every pulse change in miles of her body. The woman quietly carried a lantern to the chamber, setting it on a stand she gently tapped at the coffin,”mistress, guests have already arrived within the hour, everything is set, we have your premium selection of sources picked for you, and word is miss, if I be plain, unknowns are present.”

A long moment of silence was the response, then the coffin slid open, the woman arose looking through the lady,”do tell, who is at my estate that I don’t already know?” The lady bit her lip in thought making Lenora sigh flicking her wrist dismissively,”divulge me.” The younger woman grinned sitting at a small chair by the coffin,”three miss, they’re very attractive, they have these unique markings on their skin, foreigners, they have carved bodies of muscles and their eyes miss, they’re hold a different type of depth than the ones here.” Lenora scoffed having appeared standing as she dressed herself with help of the young lady with her corset. “You speak as though you know not what other humans look like, let me see what you’re bumbling about,” her steps were pointed yet lightly tapping onto the marble floors.

Roman led the two others in the estates ballroom, they’d come from their home island far from the state. The oldest was a chiefs son and the younger twins cousins of his they all had royal blood. Their muscular physique separated them from all the other men in the room, not to neglect their lack of shirts. Women ogled behind their fans, or whispered by floral gatherings of the clear outsiders. Men sneered at the engraved markings on their skin, ignorant to such things in their comfort. It was when the trio were deeper into the ballroom the older twin murmured,”I shall excuse myself,it seems certain pleasures acquire my attention,” as he gestured to a woman who smiled at him. Roman sighed but allowed it, seeing he had the more important matter he went to a server and requested an audience with their mistress. Though the server denied the possibility there came a shift in the ballroom as the music began to play more intentionally.

The tall man’s lips parted in wonder,”you must be-,” the tall woman hummed with a lifted brow,”I’m- apologies you’re just radiant,” he gently kissed her knuckles over her silk gloves. Lenora peered at him he smelled sweet of woods and something she couldn’t place,”if you were attempting to conduct business or request my attention I don’t have a slot available this evening.” Roman couldn’t help but shiver under her gaze there was something about her aura was shifting and enigmatic. “Apologies, my family and I have traveled far we seek an audience for a brief moment, I don’t mean to intrude on your lovely gathering.”

Lenora looked unamused but started walking past him,”keep up,” then the pair were in a more elusive spot. “You know Roman I’m not one to easily forget so do not waste my patience on frivolous matters.” His face fell serious,” I want revenge, our whole village was wiped out by those fucking white demons.” She sighed out,”Roman, the pale ones have reduced many civilizations throughout time, why are you here?” He gritted his teeth,”they killed my wife, my children, my parents, all of them gone, I am the tribal chief, it’s up to me to restore some sense of dignity.” Her fingers tapped impatiently on the side of her throne like chair,”while I can sympathize with loss you have shared you still have your cousins, and I am in no position to aid.”

He grew steadily agitated,”with all due respect my tribe was not ignorant to the supernatural, we had medicine practitioners and our own magic,now it’s all gone and you were the only lead from our travels in the western world.” The woman momentarily halted her tapping,”I don’t see money aiding your journey, tell me again why you’ve come to my feet, and if you know that much of my notoriety I suggest you be honest.”

Roman regarded her evenly,”I want the immortality drink, I want to use the potion to level all of those connected to their deaths, price be damned.” She momentarily let the sound of the huge clock tick,then her laughter came. Suddenly she was right in front of him,”you don’t even know what you’re asking of me,” she laughed once more this time sliding her gloves off elongating her claws,”there’s no damned potion, what fables you’ve bought into.” His eyes went wide at the woman’s hands,”wait what’s this?” She stretched slightly then gracefully shifted sitting on his lap, “you have fortunately bemused me and I don’t typically answer demands without blood being spilt, but I suppose I may entertain you, on the bounds that once it’s done you’re tied to my being.” The man looked unwaveringly on edge stiff as a board under her,”I don’t understand miss,” “Lottie will do just fine,now do me the solid of not making too much noise.” Like that she exposed her fangs making his face drain of color in fear.

The twins unaware were enjoying the pleasantries of the engagement, Jonathan was currently under the large hoop skirt of a beautiful woman’s skirt in a quiet corridor. Joshua was sat at a table in the ballroom, his focus was elsewhere as they knew the importance of this meeting trying to gain a notoriously opportune ally. He didn’t care about the constant eyes drifting to where he sat, didn’t give a damn that his skin was far more exposed, the women were dull and animatedly trying to catch his attention which he despised. Running a hand over his beard he dismissively left the table he was at, then pushed through the crowd down the less occupied hallways to pass whatever time the negotiation would take.

—————————-

Whilst Jonathan was entranced in luscious wines and women’s legs, indulging the daily exhibitions of the mansion, Joshua grew wary when he hadn’t seen or heard from the older cousin, he began more intentionally searching the vast estate. His search stirred the interest of the workers, they had a wide network around and inside the estate, reporting directly to their mistress. The woman in question had served the man’s request to her intent, he rose within a day and he was hungry. Roman couldn’t escape the burning sensation in his throat, his mind flashed images of the day prior and he flew up, though the room was pitch black he could see clearly. He could smell her, her blood was singing to him. Roman was on his feet and caging her petite body against the wall, his nose buried into her neck,”I don’t know what magic this is but I would love to drink from your pools.”

“In due time my pet,” she murmured lifting her hand as her head tilted in interest he was attractive but she felt nothing towards the large chief. “If you wish to survive to the final night you’ll need to drink some fresh source,” Roman let out a low growl as his lips trailed her jawline,”why can I not indulge you mistress?” Lenora looked from over his shoulder as the chamber doors opened and a deep voice called out,”Roman where-,” the voice halted seeing the older male caging a small body beneath him.

Joshua shook his head cussing,”you both are wasting our time, we need help not digging out the first woman you can reach.” The sound of the clock ticking painfully loud made the man scoff,”Roman-,” he went still when the large man turned his head back his eyes were a bright ember and their was blood down his chin,”what the fuck?” Roman let out a low rumble in his chest possessively guarding his creator, the woman groaned easily throwing the tall man off her. She flicked her wrist the candles all lit up illuminating her presence,” you must be one of the others, forgive us it seems Roman here is adjusting to his little favor.” Joshua froze seeing his older cousin, his eyes were crazed and he didn’t miss either of their fangs. He had icy chills all down his spine,”I think I’ll just go.”

Roman was on him in an instant hunger blurring his senses of recognition barring his fangs, Lenora growled,”you men are so stupidly incompetent, I said down boy!” she flicked her wrist and he levitated and was bound into the chair by her coffin. She lifted her wrist biting it and shoving it to his lips,”drink,” the older cousin did so greedily. Joshua stood in a frozen teeter between fear and interest, his lack of running away made her shift her focus to him her eyes locking in with his gaze, suddenly his body was pulled to be infront of her. The woman tilted her head, his blood smelled different than any other she’d ever had. Her senses were tingling as her cells seemed to vibrate in recognition. The woman recoiled sending him flying away to the halls, she slammed her chamber door shut to the satiated Roman who didn’t stray from her side.

[etym-a-day]

staunch, adj.

First attested in the early 15th century with the specific meaning "watertight", this word comes from Old French estanche, or possibly Anglo-French estaunche, both meaning "firm or watertight". The French are probably from Vulgar Latin *stanticare, which in turn is most likely from Classical Latin stans, the present participle of stare, "to stand". The Latin is from the Proto-Indo-European root *sta-, "to stand, to be firm or make firm".

The meaning of this word was extended to include "firm, strong, substantial (of inanimate objects)" by the mid 15th century, and by the 1620s to "firm, stalwart, principled (of people)".

Although etymonline.com does not directly address the connection, my own curiosity led me to look up the very similar verb stanch, meaning "to stop the flow of (usually blood)". This verb is first attested in the early 14th century, and comes from Old French estanchier, which should look familiar. That word is a verb meaning "to cease the flow of, to drain, to hinder", and is clearly at least related to if not the source of the Old French adjective estanche, from which English staunch is said to derive.

Interestingly, etymonline.com gives different Vulgar Latin sources for the French verb and adjective, contending that the verb estanchier is from VL *stancare, which they say may be from Classical Latin stagnum, "pond or pool", but may also be from the familiar CL verb stare, "to stand".

To complicate things further, the Oxford English Dictionary Online cites *stancare as the source of both the French verb and adjective, which would make English staunch and stanch doublets. I suspect there is an even closer relationship between these two words, considering the causative relationship between them (that is, when you stanch something, you make it staunch).

Delving deeper into this question is outside the scope of this blog, though, so suffice it to say that I would not be surprised to learn that staunch in fact derives from stanch, which entered the language a century earlier. This possibility is further legitimized by the fact that in many dialects of English, the two words can be used interchangeably (that is, stanch can be used as the adjective, and staunch as the verb — indeed, the OEDO lists the verb entry as "stanch/staunch").

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Sources:

https://www.etymonline.com/word/staunch

https://www.etymonline.com/word/stanch

https://www.oed.com/dictionary/stanch_v

https://www.oed.com/dictionary/staunch_adj

[kitkat13001]

in response to nicole dollanganger ask: if u did a full analysis i would happily read ! i know it but can barely put it into words myself if that makes sense

eeee i mean if u insistttt 🤭 and yeah that totally makes sense!! i had fun rlly digging into the meaning of the lyrics. im actually kind of excited for this im veryyy into asra’s route rn so analysis below the cut!

☆⋆｡𖦹 asra + the apprentice as “nymphs finding the head of orpheus” by nicole dollanganger

In the skeletal remains Of a pool long since drained Filled with rain Reclaimed by nature

⤷ asra mentions in “enter the cave” that the water inside the magical cave had returned. he also mentions at several points in the story that the cave’s magic reacts heavily to that of the apprentice’s, so maybe we can assume that it dried up after they died? the water’s return w/ the apprentice’s resurrection could be the “reclaim by nature”

Through the dark, I wade As if in its glory days Knowing that I'll make myself sick from the water

⤷ to me this part is how far asra is willing to go to bring the apprentice back. him “wading through the dark” to make a deal with the magician and the devil, double-crossing lucio to steal the body in order to bring the apprentice back. the last line being the part where he tells the apprentice this much, about the most important rule in magic being to be careful what you wish for because of what it could cost. he willingly gave up half his heart to get his apprentice back, even though it changed him (“made him sick”). the “glory days” line to me just reflects how much he thinks about the apprentice when they’re gone, all the memories they share with such a deep history. it could also be how he’s always mentioning things from their forgotten past in their new life together.

Knowing all my tears and rage Could load a revolver

⤷ asra’s a great pretender, if you’ve played his route (or seen him in any of them really) you know that he’s not always upfront with his feelings. after the apprentice dies though, it’s easy to see in memories how he changed. what reeeallyyy strikes me with this line is its resemblance to the scene where he takes them to the lazaret and delivers the “i dug until my fingers bled. all i could find was charred bone and ash.”

I used to think, you must be the water I drink Holding me down in these waters, down beneath Singing to the sound of my screaming But now I see

⤷ visually the chorus reminds me of one of the memories where asra had tried bringing the apprentice to the cave once before, but it went awry bc they weren’t ready. they sink into the pond, unable to breathe, and nearly drown in the water before asra pulls them out.

In the dark I wait Right here where I once sunbathed With all of my dreams unfit for day With all of my tears and all my rage

⤷ the first two lines is a good play on the duality of the apprentice coming back to life. them trying to figure themself out, an old ghost in a new body with no memory of a previous life.

I used to think you must be the water I drink Holding me down in these waters, down beneath Singing to the sound of my screaming

⤷ the lyrics paired with the visual of the cave i mentioned before are a good insight on the apprentice’s reliance on asra (“learning” magic from him and calling him master, etc) since returning to life, and some of asra’s shortcomings (keeping secrets, leaving for long periods of time unexpectedly etc) within their relationship.

I used to dream of the day it'd be just you and me Like the wild west Both of us shooting 'til one of us was dead You cruel, cruel man

⤷ i think there’s a lot of tragic beauty in asra and mc’s relationship, both of them clinging to each other until there’s bloody claw-marks in their hearts. their separation right before the apprentice dies seems like a really bitter stalemate, with asra wanting to leave and save them both while the apprentice wants to stay and help even if it costs them their life. there’s also some poetic justice in that death being the thing that brings them back together, and asra willing to give up part of himself in order to bring them back to him.

[demoneyesidol]

Better half. spoilers ahead

After putting it off for a while i decided to find nemlei's old games and try them out. and yea you can see the echoes of proto-tcoaal forming inside of it like a frothing pond of primordial soup. there is indeed a pair of mage siblings in there that play around with magic and use body parts as spell ingredients. instead of incest we got selfcest. (based nemlei does it again) Our main protag here is sick of life, asks a bootleg mage to extract all his positivity into another body and leave all the bad stuff into another vessel. Unfortunately his positivity went to the other body and he's stuck with an even more concentrated and potent depression than ever before. thanks to the bootleg magic and sketchy mage, hes stuck with more consequences than he can count. Which is fucking funny. You decide what happens to these two halfs of a whole idiot after. i ended up merging back on my first run. Overall the moral of the story is just simply, take care of yourself and keep trying no matter what. Taking shortcuts to happiness wont work unless you put in the effort to make change happen. sometimes the pit of despair and self loathing is so powerful that even moving out of bed can be an intense exercise in futility but still giving it your all can work wonders. thiu suffers from this after having all his concentrated negativity dumped into himself and all the positivity removed and moved to the other "better half." its so bad that it even starts affecting the other thiu and draining him to. with both of their sanities failing little by little theyre kind of on a death spiral to misery together if they dont do anything about it. a different kind of tension that i wasnt expecting and also one that probably hits us all in more ways than one. everyone one of us has a personal journey that mirrors this and its kind of a crazy thing to think about.

literally "we are on a time crunch to get better before we give up and kill ourselves". something i couldn't put into words until now. I do think its good to have this sense of urgency. it shows that you care about yourself in some way, and Thiu himself was glad that he even came to this conclusion. he didnt want to die like this and tried his hardest to improve his life little by little. its a pretty wholesome ending all things considered.

this hit home since in 2021 i broke my wrist attempting to self-improve and work out, i ended up waiting for an entire year for my health insurance to approve my wrist surgery. so for an entire year i had a broken wrist, unable to work, unable to do anything just being a drain on my house watching the days slip by and watching bills pile up. i remember that pit of despair. but today im better.

A great first visual novel. Beautiful art and nice writing. Good job Nemlei.