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sjsmith56 · 11 months ago

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Life Changing, Chapter 6 - Eyes of the Father

Summary: Lacey’s pregnancy progresses well. When she goes into labour Steve shows up to see her through it. A bag of fan mail for her latest book includes a special letter.

Length: 4.7 K

Characters: Lacey, Laura, Clint, Steve.

Warnings: description of childbirth

Author notes: The picture referred to was a picture of Bucky taken at the Bucharest market. His vulnerability was evident in the photo and it’s kind of hinted that it may have influenced Clint to help.

<<Chapter 5

🚜 🤰📨

It didn't take long for Lacey to tell Laura Barton everything. Her calm and kind nature impressed Lacey immediately as did her assurance that if Lacey stayed there long enough to have her baby that they would both be looked after. After being stressed while trying to stay safe and worrying about the future of her baby it felt good to have a motherly type looking out for her.

Her own mother hadn't been helpful when Lacey returned home to Wilmington, Pennsylvania for her brother's funeral. Still blaming Lacey for not preventing her brother Tom from leaving had caused a rift between her mother and herself. Even the presence of her oldest brother Terry and her sister Nancy hadn't tempered her mother's anger at her. Nancy had been sympathetic but because of her own emotional issues over her divorce wouldn't stand up to their mother. Terry, who had brought his entourage with him told her to stop being a selfish brat and apologize. As soon as Tom was buried Lacey packed up and left, leaving a note for her mother that made it clear they had nothing more to discuss. She drove to Philadelphia, rented her furnished bachelor apartment and sold her car, discarding the last piece of property that could be legally linked to her.

She poured all of this out to Laura Barton in the day after her arrival in a catharsis that seemed to last for hours. Laura listened patiently realizing that Lacey had kept this bottled up for weeks. She was exactly what Lacey needed, a sympathetic ear with no connection to her, who wouldn't judge her for things out of her control. Once Lacey had it out of her system she found her fears subsided and she was able to look forward to staying on the Barton farm for the near future.

The following day Clint landed the quinjet on the farm and brought the rest of the Avengers inside the house after the disaster of their mission in South Africa. As Laura came out and was introduced to the team Lacey held back for several minutes before coming out of her room and down the stairs.

"Hey guys," she said, raising her hand in greeting. "Surprise."

Natasha and Steve hugged her affectionately while the others expressed astonishment at finding her there.

"She needed a safe place to hide while we went on our mission," said Clint. "This place is off the books so I offered to hide her here with my family. You can still stay here Lacey, as long as you need to."

"Thanks, Clint," replied Lacey. "I'll consider that. I talked Laura's ear off yesterday and I wouldn't be surprised if she's already had enough of me."

"You can stay as long as you want," repeated Laura. "You needed to unload and I was happy to listen."

As the others milled around and Lacey looked closely at their faces she realized that something disturbing had happened to the team. Thor left almost immediately and Steve went outside to work off his frustration by splitting logs. Tony joined him and she watched from the steps as no one else seemed willing to tell her what had happened. Even Clint was unusually quiet about what went down, telling only Laura. When Laura asked Tony to get their tractor working Lacey approached Steve.

"What happened to you out there?" she asked. "You all seem shaken."

He sighed and looked at her, debating how to describe it. "We had our minds messed with," he finally replied. "A girl, maybe 18, with the ability to enter our minds and show us things that shook us. She showed me a future that I wanted, with a woman that I loved during the war but never told her. The others had more disturbing visions. Only Clint's intervention saved us. Ultron also got control of a large amount of vibranium ... enough to make a very big weapon that could cause an extinction level event. So yeah, we are shaken. We failed."

"I'm sorry," she said. "What will you do?"

"Find where he is and try again," he said. "What choice do we have?"

Tony appeared at the door and called Steve in for a meeting. Turning towards the house Steve put his hand lightly on Lacey's back, wanting her to be part of it. Inside was Nick Fury, who looked briefly at her but gave no indication they had met on her flight to the farm. He encouraged the Avengers to come up with a plan to stop Ultron explaining there was no one else capable of handling it. It must have hit a chord with them because they made the decision to return to Stark Tower and determine where Ultron had disappeared to. As they made preparations to leave Steve sat with Lacey on the couch.

"Are you coming with us?" he asked, looking intently at her.

"No, I'm going to stay here," she answered. "I feel at peace here. Laura's been a mom twice and is expecting her third. I feel like there's a lot I can learn from her on being a mom. When you beat Ultron, you get hold of me and ask me again. I'll decide then."

He hugged her. "Look after yourself," he said. "I don't have much family. Just Bucky, you and the baby."

"That's what Natasha said," replied Lacey. "That's good because I kind of broke it off with the rest of my family. They weren't giving me much support."

Steve hugged her again and stood up, smiling at her before he left the house. Lacey and Laura went out onto the porch and watched the quinjet take off and fly into the twilight. Then Laura turned to her.

"Tomorrow I see my obstetrician," she said. "I'll introduce you to him. We have to keep you healthy, don't we? Fury gave me some new IDs for you and a wedding band to wear if you want it. Your name is now Lacey Chapman. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," said Lacey. "I'm not sure I ever want to use the Williams name again. If I can get published under the new name then I'll be good. Except maybe I'll use my initials. L.C. Chapman. What do you think?"

"Lots of authors use pseudonyms," replied Laura. "It will work out."

The next day Lacey met the obstetrician and he agreed to take her on as a patient. Her first appointment was set up for the following week. When the women returned to the farm she helped Laura can some fruit and vegetables. They laughed and talked of all manner of things and by the end of the day Lacey felt gloriously tired and slept well. It was several days before they heard anything from the Avengers and that was only when Laura got up to start the coffee and smelled Clint's aftershave. She turned around and saw him there. He embraced her, announcing he was done, retiring. Lacey came downstairs and hugged him as well, after learning what had happened. She was sorry to hear of the death of the young man who had saved Clint's life, knowing it had shaken him. She was also sorry to hear that Bruce Banner had disappeared in his Hulk persona and they had no idea where he was. Then Clint turned to her and gave her more news.

"They've moved the Avengers out of Stark Tower and into a secure compound in the countryside," he said. "Steve and Natasha are taking over training for some new recruits. He wrote a letter to you. I don't know what it says but no matter what you can stay here. I can build you a suite for you and your baby. It won't take long."

Laura rolled her eyes at that pronouncement but she repeated the offer. Lacey thanked them both and went to her room with the letter, opening it and sitting on her bed. She smiled, seeing Steve's penmanship was as nice as Bucky's. They were definitely a product of their time.

Dear Lacey,

By now you know the results of our battle with Ultron. We lost some people but we were able to prevent him from destroying the world. Natasha and I will be training our new recruits and I expect to be very busy here. You are welcome to come and live here with us but I will understand if you choose to stay at Barton's farm. You seemed much more relaxed there than you ever were in Stark Tower.

I meant what I said about you being family. If you choose to stay there I want you to call me when you're in labour and I will be at your side, helping bring your baby into the world. I owe you and Bucky that much. I will visit when I can. Until I see you, know that I think of you two often. The search for him will continue, I promise.

With the highest regards,

Steve

Lacey choked up a little bit. Steve was right. The farm felt familiar and comfortable. She wasn't sure she would fit in at the Avengers compound. Right then and there she decided to stay with the Bartons. When she told them of her decision they both hugged her and assured her they would make it work. Just at that moment Laura felt a twinge in her back. Clint noticed it and looked at her with concern, then made sure she laid down for a while. A few hours later she called him to say it was time and Lacey told them to go, that she could look after the kids. When Clint returned a few hours later and confirmed that his son Nathaniel had been born Lacey felt even more sure that this was the place she needed to be.

Over the next few months Clint was as good as his word. He built a suite, with its own bathroom for Lacey and her baby. Lacey insisted on paying him for his work but he refused, saying it would become their new bedroom if and when she moved. He built a cradle while Laura sewed bedding for it. Lacey had an ultrasound at four and a half months that confirmed it was a boy. That evening she laid in her bed and looked at the ultrasound picture then touched her abdomen. She imagined Bucky lying behind her, spooning so he could have his hand on her belly. They would look at the picture together and kiss at the prospect of their son. Try as she might she couldn't keep the tears away and she pulled a pillow close as she wept, wondering if she would ever see Bucky again.

When she told Steve he did visit and brought a box of boy things for the baby. She showed him the ultrasound picture and he told her how thrilled Bucky would have been at the technology behind it. At five months of pregnancy Lacey received an acceptance letter from a publisher for a manuscript she had submitted through her literary agent. They offered her a sizeable advance and asked her to come to New York to work with the editor. She declined, citing agoraphobia. Instead she asked if they could it edit it together online. After some back and forth with her agent as intermediary they agreed and Clint showed her how to hide their location on the computer so they couldn't be tracked. She worked with the editor for a week and they both were happy with the resulting manuscript. The editor brought up her author picture asking if they could send a photographer to take her picture. Muting her for a moment Lacey ran to get Clint.

"What do I tell her?" she asked. "I said I had agoraphobia and that I couldn't leave the house. But we can't have a strange photographer coming here either."

"I know a photographer in town," he replied. "Ask if you can provide your own professional headshot. I trust him to come out. He can take pictures of the baby and the kids. It's been a while since we had a portrait done."

Lacey ran back to the computer and unmuted the editor. "I have a photographer that I'm comfortable with," she said. "He's a professional. Can I get him to do a headshot and then send it to you electronically?"

"I don't see why not," said the editor. "I'll find out what their settings are for a photograph and email that to you."

"Thank you," said Lacey. "It's been so hard dealing with this disorder and I know it's made extra work for you. I'm so pleased that you've accommodated me."

"Well, your novel is worth it," said the editor. "I'll get that information to you as soon as possible."

Two days later the photographer came out and took pictures of the family then set up for head shots of Lacey. Clint introduced her as his cousin. He took several poses and asked what format she needed to send to her publisher. After confirming he could do it he said he would email them to her within a couple of days. When he did she sent them on to the publisher and left it to them which one they wanted. Clint set her up with a post office box a few towns away and they used that as her mailing address, knowing that the publisher would be sending out galley copies for her approval.

At seven months into Lacey's pregnancy the publisher announced the publication date of her second published book The Woolf Howled. They sent her a link to their website where it was described as a fictional account of a troubled young woman who found solace in the writings of Virginia Woolf. When she began to identify too strongly with Woolf and started to imitate her life she realized she lost herself to the mythology of the author and had to fight to regain her sanity. One critic who had reviewed a galley copy called it a bold re-imagination of the life and death of the famed author written for a modern audience. Another called it a harrowing account of losing oneself in the life experiences of another person. The book came out when Lacey was 8 ½ months pregnant. A week later she went into labour and Clint phoned Steve before he drove her to the hospital. Steve flew a quinjet to the hospital, which Clint flew back to the house, leaving Steve his truck keys. He entered the maternity wing and told the receptionist he was there to be the support for Lacey Chapman. Realizing she recognized him he asked her not to spread it around that he was there as Lacey was a very good friend whose husband, his best friend, was missing. Smiling nicely at her she agreed to keep his visit quiet then led him to where he could change. A nurse came for him and he entered the delivery room.

"Hi sweetheart," he smiled when he entered. "I told you I would be here for you. How far along are you?"

"8 cm," she said, as another contraction started. He held her hand as she breathed through it. "It shouldn't be long before I can start pushing. Are you sure you want to be here for this?"

"I'm sure," he said. "I owe it to you and Bucky. Have you come up with a name yet?"

"I want to name him Thomas James," she said. "Thomas is my brother's name, the one that was murdered."

Steve nodded. "I think Bucky would like that," he said. "You okay with me calling him Tommy?"

She smiled then grimaced as another contraction started. Steve grasped her hand again as she breathed through it. For half an hour he told her stories of growing up with Bucky that made her smile and laugh. When a contraction happened he held her hand and helped her breath. After checking her cervix the nurse assigned to her told her that it was almost time to start pushing and she would advise the doctor. Lacey looked at Steve and started to cry.

"What's wrong?" he asked gently.

"I wish it was Bucky that was here," she admitted. "I'm glad you're here but it should be him."

"I know," he replied sympathetically. "If we had found him I would have brought him here myself. I know you wanted to wait to tell him but he would have wanted to be here as well."

Another contraction started and this one overwhelmed her making her cry. Steve did his best to calm her and the nurse ran in, hearing her cries from the hallway.

"The doctor will be here right away," she soothed. "He's just scrubbing in. I'm here to help you deal with these final contractions. They're doozies, aren't they?"

Lacey nodded and Steve wiped her tears away gently. When the next one started the nurse told her to pant and not to stop until the contraction eased. Then the obstetrician entered and put on his gown and gloves. He and the nurse talked Lacey through the next contraction and another then announced the baby's head was crowning. As the head was born after she pushed on the next contraction Lacey panted as if her life depended on it. They suctioned the airways and then asked for another push to birth one shoulder. Turning the baby slightly the other shoulder came out followed by the rest of the baby. Lacey cried out in gladness then watched as the doctor rubbed the baby's back. When the baby cried out the doctor laid him on her abdomen. Hesitantly she touched him and started to cry when he looked at her. When the umbilical cord had stopped pulsing the doctor offered Steve the scissors to cut it and he refused.

"I'm just the father's best friend," he explained. "He's missing. You cut it doc."

The doctor cut it and explained they were going to examine him, wrap him up and put a cap on him then they would bring him right back. Steve hugged Lacey.

"Did you see that hair?" he exclaimed. "That's Bucky's hair. He's beautiful, Lacey. Bucky would be so proud of you."

"I can't believe I did it," said Lacey. "That was so hard but once he was born it was like all the pain just went away."

"I'll pass on the word to Tony and Natasha that you've had the baby," said Steve. "I'm sure you'll be receiving something from them."

"No word on Bruce yet?" she asked.

"Nothing," replied Steve. "It's like he disappeared off the face of the Earth."

"I hope he's okay," she said. "Hard to reconcile that gentle man with ... you know."

"I know," replied Steve.

They brought Tommy back to her and Lacey looked at Steve. "This is where I get to breast feed him," she said. "I don't mind if you stay. I mean, you are his godfather ... you know that, right?"

"Thank you," blushed Steve. "If you're okay with me being here I would like to stay for a little longer."

The nurse showed Lacey how to offer the breast to the baby and get him to latch on. Steve stayed, while averting his eyes as she and the nurse worked out the logistics. When Tommy finally started successfully nursing he put his hand on Lacey's shoulder.

"You'll be a great mother," he said softly.

After assisting Lacey with the feeding and the afterbirth, the nurse announced she would be moved to a hospital room soon. Lacey asked if he wanted to hold Tommy before she was moved and he smiled, then let the nurse show him how to do it. Steve kissed him on the head and stood up walking around with the baby for several minutes, talking softly to him.

"I have to go," he said reluctantly after his time with the baby. "I wish I could stay longer."

"It's okay," replied Lacey. "Clint and Laura will take care of us. Thank you for being here."

He gave Tommy back then bent over and hugged her, kissing both of them on the head. Leaving the room, he changed out of the scrubs and drove Clint's truck back to the farm. Laura made him something to eat and he told them about the birth. He also filled them in on what was happening at the Avengers compound. His face must have shown something as Clint looked sharply at him.

"What else is going on?" he asked.

"There are rumours that the Avengers are going to be put under the control of the United Nations," said Steve. "The feeling is that we have too much freedom to go on missions and that we're not capable of determining which missions require our attention. They want an oversight committee to decide for us."

"That's bullshit," said Clint. "Sometimes you have minutes to get out there. You can't be waiting for an oversight committee to decide for you."

"Exactly," said Steve. "Tony is really pushing for it. It's caused some friction between us. If we don't agree to it then we have to retire."

"Good thing I'm already retired," replied Clint. "Keep us posted. Any word on Lacey's situation?"

"I had a visit with the FBI agent in charge of her brother's case," said Steve. "I didn't say anything to her as the guy is a bit of a jerk. He demanded to know where she is. Apparently he still thinks she's planning to meet up with Bucky somewhere. I told him she's in seclusion. There is still a powerful Russian criminal who wants to make an example of her."

"She stays with us, then," said Barton firmly. "Poor kid."

Steve finished eating and stood up. He thanked Laura for the meal and walked outside with Clint to the quinjet.

"This UN thing is going to get messy," said Steve. "It could tear us apart."

"You know, I respect Tony," said Clint. "But when he gets on his high horse he just doesn't see anyone else's point of view. I guess that's what happens when you're a genius."

Steve didn't respond but he did shake Clint's hand and the latter man watched as the quinjet rose into the sky and flew off. He was well out of it and glad that he was. His life revolved around his family now and he liked being a farmer.

Neither Clint nor Laura said anything to Lacey about the FBI agent or the problems at the Avengers compound. It was just as well as she was consumed by baby Tommy and by the response to her book. With Laura's guidance Lacey learned how to be a mom. Never in her life did she think she could ever love someone as much as she loved this baby. As Tommy's eye colour came in and the bright blue of his father's eyes developed she was glad she decided to proceed with the pregnancy. When she wasn't looking after him she was learning how to be a farmer, insisting that she earn her keep. Clint taught her how to drive the tractor and how to plant crops, sharing everything he knew about running a farm.

In the meantime Lacey's book was selling reasonably well, even internationally as foreign language editions were published. The post office two towns away called to say she had fan mail that needed to be picked up. Clint drove out to get it and brought back a mail bag full of letters. Lacey was flabbergasted. Her first book had some good reviews but she never received a single fan letter and made only the minimum from the first and only print run. She began to read some of the letters and was touched by the sentiments in them. Realizing that some of the writers had poured their hearts out to her she began to answer the letters, writing responses on her laptop, printing them off, signing them and sending them off.

One morning when Tommy was almost eight months old Clint came up to Lacey's room and knocked on the door. She opened it to his grim face.

"You better come downstairs," he said. "There's something on the TV that you should see." Picking Tommy up she followed him to where Laura was watching a news channel. "There's been an incident in Nigeria. The Avengers were trying to stop a HYDRA cell from stealing a biological weapon. It went wrong and there was an explosion that killed several people. They're blaming the Avengers for it and actually want to arrest one of them, Wanda. She's just a kid."

"What will it all mean for them?" asked Lacey.

"They want to put the Avengers under the control of an oversight committee," said Clint. "It means they can't respond to anything without someone's say so. You know yourself that sometimes the fight comes to them. They wouldn't even be able to defend themselves without permission."

"How are the team taking it?" she asked. "Have you heard anything?"

"Steve told us when he was here for the birth that it was rumoured then and it was causing friction," replied Clint. "I can't see it getting better."

Lacey watched the coverage for some time until they all decided to turn it off. She decided to answer some letters and dug into the latest mail bag. After answering six letters she pulled out one more and looked at her name written on the envelope. The writing was familiar and she opened the envelope noticing a picture fall out face down on the floor. Picking it up she gave out a cry and Clint came running.

"What is it, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Bucky," she whispered. "He wrote me a letter."

Clint looked at the picture seeing a long haired man with bright blue-grey eyes and unshaven face. He glanced at Tommy, noticing the eyes of the father were the same as the boy's. The longer he looked at the picture of Bucky the more he realized he was looking at a man trying to find himself. He seemed vulnerable and alone. Lacey was reading the letter, her face absorbing every word. Then she looked up at Clint.

"He saw a poster of me in the window of a book store," she said, her voice tight. "He bought my book and read it. He's proud of me for persevering in my writing and hopes that I'm happy."

"Where's the envelope postmarked?" he asked.

She looked at the marking on the envelope. "Romania," she replied. "He must be there. We have to tell Steve."

"I will," said Clint firmly. "Is there anything else in the letter that gives a hint where in Romania?"

Lacey scanned it again while Clint looked closely at the picture to see if any landmark stood out.

"Nothing, except that he goes to a large market in the centre of the city," she noted. "He says city, not town or village."

"Could be Bucharest," guessed Clint. "HYDRA might have had abandoned safe houses there that he could hide in."

Clint left to contact Steve while Lacey studied the picture. Bucky's hair was still long but he looked almost the same. The biggest difference from when she last saw him was he seemed tired and sad in the picture. She picked Tommy up and walked outside with him. Looking out over the farm she lowered her face to Tommy's and breathed in his baby smell. He reached out with his hand and touched her face. Somehow they would find Bucky, and unite father and son. Somehow they would be a family.

That night she laid in bed, looking more closely at Bucky's picture. His eyes seemed haunted and she wondered who had taken the picture that caught him in such a vulnerable pose. She focussed on his beautiful lips, remembering them on her own and wondered if she would ever feel them on her again. After a few more minutes gazing at him she put the picture in her nightstand drawer and turned off the bedside lamp. Wishing on a picture wouldn't find him, nor would it bring him back to her. Only fate would do that.

Chapter 7>>

Series Masterlist

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#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #buckybarnes original female character #steve rogers #clint barton #laura barton #childbirth #buckyontherun

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charlesandmiranda · 1 year ago

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Getting ready to go!

I didn't really mean FALL when we were planning to take a trip! On my way home from work last night, it was dark out and I tripped over.....what appeared to be a metal u-shaped...thing? someone had seemingly permanently put in the ground on the sidewalk out in front of a house? I have no idea what it was and should have taken a picture but...I definitely couldn't see it, and definitely totally ate pavement tripping over it. I tore open my right knee and hand, and banged my left elbow pretty good -- it ripped through my jacket and I had to do a quick last minute repair before we went to sleep last night. Somehow my hand still hurts the most but it'll be okay I think. It cleaned up well, just raw and sore. No photos, you're welcome, haha. And hopefully this is me getting out all the bad luck NOW before we get there!!

Last night we actually slept on the couch so we could get in a little extra time with the babies -- for whatever reason, they refuse to sleep in the bed with us, so we came out to them.

It wasn't a bad night's sleep but we "laid down" around 8:30 or 9pm which is.....quite early for us....so it wasn't like we immediately fell asleep or anything. Mainly, we listened to the podcast Ship Hits The Fan to help us fall asleep, which is an historical podcast about maritime disasters. It maybe doesn't sound like the most relaxing thing to listen to at first, but I swear, it's quite funny and fascinating!

We were up at 5:15, and then it was all the last minute packing and tidying -- toothbrushes, deodorant, whatever. I made a whole pot of coffee thinking we'd have time to drink it but alas. That's what Dunkin Donuts is for I guess! 😅 We said goodbye to the kids (except for Ellie who decided to hide) and were on our way!

(my coworker Elijah doesn't live far from us, so he is going to be stopping in daily to make sure everyone is healthy and happy while we are away, and send us pet updates 💕)

We took the metro to Union Station in DC, and from Union Station, we took the MARC train to Baltimore.

And now, around 8:40ish, we are settled in at our gate, waiting to take off!! When next you hear from us, we'll be in Tokyo!!

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suth-sardian · 6 years ago

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Osidian’s last 2 brain cells in the chapter Just One More Day

#sdc #sdc month #stone dance of the chameleon #osidian nephron #other than the usual joke #............. twin towers #pictures taken 5 minutes before disaster #uwu im osidian and im about to destroy my whole civilization cause my boyfriend is a greedy stupid bitch

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reaveries · 2 years ago

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▬ an admiration for perennials

summary: arthur meets a woman with an affinity for cliff maids

pairings: high honor!arthur morgan pov x female!reader

warnings: sad introspective arthur, sh*t word (:o), mention of mary, dying from flu, pollen (?? this thing is so fluffy, i'm grasping for straws here)

word count: 6.2k (estimated 26-minute reading time)

a/n: i have proofread this piece so.. many.... times... i'm so ready to finally publish it and get it the eff away from me. i hope y'all like it, i'm really happy with how it turned out! (i think, i can't tell anymore). i have a part two outline in the works so if you'd like to see that, please let me know by interacting w/ the post! also, this is categorized as a reader/self-insert but at one point there is very brief character description. i try to keep that to an absolute minimum and leave it generally gray enough to remain a self-insert fic. if that bothers you, i'm sorry, just overlook it! anyways, njoy, pardners <3

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 1/5/2024.

He takes a long drag from the cigarette between his lips, letting the harshness of the warm smoke enter his chest with ease. The cigarette had nearly met its end, so he knew it was getting to be that time. He jabs it into the ashtray along with the ashes from all the other bargoers and bids the barkeep a good night, leaving some change for his good company.

Unfortunately, Arthur hadn't found the solace he was searching for in the homely saloon. He’d filled himself to the brim with watered-down beer and a few shots of whiskey when he felt especially plagued by his thoughts. But as he pushes open the swinging doors and steps into the cool night air, his head still swarms with a myriad of upsetting things.

His life is a complicated mess, though part of him knew it always had been. It just wasn’t until recently that he realized how unnecessary it was for it to be such. On the same street where he currently stands, he’d been responsible for putting lead in the heads of countless men a few weeks prior. He didn't even know their names, and he surely doesn't remember their faces. It was a wholly avoidable disaster. Not to say he’s bothered by the act of killing, for when he finds it justified to end a man’s life, there’s often no reason to dawdle. No, the mess of it all perturbed him the most.

Undeniably, the land he calls home is becoming a different entity than the one he was born into, a land of law and structure that spits upon his way of life. The West is becoming a docile place, its wildness broken by the cracking whip of civilization. And if the West can’t survive, then all hope is lost for men like him. The only logical step to ensure that he, and the people he cares for, won’t meet their fates at the end of a rope is to adapt to this changing world. This meant mess would have to be a thing of the past. No more massacres over stolen oil wagons and certainly not wiping out an entire town to free a man he didn’t care for from a cell he belonged in. No more innocent bystanders gruesomely losing their lives over foolishly shallow plans like the botched ferry job in Blackwater. No more lives need to be taken for his benefit or the ambitions of the man who guided him. Somehow though, that man didn’t see things the way he did.

Whenever he brought up these concerns, Dutch always told him, “Don’t be so simple-minded, Arthur. Look at the bigger picture.”

But the bigger picture was all he could see, and it was a terrifying sight.

His heels sink into the damp earth as he makes his way to Saint’s Hotel, crossing his fingers that a room is available for the night. He made the mistake of riding his horse with a stomach full of liquor before, and somehow it almost ended up with him drowning. How he ended up sopping wet and his horse dry as a bone is still a mystery to him. So, a room at Saint's is in order since he doesn’t particularly care to die tonight, even despite the pervasive thoughts that plague him.

Just as he’s about to step onto the hotel’s wooden porch, he hears a loud banging noise come from behind him. He turns around and, in the darkness of night, sees a woman knocking on the front door of the general store across the street. She raps her knuckles a second time against the door, just as loud as the first. The door opens and out steps the store owner, looking irritated.

“Hi, I know you’re about to close, but I’ll just be a second, I promise!” She says this with her hands clasped together.

“Alright, alright. Come on in,” the man says, stepping aside so she can enter.

As the woman moves past the older man, light from inside the store hits her, and he can see her more clearly. She’s dressed simply with her hair loosely pulled back into a plait that falls past her shoulders. These things are ordinary enough, but then the light catches on a dainty pink flower tucked behind her ear on the left side.

He stops in his tracks.

It looks identical to the one he keeps at his bedside, a memento of his mother. However, those flowers, cliff maids, he thinks they’re called, only grow out west in the rocky terrain bordering Oregon and California. He’s a long way from California and possibly even further from a level head, so he dismisses the possibility, chalking it up to the delusions of a drunken old man.

He heads into the hotel, and thankfully a room is available, the same one as always. He closes the door behind him and starts fumbling with his gear, letting it hit the floor haphazardly in a heap. As he stumbles over to the bed, he regretfully catches a glimpse of his reflection in a mirror. He usually tries to avoid looking at himself unless it’s absolutely necessary. Simply put, he doesn’t like the look of the man who stares back at him. There’s a residual yellow blotch fading away on his cheekbone from a dust-up he’d been in a few days prior. He doesn’t even remember the reason. His shoulder-length hair has tangles he’s had no energy to comb through, and his eyes are lidded for want of sleep. They have a far-out look even when he’s staring right at himself.

“Maybe it’s you that’s the mess,” he mumbles, then gives way to his exhaustion and collapses against the mattress. His boots, spurs and all, remain on his feet. So remain his worn trousers and unbuttoned maroon shirt, and so does the dirt caked beneath his nails that never seems to leave.

He checks out of his room early the following day and rides out beneath a sky as golden as dandelions. His mind feels clearer after a night’s rest, and he thankfully doesn’t feel as dreadful as he did when his head hit the pillows. Dew hangs in the chilled air and mists his face as he takes the beaten winding path leading back to Clemen’s Point, this new place his people called home. As he rides, he passes by some cottages and homesteads a ways off the path. He can recall the inside layout of a few of them, and even which ones filled his pockets the most back when he first arrived in the Heartlands.

Tall, thick-bodied oak trees loom over him and dance in the morning breeze. The way the sunlight flickers through them is beautiful but unfamiliar. It quickly becomes apparent that he’s taken the wrong path somewhere along the way, but just when he’s about to wheel his horse around and turn back, there lies a cottage beyond the tree line.

It’s a quaint wooden home with a thin stream of smoke rising from the chimney. In the window of the cottage sits a vase of pink flowers. The closer he rides, the more confident he is that they’re cliff maids. There must be at least twenty stems in that one vase.

“I’ll be damned….” He says under his breath.

Suddenly, he hears the sound of a woman grunting coming from the side of the home. He presses his heels to his horse’s belly and trots toward the noise source. When he turns the corner of the house, he sees her, the woman he saw last night, pushing a wheelbarrow spilling over with dirt. She attempts to use her weight against the handle, but it hardly makes a difference, and the wheelbarrow doesn’t budge.

He clears his throat to make his presence known to the woman.

“Jesus Christ!” She yelps and turns to face him, shocked to see she has company.

“Didn’t mean to frighten ya. D’ya need any help, ma’am?” He asks.

She looks him over with caution.

“Uh, I’m alright, thanks,” she says slowly, her brows warily drawn together.

Arthur nods his head with a tight-lipped smile and pulls the reins to head back to where he came from. He considers asking her about the flowers in the window but disregards it seeing as she doesn’t seem to care for company. As he begins back down the path, he hears a clattering noise and the sound of the woman cursing.

“Hey, mister!” She shouts. He looks over his shoulder and sees her standing with her hands on her hips and the wheelbarrow completely turned over, the dark soil spilling out onto the ground.

“I take that back.” She says with her head cocked to the side and a bashful smile.

He lightly chuckles at the sight and rides over, swiftly dismounting from his horse a few feet from the mild disaster.

“Could you help me scoop it back in?” She asks as she goes to the front of the wheelbarrow and picks up the dirt with yellow gloves.

“Sure,” he says, kneeling beside her. His hands are perpetually dirty as it is, so a little more filth couldn’t hurt. As he helps her pile the dirt back into the cart, he notices she smells earthy and sweet, reminiscent of the air before a storm.

“Alright,” she says, standing up and brushing her dirty gloves against her smock. “Would you mind wheelin’ it for me?”

He moves to grab the handles and pushes them down with ease so that the wheelbarrow can roll properly.

“What’s all this dirt for anyways?” He asks the woman walking beside him.

“Just a project I’m working on. It’s back behind here, mister.” She points to the rear of the cottage, which quickly becomes dense with plant life the further they step.

She crosses her arms over her chest as they enter the more secluded area.

“Don’t get any funny ideas, alright?” She says, looking up at him out of the corner of her eye.

He furrows his brows at the slight, but he can’t deny it makes sense she’s thinking that way. He looks the part of someone with foul intentions. The brim of his hat darkens his eyes, which would normally obscure them from anyone else. But, given that he's a head taller than the woman, she sees their darkness fine. He internally curses himself when he remembers he's wearing the one jacket stained with animal blood. It's still smeared dark brown across his shoulder. Of course, he looks like a damn menace. To top it all off, the rifle slung on his back casts a long shadow across her cheek like some twisted reminder of who he is, lest a single act of kindness threatens he forgets.

He glances at her with a small smile that raises up on one side more than the other.

“Most of my ideas are funny, ma’am. But I ain’t gonna hurt you if that’s what you mean.”

Her shoulders drop from their tense position as she lets out a half-hearted laugh.

“I’ll take your word for it, mister,” she says, slightly more relaxed than before.

The grass starts to reach his knees, and all along the path are bushes and fruit-bearing shrubs with dangling under-ripe berries. Various species of flowers grow throughout the backyard in no organized manner, like they’d been living here long before anyone else. White bark trees stand tall amidst the entropic garden. Dark moss creeps up their trunks, and instead of leaves, canopies of draping blossoms erupt from the branches like something out of a storybook. They hang limply in the air, and when the wind tugs on them, they sway in synchronization while their blossoms flutter away in the breeze. It’s all so beautiful. He’s never seen an abundance of such natural beauty in all his life.

“Is this all yours?” He asks, turning to the lady with a near slack-jawed expression.

“It is now,” she says, nodding her head. “My mama used to care for it, as did her mama before her. But uh- well, the flu took my mama a few years back, and as fate would have it, now my grandma’s flame is startin’ to flicker too. So it’s left to me to care for all this.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” he responds. Her voice sounds sad, and it reminds him somewhat of Ms. Adler, the widow staying with them for the time being.

“It’s okay,” she says, waving him off. “Sometimes in the darkness, there’s light, and this is definitely the light. I get to care for this thing, and in a way, it cares for me too. Gives me purpose, ya know?”

“S’Good to have somethin’ that makes you feel that way. Lord knows most people don’t.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that. Oh! I’ll hold the door open for ya.” She leaves his side and jogs ahead of him.

“Door? What door?” Arthur looks around, but he sees nothing but trees and plants.

Suddenly, she reveals an entrance blocked by the tall grass, and he realizes that a small building made entirely of glass is right before him. It camouflaged against the greenery and the vines that drape across it. Now that the door is ajar, he sees inside plants of all kinds strewn about in terracotta pots and deep soil beds.

“What in the….” He begins to say but trails off, caught off guard by the unexpected reveal.

A sort of giddiness takes her when she sees his expression, and she waves her hand excitedly to usher him inside.

“Come in! Come in!”

He rolls the wheelbarrow inside the structure, and once again, he’s greeted by the humble beauty of the natural world. Leaves spill out of pots hanging from the rafters, creating curtains that brush against him as he passes through. She gently closes the door behind him, and the air starts to feel thicker, heavier, like he’s being swaddled in a damp blanket.

The pots each have their own label, but the writing is so messy that he can hardly make out the names. Of the ones he can read, he recognizes names such as Sparrow’s Egg, Clamshell, and Dragon’s Mouth. They’re exotic flowers that the corset man in Saint Denis once asked him to collect, but he never got around to doing it. If only he had enough time to frolic through fields and pluck orchids. He’d prefer that over the menial errands he’s been consumed by as of late.

“Back here!” The woman shouts.

He can’t see her behind the tall plant-filled shelves that take up the center of the room, so he pushes past the vines and turns the corner to see her standing next to an empty plant bed. She looks at him expectantly because his task is clearly to dump the soil. But his mind is elsewhere. Behind her is another plant bed. This one is full and brimming with cliff maids so densely packed that he can hardly see the soil they’re in. He’s never seen so many of these flowers in one place. Whenever he found one in the wild, it was usually nestled between two rocks and sprouted three or four blooms. They weren’t nearly as impressive as the ones infront of him.

“What is it?” She asks when he remains in his spot. She follows his gaze and gasps.

“Why, are you a gardener too, mister?” Her voice gets high with excitement.

“Who, me?” He laughs. “No, ma’am. I’m no gardener. I’d make for a pretty awful one seein’ as I’m not too good at keepin’ things alive.”

“Oh, forgive me. I just- you seemed interested in the perennials. Most people aren’t, considerin’ how unassuming they look. Pretty things but nothing outwardly special about ‘em.” She moves towards the tall blossoms and reaches out her hand to stroke the petals.

“You know, they don’t like it here,” she continues. “They like the sun, which would be easy enough if they liked the heat that came with it, but no, it’s the cool shade of cliffs and rocks they like. These little blooms aren’t easy to care for, but if you can figure it out, they’ll live all through the years. That’s what perennial means, after all. Anyways, these guys are my favorite. I think it’s cause they give me such a hard time.”

She twiddled with the petals between her fingers as she rambled about the flowers. When she finally looks back at him, it’s like she has stars twinkling in her eyes. There’s a new liveliness about her, something that sparked when she was given room to air out her affinity for the pink blossoms. Arthur stands there, attempting to wrap his mind around the unlikely chance of finding someone who holds this particular flower as close to their heart as he does. He doesn't notice his aforementioned heart beating a little faster in his chest.

“I- I like ‘em too.” The words clumsily stumble from his mouth when he realizes she’s waiting for him to speak. He quickly gathers himself.

“I mean, it was my ma that liked ‘em, but I guess she sorta rubbed off on me. They're pretty little things.”

“You’re kiddin’... what are the odds?”

He can tell she’s thinking about something during the half-beat of silence that follows, but he can’t find any hint of what it is when he searches her face.

“I never got your name, mister,” she says abruptly.

“Arthur,” he says. “Just Arthur.”

“What, you ain’t got a last name, Just Arthur?” She laughs.

He considers telling her his real name but quickly dismisses it. On the off-chance she recognizes it from the bounty posters, it would mean that whatever was happening here would come to an unfortunate end. Of course, no harm would befall her, but he’d have to leave and go right back to his mess of a life. He’d rather stay here, in the sanctity of the greenhouse, with this person he strangely feels like he was meant to meet.

“Oh, I didn’t realize we were on a full name basis, ma’am,” he says flippantly, but he can’t help the smile that forms when she raises her eyebrows at him.

“Well, Arthur, you have good taste,” she says playfully, but her gaze falls to the wheelbarrow he’s still holding, and her eyes widen. “Oh, that must be heavy. I talked so long, I forgot you still had that. Go ahead and pour it into that empty bed right there.” She gestures with a quick wave of her hand.

He looks down at the wheelbarrow he also forgot he was holding and does as she says, tilting the lip of it into the wooden frame and letting the soil spill out.

She smiles at him and pats his shoulder before leading him out of the greenhouse. They step back outside, and the cool air is a welcome feeling. He props the wheelbarrow against the wall of the structure while she shuts the door behind her.

“Thank you again. I would’ve had a much harder time without you there,” she says.

He wipes his soiled hands on the front of his jeans and opens his mouth to speak, but when he looks at her, she’s already looking at him with a gaze sweet as honey. It makes his breath catch in his chest. Not many women have looked at him like that before, and hardly any were as easy on the eyes as her. A thread of sunlight catches her eyes and reveals faint traces of amber, like sap spilling from the source. Her long lashes flutter when she blinks, and they rest against the soft edge of her brow as she looks up at him. Her hair, woven into a braid, is loose, disheveled like she’d slept in it. Stray strands feather around her jaw and frame the angles of her face, not unlike ornate golden borders that surround paintings in a gallery.

He clears his throat upon realizing he’s been gawking at the poor woman like some boyish fool.

“Ah, it was nothin',” he says, directing his attention elsewhere as heat creeps up his cheeks.

A dragonfly jitters down from above and lands on the stem of some thyme growing over a narrow creek. Water trickles over smooth stones into a basin where leaves float along the surface. Some of them sprout delicate white flowers that open up to the sky. A thought comes to him as he looks at them.

“If it’s not too much trouble, would it be alright if I draw a picture of this place?” He asks. He’s never had to ask anyone permission for this sort of thing before; it felt unnatural. But it certainly would’ve been more so if he’d asked her what he really wanted, which was to draw her alongside it.

She tilts her head and looks up at him curiously.

“How charming…” She says, then ponders it for a second. “I don’t mind as long as you let me see it after.”

He chuckles, “Alright, just don’t make fun of it.”

“I would never!” She says, feigning indignance. “My mama taught me manners, Arthur! That means if it’s bad, I’ll just make fun of it in my head. Now go do your thing. I also have some work to do.”

She waves him off with a smile and steps back inside the greenhouse, closing the door behind her. He lets out a sigh, the tight feeling in his chest relinquishing now that he’s finally alone. He walks over to a bench along the path and sits down, taking his journal from his satchel and flipping to a new blank page. Before him, tall pink flowers that smell of vanilla cast long, dark shadows over the smaller flowering shrubs surrounding them. If they weren’t so dainty looking, their height and the size of their leaves would give the impression they own the place. He gives them the most detail in his drawing. Then he starts to etch the dirt path, adding the indentation the wheel of the wheelbarrow had left behind and the imprint of the woman’s footprints next to his. Just as he finishes up the sketch, adding minute details in the leaves, he hears light footfall behind him.

On instinct, his hand moves to hover above his holster, but once he sees what’s behind him, he feels ridiculous for it.

“Hey,” she says quietly, a sheepish smile on her face. She holds nearly a dozen cliff maids in her hands, stems clipped and bound together with a thread of twine.

“I thought you might like to have these.”

He looks at her for a moment, unsure what to do or say. She’s giving him flowers. No one has ever given him flowers before. That was usually something a man might do if he were sweet on a lady, a gesture shared between lovers. But maybe for a woman who spends all day surrounded by them, it must not have the same romantic meaning he knows it does.

“Those are for me?” He asks. His hands hang loosely at his sides. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

She nods. “If you want.”

The talkative woman from earlier seems to have been replaced by someone different entirely, her sentences suddenly simple and sweet. He also struggles to find the right words.

“That’s too kind of you. Truly.” He reaches out to take them, and she places the bundle gingerly in his hands.

His hold is gentle for fear he’d snap the stems if not careful. He knows he has to look a little silly. A man as rough around the edges as himself, with ammunition draped across his chest and pistols hanging at his hips, holding an overflowing bouquet of pink blossoms as a gift from a lady. If Dutch could see him now, he’d tell him he lost his edge. But if this is what it feels like to have gone soft, then he doesn't mind that much. The warmth in his chest is too comforting a feeling to let go of.

Her sudden gasp brings him out of his head.

“Is that the drawing?!” She points at the journal lying open on the bench. There’s no time to answer before she reaches over the seat to hold the leatherbound book in her hands.

“Wow… I- you captured it perfectly,” she says, her mouth slightly hanging in awe. “I didn’t expect anything like this.”

“You’re just minding your manners.”

She lightly thwacks him on the arm.

“You’d know if I was, I’m not a good liar. No, this is something special.”

He hardly knows a thing about this woman, and yet for some reason, her songs of praise feel so good that he wants to make ten more drawings. Hell, he’ll move as much dirt as she wants if it means she’ll look at him the way she is now each time. As her eyes flit between him and the sketch, he feels a fondness growing that he could’ve never anticipated when he first laid eyes on her. God, he almost feels like a boy again. It’s a feeling he hasn’t experienced in ages since he was last with Mary. Though, admittedly those feelings were guided by something less innocent than what he feels right now. What’s happening to him?

She clasps her hands together and takes a sharp intake of breath.

“Arthur, would you, um- would you like something to drink before you head out?” She asks. “I have just about anything.”

Without giving it much thought, he opens his mouth to answer, but a ringing noise sounds before the words can come out. It’s a clear jingling sound of a bell, and it’s coming from the house.

“Oh, never mind. It seems like my grandmother needs me,” she sighs and hands back his journal. “Maybe another time?”

“Another time,” he agrees with a thin smile, deflating slightly at the abrupt goodbye.

She walks briskly to the back door and slips inside the house, the door swinging shut loudly behind her. He approaches his horse he’d left hitched to the woman’s front porch and goes to find a place to secure the flowers. As he’s slipping them through a notch on the saddle, the front door flies open.

She steps out, looking grateful he hasn’t left yet.

“Hey!” She calls out to him. She stands at the edge of the top step with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes from the sun.

“I’m sure you know already, but those can only last so long now that they’re cut. Perennials live all through the years but only when they’re planted,” she says, shifting her weight on the step.

Arthur’s mouth parts slightly as he searches for the words to respond.

“Oh. Alright.”

She sighs and brings her hand to her forehead in an exasperated motion.

“Okay- what I’m trying to say but failing at, is that when those flowers start to wilt, you come and find me.”

He tilts his head down, so the brim of his hat hides the smile forcing its way onto his lips. He hadn’t been sure if she was just being polite before, if every word was mere courtesy. But now, part of him felt that maybe some of it was more than that. He could at least tell for certain that she liked him, and that was enough.

“I’ll do that, miss. You take care of yourself, now.”

She then waves him goodbye before heading back inside.

The sun has risen high above his head by the time he returns to camp. Everything seems to be just as he left it a few days ago. Dutch is sitting outside his tent with a book in his hands, a finger pensively to his lips. Some men are sharpening their weapons or cleaning their guns and talking to one another while they work. Over by the campfire, Micah gestures wildly to Bill and Javier, who sit on the log by his feet.

“If we leave at dusk, they should be sittin’ pretty at the station a while before leaving for town. So once things get movin’, I say Javier handles the lockbox, I’ll deal with Walton and his lady wife, and Bill, you hang back in case anyone else shows up.”

Javier looks up from polishing his pistol, “You don’t think Walton’s going to have any extra protection? He’s carrying a lot of goods, it’d be stupid for him not to.”

“Well, that’s what Bill’s for. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

Bill nods his head with a serious expression. “Damn right.”

As Arthur listens to this conversation, it’s as if he can see a dark thread spinning and tangling itself into a knot. A knot on top of a knot, on top of another. Soon enough, the thread will become one giant, twisted mess so tightly entwined it’ll be nearly impossible to unravel. The way things are headed, this seems like the only plausible ending for his people. But before that happens, the Pinkertons will likely find them again, and they’ll be packing their things again, only prolonging this mess of things a little bit longer, letting it become bigger than it ever needed to be. People will keep dying for nothing like they always have, and maybe he’ll be one of them, an unfortunate tally added to their death toll, necessary for the bigger picture.

The young woman had the right of it. Her words still echo in his head even now.

Perennials live all through the years, but only when they’re planted. Only when they’re planted.

The world won’t open its arms to drifters, even with a pistol pressed to its head. It’s past time they grow some roots, start living like people, and stop living like wild animals backed into a corner. Sure, there’s no glory in honest work but there sure as hell isn’t any in dying. Arthur had given this idea some thought before. He wouldn’t mind settling, living a simple life working odd jobs, or even finding work on a ranch somewhere. A peaceful life, a predictable one; it sounded just fine in his head.

He passes by Mary Beth and Tilly, scrubbing clothes on a washboard and laughing. Tilly looks up from her busy hands and waves at him.

“Hey, Arthur!”

“Hey there, Miss Jackson,” he says with a friendly nod.

He finds his tent and sets the bundle of flowers down on the cot before reaching into his satchel.

“Are those flowers, Arthur Morgan?”

He jumps as Tilly’s voice is suddenly right behind him.

“What the hell! Don’t sneak up on me like that, girl,” he says, turning to face her and Mary Beth standing just outside his tent.

“My goodness, they are!” Mary Beth says, her hand flying to her mouth. “Where did you find those?”

“A lady,” he responds, biting his cheek to force away a smile he doesn't want them to see. He doesn't want to be stuck rattling off every detail to the excitement-starved women.

“Like, you purchased them from a lady?” Mary Beth leans forward and raises her eyebrows.

“They were… given to me,” he reluctantly admits as he places the stems inside a gin bottle on the table. He moves a few of them around so they look nice.

“Don’t tell us they’re from Mary, Arthur.” Tilly's voice goes low with disappointment, no longer seeming excited.

He grimaces at the thought. “No! No, they’re not from Mary. I met a woman earlier today, and she gave them to me, that’s all.”

The two women quickly glance at each other and share an enthusiastic look.

“Arthur Morgan, you’re in love!” Mary Beth nearly squeals.

He scoffs loudly, “I am not in love. I hardly know the woman!”

“Well, she’s surely in love then. What kind of person just gives someone flowers if they ain’t sweet on’em?” Tilly says matter-of-factly.

“Exactly! So when are you gonna see her again?” Mary Beth asks.

“I don’t know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He should’ve known this conversation would happen. He should’ve sucked up his pride and said he purchased the flowers for himself to have avoided it entirely. “She told me to come back when they start to die, so whenever that is, I guess.”

Mary Beth hums and looks past him at the flowers in their makeshift vase.

“Hmm… well, they look a little limp if you ask me. Dare I say… dead even? What do ya think, Tilly?”

Tilly nods her head dismally, but even she can’t hide her smile, “Yeah, look at ‘em. They’re all sad-lookin’. Seems like you’ll need to head over first thing in the morning. Just to be sure.”

He shakes his head and laughs, “Alright, out. Both of ya. I can’t take it no more.”

He takes both women by their shoulders and guides them away from his tent despite their protests.

“We just want you to be happy, Arthur! Is that so bad?” Tilly cries out.

“I know, I know. Thank you, ladies. But I’m happiest when people ain't meddlin’ in my private business. Now go on.”

“This ain’t the end of it, Arthur!” Mary Beth calls out as they both walk away. They start talking animatedly as they return to work and keep throwing glances that he can only shake his head at.

Later that night, Arthur sits alone at one of the tables, eating his stew and staring off into the water. Most everyone else is off doing their own things, evening chores, and such. He's in the middle of bringing the bowl to his lips to get the last bit of broth when Mary Beth sits down beside him.

She keeps her word, not letting him hear the end of her numerous questions. Some of them he entertains, like when she asks what the garden looked like, and if she can see his drawing to get a better idea. He can practically see the story forming behind her eyes.

"What's she look like?" She asks, leaning against her hand on the table. "I'm picturing a sort of Isabelle Standish type in my head."

"Ah, come on now. You can't ask those sorts of things."

"Oh, Arthur! Please! This is the most exciting thing I've heard in so long. Just give me something to work with!" She gives him a pleading look, to which he dramatically rolls his eyes at.

"Alright. Well, she gives them girls on cigarette cards a run for their money, I'll tell you that."

She giggles, and asks him, "So when are you gonna see her again?"

He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know yet."

“You don’t want to keep her waiting too long,” she says, in warning.

“Nah, I think she’ll be plenty busy without me. I’ll give it a few days.”

“A few days? But what if tomorrow another man comes by and sweeps her off her feet? What if she gives him flowers and forgets all about you because you took too long?” Her voice gets higher as she spitfires these potential events.

“Mary Beth. If I visit her tomorrow, I’ll look like an idiot.” His face scrunches up, cringing at the thought. "And if that's really what happens then I can't do nothin' about that."

“Well, if I were her, I’d find it romantic,” she says and pats his hand on the table.

“Yeah, well, you find a lotta odd things romantic,” he chuckles, thinking back on the strange things in her novellas that have made her kick her feet.

For a second, it looks like she can’t tell if she should be offended. But then she joins him in laughter, giggling at herself.

“You might be right about that!”

Following his talk with Mary Beth, he retreats to his tent and slumps in his cot. He closes his eyes and turns to face the side of the wagon, but sleep doesn't come easy. The cot creaks beneath him as he shifts, trying to get comfortable. He groans and rolls over, opening his eyes to stare into the darkness. Against the dark canvas of his tent, he can make out the silhouette of the cliff maids standing tall in their bottle. He traces the outline of their leaves and thinks back to the woman and her garden, the tranquility of her home, and the opposing restlessness of his heart whenever she looked at him. Before he’s ushered into unconsciousness, a strange thought enters his head that he can only explain away as the delirium of drowsiness. It was that in the distant future, he could see himself settling down, working odd jobs, or finding work on a ranch, sure. But maybe, the preposterous idea of taking care of flowers wasn't so bad neither.

#red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption 2 x reader #rdr2 #rdr2 fic #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #im so down bad for this man #sigh #that just means more fics for yall #also i made the flower text break!#ik its hard to tell but i did use a cliff maid as reference for the flower

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morithanz · 2 years ago

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dion dupont introduction ⋆｡˚

a/n- thought i should post some context before the next part so I hope you like this backstory-esque post :)

disclaimer- gn!reader, oc and babysitter are both of age, lowercase intended, talks of mental illness&disorders

the guy stands at around 5"9. (he's not happy, do not bring up his height ever :)

his hair is extremely fluffy and a beautiful caramel color, not too messy, but at the same time, he doesn't bother combing it.

his skin is the palest you can get; sprinkled with the cutest hazel freckles. he has beauty marks all over his face and body.

he's usually dressed in sweaters or button-ups and pullovers his loving mother has picked up for him. (he didn't have a sense of style before meeting you lol !!)

his hands are thin and veiny. my guy is built like a door.

the only piece of jewelry he wears is a heart locket which used to hold a picture of his great-grandmother (now it's you but shhh)

also, he's the most insecure person in the world so please hug him and tell him you love him ‹𝟹

dion was born to live the most luxurious lifestyle. born into the richest family, fed everything by a golden spoon, to say he was 'spoiled' would be an understatement. he lives life on the highest shelf. so why was he like this? what does 'this' mean-?

i'll tell you... most children start speaking at the age of a few months, a few years? dion didn't say his first word until he was eleven. to this day, he hasn't spoken to anyone outside immediate family. (until you.) dion went to an absolutely lavish school, yet he made no friends. the first day of school was an absolute disaster; he was made to introduce himself to the class through an ice-breaker.. and what did he do? he had a nervous meltdown and cried in front of the entire class... then ran off school premises causing everyone to get alarmed.

his parents have taken him to several therapists and psychiatrists and they all diagnosed him with different disorders. severe anxiety disorder, bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia, psychosis. but alas, his parents refused to believe any of them. their perfect boy was fine. these dunces don't know their son, how could they say such a thing?!

which is how we end up here.

apart from taking their son to therapy appointments, his parents distance themselves from their child. dion was always left alone, no friends, no relatives, no one.

which is why the minute he met you, he knew he had to keep you. forever. you won't be leaving anytime soon.

#𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒dion #yandere #male yandere #yandere x gn reader #yandere x female reader #yandere x male reader #oc x reader #oc #male oc #male yandere x gn reader #male yandere x reader

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thewritetofreespeech · 4 years ago

Text

MC + Cursed Toddler-fied Boys

prompt: All the boys suffer the same fate as Satan by reading ‘The Forbidden Book of Toddlerization’

Lucifer

You have to wonder why they kept so many cursed books around, just out like this. You would think, like any normal person, with this continuing to happen, that they would keep them locked up or something. But no. They just leave them out for anyone to find….

“I’m going to the meeting!” Lucifer yelled, stamping his foot. His face twist in a petulant frown. It would be rather adorable, if you hadn’t been arguing with him for the past 20 minutes

“Lucifer, we talked about this. You can’t go to the meeting. You need to stay here.”

“No! I wanna go to the meeting! It’s very important and everyone is counting on me!” His arms are wailing now as he stamped his foot more.

Of course, you couldn’t let him go to the first of the month meeting like this. His pride would be wounded beyond compare if anyone else saw him like this. But reasoning with him wasn’t working. You had to resort to more, unsavory tactic to win. “But the meeting was cancelled. Lord Diavolo called earlier to let me know.”

Lucifer stopped stamping his feet and waving his arms to look at you with a vacant expression you didn’t know he could muster. “Really?”

Gods help you. “Yes, really.”

He seemed to think about this for a moment before he beamed, “ok!” His mood instantly brightening. “I believe you, because [Y/N] would never lie to me.” ‘Forgive me Lucifer’ You think to yourself. “What are we gonna do instead then?”

“Why don’t we play a game instead to pass the time? Would you like that?”

“I know chess!” He exclaimed loudly. “Let’s play that.”

Of course, knowing and being good at it were two different things. In this state you were actually able to beat Lucifer several times. When he retuned to normal the day was ‘conveniently’ put away for sometime after.

Mammon

“Mammon. Please. I’ll just be gone for a minute.”

“Nooooooo!” Mammon wailed when you tried to get up again. Clinging to your waist tightly to keep you on the couch. “Onii-chan said you had to stay with me! Stay with me! Stay with me!”

After reading The Forbidden Book of Toddlerization, Mammon had, of course, reverted to the personality of a small child. His brother made fun of him, say ‘what’s the difference’, but Lucifer knew that this could be a disaster if he was set to wander free in this state across the Devildom. So he sat you to babysit him.

“Mammon, I promise I’ll be right back. I’m just going to get us some snacks for our movie.”

“Then let me come with you!” He whined, still clinging to you. In this state it seemed he had also taken on the personality of a baby duck. Imprinting on you and following you around everywhere you went in his room. He hadn’t left you alone for 5 seconds since he got this way. “I promise I’ll be good!”

“It’s not a question of you being good or bad Mammon-chan.” He liked to be called Mammon-chan right now. “It’s that you need to stay here. If someone sees you like this well…they could use it to tease you.”

“No…I don’t want to be teased anymore….” His voice was low, and sad. His bright eyes looking on the verge of tears, like kids do when they’re said, before he buried his face into your side. “Mammon-chan doesn’t want to be made fun of anymore. Mammon-chan also doesn’t want to be alone anymore.”

You sigh. Unable to argue with him when he was like this. Your hand lifted to pet his head, which he seemed to appreciate, before you text Satan to bring you some snacks. He was always reliable and would do it for you.

Once the affects of the book had worn off, Mammon denied any of this happening. The mere mention would cause his face to turn red and yell about how, “that didn’t happen!” You almost wish you had taken a video of it to show him. Guess you would just have to keep Mammon-chan forever in your heart.

Levi

You went to Levi’s room after class to check on him in his….condition.

Since he did remote learning a lot of the time, being an otaku, it was pretty easy to keep him away from people so they did see him in the current state he was in. Apparently as a toddler he didn’t like being around people either.

So, you had set him up comfortably in his room before heading to class. Promising to come back that afternoon to be with him.

“Levi! I’m back! How are you—what are you doing?!?!”

“Playing with my toys.” Levi replied, with an obvious expression, as a sea of toys stretch out in front of him where he laid on his belly on the floor.

Your brain stopped. Completely at a loss for words. Levi was going to kill you when he returned to normal, because toddler-Levi, left unattended, had unboxed nearly all of his figurines from their packaging. Some of which were incredibly rare, and unable to get anymore.

“I just…I mean…Why?? Why would you do this??”

“They’re my toys.” Levi replied with a pout. Sitting up. “I can do what I want with them. What’s the point in having neat toys if you aren’t going to play with them??”

He did have a point there. But adult-Levi was going to be so mad!

“Do you want to play with me?” The demon asked with a hopeful expression. “You can even be blue Ruri-chan.” The limited edition, color swap Ruri-chan from 1999. He was gonna blow a gasket!

“Yeah. Ok.” But then again, when were you ever going to be able to touch them again.

As expected, Levi totally lost it when he came to his senses. Of course, there was no one to blame but himself, in the end, so he just had to be upset and mope alone. Thankfully, none of them were broken or beyond just out of their originally packaging. He bought them all clear showcase boxes for his ‘ruined’ figurines. Some of them he could rebuy to replace; which seemed to make him happy to have two.

Satan

It had been hours since the affects of the book had taken ahold of Satan. You were starting to wonder if they would ever wear off.

Lucifer had left in search of another book, one that might help speed the process along, and left his younger brother in your care. Of course you were happy to help, but you were getting nervous you would never see the old Satan again.

“[Y/N]-chan?” You look up from your phone, waiting for Lucifer to text you back, to see the blonde demon looking timidly at you from around the corner.

“What is it Satan?”

“Would you….read to me?” His hands holding out the small children’s book he had some how found in the piles of books covering his room.

You smile softly at him. Your heart warmed by his request. “Of course,” you tell him, and the demon scampered over to sit on the bed beside you. His long legs and body tucked neatly into you as he waited for you to tell him the story of a little lost chicken and it’s journey back home. “[Y/N] tells the best stories!”

After 3 stories, he had fallen asleep. When he woke up, Satan was back to normal. He doesn’t answer your questions on where the children’s books had come from, but you spot the red & gold spines on his book shelves sometimes.

Asmo

There was no denying that Asmo was fascinated by art and all things beautiful. He went on and on about it any chance he got. So you shouldn’t have really been surprised when his toddlerfied self just wanted to draw all day.

“Look, look [Y/N]-chan! I finished another one!”

“That’s great Asmo.” You praise. Just like you had done with all the other ones he had handed to you. “Wow! This is really great! Is that a….chicken?”

“No, silly! That’s the white horse for our carriage when we get married!” The demon beamed, then shuffled over on his knees to instruct you on his picture properly. “That’s you, and that’s me. That’s the princess carriage that’s going to ride us off into the sunset. That’s Solomon and Simeon throwing flowers at us. That’s my brothers crying because I got to marry [Y/N]-chan and they didn’t.”

“You certainly seem to have all the parts here.” You praise. Giggling at his enthusiasm and picture.

“I want to have a perfect picture of when we get married. Because I love [Y/N]-chan! And we’re gonna get married and live happily ever after.” He replied, with certainty, with a smile.

“Well, I’ll be glad for that. Why don’t you draw me our perfect house for after we get married?” Asmo scampered off and did just that.

When Asmo came to, and back to his normal self, he took all the pictures he had drawn and framed them. Forcing his brothers and Solomon to take a tour of his mini-art gallery. The piece ‘Marriage of Two Bonded Souls’ was met with some controversy.

Beel

Beel, in his younger days, seemed to have boundless energy. Or you at least had to assume he did, because ever since he had read that stupid book he had been running around.

Lucifer had told you to take him outside. Irritated at hearing his large feet clump around the house, but trying not to show it since it wasn’t his fault. He even let you both take Cerberus outside to help run Beel out. It would be good for the pup too. Get some exercise, he said.

That had been sometime ago, and it seemed baby-Beel and Cerberus were an even match in energy. They had been running around, chasing each other, and play fighting in the back yard all afternoon. You were tired just watching them.

“Beel! Do you want to come in? I think it’s time for a break.”

Both Beel and Cerberus pop their heads up, in a comical and adorable unison head tilt, before jogging over to you. “Break time means snack time right?!”

You chuckle a little. Somethings never changed. “I brought some apple slices & peanut butter for you, for now. We can get you something bigger when we go inside.”

Beel grinned and sat in the grass with the container. “I like apple slices!”

“You do hn?” You don’t think you’ve seen Beel eat an actual fruit on its own. It was usually attached to, baked in, or covered in something, to get him to eat it.

“Yep! They’re crunchy and sweet. Just like you! Though, I guess you aren’t crunchy. Do you want one of my apple slices [Y/N]?”

You blush a little at Beel’s bright, unwavering expression. How could he look so innocent while still looking like that?

He finished his apple slices, minus one, before asking if he could go play again. You let him, but then all of a sudden he spotted playing with Cerberus and stood straight up. Seeming confused on how he got out here and what was going on. “Did I eat an apple? I haven’t had one since….do you think we have more in the kitchen?”

Belphie

It was honestly hard to tell if Belphie was under the spell of the forbidden book or not. He’d been asleep for most of the time; which was not uncommon for him. Then he would wake up and whine a little about something; again, not uncommon for him. Then he would take another nap.

You had figure out that he was still under it’s spell by the requests he was making when he woke up. Juice boxes. More plushies. His ‘blankie’. Eventually it would run its course though, and Belphie would be back to his own sleepy eyed, grown up self. “[Y/N]?”

You walk over to the bed when the demon called your name. The boy half sitting up, but still tucked under his covers. “What is it Belphie?”

“I can’t sleep.” He stated. Which seemed ridiculous since he had been sleeping most of the day. “I miss Lilli. And Be-be. Can you sleep with me?”

You blink at little at the request. You supposed it made since. Kids often wanted someone to sleep with them, so they didn’t have bad dreams or could keep them safe. Maybe that’s why he had been sleeping so much. Because he hadn’t been sleeping well, just sleep.

“Sure Belphie. I’ll lay down with you.” The demon smiled softly, sleepy, before he scooted over to give you some space to lay next to him.

He slept for a while this last time. Clinging onto you in his sleep, with a soft smile on his face. When he woke up, it seemed he was back to normal. “Gosh [Y/N]. If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask. You didn’t have to trick me with that lame book.”

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dalekofchaos · 3 years ago

Text

Three years ago today, the McMahons took back control of Monday Night Raw, blamed Baron Corbin for their falling ratings and promised to give us more of what we want and less of what we don't.

This aged like milk

So what have they given us what we wanted in 2021?

Releasing talent despite having RECORD PROFITS. What’s the excuse? “BUDGET CUTS PAL” They killed the potentials of Keith Lee(HOW DO YOU FUCK UP KEITH FUCKING LEE?????) Karrion Kross, Scarlett Bordeaux, Franky Monet, John Morrison, The IIconics, Ruby Riott, BRAY FUCKING WYATT, Chelsea Green, Tegan Nox, and I can go on. The bottom line is they have released the talent they countlessly squandered and instead of finding something to do, they fired them. And if releasing talent wasn’t a bad thing, they use said releases in storylines in incredible bad taste.

Wasting Rhea Ripley. Rhea Ripley, a white hot favorite from NXT finally goes to the main roster and wins the Raw Women’s Champion only to lose to Charlotte AGAIN(#LOLCHARLOTTEWINS) and not only that, Rhea has been demoted to the dying women’s tag division. Need I remind you RHEA NEVER GOT HER FUCKING WIN BACK FROM CHARLOTTE. Wasn’t the fucking point of going to the main roster and feuding with Charlotte meant to mean she was going to get her win back? Oh and now she loses to Zelina in 30 seconds. Like for fuck’s sake, this is a load of whoreshit.

Squashing Bianca. Bianca Belair made history with Sasha at Wrestlemania. She killed it as Smackdown Women’s Champion, so of course Becky Lynch squashes Bianca in 26 seconds.(#LOLSUPERBECKY) Oh not only that, but NOT ONCE did Bianca ever get her win back. Becky beat her like 5 times and now Becky is demoted to working in a feud that makes no sense, the only good thing is Piper Niven is getting to show everyone what she can do(I refuse to call her what they call her) like it’s hard not to see her out of the title picture as a demotion. Picture this. An over black woman finally gets her shot at Wrestlemania and works with another iconic black woman champion in the main event. Two black women made history. Bianca worked her ass off to get where she got and they took it away from her the minute Becky was medically clear to return. And now Bianca’s spot was taken from her by another white woman. All that hard work for nothing. Not taking anything away from Liv, but you gotta admit it’s really tone deaf that after all that hard work Bianca had to get where she gets, she loses it in 26 seconds and I get the feeling it will be a long time before Bianca gets it all back.

Breaking up The Hurt Business and then bringing them back as jobbers. The Hurt Business was legit the most over faction in recent years and of course because Vince is Vince, he breaks them up. Then during Survivor Series season they bring them back together, only to have Shelton and Cedric presented as jobbers.

The disaster gimmick that is Nikki Ash. We loved Nikki Cross her her Sanity Crazy Sister character from NXT. We slightly liked her when she was tagging with Alexa. But honestly? Nikki Ash isn’t working and even WWE knows it isn’t working. I feel a heel turn coming, but too little too late.

Whatever the fuck is going on with Toni Storm and Charlotte. A feud over pie. FUCKING PIE. This has Johnny Ace’s bullshit ALL OVER IT. This is Divas era garbage. Toni Storm SHOULD be presented as a credible challenger to Charlotte’s title. Toni Storm SHOULD be treated like the next generation of superstars for the roster. But instead they keep treating her like a loser and an idiot.

Whatever the fuck is going on with Naomi and Sonya. To this day I STILL don’t know or understand why the fuck Sonya hates Naomi. Naomi has been treated like dogshit since she came back. Naomi has never once gotten to get revenge against Sonya. I thought this was all leading to Naomi joining The Bloodline and The Bloodline letting Naomi get her hands on Sonya....THIS NEVER FUCKING HAPPENED AND NAOMI STILL hasn’t gotten her hands on Sonya. Also why is Sonya in complete Karen mode? I half expect Sonya to tell Naomi “Naomi, women like you don’t get to become Women’s Champion” It’s great that Xia Li came out to help Naomi, but what would’ve been great is for Naomi to actually lay her hands on Sonya.

Sonya Deville and Adam Pearce keep flip flopping as WWE officials. Are they face or heels? Are they neutral? Pearce makes stupid heel moves and Sonya Deville is quite literally being a racist cornering and yelling at black women.

Killing NXT. Because Vince is petty and because HHH lost the Wednesday night wars, NXT was killed and replaced with NXT 2.0. I feel like NXT 2.0 is the modern day Black Saturday. Black Saturday refers to Saturday, July 14, 1984, the day when Vince McMahon's World Wrestling Federation (WWF) took over the time slot on Superstation WTBS that had been home to Georgia Championship Wrestling (GCW) and its flagship weekly program, World Championship Wrestling, for 12 years. McMahon's purchase led to a longstanding rivalry between himself and WTBS owner Ted Turner, who later bought GCW's successor Jim Crockett Promotions (JCP) and formed his own company under the World Championship Wrestling (WCW) name. A lot of fans of GCW did NOT like this. This took away their more serious southern, athletic and serious wrestling or as they dubbed it “Gordon Solie” wrestling and replaced it with McMahon’s cartoonish, gimmicky and silly alternative. I feel the same has happened with NXT. HHH’s NXT was like the old days of NWA wrestling, it had a more focus on wrestling, a dark and gritty feel and it felt like what the WWE needed to evolve into. When NXT 2.0 came around. It made everything more bright and colorful(quite literally lol) more gimmicks, cartoony, phony and fake and it just feels like Vince taking NXT in the back of the barn and shooting it and replacing a prized horse with a jackass. And as Bronson Reed said recently “NXT was the professional wrestling show, now it’s just another entertainment show.”

Calling Piper Niven Doudrop, despite Eva Marie is not here anymore and despite the fact that Piper BEAT Eva Marie. “I accept the name now” this sounds like what happened with Chad Gable accepting “Shorty G” FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING GOD, LET HER USE HER FUCKING NAME ALREADY

Shayna goes from being a jobber that lost every match while being in a tag team with Nia, to being Sonya Deville’s henchwoman. WHERE IS THE QUEEN OF SPADES?????

Becky and Charlotte’s booking. Becky and Charlotte are not the problem, I’ve acted like that in the past, but I know the booking is the problem. They act like this indominable force that no one can stop. Neither Becky nor Charlotte put anyone over or make anyone look good. Here’s the difference between Sasha and Bayley and Becky and CHarlotte. Sasha and Bayley went to the ends of the earth to put over people over while still being on top. Becky and Charlotte bury an entire division to put themselves over.

Treating the Universal Championship like the top Championship, but treating the WWE Championship like an afterthought. Why is the Universal Championship treated like the top belt, but the WWE Championship is treated like an afterthought? The Universal Championship feels like a big deal and is made to be important with legit matches. The WWE Championship? Not so much. It's had great champions in recent years, decent matches that don't really feel important, but it's not at the same level as the Universal Championship. Neither Drew McIntyre, Bobby Lashley nor Big E can be allowed to feel as big or important as Roman Reigns. I don’t get it. Why isn’t the WWE Championship, the company’s biggest belt with a lineage and history going from Buddy Rogers, Bruno Sammartino, Hulk Hogan, Randy Savage, Bret Hart, Shawn Michaels, Austin, Rock, HHH, Brock Lesnar and you get the picture. Why is a Championship, that was once the company’s crowning achievement that goes all the way back to the 1960′s, treated less important than a belt that only existed since 2016? Call me old fashioned, but this should not be happening. Imagine if WCW stayed in business and had two separate titles. The Big Gold Belt, which has been around for a long ass time and the WCW Big Bang Champion, which was created in oh, say 2001 or 2002. See how fucking stupid that is? Why is the WWE Champion constantly made to feel like the secondary champion? Why has Big E, Bobby Lashley, The Miz and Drew McIntyre’s reigns ALL felt inconsequential? Why is it the WWE Championship, despite having DECADES of lineage is constantly made to feel inferior to the Universal Championship? Why is Roman Reigns the only Champion who is allowed to feel important, strong and protected?

The disaster that is the Woman’s Title scene. The Woman’s title scene is a disaster. First of all, WHY are they just called the Raw and Smackdown’s Women’s Championships? One should be the WWE World Women’s Champion and one should be the Women’s Evolution Championship. But the belts don’t look different. One is red and one is blue. Ever since Becky left, the Raw Woman’s Champion was never allowed to feel as important as the Smackdown’s when Bayley ran shit. Asuka barely ever defended her championship. Then they treated Rhea as an afterthought. Nikki Cross as champion was a disaster for a gimmick that was booed out the building in weeks. Only when Charlotte returned was the title given the time it deserves. As for the Smackdown Woman’s Champion, it seems like since Bayley lost it, it lost importance. Sasha was kept in a feud with Carmella that was ridiculous. Than fucking Reginald… The feud with Bianca. The feud itself was poorly built, but the match was great. Had a great feud with Bayley, although the laugh felt like it was designed to make Bianca look weak. Same problem with Bianca. Terrible feud with Carmella. Then Becky dethroned her and became Becky Cringe…sorry Big Time Becks. The belt got it’s mojo back. Apparently these belts are only allowed to feel important again once Charlotte and Becky are both champion. And then the disaster title switch happened. I don’t have to tell you this was a terrible idea to begin with and lead to a disaster backstage. But switching belts and making them feel worthless is not a good look.

Champions are constantly pinned on free TV. It makes no sense for the Champion to lose in a non-title match on Raw or Smackdown while said champion is STILL Champion. If someone can beat the champ, then they deserve the title. It’s that simple. Who wants to see the Champion lose in a match on free TV in a non-title match? People pay to see the champion because they are the champion and their position as number one is on the line.

Happy Corbin. Broke bumass Baron Corbin was someone people could relate to and believe in. He was a babyface the crowd could get behind. But no, instead classic WWE had no idea what they had and made him rich quick and returned Corbin back to normal. IDIOTS

Dumbass babyface syndrome. Babyfaces are no longer allowed to look like badasses who challenge the crooked heels, they are instead presented as losers and geeks.

Turning Becky Lynch heel. No one wants to fucking boo Becky. Just like no one wanted to boo Austin. This woman at the peak of her career was confident enough to take time off to start a family and now she’s back…and you want me to boo? The fuck is wrong with you? Becky Lynch is the most over person in the company and someone the crowd does not want to boo and you want to make her the heel? READ THE ROOM VINCE! This is classic WWE deciding NOT to give fans what they want. What fans wanted was to cheer for Lynch, but WWE wants you to boo her.

Constantly breaking up Tag Teams and having makeshift Tag Teams in the Tag Title picture scene.

The disaster that is the Intercontinental Championship with a Champion who is never ONCE allowed to defend his own Championship

Constantly cutting Mustafa Ali’s momentum. It goes from Ali’s babyface character, to the hacker storyline, to Retribution and to the planned Anti-American character he had going with this great promo they cut. Mustafa Ali has been constantly disrespected to the point where I just wonder who the fuck has it out for this guy?

The 24/7 title is still around. It’s lost it’s appeal and given the success of AEW’s TNT champion, I would’ve replaced the 24/7 title with the first ever WWE Television Champion

They STILL won’t unify the Tag Team Champions

Hired Gable Steveson, despite him being a rapist

M*tt R*ddle is still around despite being an all around piece of shit, an idiot, a rapist and someone so unlikable that his wife and kids left him

Making Austin Theory into discount Tyler Breeze instead of letting him be who he was as Seth’s disciple or how he was in The Way

The entire Queen’s Crown tournament was literally going back to the stop watch days of the Divas era

Xavier Woods, who finally becomes KOTR, is disrespected and buried as king while The Usos and Roman beats him down and destroys his props. Can’t help but feel this message was intentional giving the UpDownUpDown situation.

Constant 50/50 bullshit booking

Stop and start booking

Continues the Saudi Blood Money deal despite fan protest with SA’s human rights violations and publicly MURDERING an American journalist, oh and VINCE LEFT HIS SUPERSTARS BEHIND WHILE THEY WERE HELD HOSTAGE

Took control over the superstars assets for services like Twitch and cameo. Still insist that their wrestlers are Independent Contractors but treat them like employees and won’t let them make a living on the side. They will make a percentage but it will count against their downside guarantees. This is fucking criminal

Constantly making the hometown hero lose in their home town

Not giving what the fans want. I don’t wanna hear the claim “it would be too predictable” Call me old fashioned, but sending the fans home happy instead of miserable is what’s best for business, not giving them terrible outcomes, 50/50 booking, terrible storytelling and just awful wrestling. Driving millions away just so you can please Vince is terrible for business

Yes, please tell me how ANY OF THIS was giving the fans what they wanted?

Feel free to add your own

#WWE #Rhea Ripley #Bianca Belair #Toni Storm #Piper Niven #Becky Lynch #Charlotte Flair #Naomi #Sonya Deville #Mustafa Ali #Shayna Baszler #Xavier Woods #Austin Theory #Vince McMahon #Shane McMahon #Stephanie McMahon #Triple H

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majkoszkice · 2 years ago

Photo

Fuck it - Cayden dump

Some descriptions below the cut

1. Idk really, got really fixated on a thought about heart glasses for like 5 minutes.

2. Picture taken right before disaster. Canon celebration of Cayden’s 52nd birthday. Everyone got in a pile and I cast levitate to get down from a moving ship’s mast. Ship immediately starts to move from under us. Luckily we got tangled in one of the sails.

3. The Boy and his Funky Proportions.

4. Style experiments to see how far I’m able to simplify to still be happy with the look.

5. He’s on like a 5th sketchbook just for himself, spoiled :v

6. We’re hatching a faerie dragon egg. Turns out it has greater chance of hatching when in presence of fey. Gnomes count. Apsalar gets a tiny dragon, Cayden gets to be a little spoon :>

7. 2 months of downtime on a ship put some vague illustration ideas in my head, im not very happy with it tho

8. Being magical lets you make your own special effects to enhance gesticulation and such : D

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lightsovermonaco · 4 years ago

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 10

Masterlist

Shoutout to my bestie @acollectionofficsandshit for all the drunk comments she made while betaing this one... Wish you guys could see them lol

Word Count: 4.8k

Recommended song: “Amnesia" by 5SOS

Pierre paces in his dinky trailer at the Circuit of the Americas and desperately tries to forget you exist. He had already taken down the pictures on the wall but the images were burned into his brain. He had shoved your shirt under his bed, having absolutely no idea how it had made its way halfway around the world to taunt him.

He was slowly unraveling like a spool of thread on a loom as you wove him irrevocably into the tapestry of your life.

The race in Austin started in less than two hours and you hadn't texted him. Not once in the handful of years he'd known you had you neglected to wish him luck before a race, even if it was 2 am your time or you had exams, you always took thirty seconds to warn him to be safe and finish well.

He was beginning to think you hated him for how he'd acted at the gala last weekend, jealous and possessive from afar. Talking to you would have been the better choice. But seeing you laugh and dance the night away had hurt too much. He’d slipped out early after Victoria assured him she could find a ride and sped home to fall apart.

He had only barely managed to piece himself together in time for the race.

Pierre checks his phone for the third time in as many minutes and swears under his breath. He didn't know why he expected it to ring and for your face to pop up at this point. Even if you called to tear into him, he'd still fall to his knees at the sound of your voice. He just wanted to hear you speak, didn't care what was said, only that he could latch onto your words and lose himself in them.

Hope sparks when his phone chimes but he nearly throws it across the trailer when he sees Charles' name.

Heard from her yet?

No. At this point I'm beginning to think I never will again.

Maybe she fell asleep early?

It's 5 pm in London. I'll bet you she's eating a bowl of takeout from the Chinese place down the street, not sleeping.

Its still possible. Don't dwell on it. This isn't the headspace you wanna be in before a race. Block it out. I don't wanna see my best friend wind up hurt today.

Pierre didn't reply, if only because Charles was right. Worrying would get him nowhere. After his shitty qualifying yesterday, he started thirteenth on the grid so he had his work cut out for him. Austin offered plenty of opportunity for overtakes; he could get the job done if his team made the right calls.

And if he made it to the podium, you would have to text him.

The thin mattress groans when he sits to unlace his hastily tied race boots. He folds his legs to sit criss cross and places his palms on his knees. The familiar pose already has some of the tension leaving his shoulders as his eyes slide shut. He breathes in for ten seconds, reflecting on what ails him. He holds the breath for five seconds before releasing it slowly.

He repeats the process until he comes to terms with the fact that you won't be wishing him luck. That was your choice; there was nothing he could do about it and therefore no sense reading into it. He had done all he could to convince you to trust him. The ball was in your court; he had to be patient and wait for you to take a shot.

“Focus,” he murmurs to himself, forcing any erroneous thoughts from his head. “Walk through the track.”

The circuit at Austin was challenging, consisting of a mix of 20 sweeping corners and scattered hairpins. He was almost lucky in a way to be starting so far back on the grid because turn one was only a few hundred meters from pole and their tires would be slightly colder and less grippy upon arrival than his would be. The few extra seconds afforded to him by starting thirteenth could mean the opportunity to leap frog past his rivals in the first corner.

The counterclockwise circuit meant he would have to keep an eye on his front left tire too, as it would wear faster than the others. He'd change gears an average of 66 times per lap, higher than similar length tracks like Monaco. Pit stops cost an average of nineteen seconds, meaning he would need to build a significant gap to the driver chasing him in order to avoid the threat of any undercuts.

There were too many variables occupying space in his mind to afford you a sliver of it.

Some time later he decides that his four leaf clover tucked safely in the worn leather of his wallet will provide all the luck he needs and switches on his pre race playlist after popping in his ear buds.

"Sights on the podium," he murmurs to himself, hand on the doorknob. "Let's race."

The bass flows through him as his feet carry him to the Alpha Tauri garage on autopilot, through the back entrance and to his plain white driver room. The familiar beats are a numbing salve spread on his frayed nerves, his anticipation rising like a crimson wave in his veins. He leaves his clothes in a haphazard heap in the corner and changes into the white fireproofs hanging nearby, thoughts momentarily veering to you knocking on the door and stripping them right back off.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he runs through his usual stretch sets until Pyry arrives to walk him through reflex exercises.

"How's your head?" Pyry asks, running him through more cool down stretches. "Do we need to take a minute and do some meditation?"

"Beat you to it," Pierre grunts out, pushing back against the hand on his head to work his neck. "I'm good."

"You sound better than you have all week, I'll give you that. Keep that focus, use it to propel yourself forward."

"Run me through the lineup again," Pierre requests, "I need something else to think about."

Because if he let his mind follow the path it wanted to, it would inevitably lead to you and undo the work he had done to avoid that. He needed to be empty of anything that wasn't racing, anything else was an unnecessary distraction that had the potential to end in disaster.

Pyry rattles off the grid in order of who Pierre needs to overtake, pausing between each name to give him time to recall their driving styles and potential chinks in their armor to exploit. He knew from tapes of previous years that Stroll often ran wide into turn one, giving Pierre the option to brake late and sweep up the inside. Vettel was half convinced the track was cursed, so his mind would work against him enough that Pierre could exploit it and get past at some point. He continued until he got to Hamilton and Max locking out the front row, where he would need a bit of luck to overtake.

"You got it?" Pyry asks, stepping back.

Pierre rolls his shoulders and nods.

"Get shit done mate," Pyry says and bumps fists with his driver. He slips out to allow Pierre a moment to center himself before slipping into his race suit, leaving it half unzipped and tying it around his waist before following his trainer.

Pyry leads the way to where the matte navy and white car waits, mechanics swarming it like studious worker bees tending to their queen. No one talks to him save his engineer because words from anyone else threaten to break his carefully constructed race mentality. If they wanted him to bring home points, they knew to leave him alone once he was suited up.

His mind is blank of anything but statistics as he twists his ear buds in and pulls on his balaclava and helmet. As his vision narrows to the sliver of track he can see through his visor, so does his focus. With forty minutes to lights out, he's directed out onto the track. He rips the wheel to the right as he exits the garage, getting a decent powerslide for his efforts.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would land on the podium, if only to see the look on your face when he did.

**********

It took an unfathomable amount of restraint to keep yourself from calling Pierre to wish him luck.

You texted Max instead, wishing him a safe and comfortable podium a half hour before lights out. He hadn't responded, likely already in the garage with his trainer going through his pre race routine.

The pace Max had set the day before had awarded him pole position and the margin between him and Hamilton had been enough that you were confident in his ability to hold off the Mercedes for all fifty six laps.

If you were honest with yourself, you were disappointed that the Alpha Tauri you so desperately tried to ignore would be starting in thirteenth. You try not to think about it, instead queueing up SkySports and opening your laptop for pre race coverage. You avoid the interviews in favor of listening to the commentators analyze the grid.

"It should be an easy win for Max as long as he fends off Hamilton until the first round of pit stops. The undercut works well here, as Red Bull proved last year, and I'm sure they plan on doing the same thing this year."

You hum in agreement, gingerly sipping your steaming tea. You really ought to consider a career as a sportscaster at this point based on how often you came to the same conclusions they did.

"I think one of the biggest shakeups is Russell starting all the way up in eleventh after his amazing qualifying for Williams yesterday. Think he can hold onto that position?"

"He's got some fierce competition not far behind in the form of Alpha Tauri. Gasly starts thirteenth- surprisingly far back on the grid given the otherwise flawless performance he's shown this year. But it seems likely that he should be able to overtake-"

You flick the tv on mute, unable to stomach listening to them sing his praises. You numb your mind with social media until the Formula 1 theme plays on your laptop, alerting you that there's a few minutes until race start. Tire blankets are peeled off and the drivers weave their way through the formation lap with the exception of Kimi who takes his traditional straight line approach to warm up his supersoft tires.

Most of the front runners are on ultrasofts, indicating a two stop strategy. It was Pirelli's recommended approach, and you were glad that Horner heeded their advice for once and let Max use the ultras in Q2. It would give Max the upper hand over Hamilton who starts on the yellow sidewall tire and thus slightly slower lap times.

Crofty and Brundle break down the notable turns as the cars line up on the grid, pointing out the sharp hairpin only a few hundred meters from pole position. If Max got away clean, he would be ahead of the cramped pack and have an even better edge over the silver arrows who would be forced to queue behind him.

The traditional "lights out and away we go" kicks off the grand prix, engines roaring into the first turn. Max does manage to get away clean and is awarded with an immediate advantage. Turn one proves tragic for the Alfa Romeo of Raikonnen and the Asthon Martin of Stroll who collide and cause Kimi to spin. They rejoin at the back of the pack, your eyes snagging on the navy and white of an Alpha Tauri as it streams past.

Your heart spins in a similar fashion when the GAS driver tag leaps up two places in the timing table, suddenly in eleventh due to the incident. Your gaze snaps to the laptop humming on your legs before you remember its Max's driver cam you queued up. The Dutchman is silent as his engineer relays information about the incident and informs him of the widening gap between those chasing him.

“Confirm received,” Gianpiero says calmly. No matter the situation or how heated Max got, he always kept his head. It was what made the duo such a good match and had likely kept Max from going off the rails on more than one occasion.

“Yeah,” Max says shortly, clearly pissed about how quickly Hamilton was approaching. “Let me know when I’ve got enough charge to get out of range.”

“Yep, will do. Just keep this pace and you’ll hold him at bay.”

Live coverage replays the incident between Stroll and Raikonnen from the view of onboard with Pierre. The instant the 10 on the halo appears in the center of your screen you suck in a breath. He yanks the wheel to avoid colliding with Ocon, who had to do the same to keep from hitting his teammate as they navigate through the carnage.

You chew on your lip and try to refocus on the battle between the front runners. Not much is happening in the midfield for the next thirty or so laps and Max just barely manages to build a solid enough gap between himself and Hamilton to dive into the pits comfortably without losing places.

Your phone rings and you answer it without checking who it was as the only person you wouldn't answer was currently occupied.

"Hello?"

"Why the fuck didn't they pit Daniel?!"

You grin, noting the blistering beginning on his front left tire as SkySports switches to his onboard camera. "Because he's about to pass Charles," you tell Dan's girlfriend. She didn't call you often during races. It was likely that she knew you were nearing your wits end and this was her way of offering support.

"He won't be able to with those tires- oh." She breaks off when Daniel passes a DRS detection zone and his rear wing opens, allowing him to pass the Monegasque with ease.

"Told you," you say with a touch of reprimand. "You're always too nervous about those things. Daniel knows how to drive, just trust him to get the job done and he'll bring home another trophy for your apartment."

"I don't live here," she points out and you roll your eyes. She had lived in London as long as you had known her, but she was almost always at Daniel's apartment whether he was in town or not. Daniel digs in as the camera follows him for a lap, highlighting the widening gap between the McLaren and the Ferrari.

"You basically do. At this point, you're paying rent for a dusty one bedroom apartment on the east side that you set foot in maybe once a month." She scoffs but you push on, "a waste of sterling if you ask me, when you're at Daniel's every time I ask you to do anything."

"You act like I never- there goes Pierre!"

His name sparks dread in your gut as your attention flicks back to the screen in time to see him overtake Bottas on the inside of turn one. He'd managed to claw up to fifth with the move, somehow gaining places while you weren't looking.

"Good for him," you croak, trying your best to be genuinely happy for him. He was pushing the car to the limit and you'd be amazed if he didn't wind up on the podium along with Dan and Max. Charles and Hamilton were the only ones in his way, and something told you Charles wouldn’t put up much of a fight when his mate reached his gearbox. Hamilton would prove a challenge but he had been making tiny mistakes all day. Nothing significant, though enough to add up to him barely holding onto second while Daniel rode his gearbox.

"He's got ten laps to get past those two," she murmurs as if momentarily forgetting you were on the phone.

"Can we talk about literally anything else please?" You whisper, half tempted to shut off the race completely.

"Babe, you have to face the music at some point. Either you never want to see him again or you love him, which is it?"

She never failed to be anything but brutally honest. You appreciate it because everyone else let you brush off your problems, but she called you on your bullshit. She would needle you about it until you folded.

"I think it's better for both of us if I pretend we never met, don't you?"

"Easier for you, yes," she agrees. "But it'll kill Pierre. You don't think you could keep in touch with him, just as friends?"

"I don't know if I can handle that. I can barely look at him without wanting to bawl my eyes out."

She sighs, pausing to contemplate what to say. Voice soft, she continues, "Why don't you just take him back? Clearly it's ruining both of you. Are you really gonna let the press wreck the best you ever had? I know its hard but-"

"I'm not like you," you cut in. "I can't just ignore the articles and the comments and pretend there aren't people out there that hate me for being with him. They came to my house, disrupted my family. Hell, Ben can't even go to school without being mobbed by his classmates demanding answers. If my suffering is what allows my family to go about their lives then so be it."

"If that's what you wanna believe."

You sigh, tangling your fingers in the hem of your shirt. "It is."

"Alright," she says, voice teetering on a knife's edge. "I know better than to try to change your mind when you're like this. He's on the podium by the way. Oh, and watch what you say to Max- Pierre will read into it."

She hangs up without a goodbye, leaving you to deal with the realization that the podium is indeed VER RIC GAS on your own. Your eyes are glued to the Red Bull and McLaren drivers, blatantly ignoring the one in the white suit as the anthems play and the champagne is sprayed, turning away to busy yourself with making coffee when Daniel hands his liquid filled race boot to third place.

You weren't quite sure how you were supposed to watch what you said to Max- there was no reason to in your mind. Max was your next closest friend on the grid and you had every right to congratulate him if you wanted to.

Resolute in your decision, you text Max and Daniel a quick congratulations before shutting off the TV and closing your laptop.

Max's insane custom ringtone he'd selected for himself nearly makes you jump out of your skin when it blares from your phone.

"Hey great race-"

"Did you see it? I wasn't sure if you'd watch it- did you see my move on Hamilton when he tried to get past me?" He was talking a mile a minute like he was still out on track. "I was like- and then Dan tried to overtake me on the final lap and I was like no way! And then-"

"Max," you chime in, dragging out the 'a' with a sing-song voice. "You're rambling."

"Oh right. Yeah but I made it! Led every lap and finished with another win."

"That's great." You force as much enthusiasm in the words as possible, trying to match his chaotic energy. "You did great. I know it probably doesn't mean much, but I'm proud to be your friend. You beat a world champ!"

"It means a lot-"

"Who's that?"

You stiffen at the familiar cadence. You had assumed Max was back in the garage when he called, but he must have still been in the podium room. You could picture him in his race suit, smudges of grease and dirt staining the pristine white. Beads of sweat probably ran down his neck, begging to be brushed away by your tongue.

"Uh, no one," Max says in a lame attempt to cover up his digression. "I gotta go," he whispers to you.

"Let me talk-"

"Wait don't," you start, but the call ends abruptly and you blink. You stare down at your phone, completely dumbfounded. Of course his instinct would be to talk to you, to share the euphoria of a podium with you. It was the first victory in three years he wouldn't have you to celebrate with.

It was only a matter of time until his resolve popped like the cork on his champagne.

**********

Pierre's phone is in his hand as soon as Max hangs up. He hefts his trophy in the other, a wild grin on his sweaty face as he snaps a picture. He makes sure he's the only one in the frame, shamelessly wanting himself to be the center of your attention.

"Mate," Daniel pipes up, catching his eye, "you think that's a good idea?"

Pierre sighs, cutting the Australian a glare. "I'm just trying to fill her in."

"Wasn't your plan to give her space?"

"It's been a week, isn't that long enough?"

"Take it from me, sometimes it takes months for someone to figure things out. Hell, you know how long it took me to sort through my feelings for-"

"I know," Pierre cuts in. "I know. I just- a snap can't hurt can it? C'mon, I just got a podium! If it goes bad I can blame it on the post race jitters."

Daniel holds up his hands and shrugs. "You're a grown man. Do what you want."

Pierre studies the photo, scrutinizing the way his hair was plastered to his head and the awkward way he'd posed to keep anyone but himself out of the frame. It's his genuine smile that he knows will do you in, and ultimately the reason he sends it.

His phone is a lead weight clutched in his grip as he winds through the paddock, constantly stopped by vips and team members congratulating him. None of what anyone says registers, he just tries his best to match their mood and sputter praises about his team's contributions to his podium.

The snap you finally send back is only from the eyes up, but it's enough. He's surrounded by people in his driver room, but for ten seconds it might as well have just been him staring at a sliver of your face on a screen.

The tiny lines at the corners of your shining eyes tell him you're smiling, which is a step in the right direction even if you won't let him see your entire face. It's enough to reignite the hope that slumbered in his chest while waiting for you to pull the trigger and make a move.

He sends back a video of the people in the room, who cheer when they realize they're being filmed. 'Wish you were here,' is what he captions it and sends it without giving himself a chance to overthink.

Ten minutes pass with no reply.

The beer he’s already consumed have given him a pleasant buzz as well as an excuse to make a bad decision or two. He takes another video of the room to post to his Instagram story, 'Missing you' written in the lower left corner.

Fuck, he hopes you'll see it and regret leaving him on read. Instead all he gets is a text from Charles chastising him for stirring up drama.

Really Pierre?

Blame it on the alcohol, he texts back.

I know you aren’t drunk. You can’t form a coherent sentence when you are.

Guess i gotta drink more then

Pierre doesn’t turn anyone bearing alcohol away. He's two celebratory shots deep when Daniel finds him sulking in a corner. "You've got my girl texting me freaking out over your story. I've seen it and I gotta agree with her. Was that really necessary?"

"She left me on read," Pierre says like that was enough explanation. His head was spinning and it was getting hard to keep the room upright. "And it's the truth. I miss her like hell. I want her here. She was supposed to come, you know? I was gonna have her fly in with me on the jet. She doesn't start class again until June. I had this whole week planned out. I was gonna show her Texas- she’s from New York and..."

He trails off when he notes Dan’s pitying smile. Daniel sighs and runs a hand through his curls. "I know. I get it, okay? I know it's hard but you can't force it. You've gotta let her come back on her own, all you're doing now is pushing her away."

He was fucking clueless when it came to these things. He'd had you for a few precious moments and now that he'd lost you he didn't know how to act. His mind was running on hazy autopilot; he barely knew which way was up, let alone did he trust himself to make any sort of important decision.

He stares down at the shot he'd been handed at some point before throwing it back. The cheap whiskey burns his throat but he barely registers the sting. "Should I take it down?"

"She already saw it," Daniel says gently, as if he anticipates how bad the fuck up will hurt. And it does. It hits him like a tire wall at two hundred kph, knowing that you were probably ranting or crying on the phone with Daniel’s girlfriend. "But yeah, that's probably best. People are already wondering what happened between you two, no need to throw fuel on the fire."

"You're probably right-" Pierre cuts off when Charles arrives with a grimace on his face. He shakes his head and gives his friend’s shoulder a squeeze.

"For once I'm not the dumb one."

"You're a dick, you know that right?" Daniel says, allowing Pierre to delete the post. It takes him a few tries before he gets it down, but undeniably rumors will be circulating in the morning if they weren’t already.

"Honestly what were you thinking?" Charles demands, edging towards full blown yelling. "I told you to leave her be. The gossip stemming from this isn’t gonna help.”

The last thing he needed was someone else telling him how stupid his decision had been. At least Daniel had the decency to show sympathy.

"Honestly?" Pierre responds with the same intensity, his anger flaring. "Honestly, Charles, I was thinking that she was happy for me but was too afraid to take the leap. She haunts me. Every second I’m awake I have to force myself away from her. Even when I’m asleep I can’t get away from her. So I don’t know, maybe I wanted to haunt her too."

“This isn’t the way you win her back and you know it.”

“I know!” Pierre throws up his hands. “But what else am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me. She has no problem talking to Max or Daniel but apparently she draws the line at me.”

“You know it’s not-” Daniel's eyes flick to his phone and he fights back a grin. All it does is remind Pierre that he lost the person that could bring that sort of smile to his own face. "Fellas I wish I could stay and help but I gotta get going. Charles, I think Pierre needs another drink." He slaps five American dollars in the Monegasque's hand. "First one is on me."

Pierre is too deep in a spiral to care when his friend drags him from the party to a bar just south of the circuit. Somehow it was within walking distance; the floor was sticky and the lighting was for shit but he didn't care.

Pierre's focus was on downing shot after shot, erasing the broken image of you his mind had conjured up. He never should have posted the story. It only served to feed into what the media had been speculating for the past week and dredged up more tension between you.

Pierre stops checking his phone two shots later. The liquor provides a wet blanket over his senses, dousing him in cold water and scrambling his brain. He could barely remember his own name, but yours still lived in the corner of his mind.

Even drunk, he refused to forget you.

Two hours and who knows how much alcohol later, Charles helps Pierre back to his hotel room.

Pierre falls asleep as soon as he hits the mattress, head too blurry to dredge up memories of you.

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