#references of stake burning

[magiefish]

This might just be a *me* thing, but I do find it kind of fascinating that almost every Feminist Greek Myth Retelling seems compelled to flatten Helen into a two-dimensional basic-bitch with no guilt or remorse for her actions despite the fact that self-loathing for her own beauty, a feeling of a lack of agency in the face of Aphrodite's whims and a complicated affection for and loyalty to both the Greeks and the Trojans are all major characteristics of hers in both The Odyssey and The Iliad. I'm sure this has nothing to do with the dynamics of modern feminism and patriarchy whatsoever.

[nagihiko-dayo]

So what if I told you I made a fake webtoon cover and fake webtoon promo episode about Shugur?

[th4n0s-wrld]

guys burrdosia is actually so cute oh em gosh i wish straight people were real

[lemonynuggets]

pjsk fans don’t misgender Mizuki impossible challenge

[apilgrimpassingby]

I thought today - the TV show I'd really like to see is one about a medieval monastery.

You could have all kinds of characters: the pious guy who joined because he wanted to serve God, the son born out of wedlock sent there to cover up his parents' shame, the geek who wanted to study Latin but couldn't afford to go into university, the former knight sick of violence and afraid for his soul... Plus monasteries were centres of pilgrimage and places where criminals could take refuge, so we can have a lot of characters who crop up for a few episodes and leave.

Some plotlines I thought of:

Our relics aren't bringing in the pilgrims the way they used to - what do we do?

A women fleeing an abusive marriage has taken shelter in the monastery - how will the brothers respond to having a women in their midst?

One of the monks wants to leave - will the abbot accept or not?

A murderer has taken refuge in the abbey, and the abbot decides to try and save his soul - what will happen?

People are coming to the monastery for food during the famine, but the monastery is itself short of food - how will this be dealt with?

War has broken out between two local lords, and the monks attempt to broker a treaty - will it work?

I've already mentioned some reasons why I think this setting would lend itself to television, but I'd also love to make it for two other reasons:

Get people to understand how weird medieval religion could get, but also that, within its own frame of reference, it was a reasonable and consistent belief system.

Show people that the Middle Ages consisted of more than just muddy people stabbing each other and burning scientists at the stake.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[alohajix]

𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐦

Description: [Y/N] signed her son up for soccer to help him feel a little braver. She didn’t expect it to feel like she was the one learning how to start over. And she definitely didn’t expect the coach to start feeling like home.

Warnings: single parenthood, child anxiety, parental guilt, emotional vulnerability, fear of abandonment, slow-burn romance, eventual consensual smut (soft to intense).

Word count: TBD.

author’s note: this little mini-story is actually part of something a bit bigger! if you enjoyed part one, i’m planning to share the four other parts exclusively on my patreon as i write them. there’s zero pressure, of course—just knowing you’re here reading already means the world to me. but if you’d like to support my work even more and follow this story as it continues, you’ll be able to find the rest over there when they’re ready. thank you so much for reading. i appreciate you more than you know! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Main Masterlist

Marked by Midnight’s Masterlist

***

Warnings: child nervousness, social overwhelm, parental self-doubt, references to past social exclusion, emotional tension, fear of letting someone in.

Word count: 3,748.

The field is busier than I expected. Parents already staking their claims with fold-out chairs along the sidelines, sipping from oversized thermoses, shouting to each other over the hum of kids in matching jerseys sprinting across the grass like it's the World Cup. My stomach pulls tight as I kill the engine, my hands still wrapped around the steering wheel like I'm not entirely sure if we should even be here.

I glance into the rearview mirror, catching Archie in the back seat, small hands fidgeting with the hem of his jersey again. He's been doing that since we left the apartment—rolling the fabric between his fingers like it might unravel if he stops. It's bright red, way too big on him. He'd wanted it that way. Said the bigger one felt safer. Like armor, he told me, with the kind of serious little face only a six-year-old could pull off. But looking at him now, all I can think is how small he really looks in it.

I let out a slow breath and glance toward the field again, already feeling the weight of every other parent who looks like they've done this a hundred times before. Like they belong here. Like they belong together.

I climb out of the car, shut my door gently, and walk around to his side. He doesn't move when I open it, just looks up at me with those wide, worried eyes I know too well. The same eyes I've seen every time we try something new. I crouch down so we're level, resting my elbows on my knees.

"Alright, champ... you ready?"

His feet swing nervously over the edge of the seat. His voice is so soft I almost miss it.

"Do I have to go with them by myself?"

God, how many times have I heard that question in one form or another? First days of school, new babysitters, birthday parties where he doesn't know anyone but me. The same fear, every time. The same knot in my stomach when I have to lie just a little to make him believe this time will be different.

I reach for his hand, curling my fingers around his.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to," I tell him quietly, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead. "But remember what we said? About trying? About being brave enough to see if it feels a little better once you get started?"

He bites his lip hard enough to leave a mark, glancing toward the field. I follow his gaze, taking in the kids already spread out in messy clusters, parents shouting encouragement like this is the most important thing in the world. My throat feels tight just looking at it.

"I'll be right here," I add softly. "The whole time. You can look for me whenever you want."

His chin wobbles just a little, but after a second, he nods. It's barely there, but it's enough. I press a quick kiss to his temple, breathing him in like it might settle something in me, too. That familiar scent of shampoo and syrup and him. My safe place, even when I'm the one who's supposed to be his.

I hold out my hand.

"Come on. Let's go check it out."

He slips his hand into mine without saying another word, holding on tight. Tighter than usual. We start walking toward the noise. And even though I've already promised him it's going to be okay, I'm not sure I believe it yet.

The closer we get, the more it feels like my skin's been pulled too tight. Like every step drags me further into a place I'm not convinced we belong. Archie's fingers are sweaty in mine, small and tense, and I can feel the tiny tremble in them with every squeeze. He's walking slower now, half a step behind, like if he keeps dragging his feet long enough, maybe I'll turn us around and call the whole thing off.

I want to. God, I want to. But I don't.

We stop at the edge of the field, just shy of the first line of folding chairs. I shift my weight, standing tall enough to look like I know what I'm doing, even though the truth feels like it's unraveling by the second.

Parents are everywhere—chatting over the hum of thermoses being popped open, stretching their legs out toward the grass like they've claimed this territory a dozen times before. Some of them are wearing team hoodies. Some already know each other's kids by name. You can tell by the way they laugh like it's nothing new.

I tuck Archie in a little closer to my side, scanning the field until I find the group in red jerseys forming near the far goalpost. A man's standing in front of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, whistle hanging loose from his neck. His sleeves are already shoved up to his elbows, hands gesturing casually as he calls the group to attention.

"All right, Red Rockets, let's bring it in!"

The way he says it catches me off guard—not sharp, not impatient, not the way I expected someone to rally a group of six-year-olds on a cold Saturday morning. It's... soft. Confident, but not loud. Like he already knows they'll listen without needing to shout.

I feel Archie flinch just a little beside me, his body shrinking closer to mine like the sound spooked him. I glance down, smoothing my thumb across the back of his hand.

"It's okay," I whisper, even though I have no idea if that's true.

When I look back up, the man's moving. Walking toward the group of kids gathering into a loose circle in front of him. I catch the edge of his voice again—lower this time, more focused on the ones who haven't settled yet.

Archie stiffens all over again, frozen like he's deciding whether to bolt or hide. And all I can think is please don't shut down. Not yet.

I'm already running through my backup plan in my head—how to peel him off the sidelines gently if he refuses to move, how to keep my voice from cracking when I tell him it's okay, we can try again another week—when I catch movement from the corner of my eye. He's walking toward us. Steady. Unbothered. No clipboard this time, no whistle in his hand. Just easy steps like he's done this before. Like he's not in a rush to fix anything.

Archie stiffens even more, his little body locking up next to mine like he's bracing for impact. I lean down toward his ear, lowering my voice to that quiet, steady hum I've learned works better than anything else.

"It's okay, baby. Just breathe. I'm right here."

He stops a couple of steps away, leaving space like he knows better than to crowd us. His hands are loose in his jacket pockets, his mouth tipping into the kind of smile that feels... patient. The kind that makes it look like this isn't a problem to solve—it's just a moment to walk through.

"Hey there," he says, nodding once like it's the most normal thing in the world to approach strangers this way. "First day nerves?"

I shift my weight, pulling Archie a little closer to my side.

"Yeah," I answer softly, my voice rougher than I mean for it to sound. "We just moved here. Still trying to find our place."

He nods like that makes perfect sense. Like he's heard it before.

"'S a lot, isn't it?" he murmurs, glancing toward the field again like he remembers exactly what it feels like to stand on the outside of something. "Is that your little one, then? Number five?"

I look down at Archie, who's still clinging to me, eyes wide but curious now.

"Yeah. Archer. We... we call him Archie."

Harry crouches down slowly, resting his elbows on his knees. He doesn't reach for Archie. Doesn't try to pull him out of hiding. He just lowers himself to his level and lets his voice drop even softer.

"Hiya, Archie. I'm Harry. Coach Harry, technically, but that feels a bit too serious for six-year-olds, don't you think?"

Archie doesn't answer, but his grip on my sweater loosens just a little. His eyes flick to Harry's shoes, then to his face, then back to me like he's checking if I'm still here. Harry keeps going, easy as anything.

"Y'know, we've got a job open today," he adds with a quiet grin. "Someone needs to help me set up all those cones over there before the team comes in. Think you might be able to help me with that?"

Archie shifts his weight, biting his lip, and for a second I'm sure he's going to shut down again. But then—so small I almost miss it—he nods. Just once. Harry doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn't whoop or cheer or make it a moment bigger than it needs to be. He just leans back on his heels, pushes to his feet, and tips his head toward the pile of cones on the grass.

"We'll just be over here," he says to me softly. "Promise I'll bring him right back."

I stay frozen where I am, arms wrapped tight around myself like I might actually fall apart if I move too fast.

Archie follows him. Slowly, yeah—but he follows. Two tiny steps at first. Then one more. He's a full body length behind, but he's moving. Moving toward something without me. My throat feels like it's closing up just watching it happen.

I hover at the edge of the chairs, not daring to sit down. My eyes flick to the other parents spread out along the sidelines, already swapping stories about school pickups and carpool schedules like this is just another weekend. Some of them aren't even watching the field. Some are already halfway through their second cup of coffee, shouting out names like they've done this a hundred times.

It's strange, standing here alone. My arms wrapped around myself like I'm bracing for something, like I'm waiting for a punch that never comes. I glance up at the sky for no reason at all, noting the gray clouds stretching low and heavy over the trees at the far end of the field. One gust of wind, and it'll probably rain.

Of course, I didn't bring an umbrella. I didn't think that far ahead. I'd been too busy worrying about Archie. About whether or not I could even get him this far.

I shift again, pressing my tongue to the back of my teeth to stop myself from calling Archie back. My fingers itch to reach for him, to pull him out of the spotlight and hide him somewhere safer. Somewhere smaller. Somewhere where he doesn't have to try so hard. But I don't. I stay planted. I watch Harry kneel beside the pile of cones, picking them up one by one and laying them out on the grass like he's got all the time in the world. He doesn't even glance back to see if Archie's still following. He just... waits.

Archie shifts his weight from foot to foot, looking back toward me like he's asking permission without saying it out loud. My chest tightens, but I nod once, small and steady, like I'm not terrified he's about to fall apart in front of everyone. And then he moves again. Steps right up to the pile and crouches awkwardly, his little fingers fumbling to grab a cone. Harry leans in a little, points to a spot on the field, and Archie starts walking toward it, arms stiff like he's afraid to drop it.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My throat stings with it. Like I've been holding that breath for longer than just today. It's small. So small. But it's more than I expected. I've seen people give up on him before. I've watched them get impatient when he freezes or takes too long to answer or hides behind me when they try to pull him out of his shell too fast. I've heard the tight, strained "it's okay, some kids just aren't social" more times than I can count. Always laced with that disappointed edge like they've already decided he's too much work.

I've seen the way they check their watches. The way they glance toward me with that half-frown, half-smile that really means "he's slowing us down." I've walked Archie back to the car more times than I can count with his head on my shoulder, whispering it's not his fault even when I know he doesn't believe me.

And every time it happens, I feel that weight in my chest. That bitter little voice in the back of my head that says see? This is why you keep your circle small. This is why you don't expect people to stay.

But Harry doesn't flinch. Doesn't push. He just lets Archie take his time, moving one cone at a time like there's nothing else to do today but wait for him to figure it out.

I glance down at the ground by my feet, kicking at the grass with the tip of my shoe like that might ground me somehow. It doesn't. All I can do is watch. All I can do is hope. I feel my heart catch in my throat because I already know I shouldn't let myself get used to that. He's just doing his job. And it's nothing. But the way it feels settling in my chest tells me I'm lying to myself already.

The rest of practice passes in a blur. I barely register what the other kids are doing. I don't hear a single word the parents around me say. I'm too locked in on Archie. On the way he stays close to Harry, watching every move like he's afraid he might miss something important.

And somehow, somehow, he stays. He doesn't run back to me. He doesn't shut down. He doesn't quit.

By the time Harry claps his hands together and calls the team in one last time, Archie's cheeks are flushed, curls sticking to his forehead, his little hands tugging on the bottom of his jersey again—but his shoulders aren't hunched the way they were when we got here. He's tired, but he's still standing.

I push off the fence and start toward the edge of the field, hugging my arms around myself again like it's going to hold me together for the next thirty seconds.

Harry crouches down to Archie's level again, says something low that makes Archie nod. Then he stands, turns toward me, and starts walking over with that same easy pace like we aren't two strangers standing on opposite sides of a life we haven't figured out yet.

"He did great," Harry says when he reaches us, nodding toward Archie like he means it. "Took a little warming up, but he stuck it out."

I swallow the knot in my throat, brushing Archie's hair off his forehead again.

"Thanks for being patient with him. I know he's... a lot sometimes."

Harry frowns a little—just for a second—like he doesn't like hearing that.

"He's not a lot," he says quietly, like it's a fact. "He's a kid. Kids move at their own pace."

And just like that, something in my chest pulls tight again. Because no one ever says it like that. Not without sounding like they're trying to convince themselves. But Harry says it like he actually believes it.

I shift my weight, blinking hard to keep my expression neutral. My mouth opens to thank him again, but nothing comes out. I chew the inside of my cheek instead, heat creeping up the back of my neck.

Before I can embarrass myself further, he clears his throat, rocking back on his heels.

"Listen, uh—would it be alright if I grabbed your number? Just in case we have to reschedule or... if Archie forgets anything?"

I freeze for a second longer than I probably should. I shouldn't. I shouldn't. That little voice in my head kicks in fast, warning me not to blur the lines. Not to give anyone even an inch closer than they need to be. But he's looking at me with that same steady patience I've watched him give to Archie all morning. Like I have a choice. Like he'll back off if I say no.

I nod. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, already unlocked to a blank contact screen. I take it carefully, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm. Calloused, like he works with his hands for real. I feel it all the way down to my wrist, like something I shouldn't notice but do anyway.

I stare at the screen longer than I need to. I could fake it. I could type a number off by one digit and let this stay exactly what it is. Professional. Detached. Easy to forget.

But my thumb moves before I can stop it. I type my real name—[Y/N]. My real number.

When I hand it back, Harry glances at the screen, then up at me again with that easy, unreadable smile.

"Perfect. Thanks [Y/N]." God help me, I don't trust myself not to read too much into it.

Archie shifts beside me, tugging lightly on the hem of my sleeve like he's working up to something. He's got that scrunched-up little look on his face—the one he gets when he's thinking too hard. His cheeks are still flushed from running around, curls sticking to his damp forehead, but his eyes are darting between me and Harry like he's trying to figure something out.

Harry tucks his phone back into his jacket pocket and gives Archie one last ruffle of his hair, starting to turn back toward the rest of the kids when Archie blurts it out—loud enough for half the field to hear.

"Mama... can Coach Harry come to dinner sometime?"

The words hit me like a slap to the chest. Quick. Sharp. Immediate. My stomach drops. My throat closes. I freeze.

Harry doesn't. He doesn't laugh. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't even blink, really. His smile doesn't falter for a second. He just crouches down to Archie's level again, his voice dropping low and soft, like it's just for him.

"Maybe one day, little man," Harry says, reaching out to tap two fingers lightly against Archie's tiny fist. "Gotta keep practicin' those kicks first, yeah? That's the deal."

Archie beams like he's just been promised Disneyland. I, on the other hand, feel like my face is on fire. My heart slams so hard I swear I can hear it in my ears. I glance around like I'm half-expecting someone to be standing there listening, but no one is. No one's paying attention to us at all.

Except me. Except Harry. Except Archie, who's already moved on like it's the most normal thing in the world to invite a complete stranger to dinner.

I clear my throat, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag.

"Alright, bud... let's grab your stuff."

Harry stands again, brushing his palms against his thighs like he's shaking off the grass. His eyes meet mine for one last second, and there's something there I can't quite name. Not teasing. Not pity. Just... something steady. Something that feels like he already knows I'm going to overthink this all night.

"See you next week?" I ask before I can stop myself, my voice tighter than I mean for it to be.

Harry nods, rocking back on his heels again.

"Wouldn't miss it."

And just like that, he's gone—turning back toward the pile of equipment like the last five minutes didn't knock the air clean out of my lungs.

Archie talks the whole walk back to the car. Little bursts of excitement tumbling over each other—how he kicked the ball once, how Coach Harry let him carry the cones, how next week he's going to run even faster. He's out of breath before we even make it across the parking lot, his tiny hand swinging in mine like all the fear from earlier never happened.

I keep nodding, making all the right noises, but it feels like my head is full of static. Like I can't get my feet back under me, no matter how many steps I take.

I get him buckled into his booster seat, double-check the straps even though I know they're fine. I lean in, pressing a kiss to his temple like I always do, breathing him in for just a second longer than necessary. He giggles, pushing at my face with one small hand.

"Mamaaa," he laughs, like I'm embarrassing him. Like it's funny. Like his heart isn't still tangled up in my hands the way mine is in his.

I shut the door quietly and lean back against the car, staring out at the emptying parking lot. Most of the families are gone already. The folding chairs are packed up, the chatter's faded, and the breeze is colder now than it was an hour ago. I wrap my arms around myself, digging my nails into my sleeves like that might stop the way my chest feels like it's caving in.

I don't know what I expected today to be. But it wasn't this. It wasn't the way Archie actually stayed. The way he looked—pink-cheeked and almost proud—for the first time in God knows how long. And it sure as hell wasn't the way Harry spoke to him. Or to me. Like we weren't some charity case. Like he wasn't performing patience for points. Like he actually... saw us. Both of us.

I shove my hand into my pocket, pulling out my phone before I can stop myself. My thumb hovers over the screen for half a breath too long before I swipe it open and scroll to my contacts.

Harry.

I lock the screen again and stuff it deep into my jacket like I can hide from it if I don't look too long.

"Okay," I whisper to myself, pushing off the car and moving toward the driver's side.

I'm already overthinking it.

***

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk1990 @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east @starryhaze-crystal @mads3502 @run-for-the-hills @twinklaei @belgianblondee @pbandnutella @maudie-duan @cat-loves-music @harrysgirl2003 @harrystyleshotwife @secretands-blog @dutchtheatrelore @angeldavis777 @idkidcfuboh @maddiesalvatore1839

[saddleseatollie]

I said that I was gonna make a post about Hans' side of the Hansry romance so here we go (buckle up because this will be a very long post):

First off, I wanna talk about his responses to all the heart/romantic dialogue options throughout the game.

I find these dialogue choices to be pretty interesting in general because it's SO easy to read them as completely platonic, which I imagine to be quite intentional. Two bros acknowledging that they care about each other, what's special about that?

Except their friendship isn't normal. Henry is Hans' page and bodyguard. Hans is essentially his boss, and Henry is duty bound to follow him everywhere, save him when he's in trouble.

What these dialogue options establish is that Henry doesn't rescue Hans because it's his job. He does it because he wants to.

I simply cannot stress enough how important it is for Hans to hear that from Henry. To know that he is not forcing Henry into anything. He's not just Henry's boss but also a noble, and that puts him in a position of power over him that he probably struggles with to some degree.

Throughout this game we see more of the divide between "Lord Capon of Pirkstein" and simply "Hans". When he breaks down his walls with Henry and becomes simply Hans, it's because he's letting him in. He doesn't do that with anyone else.

So why is it that Hans' responses to the romance dialogues are so...unromantic? Does he not realize his feelings for Henry yet? Does he not accept them?

No. I think that even by For Whom the Bell Tolls (the end of which being the first opportunity for romance dialogue) Hans has not only recognized his feelings for Henry but accepted them.

When? Honestly there are so many possible answers to that question I'm not even going to try (personally I like to think he spent the majority of his time in the cells at Trosky just thinking about him and Henry so maybe then).

"But Ollie! Why, then, are you saying that Hans' responses were platonic?" I hear you asking.

Because Hans isn't stupid. I'm not 100% sure what the punishment for homosexuality by the law was in 15th century Bohemia but I can guarantee it was very bad. I'm not a history buff but google tells me it ranged from burning at the stake to castration and exile. Not only that but remember that Bohemia at that time was ruled by the Holy Roman Empire, which was still a Catholic Empire circa 1403 and would remain that way for another century. Catholics at the time (and some groups even to this day) viewed sodomy (officially defined as any form of "unnatural sexual acts" including but not limited to homosexuality as the word itself refers to anal sex) as a mortal sin. Basically meaning that the near-universal stance of homosexuality at the time would be that homosexual acts meant burning in Hell for eternity.

All this to say that while I believe that Hans himself has come to terms with his feelings, he recognizes that no one can ever find out about them.

So he tries his absolute hardest to play the role of "best friend" and outwardly pretend to have only the most platonic of feelings towards Henry.

And yet. And yet. Hans loves Henry. He loves him so fucking much even while knowing they can realistically never be together. But Hans is a dreamer. We see that from him a lot, actually. He dreams about a world where nobles well and truly take care of their subjects, where towns aren't raided and burned to the ground for war and profit. It's no stretch to imagine he also dreams of a world where he and Henry can be together.

And then Hans is surprise-engaged against his will and his dreams are promptly smashed against the rocks.

I mean this is his reaction to hearing the news.

He says it's because he wanted to wait to get married, to live a life of adventure before settling down. And while I'm sure that's part of it, in the context of a romanced Hans this is him realizing that he really can't ever be with Henry. Hans might be a serial womanizer (overcompensating much?) but he's no adulterer.

Look in my lovely little headcanon where everything is wonderful and beautiful and works out, do they stay together? Yes, absolutely. But realistically, I don't think it's possible. Their relationship is doomed to fail before it even begins. It's a classic example of love simply not being enough.

And that reality is simply too much, so Hans does as he always does, pretends none of it means anything at all and nothing has changed. He'll never love her as he does Henry and that's that.

And then the siege happens, and Henry volunteers for a suicide mission and is probably going to die and Hans is starving.

Hunger and Despair.

Hans is starving. Not just for food or drink but for life and love and Henry.

Hans has always been prone to impulsivity, to acting on every desire. He's shone amazing restraint, all things considered, up until that point. He loves Henry and he feels he'll die of sorrow without him.

Think about that for a moment.

When he tells Henry the tale of Lancelot and Galehaut he puts himself in the place of Galehaut, who died from grief and sorrow over the loss of his lover.

He fears he'll die if Henry doesn't return. Not of starvation. Not at the hands of a Prague soldier.

Of grief and sorrow.

He is so, so tired of holding back. Of pretending. He wants Henry, he needs Henry. Not as a friend or a protector or a squire but as some strange, lovely mix of all three and more.

Then Henry places his hand over Hans' and tells him everything will be alright and Hans realizes, maybe for the first time, maybe not, that Henry may feel the same as he.

And that tiny little spark of hope is enough to make him act. He kisses Henry out of sheer terror and desperation and longing.

Audentes Fortuna Iuvat.

Fortune favors the bold.

It's time to be bold.

[pitlanepeach]

FROM EDEN | Chapter One (1/8)

Oscar Piastri x Francesca Gold (OFC)

Summary — Francesca Gold is an introvert with a quiet life and a YouTube channel where she talks about books, drinks too much tea, and rarely ever shows her face. She prefers it that way - tucked into her London flat with her cat, Henry, and safely hidden behind a screen.

Oscar Piastri is a Formula 1 driver. Fast-paced, high-stakes, always on the move. He hasn't read a book in years, but he's watched every single one of Francesca's videos. Just for the sound of her voice.

Following her on Instagram was a moment of weakness. He didn't think she'd notice.

She did.

Chapter Warnings - Mentions of agoraphobia + severe social anxiety, depressive episodes + very brief references to skin-picking.

Notes: HAPPY BIRTHDAY OSCAR 🧡

Sometimes, Francesca felt like her MacBook was an extension of her body.

It came with the territory. She spent six, sometimes eight, hours a day editing. Her management had offered to hire a professional to take over that side of things, but she always declined. She liked the process. It kept her busy. And besides, her audience had come to expect her touch — the specific pacing, the way she layered her clips with the perfect font depending on the theme of the video. No professional could replicate that.

“The team at Penguin emailed last night. They want you to do another collab next month — summer drop. It’s going to be huge,” Katie says, without preamble, the moment Francesca answers the FaceTime. Manager, best friend, chaos in a messy bun. 

Francesca blinks, gives herself a second to process, then beams. “Wait, seriously? I mean, I know they had great feedback on the last video, but I just thought…” She trails off, shaking her head and letting out a breathy laugh. 

God, it was still hard to believe this was her life. That she’d built this job from scratch — and was actually good at it. Good enough that one of the biggest publishing companies in the world wanted to work with her again, for the second time in less than a year.

“It’s going to be great. I’ll email you the content brief as soon as I have it,” Katie said. She was smiling too, the fine lines around her eyes deepening with joy.

Francesca often thought that was the best part of having a manager who doubled as your best friend — the fact that when something good happened, it wasn’t just her win. It was theirs.

“Pizza at my place to celebrate?” Francesca suggested on a whim, and immediately wished she could take it back. Her spine went rigid, and a glance toward the front door confirmed what she already knew — she wasn’t in the right headspace for company. Not even Katie, who was one of the only guests she’d ever had at her flat. “Uh, I mean…” She felt her face burn with embarrassment as she tried to find a way to rescind her invitation. 

“I’m busy tonight,” Katie said breezily, and relief washed over Francesca like a wave. She managed a small smile. “Another night, maybe,” Katie added, her eyes warm and knowing. The softness in her voice made Francesca’s throat tighten.

She was a terrible friend.

“Yeah,” she said softly, and wished — not for the first time — that her brain would just let her be normal.

Just once, it would be nice to exist without wrapping herself in cotton wool, constantly calculating every choice, afraid of pushing too far and tipping into that place she didn’t like to think about. The edge was always there, waiting. And when she fell, it was dark. 

“Another time,” she finished, quieter this time.

Katie hummed, then did a dramatic spin in her chair.

Francesca had already figured out she was in her office. It was painted bubblegum pink — hard to mistake for anywhere else.

One day, Francesca would have an office too. She already had a Pinterest board full of inspiration pictures.

For now, her flat was too small — a one-bedroom with just enough space for a two-seater table in the kitchen and a small couch tucked beneath the living room window.

But one day, she'd have more.

The walls would be lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She’d have a big desk, maybe even a chaise lounge to film her videos from — soft lighting, stacks of novels within reach.

Her gaze drifted to the window. Her sixth floor flat overlooked a busy street, which was both comforting and overwhelming. She liked the reminders of life happening outside. But sometimes, the idea of stepping into it — of opening the door and being swallowed by the noise — made her feel physically sick. 

“So,” Katie said, her voice deceptively flat. “Read anything good recently?”

It wasn’t funny.

It wasn’t even a little bit funny.

But whatever tension had been lingering between them dissolved in an instant.

One blank look from Francesca was all it took for Katie to double over with laughter — and Francesca followed close behind.

—

Oscar Piastri followed you!

Francesca stared at her Instagram notifications and blinked. She only ever got alerts like that when someone verified followed her, and it always felt a little disconcerting. Being perceived was... weird.

She tapped on his profile picture, waited for the feed to load, then let out a quiet, shocked breath as her eyes widened.

Christ. Almost two million followers.

She read his bio first.

I drive @McLaren F1 cars.

Her brows pulled together.

She knew about Formula One. Her sister — back when they still spoke — had been a hardcore fan. Always waking up at absurd hours on Sundays to watch the races. Francesca had never understood the appeal. She wasn’t ever interested in sports, really.

And if she was remembering right… the cars were bloody loud.

Nonetheless, she let herself scroll through his feed, indulging the curiosity. Why not? He’d followed her first.

Which… she paused, thumb hovering over a video — a clip of him laughing with another guy, shorter, with dark hair, both of them doubled over and grinning wide.

Why had he followed her?

Was he a reader?

She chewed her bottom lip, eyes flicking back to his feed. Nothing about books. Nothing even vaguely literary. Just cars. Fast ones. The kind that had made her cover her ears and wince when her sister had played it on the TV. 

Still, she kept scrolling.

There were podium photos, clips from press days, shots of cars mid-race that made her anxious just looking at them. A lot of orange. And still, nothing that explained why he would have any interest in the kind of content she posted.

Before she could stop herself, she opened a new tab and typed his name into Google.

Oscar Piastri F1.

Search.

The first result was his Wikipedia page. She clicked it, scanning quickly.

Twenty-two. Australian. Drove for McLaren. Something about back-to-back Formula 2 and Formula 3 championships. ‘I understand that, without my agreement, Alpine F1 have put out a press release late this afternoon that I am driving for them next year. This is wrong and I have not signed a contract with Alpine for 2023. I will not be driving for Alpine next year.’ Her brain started buffering around "qualifying sessions" and "downforce," so she backed out and clicked Images instead.

Okay. He was… very symmetrical.

She immediately closed the tab, her cheeks flaming red.

And then she opened it again. This time, she searched Oscar Piastri book. Nothing. Oscar Piastri reading. Still nothing. Oscar Piastri favourite books.

No real results. Just an old fan forum thread with a blurry screenshot of him holding what looked like a paperback on a plane. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Could’ve been anything.

‘F3 champion and high school student lmao,’ one of the comments read.

Francesca let herself sink back into the couch. She pulled her knees to her chest, her free hand drifting up to her mouth, picking absently at the skin around her fingernail.

“How did you end up here, Oscar Piastri?” she whispered.

And then immediately felt ridiculous.

It’s not like a follow meant anything.

It could’ve been a slip of the finger. Maybe something his management team did to stir engagement. A glitch. Instagram glitched all the time. That was a known thing.

It really was.

Still curled up on the couch, Francesca tapped back into Instagram and navigated to the official Formula One account. Just to look. Just to see if maybe there was something that explained why a McLaren driver might follow a booktuber with anxiety and a penchant for editing videos until 2am.

There wasn’t.

But there was a countdown at the top of the page.

Qualifying. One hour to go.

Qualifying? What was that? Like… sports pre-game? Car auditions?

She frowned. Then, before she could think twice, she picked up the remote and opened the app store on her TV. A few clicks later, she was signing up for a Sky Sports subscription.

“For research,” she told Henry, who lazily stared at her from his spot on the armrest like he was judging her life choices. 

“I’m just… curious, okay?” she added, navigating to the F1 channel.

Henry yawned, unimpressed and unentertained.

Francesca pulled her quilt blanket around her shoulders and settled in, one hand on her mug of tea, the other resting lightly on Henry’s back. The TV buzzed to life with dramatic music and fast edits of cars screaming around tracks.

“Oh, they really are loud,” she muttered.

Still, she didn’t change the channel.

The coverage had barely started before the noise hit her full-force — engines growling, tires screeching, the low thrum of commentary that barely kept up with the chaos on screen.

Francesca grimaced. She didn’t like it. Too loud, too fast, too… much.

Henry flinched at a particularly aggressive rev, then resumed kneading the arm of the sofa like he was above letting it actually concerned him.

Cars whipped around corners at impossible speeds, camera angles switching every few seconds. She couldn’t follow any of it. Couldn’t understand the appeal. It made her anxious, frankly — a blur of noise and danger and people cheering for machines hurtling toward potential disaster.

And then one of them did crash.

Right into the barrier.

Metal crumpled. The commentators’ voices jumped a pitch. The screen showed a flurry of slow-motion replays, sparks flying.

Her hand flew to the remote. She didn’t want to see this. She was about to switch off.

But then, like it had been summoned just for her, a name appeared at the bottom of the screen.

Oscar Piastri — overlayed over the image of a sleek orange car pulling into the pit lane.

She froze, her heart jumping in her throat.

The camera cut to him stepping out of the car. Calm. Focused. Tugging off his helmet to reveal slightly flattened curls and flushed cheeks. The camera lingered for a second too long — or maybe not long enough — before cutting away.

Francesca didn’t move.

She didn’t even blink.

“Oh no,” she whispered, sinking slightly lower into the couch. “Absolutely not.”

Henry purred beside her. 

— 

iMessage – Francesca & Katie

Katie: How’s your evening? Still editing?

Francesca: yep super busy so much to do

Katie: Why are you being weird

Francesca: 😶

Katie: Wait What did you do

Francesca: nothing?? literally nothing.

Katie: Francesca.

Francesca: okay fine i may have accidentally subscribed to sky sports

Katie: YOU WHAT

Francesca: DON’T it was just for a second. i wanted to see what “qualifying” meant.

Katie: Omg Omg Did you watch it? YOU WATCHED IT DIDN’T YOU

Francesca: it was research.

Katie: Research for what???

Francesca: i think i might want get my drivers liscence soon. 

Katie: HAHA BULLSHIT definitely not because a certain driver literally just followed you on instagram or anything

Francesca: shut up maybe

Katie: Fran.

Francesca: i didn’t like it i almost turned it off. but then his name came up and i just… idk. i kept watching.

Katie: Omg my baby has a crush

Francesca: shut up no ew

Katie: Right Why did you google “Oscar Piastri favourite book” at 8:07pm

Francesca: STOP STALKING MY BROWSER HISTORY GET UR OWN GOOGLE ACCOUNT 

Katie: Nah 

—

The Sky Sports app was still open on her TV.

Francesca hadn’t meant to leave it there. It just... stayed. Like the universe was silently daring her to press play again. 

She’d lost herself to editing again — that blissful, numbing kind where hours passed unnoticed, her fingers tapping out precise cuts, adjusting audio, overlaying soft transitions like muscle memory. The world outside her screen had faded away, quiet and far off.

But now… now her video was exported, her desk light dim, the flat heavy with stillness.

And she couldn’t resist.

She clicked on Post-Qualifying Interviews, telling herself it was just to see what the drivers sounded like. That was all. She was just curious. Nothing more.

She turned the volume down to a whisper.

Henry flicked his tail in visible disapproval.

“I’m not proud of this either,” she whispered, settling into the couch like she was committing a crime. The blanket came up to her chin. The remote was gripped in her hand. 

The first few drivers were all very… race-driver-y. Confident. Loud. Slightly sweaty. Lots of hand gestures and scathing words for their own performances. 

And then Oscar appeared.

The interviewer asked him something technical — tires, or grip, or some other concept that meant absolutely nothing to her — and he responded with this measured, thoughtful calm. No bravado. No shouting. Just… collected.

Francesca tilted her head, studying the way his brow creased slightly as he answered, like he really cared about getting it right. The way he smiled softly at the end of his sentence, almost to himself, like a punctuation mark no one else noticed.

She didn’t even realise she was smiling too until Henry let out a judgmental meow.

“I said I’m not proud,” she muttered, hastily backing out of the video.

The silence that followed was immediate and deafening.

She tossed the remote aside and buried her face in her hands.

“Oh my God,” she mumbled into her palms. “I need to go to bed. I need to stop acting like an actual crazy person.”

Henry pawed at her ankle, unimpressed.

She was going to delete the Sky Sports app first thing in the morning. 

Right after she watched one more video.

Maybe two.

—

Francesca watched the Grand Prix the next day.

She made tea. She stayed in her pyjamas. She sat through the whole thing, even when it dragged and even when the commentators said things she didn’t understand. It wasn’t thrilling. It wasn’t magical. It just… was.

Oscar finished somewhere in the middle.

She turned the TV off, went to take a shower, and moved on with her life.

There were deadlines to meet. Emails to respond to. A pile of unread books that had started to stare at her like she’d betrayed them. Her expensive Sky Sports subscription went untouched the rest of the week. 

But then Tuesday came.

And Tuesday was awful.

There was no real reason. No one thing she could point to and say that’s what broke me. It just felt like everything was a little too loud, her own skin too heavy. Like gravity had turned up a notch and was dragging her down with it.

She didn’t get out of bed.

Didn’t open her laptop.

Didn’t answer Katie’s texts — not even the one with a cat meme she would normally have replied to in all-caps.

Henry crawled into her lap around midday and stayed there, curled against her like a warm, quiet anchor. She lay still, wrapped in blankets, blinking up at the ceiling like it might give her answers.

Nothing did.

It was the kind of day where time slowed and thoughts didn’t. Where brushing her teeth felt like running a marathon. Where everything felt stuck.

She picked up her phone out of habit, already ready to put it back down again.

But then — the notification.

@oscarpiastri liked your post. Her latest one. A photo dump from less than two hours ago — mostly books, a coffee mug, her hand in the sunlight.

Her heart stuttered.

Not in a dramatic, fireworks-going-off kind of way. Just a small, stunned skip.

She stared at the notification like it might vanish.

Henry shifted slightly in her lap. She didn’t move.

It was such a small thing.

A double-tap.

A gesture.

But in the middle of a day where just existing felt impossible, someone — he — had seen her.

Even if it didn’t mean anything.

Even if it was random.

Even if he probably liked a hundred photos that day.

She let out a long, shaky breath and rested her phone on her chest, her hand curled loosely around it.

"Okay," she whispered to no one.

Maybe she could get up later.

Not now. But maybe later.

—

The MTC was buzzing, even though it was only a Tuesday. Debrief done. Media duties had been wrapped earlier in the morning. Everything had settled into that post-Grand Prix lull where everyone finally took a breath until the next weekend came around.

Oscar leaned back against the side of a worktable, scrolling idly through Instagram. Nothing serious. Just background noise.

Until he saw that she’d posted. 

Francesca Gold.

He hadn’t meant to follow her, not really. It had been a 2am spiral the night before quali day — his sister had sent him a TikTok of somebody talking about a F1 themed romance novel, which had ultimately led him to her channel, which led to hours watching her recommend fantasy novels with painfully sincere enthusiasm.

It was just a photo dump. Books. Sunlight. Her cat, maybe — very ginger and grumpy looking. He didn’t overthink it.

He double-tapped the photo, thumb pausing just slightly over the screen.

She rarely posted pictures of her full-face. Never showed it in any of her videos. But he knew that she was pretty. Gorgeous, even. 

A grin tugged at his mouth before he could stop it.

“What’s that face?”

Oscar glanced up.

Lando was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking far too smug for someone who had just received a stern telling-off for his comments to the press after his bang-average race performance. 

Oscar blanched. “What face?”

“The one I just saw.” Lando pointed. “The ‘I’ve got a secret’ smile. You were two seconds away from giggling.”

“I don’t giggle.” He argued. 

“Mate.” Lando deadpanned. “Come on. Spill.” 

Oscar locked the screen and slipped the phone into his pocket, casual. “It’s nothing.”

Lando raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Nothing’s usually something.”

Oscar didn’t answer.

Lando stepped closer, all mock seriousness now. “Is it a girl?”

Oscar gave him a long, slow look. “You’re very nosy.”

“That’s not a no.”

He looked away without meaning to. 

“Oh my God, it is a girl. Who is she? Wait—” He snapped his fingers. “I saw something on twitter about you following some… I don’t know what they call them. She reads books.” He said. 

Oscar exhaled through his nose, resigned. “She posted on Instagram. I liked it. That’s all.”

“Mmhmm. And now you’re smiling like a man with secrets.”

Oscar didn’t answer, just tugged the zipper of his hoodie down a little and pushed off the table.

“You’re going to message her, aren’t you?” Lando called after him, voice teasing.

“I’m going to find food,” Oscar said over his shoulder. “Stop projecting, Norris.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it until he’d found a quiet, empty spot to sit. 

And then he opened her page again. Let himself look properly this time. The soft light coming from the window. The cat. The books. The half-face showing in the last photo; all dark hair and hazel eyes. 

He smiled again.

And this time, no one saw.

—

iMessage – Francesca & Katie

Katie: Hey. Please stay away from Twitter for a bit 

Francesca: uh oh why what happened have i been cancelled for not liking the new sjm book? lol 

Katie: Nothing major. Just… people noticed something. Some tweets about you and oscar 🤦‍♀️ They’re being annoying. That’s all.

Francesca: … there literally is no ‘me and oscar’ katie. what kind of annoying?

Katie: The “who even is she” kind And the “typical influencer girl” stuff Ignore them. They’re bored and jealous.

Francesca: typical influencer girl. oh my god i’m going to dissolve into the floor now don’t mind me. just fully evaporating

Katie: You are literally FINE You didn’t do anything. He followed you. He liked your post. 

FRANCESCA i didn’t even follow him back 😭😭😭 would that make it worse? i might just do it 

KATIE Lmao. You don’t have to do anything. Your account, your space, your joy. You’re allowed to post a picture of your cat, ffs

Francesca: henry is a public figure. 

Katie: LMAO Okay yeah that’s true

Francesca: god i hate being perceived. i feel gross. like i did something wrong.

Katie: You didn’t. I promise. People will forget about this in like 48 hours. Faster if you don’t engage. Also: do not google yourself. Do not check the quote tweets. Seriously. Step away. People are being disgusting. Talking about your mental health. 

Francesca: oh my god they hit the pentagon

Katie: STOP. You’re ridiculous. Don’t make me laugh right now. I’m angry. Go cuddle the public figure Tomorrow, we pretend that this never happened.

Francesca: … okay. but if i die of embarrassment, pls delete my browser history

Katie: Of course. 

—

It had been two weeks since she’d worked up the courage to leave her flat.

In that time, she’d dived head-first into the history of Formula One.

She’d developed an emotional attachment to Nico Rosberg.

And every time she saw Oscar’s face or heard his voice, her stomach did this weird little twist she tried very hard to ignore.

She still hadn’t worked up the nerve to follow him back.

Twitter had moved on after a few days. The comments had been vicious — picking apart the parts of her mental health issues that she’d made public, calling her a terrible match for the Australian driver (capital letters, like that somehow made it worse). It was mean, sure, but also probably laced with some truth.

It was laughable. She knew what a WAG was now. And she could literally never.

Cameras, fashion critiques, every movement scrutinised. There was a reason she didn’t plaster her face all over the internet. Sure, most people had pieced together what she looked like by now — it wasn’t some big scandelous secret — but she could still walk through London relatively unnoticed, on the very rare occasion that she did.

And that was how she liked it.

—

Oscar made it onto the podium in Japan.

Francesca had watched the race live, heart hammering against her ribs like it was her out there driving. Henry had abandoned her half an hour in — bored or annoyed or both — but she’d stayed curled up on the couch, eyes fixed on the screen, half-hidden behind her quilt. 

When he crossed the line in third, she let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-overwhelmed-sob.

She was proud of him. Which was ridiculous, really. She didn’t know him. He was nobody to her. But still — she'd watched, taught herself the rules, learned the names of the tracks, made a list of all of the weird acronyms, and somewhere between doing all of those things, she’d started cheering for him like it mattered.

She opened the Instagram app before she could talk herself out of it.

Went to his profile.

Paused.

Her thumb hovered over the message icon, heart beating too fast, palms clammy.

What would she even say?

Well done? I was cheering for you from my couch. 

No. God, no.

He had millions of followers. He probably got hundreds of thousands of messages. Messages from people he actually knew. From people who weren’t... whatever she was.

She hadn’t followed him back. That felt important. It made her invisible. Safe. Unknown.

And still, the urge to say something curled up inside her, warm and nervous. She wanted him to know. Just a little. That she’d seen it. That she was proud of him.

Her thumbs started to type, slowly, hesitantly:

Congratulations. You were incredible today. I’ve been cheering for you. 

She stared at the words.

Then deleted the message.

Then retyped it.

Eventually, she shook her head, hastily swiped out of the Instagram app, locked her phone and let it slide to the other end of the couch.

She buried her face in Henry’s fur, blinking fast.

Maybe next time.

—

bookishgoldie just posted!

liked by oscarpiastri, stephbroher, and 35,768 others

bookishgoldie: enjoying the london sunshine ☀️

view all comments

user1: KING HENRY SIGHTING

user17: i love that cat like he's my own omg

user03: it’s officially spring!!!!!

user63: OSCAR IN HER LIKES AGAIN OH MY GOD

user17: FRANCESCA HIDE BEHIND ME BABYGIRL I WONT LET THE TWITTER DEMONS GET YOU AGAIN 🤺

user60: this is crazy... do u think they're like friends or

user76: no idea. she's so pretty though.

user5: do we even know if oscar pastry is literate? genuine question.

user33: i LOVE your apartment!!!!!!!!!!!

bookishgoldie: i do too!! thank you

user18: my favourite booktuber ever

user2: I’ve been here since the beginning and it’s crazy to me that she’s basically a household name now.

Chapter Two

[sabrinasopposite]

manchild; pilot.

anakin skywalker!70s x reader

summary: anakin skywalker starts his summer break as a heartbroken guy over the break up with padmé amidala, yet while he was drinking his blueberry slushy in a gas station by a desert highway, he met a girl called y/n y/l/n, who was a wild and free spirited girl with tons of flings. what if the summertime sadness turns into a fake relationship? anakin wants revenge and jealousy, and y/n wants fun and drama.

fake dating.

! warning: there will be a lot of sexual comments and references, just like cigarettes and alcohol

further questions, please ask me

ps: another warning... y/n is flawed and complex

next chapter: star-crossed lovers

summer, june 1972.

It was summer in the seventies — the kind that played like a worn vinyl, crackling under the heat of the Arizona sun. School was winding down like the last chorus of a slow-dance song at prom. One more year till college — a horizon Anakin Skywalker wasn’t ready to stare into. Not yet. Not when the sun still burned gold, the air hung heavy like incense, and the days blurred into a sleepy Technicolor haze.

He lived in a one-gas-pump desert town that looked like it’d been left behind by time — diners with flickering neon, drive-ins ghosted by tumbleweeds, and motels with signs that buzzed louder than their guests. People drifted away from here like smoke rings in the wind, but somehow, they always found their way back.

While the jukebox generation kicked off their summer-of-love dreams, Anakin’s own soundtrack had cracked mid-song. Padmé had left him at the end of spring semester — clean cut, no B-side explanation. And like a cruel twist of radio fate, two months later she was already holding hands with Rush Clovis — the kind of guy who wore poetry like cologne and probably read Kerouac for fun. The kind of guy who fit her world now.

It was golden hour — the kind of light that made everything glow like a photograph you want to live in. A breeze shuffled through the Arizona heat like a slow dance with no music. The final bell had rung, setting teenagers free with the excitement of open roads and Top 40 dreams. Talk swirled around — Bowie had a new track out, someone’s older brother just scored a new Camaro, and summer was theirs to burn.

But Anakin wasn’t thinking about any of that. He just stared off at the horizon like it might tell him something. His heart, cracked and splintered, still beat her name in every silence. Padmé walked past — glowing, laughing, alive. She wore high-waisted jeans and a lavender blouse that looked like it belonged in a Fleetwood Mac album cover. Like she was already living in a world Anakin couldn’t reach anymore.

Fives looked over at his friend — who hadn’t been the same since Padmé walked out of his life like the fadeout on a sad soul song.

“Dude… how long you gonna keep staring at her like she’s the second coming of Janis Joplin?” he asked, voice low but amused.

“Until I figure out her goddamn plan,” Anakin muttered, arms crossed over the hood of his battered ’68 Dodge Charger. The car was a wreck, always one gear-shift away from death — but it was his church, his therapist, and his war bunker. And, lately, his best spot to stake out the girl who used to be his whole universe.

Rex leaned beside him, the paper cup of cola sweating in his hand, eyes flicking to Padmé. “Her plan was a breakup, man. You still think it’s deeper than that?”

Anakin leaned back, exhaling like a tire losing air. “I know she dumped me, I do. But why, man. Why? She just woke up one day, flipped the record, and decided I didn’t belong on her playlist anymore. And now she’s with him. I mean, I still don’t understand how she just wakes up and decides to call it quits, then goes out with some guy the week after—- I mean I haven’t slept right since May. I’m running on empty and she already dates someone else.”

Fives gave him a look, pulled a cigarette from the inside pocket of his worn leather jacket — the kind of jacket that had probably seen more heartbreak than prom dates.

“Dude, you gotta let her go. I know it’s messy, and I know you really loved her — still do. But what’s your plan? Run after her until she turns around and says ‘never mind’?”

Anakin raked his fingers through his already chaotic hair. “Yeah, I know. I know. But I can’t just flip the switch. I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried letting go, but every time I do, I just keep hearing her laugh in my head or picturing how she used to look at me — and none of it compares, man. None of it.”

Fives sighed, cigarette hanging from his lips like punctuation. He lit it, took a drag, and offered one to Anakin.

“Yeah… I get it. Wasn’t easy for me and Jackie either. But eventually… it just stops mattering. Eventually, it fades. Like an old cassette left on the dashboard too long.”

Before Anakin could answer, Cal Kestis came jogging up, his ginger hair a windblown mess, eyes wide with adrenaline and teen mischief.

“Okay, okay — I scored the booze for your party, Rex,” he grinned, breathless. Then caught sight of Anakin’s stormcloud stare aimed squarely at Padmé and Clovis. “Jesus, man. You good?”

Anakin didn’t answer. Just kept watching her — like she was a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. The kind that lingers in the morning haze and makes reality feel like a cheap knock-off.

Fives bumped his shoulder into him with brotherly force. “Peachy,” Anakin muttered, his eyes locked on Padmé and Clovis, tangled in a little sunlit world of their own.

He took the cigarette from Fives, the way a soldier accepts his last smoke before going back to war. A slow, pensive drag — the kind that fills your lungs and lets the silence hang just a little longer.

Rex gave Cal a nod, cracking a crooked smile. “Thanks, man. Well, our lover boy’s going through it — that’s why we’re gonna throw one hell of a beach party tonight, aye?” he grinned, sipping his cola like it was bourbon.

“Yessir,” Cal shot back, grin wide, sun catching in his wild hair. “You bet your ass! End of sophomore year, which means we’re gonna get hella piss drunk… except for Ani.” He slapped Anakin on the shoulder, just hard enough to jostle him back into the moment.

Anakin exhaled a plume of smoke, shooting Cal a sarcastic look. “Definitely,” he said, voice flat, but with the ghost of a smirk.

Fives furrowed his brows, puffing thoughtfully. “Dude, you haven’t touched alcohol in months. I know Padmé didn’t like it when you drank, but—bro, you can now.”

“I dunno…” Anakin muttered, flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it drift like dust in the Arizona sun. “I know I can… I’m just not sure if I want to. I’ve been doing good. Staying sober, staying outta trouble.”

Rex chuckled dryly. “Yeah, but you smoke cigarettes like they’re your goddamn breakfast.”

“Yeah, but—” Anakin paused, his voice lowering, “Cigs help me concentrate. Keep me grounded. Booze… booze makes me spiral. And she hated that part of me.”

Fives leaned in, whispering like the devil on his shoulder. “But she’s goneeee, man,” he drawled with a mischievous grin. “Come on, Ani. Just a little sip tonight, a good ol’ beer, some tunes, bonfire, waves. Forget her. And I definitely know Rex invited some hot girls.”

Cal rolled his eyes and shot a look at Fives. “Fives, don’t even pretend like you’re gonna pull.”

Fives gasped dramatically. “Hey! Maybe some girls are into the bad boy with a soft heart vibe, ever think of that?”

Anakin actually chuckled — a real, worn-out laugh — as he reached for another cigarette. “I suppose you do have a point, Fives. I could… loosen up tonight. A few beers, some laughs, maybe even forget her for, like, five minutes.”

Fives clapped his hands, triumphant. “That’s my man!” he shouted, placing both hands on Anakin’s shoulders like he’d just won a football game.

Rex groaned. “Oh god,” rubbing his temple at Fives’ volume.

Anakin laughed again and shoved Fives back playfully. “All right, all right! I’ll come to your stupid party. But don’t expect me to be a full-blown drunkard, alright?”

He raised the cigarette to his lips again, a sly grin forming in the corner of his mouth.

Rex gave him a nod. “Got it, Skywalker. Alright boys, I gotta bounce and get the setup going. Also, if you see Obi-Wan, tell him I said hey.”

Anakin shook Rex’s hand, firm. “Will do, Rex.”

Then, turning to Fives, his smirk deepened. “You’re probably heading off now to ‘pick up girls���, huh?”

Fives winked, already walking backward like he was on a stage. “You know me.” He threw up his hands and, in perfect Fives fashion, backed right into a group of girls. They giggled as he spun around, arms wide. “Girls!!” And just like that, he vanished — swallowed by the scene like a Saturday night fever dream.

Anakin shook his head, grinning. “Damn dude… what a player,” he muttered under his breath, though the words tasted half like envy, half like pride.

He tossed his cigarette down, crushed it beneath his black Converse, and turned once more — instinctively — toward Padmé. She was laughing now, head tilted back, Clovis’s arm around her shoulders like she belonged there. They looked like a Polaroid of something Anakin didn’t get to be part of anymore. Too perfect. Too damn fast.

He made a face — disgusted, bitter, hurt — all tangled into one sharp look. Then he turned, walked to his Charger, and slid in with a familiar creak of old leather and old memories.

The key turned. Nothing.

“C’mon…” he whispered, already knowing how this would go.

He hit the dash. Nothing.

He cursed under his breath and kicked the clutch. The car grumbled, sputtered… and finally, with a wheezing growl, roared to life like a beast waking from sleep.

Anakin gripped the wheel and took a long, shaky breath. He looked up at the rearview mirror and there he was. Red-rimmed eyes. Messy curls. Wrinkled shirt and a face that looked like it hadn’t believed in sleep since April.

A ghost in the driver’s seat. He slammed a hand against the wheel. “Damn it all…”

Outside, the sun dipped further, turning the town into a dusty painting of goodbye. That Arizona glow—amber and honey-thick—draped everything like a fading record sleeve from a summer hit long past its prime. Inside that Charger, Anakin sat with the weight of a love lost, an engine rumbling beneath him, and a party waiting at the edge of night like a mirage.

He leaned back, elbow against the window frame, letting the warm wind tangle his curls. As the car coasted through the town’s familiar arteries, time seemed to drip slow like molasses on vinyl. The neon flicker of the old drive-in. The rust-flaked grocery sign spinning in lazy circles. The diner where his uncle played old Motown records in the back and always smelled like fry oil and sunburnt coffee. All of it passed by like ghosts waving from a moving train.

Eventually, he pulled into the gravel drive of his two-story house—paint peeling, porch swing swaying with no one in it. Home, for whatever that word meant anymore.

And later, down at the beach, the world had shifted. The sun was gone now, tucked beneath the horizon like an old photograph sliding back into its envelope. Stars blinked alive above them, scattered across the sky like dust from a shattered disco ball.

The beach pulsed with life—Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” spun from someone’s truck radio, Stevie Nicks’ voice haunting the salt-heavy air with that silk-and-fire sadness that always knew how to dig into the bruised parts of a heart.

The bonfire cracked and cast golden glows across laughing faces. Boys and girls tangled together—some kissed like they’d never get another chance, others drowned themselves in lukewarm beer and the feeling of now.

Anakin lingered on the outskirts of it all, his converse sinking into the cool sand. He sipped slowly from his beer, its taste dull and heavy on his tongue. That’s when she stumbled up—Cordé, tipsy and sun-kissed, wrapped in a pink bikini and cutoff shorts. Her brown hair curled wild over her shoulders, catching the firelight like it had been dipped in bronze.

“Heeey, Skywalker,” she purred, brushing her fingers along his arm with a confidence borrowed from booze and fleeting nights.

Anakin looked up with a small nod. Recognized her from school, vaguely. Padmé’s orbit. A satellite girl. “Sup,” he muttered with a half-smile, lifting the bottle to his lips again.

She leaned in close, her words slurring like a song caught in a warped tape. “You know I always liked you, right??? Like, Padmé didn’t deserve you…” At the sound of her name, Anakin’s smile cracked a little, like the first fracture in windshield glass. But he shook it off, forcing a shrug.

“Yeah, I know,” he said dryly. “You’re not the first one to tell me that.”

Cordé leaned more into him, fingers trailing over the rings on his hand—old silver, worn and nicked from too many nights punching through walls of emotion. “You deserve waaay better… I could m—”

Anakin pulled back, too fast, his body rejecting the contact before his mind could even process it.

“Look, Cordé,” he said, more tired than angry, “you’re a nice girl. Really. But I’m just here to try and forget…”

He looked over then, and of course, there she was—Padmé. Laughing like the ocean had whispered something sweet into her ear. Tucked under Clovis’ arm like she’d been there forever. Like she’d never belonged to him.

He stood up suddenly, the sand resisting his converse. His voice cut low. “Sorry, but I gotta go.”

Cordé blinked, confused. “Wait—where you going?” she called out, her words dissolving in the breeze.

“Doesn’t matter.” He said it sharp, like a closing door.

He walked away—storm-eyed and stiff-jawed—past the bonfire, past the haze of liquor and perfume, past all of it. Rex and Hunter spotted him, their relaxed posture shifting when they caught the flicker of fury in his silhouette. “Anakin, hey,” Rex called out, standing up. “Where you going, man?”

But Anakin didn’t stop. The tide was pulling him somewhere else—somewhere colder. Rex reached for his arm, and this time, it worked. Anakin turned, eyes dark and jaw tight. “Yeah—Rex, I gotta go.”

“No, you’re not going anywhere.” Rex’s voice rose, more from worry than command. Hunter stood behind him, arms folded, unreadable as always.

“What’s the matter with you, Anakin?” Hunter asked, stern and grounded like thunder. “You’ve been acting like a jerk all night.”

Anakin laughed bitterly, eyes wild and distant. “Sorry I’m not into sucking tits of girls tonight,” he said, sharp like broken glass.

But Rex saw through it. He always did. Saw the raw ache swimming just beneath the sarcasm.

Rex’s grip loosened, his voice softening. “Dude, this isn’t about girls, and you know it. This is about Padmé.”

Anakin didn’t speak. The firelight flickered across his face, casting shadows that looked too much like heartbreak.

“Look—- I didn’t know she was coming tonight,” Rex added gently. “I’m sorry, man. I think it was Sabé who brought her.” “It’s fine,” Anakin muttered, jaw working again. He stared out at the crowd, at them. “I should’ve known better than to come here anyway.”

Rex stepped forward, about to speak again, but Hunter’s hand landed on his shoulder like a warning bell. “Rex—if he doesn’t want to be here, we can’t force him.”

Rex clenched his jaw, frustrated. “But we invited him. He agreed. We can’t just let him leave like this.” He turned back to Anakin, voice quieter now—earnest. “Anakin, come on, dude. Just… please stay a bit longer, okay? We’ll keep you distracted. I promise.”

Anakin sighed, shoulders sagging like a wave had just passed through him. His fingers played absentmindedly with the rings on his hand—twisting them, like turning old regrets. “Not tonight, Rex…” His voice was quieter now, softened around the edges. “But I promise you, I’ll come to your next party. That’s a promise.”

And somehow, the way he said it made Rex believe him. The kind of promise that still sounded like Rumors spinning on a turntable—fleeting, maybe, but real in that moment.

Rex gave him a look—half proud, half broken. “Alright, man,” he said, stepping aside.

Anakin nodded and turned away, the sand cool under his feet, the sky too wide, the night too heavy.

Anakin walked back to his car, the ocean sounds dimming behind him as if the night itself was moving in slow motion. He’d had a few beers, sure—but his head was still clear enough to drive. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. The weight pressing down on his chest wasn’t the alcohol. It was something heavier, slower—something like regret soaked in gasoline.

He slipped into the driver’s seat with a sigh, the leather cold against his back. The cigarette found its home between his lips like it belonged there, and he lit it with a flick that had muscle memory behind it. The engine coughed, groaned, then roared to life—old and temperamental like some broken-down warhorse. The radio crackled on just as the cigarette’s cherry began to glow.

Nirvana buzzed through the static like a voice from inside his ribs. He tapped the wheel in rhythm, eyes narrowed, the wind threading through his hair like phantom fingers. Smoke curled around his face as the Charger hummed down the empty desert road. The stars above him were endless—flickering reminders that the universe didn’t care whether Padmé still loved him or not.

Then, there it was. That old gas station neon burning softly in the distance, glowing like a memory someone forgot to turn off. A familiar landmark on the map of his boyhood. He smirked a little—blue raspberry slushie, the unofficial cure for heartbreak since ’08. He flicked his cigarette out the window with a casual snap, embers scattering like fireflies in the wind, and pulled into the station with the kind of parking job that said, I’ve had a night.

Didn’t matter.

The bell above the door jingled as he walked in, the smell of oil, sugar, and faded linoleum wrapping around him like an old denim jacket. The place looked like it had been untouched since 1956—chrome stools, jukebox in the corner playing a half-slowed Elvis song, and faded pinup posters curled at the edges.

“Hey Dex,” he said, voice low and worn.

Behind the counter, the old man turned—grease-stained apron, hands thick like they’d held a thousand engines. His face broke into a grin, warm and wide. “Well, look who it is! Skywalker, my boy! Haven’t seen you around in a while. What brings you in tonight?”

Anakin chuckled softly, the sound more air than joy, and reached over the counter for a handshake. Dex’s hand was firm, familiar. The kind of grip that reminded Anakin there were still people in this world who remembered who he was before the heartbreak, before the detachment.

“Ah, just… craving a slushie and a pack of cigarettes,” he said, flicking his hair back with the edge of his hand.

Dex’s eyes twinkled with the kind of knowing that came from years of watching lost boys pretend they weren’t. “Ah, I get that. Sometimes you just need a little something to quiet the noise.”

He reached under the counter and slid a pack of cigarettes forward like it was an offering.

“And I remember you always loved my slushies. The blueberry one, wasn’t it?”

Anakin smirked, that rare kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached for his wallet inside his leather jacket. “It astonishes me more that you still remember.”

Dex waved him off with a slow shake of the head. “Please, my boy. It’s on the house. Call it a friendship tax write-off.”

He turned and began working on the slushie—one scoop, two, slow and methodical, as if even sadness deserved ceremony. Anakin leaned on the counter, letting himself breathe for the first time that night.

And then it happened.

The screech of tires outside shattered the stillness like a cymbal crash in a love song. Anakin’s eyes snapped to the window just in time to see a modern Mustang lurch to a stop—gleaming, expensive, arrogant. The passenger door burst open and a girl stumbled out, her voice cutting through the quiet like glass. “Fucking stupid manchild!” she yelled, full of venom and fire.

She slammed her heel against the door with all the force of a woman who’d had enough, then raised a middle finger as the Mustang peeled away in a scream of rubber and cowardice. She stood there, fists clenched, hair wild, silhouetted in the neon glow of the station like a fallen angel still burning from the fall.

Dex glanced out the window, brow raised. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Youngsters. Always so much anger and haste in their hearts."”

Anakin didn’t say anything. Just watched her, eyes fixed, a straw slowly finding its way back between his lips. anakin didn’t say anything, just looked blankly at the girl.

The girl was none other than Y/N Y/L/N—chaotic, sun-kissed, and burning like a fire left untended too long. Her presence was like a breeze laced with gasoline: beautiful, dangerous, and full of promise. She strutted into the station like she owned the damn place, her curls bouncing wildly with every furious step, catching in the neon glow. Her knotted white shirt clung to her chest like a forgotten summer memory. Her jean cut-offs were frayed and faded, high on her thighs like the edge of a secret.

Anakin watched her with that stunned, quiet look—like she was a ghost from a song he hadn’t played in years.

They had history, buried beneath layers of time, heat, and unspoken things.

Back then, they were kids on rusted bikes, daring each other to steal fire from the gods—or at least a Snickers bar from Dex’s. She always dared. He always followed. Summer nights filled with match flames, soda fizz, and laughter that echoed off the hollow skeletons of empty houses. He was wide-eyed, trying to be brave. She was barefoot with chalk on her palms and paint under her nails, already wild with the grief she didn’t yet know was coming.

Then time shifted. Like all things do. When her mom died, she disappeared from the inside out.

And Anakin? He went the other direction—louder, sharper, faster. Grease on his hands, silver rings on his fingers, anger he never named. She watched him from across the school halls. He never looked back.

Until now.

She walked in, barefaced and defiant, lips glossed cherry red like rebellion in a tube. She looked at the two men inside—one old, one made of shadows—and offered a sugar-slick “Evening, men,” like she hadn’t just been screaming outside like a thunderstorm in heels.

Dex raised his hand, smiling warmly. “Evening to you too, Miss Y/L/N.”

Anakin didn’t smile. He just gave her a nod. That Skywalker kind—part greeting, part warning, all unresolved memory. He felt something twist in his chest at the sight of her.

“What brings you here so late?” Dex asked, leaning onto the counter, eyes kind but shrewd.

Y/N shrugged, grabbing a pack of gum like it mattered, then turned on her heel—heels click click like gunshots across linoleum—and went to the fridge. The beer clinked softly as she grabbed one.“Eh, just getting something to drink,” she said, breezy as a summer lie.

Dex raised an eyebrow, his smile never quite leaving. “Just something to drink, huh? Are you sure you’re not running from something, kid?”

She walked back, the fridge door sighing shut behind her, and she set her things down beside Anakin’s slushie. Y/N looked like a movie character or like a hippie but with much femininity and risqué. but her personality was somehow, casual and free minded. chaotic even. She had rings on nearly every knuckle, mismatched like her moods. “Dex,” she said with a smirk, eyes gleaming, “if I were running from something, it wouldn’t be in these heels.”

Dex laughed, full and amused. “Touché. But you’re still full of it.”

Anakin stayed quiet. He was leaning on the counter, taking slow sips from his slushie, but his gaze had barely left her. She had that kind of gravity. Always did. A chaos that pulled without asking permission.

Y/N slid some money out from her bra with the same confidence as someone lighting a match. Casual. Intimate. Unapologetic.“Trust me,” she said, placing the money down beside her beer and gum, “this is the best option I’ve got right now.”

Then her eyes flicked to Anakin’s drink, lips curling into that familiar smirk. “Damn,” she said, voice dipped in dry sarcasm. “They let sad boys buy slushies now?”

Anakin’s jaw clenched slightly. He met her gaze without flinching, slushie straw still between his fingers. “You’re one to talk, princess. Last I heard, you were breaking hearts left and right.”

Y/N chuckled. Low, amused. She bent slightly, resting her elbow on the counter and chin in her hand like a cat playing with a bird. “Who said these rumors?” she said.

Everyone in school knew the real stories. Padmé had left Anakin. Then started to date Clovis. And Y/N? She was the girl who never stayed. Summer flings like cigarettes—quick, intoxicating, and over before the pack ran out.

But between her smirk and his quiet intensity, something hung in the air that neither beer nor slushie could cool.

Maybe it was the ghosts of bike rides and stolen candy. Maybe it was the fact that they never really said goodbye. Maybe it was just that they were both tired of pretending the past didn’t exist.

Dex, ever the oracle behind the counter, just watched them in silence.

Anakin looked at the crumpled bills in her hand, his gaze lingering a moment too long over the lines of her wrist, the chipped polish, the rings she always wore like armor. Then his eyes flicked back to her face—calm, unreadable. He rolled his eyes with the same nonchalance he’d perfected over the years.

“You know how gossip spreads in this town,” he said, voice low and flat. “But let’s not pretend, Y/L/N—you’ve always had your fair share of flings.”

Y/N grabbed her beer and gum, her eyes soft but casual—those doe eyes that always masked sharp thoughts. “Lord,” she said, arching a brow, “because it’s a crime to have a bit of fun in life, right?”

Anakin shook his head, a dry laugh undercutting the tension. But there was a flicker of something—irritation, maybe. Or something less honest.

“I never said it was a crime,” he said, his voice a little tighter. “But there’s a difference between having fun and using people. Or are you too busy having fun to care about that?”

Y/N said nothing at first. Just placed a fingertip—ringed and casual—on the top of her beer. She twisted it with one smooth motion, the cap popping off with a small hiss of rebellion.

“Oh, come on, Skywalker,” she said, voice cool, amused. “I don’t break hearts. That’s not really my thing.”

And it was true. Her reputation wasn’t for destruction. It was detachment. No false promises, no lingering stares in the hallway the next morning. Just soft lips, tangled sheets, and the unspoken agreement that some people weren’t meant to stay.

Anakin snorted. He had that same half-smirk now, the one he wore like a defense mechanism.

“Right,” he said, a little bitter. “No-strings-attached, that’s your thing, isn’t it? Just in it for your own pleasure.”

Y/N stepped closer, pressing the cold beer can lightly against his chest. Her voice didn’t rise, her gaze didn’t waver.

“Hey, man,” she said, flat and honest. “I’m not the one who broke your heart, alright? So don’t throw your sad-boy lectures at me. Save it for that chick who actually hurt you.”

The smirk dropped off his face for half a second. Just long enough for the honesty to cut through.

He looked down at the beer, then up again. “And why do you care?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t you be off with one of your flings—having fun, not giving a damn about anyone else?”

Y/N gave a crooked grin, taking a long sip from the bottle. “I wanted to,” she said with a shrug. “But my fling turned out to be an asshole.”

And with that, she turned back to Dex, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Thanks, Dex!” she called, stepping backward, her shoulders still squared.

Then she pushed open the door with the curve of her back, and the desert air swallowed her whole. The door closed with a soft thud, and Anakin stood there, slushie in hand, heart pacing like a slow drum against his ribs. Anger. Confusion. A strange, magnetic ache that never really left when it came to her.

Dex had been watching all along. Like he always did. Quiet eyes, kind mouth. The man had seen more heartbreak in his diner than a whole town’s worth of country songs. “You and Miss Y/L/N, huh?” Dex said, wiping the counter down with a rag. “Some tense there?”

Anakin scoffed lightly, stirring the bottom of his slushie with the straw. “A bit,” he said. Then shook his head. He didn’t think. He just moved.

The door creaked again as he stepped out, gravel crunching beneath his converse. The night was cooler now, the neon lights from the gas station flickering in lazy hues—blue, gold, red—like a half-forgotten dream trying to stay alive.

She was standing just outside, beer on the ground, a cigarette perched between her lips like a worn-in habit. The breeze pushed her curls back slightly, the smoke curling up toward the stars like a prayer no one meant to say out loud.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. “Oh,” Y/N said with a smirk, eyes flicking to him sidelong. “Missed me already?”

Anakin didn’t answer. He just walked over and stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

Y/N picked up her beer again and took a sip, letting the cigarette rest between her fingers. The music inside the station buzzed faintly through the door—Fleetwood Mac still crooning out into the night.

Anakin finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “You still smoke menthols?”

Y/N gave a soft laugh through her nose. “Only when I’m mad,” she said. “Or nostalgic.”

Anakin nodded once, watching the smoke disappear into the desert sky.

“Well,” he said, his voice half-joking, half-sincere, “you always did mix chaos with charm.”

Y/N smoked slow and steady, arms crossed over her chest like armor, the cigarette dancing between her fingers as she extended the pack toward him. “Definitely,” she said, voice lazy like a cat in the sun. “You changed though.”

Anakin took the pack, their fingers brushing—just enough to short-circuit something in him for half a second. He struck a match against his boot heel and lit up, the flare of orange flickering in his eyes.

“Changed, huh?” he asked, exhaling the first drag like a sigh. “In what way?”

Y/N walked toward the curb, cigarette hanging from her lips, her hair catching the breeze like wildfire. The white of her shirt glowed under the low light, and those jean shorts did nothing to help his already scattered thoughts.

She didn’t look back when she answered. “This super-wannabe-greaser version of you,” she said plainly, dropping down onto the curb, legs crossed. She didn’t say it cruel—just the kind of honest only she could get away with.

Anakin followed, slower, quieter. Watched the way she sat like she owned the sidewalk, the stars, the whole damn desert if she wanted to.

He sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “So…Skywalker,” she said after a beat, taking a sip of her beer, “why are you really here? Sippin’ that heartbroken slushie like a sad movie extra?”

Anakin chuckled, surprised she remembered what he always ordered. “What can I say? Sometimes a man just needs frozen blueberry to deal with a broken heart.”

Y/N popped a piece of gum into her mouth and grinned. “Ah, now we’re admitting we’re heartbroken.” She tilted her head at him, half-smirk playing at her glossed lips. “That slushie’s turning your cold heart into a sweet one.”

He laughed, the sound loose for the first time in weeks. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. You’re just jealous my slushie’s better than your beer.”

She sipped it defiantly. “Nope. My beer relaxes me. Your slushie’s just brain freeze in a cup.”

She set the bottle down, turned toward him slightly. “So, why aren’t you at your homies’ party?”

Anakin leaned back, fingers splayed across the pavement. “Just needed a breather. Couldn’t deal with all the noise and drunken idiots.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Mmm. Liar.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “What makes you think that?”

She chewed her gum slowly, tapping ash from her cigarette like it was punctuation.

“Because I know when someone’s lying. And you? You left because Padmé was there.”

Anakin’s expression darkened. His jaw tensed like old reflex. He looked away, letting the smoke drift from his lips instead of answering. “So what if I did?” he muttered. “Why do you care?”

Y/N lifted her hands like a peace sign. “Chill, I’m not here to clown on your heartbreak.”

She crossed her bare legs, cool as ever.

Anakin sighed, the weight dropping out of his chest a little. He looked over at her, and this time there was something raw behind his eyes. “I just… I can’t seem to escape her. Even when I try.”

Y/N didn’t answer right away. She watched him—really watched him—but kept her face still. The same face that used to laugh until it ached on hot summer nights. It was weird, talking to him again. But then again, her night was already shot. Her so-called fling turned out to be a first-class jerk with zero rhythm.

She sipped her beer again, then wrinkled her nose like she remembered something sour.

“Yeah, well, let me tell you—Clovis? Not good in bed.”

Anakin choked on a laugh, head whipping toward her. “Nice to know I’m not the only one with a vendetta.” His smirk was back now, crooked and dangerous, but warmer than it had been in days.

Y/N shot him a sly grin, but her eyes stayed out on the highway. “Why’d she dump you anyway?”

Anakin exhaled hard. His cigarette burned low between his fingers. “She said she wanted to focus on herself. Her ambitions. Said we were holding each other back.”

Y/N clicked her tongue, unimpressed. “Damn. That’s some Hallmark movie excuse right there.”

He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You’re preaching to the choir. Clovis is a total ass.”

He took one last drag, flicked the bud out into the dark, watching the ember fizzle against the gravel.

Y/N looked up at the sky, eyes glassy under the haze of citylight and desert stars. “Yeah—I slept with him twice. Only ‘cause I needed his homework.” She said it like it was no big deal, like it was just another Tuesday.

Anakin stared at her, half-shocked. “Wait. You slept with him for homework?”

Y/N grinned, wicked and proud. “I’m a genius.” She sipped her beer, gum snapping softly. “Besides, I hated Mrs. Jocasta. And Clovis kept bragging about his grades, so I figured—might as well get something out of it.”

Anakin was still recovering from that bombshell when she turned the conversation again, voice soft but cutting.

“Anyway—listen, Skywalker. She’s not worth it.” She met his eyes now, fully. No smirks. No gum popping. “I mean it. Padmé’s like every other girl in this high school. Polished on the outside, but not a clue how to love someone who doesn’t fit in a pretty little box.”

Anakin’s stare held hers, long and unreadable. Something in him wanted to argue, maybe even defend Padmé. But more of him was tired. Tired of pretending it didn’t sting. Tired of playing it cool when all he wanted was something real. “I just… I don’t know. Thought she was different, ya know?”

Y/N turned to him, softer now. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the wind, maybe it was just old muscle memory kicking in from nights long gone. She wanted to understand—maybe not to heal him, but at least to hear him. “What did you even like about her?” she asked, not judgmental. Just curious. Like trying to understand a song someone kept on repeat.

Anakin leaned back, shoulders folding in like a wilted paperback. “Everything, I guess. She was smart. Kind. Beautiful—like she stepped out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to have. She just… got me. Saw through all my bullshit and still wanted me anyway.”

Y/N gave a slow nod, cigarette balanced between her fingers like an afterthought. “Huh—sounds romantic. How long were you two doing that heartbreak waltz?”

He looked away, the horizon smearing into amber and shadows. “Not as long as I wanted. Off and on for a while. But… two years, officially.”

Y/N let out a theatrical gasp, almost offended on his behalf. “Damn.” Her voice carried down the street like a thrown match. “That’s, like—- okay you know, It’s okay to cry about her,—two years is a lot.”

Anakin chuckled, low and rough. “Nah, I won’t cry about her. She doesn’t deserve my tears.”

But even as he said it, the ache behind his eyes told on him.

Y/N raised a skeptical brow, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, that nonchalant look? Doesn’t work on you.” She pointed a polished nail at his face. “The evidence is here, dumbass.” Her finger hovered near the tired smudges under his eyes.

Anakin sighed, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. The weight sat heavy in his bones. “I guess I can’t fool you.”

“Never could,” she said, lips curled into that signature crooked grin. “And also—come on, you’re too pretty to pout for free.”

Anakin rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You really know how to boost a guy’s ego, don’t you? First I’ve got heartbreaker eyes, now I’m too pretty to pout?”

Y/N shrugged, dramatic as ever, pouting for emphasis. “And it worked. I know men more than you realize.” She stood up with a theatrical sigh, brushing off imaginary dust from her shorts. Her beer clinked lightly against the curb as she stepped out onto the street to glance around.

Anakin watched her with amusement. “Oh really? And what exactly do you know about men?” he asked, lifting a brow.

She raised her hand, thumb pointing out, eyes scanning the road. “That if I do this,” she said, smirking, “someone will stop.”

Anakin blinked. “You think just sticking your thumb out is enough?”

“It’s worked a couple times,” she said with a smirk and a shrug.

Anakin raised his brow, mildly impressed despite himself. “Well, look at you. Hitchhiking queen.”

Y/N nodded, hair catching the breeze like something out of an old photograph. “Man, I wish I could show you my trick—but it’s too late to catch a ride now.” She glanced down at him, still sitting curbside like some brooding James Dean knockoff.

Anakin smirked, letting the moment stretch. “Oh no, now I feel like I’m missing out. What’s this magical trick of yours?”

Y/N fidgeted with her shirt—tying the knot a bit tighter beneath her chest. It left her collarbones bare, skin sun-kissed and glowing under the flickering streetlamp. A very 70s look—half western, half rebellion. “To catch a ride home,” she said, matter-of-fact. “’Cause these heels? They’re not made to walk a mile.”

Anakin’s gaze flickered down—lingered a second too long. Her skin, the curve of her ribs, the exposed midriff. He looked away quickly, lips twitching. “Well,” he cleared his throat, “if you’re looking for a ride, I guess I can’t let a damsel in distress walk home in those heels.”

Y/N turned, faking a scandalized frown. “Wow. Damsel? Really? You just called me a helpless maiden?” But the corner of her mouth curled into a grin anyway. “…but I’ll take the offer though.”

She walked toward his car. Anakin stood slowly, brushing dust from his jeans, arms crossed as he watched her. “Don’t get used to it. This is a one-time deal.”

She tugged the door handle—stuck. Of course it was. “Yeah, don’t worry,” she said dryly, yanking harder. “Your car’s a piece of junk.”

Anakin walked up beside her, laughing under his breath. “It’s vintage, thank you very much.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s rust with wheels.” He popped the lock with a practiced hand and opened it for her. “Ladies first.” She gave him a side glance, dramatic as hell, then slid into the seat with an exaggerated groan.

“So,” she said as he circled the hood and got in, “where’s the playlist? Or are we driving in depressing silence like a sad film?”

Anakin grinned, key turning in the ignition, engine sputtering to life. “You think I drive around without Fleetwood Mac ready to go?”

Her laugh cracked the night open like a bottle. “Skywalker, you softie.”

The desert swallowed them as the music started, tires rolling into the dusk like they belonged to it.

📀 HELLLOOOOO, i am back! I am super excited to release the first pilot to my new series, which I am currently writing on.... c.ia. (no judgement pls.) but I loved the story so much, I had to share it. so this is the first glance to a summer love with flaws and cigarettes. have fun with it, and fell in love with y/n as I do, cause we love complex girls!

📀taglist: @blackynsupremacy @speaknow-sw @alelo23 @collywobblvs @newnewtheicon @angelsgalore @tvdelrey @girldisaster2007 @tinainaction @mariswxt @crazycaoticsimp @star-wars-stuff-1

[hihomeghere]

Heat | Alpha!Arthur Morgan x Omega!reader

Happy Valentines day! <3

Word Count : 3.5k

Summary : Nursing Arthur's rejection, you go to the saloon while your impending heat hangs over you. Will he be able to save you before another alpha tries to stake their claim?

Warnings/tags : A/b/o, knotting, marking/biting, slight angst, reader is referred to as she, has female parts, arthur is our miscommunication king, unwanted advances from another man, dubious consent (reader has expressed consent earlier but is not in the right state of mind), Ruts & heats, unprotected piv, creampie, slight breeding king (It's me, what do you expect)

Divider by @saradika

Tags : @photo1030

The lively piano filled the saloon, doing little to raise your spirits. Resting your palms against your cold glass, trying to ease the fire that burned in your belly. You were foolish, you knew that, coming into town this close to your heat. 

But the flush in your cheeks wasn’t entirely from your impending heat. No, the burning coil of rejection was what was causing blood to crawl up your neck and flood your cheeks. 

You sipped the whiskey, wincing as the liquid burned your throat. You thought it would ease the pain in your chest, but it only seemed to amplify the hurt. The painful memory of your fight with Arthur replaying over and over in your head. His jaw clenched, refusing to even look you in the eye. His voice raised as he snapped at you.

You shook your head, quickly downing your glass. Shivering as the liquid ran down your throat, heat blooming in your chest. You couldn’t ignore the subtle clench in your lower belly for much longer. The second tell tale sign that your heat was fast approaching. Like sand pouring into an hourglass, the time for you to find a place to ride out your heat was dwindling. 

Sweat dotted your brow, raising the back of your hand to wipe it away. The fabric of your dress was rubbing your skin raw, you itched to ditch the fabric. Although you weren't stupid enough to strip in a bar full of all kinds of designations. You ordered another, placing two coins down on the bar top.

The scent of an alpha invaded your nostrils, nearly suffocating you with how strong it was. You silently cursed yourself, you hadn’t bothered to cover how your distress was pouring off of you in waves. Anyone could have smelt it, omega, beta or alpha. Unfortunately for you it was the latter.

“Hello sweetheart.” The man cooed, his lips pulling back in a wolfish grin as he took the seat next to you. His suit jacket cut tight to his body, obviously tailored. Younger than you, his pocket watch hung from a golden chain, an easy target if you were here to do ‘business’ as Hosea called it. Robbing rich men blind.

You ignored him, a bead of sweat rolling down your back. 

“Omega.” Unable to stop the pull of your designation, you turned to look up at him. You realized too late that you were in the worst situation possible. Half an hour max, away from your heat, and this fucker looks like he knows it. “Why don’t you say hello, hm?” He asked, his tone dripping with command. 

You opened your mouth to respond when the familiar scent of pine and leather filled your noise. Wrapping around you like a warm embrace. 

Arthur, alpha. You didn’t have time to speak before his hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you off the chair and behind him. You could feel the anger pouring off of him in waves, your omega pumping out calming pheromones at his distress.

His chest heaved as he glared at the other alpha, fire burning in his eyes. 

“She don’t have to say shit to you.” He growled, “Now why don’t you run along, pup.” A fresh wave of slick dampened your thighs at his possessive words, your inner omega preening. You knew the two alphas could smell it, each of them stiffening respectively. The man’s lip twitched, as if debating whether or not to stake his claim. Although you doubted the man in front of you had a death wish. Arthur stood tall, trim waist and broad shoulders. A perfect alpha in every way. The man mumbled something along the lines of ‘not worth it’ before walking off. As the younger alpha retreated off to lick his wounds, Arthur’s hand wrapped around your wrist. In a flash he was dragging you out of the saloon, the night air doing very little to cool your feverish flesh. His touch was searing against your skin, branding you like a hot iron. 

He didn’t speak, his spurs clinking as he stomped across the dirt road. Pulling the lead off the hitching post.

“The hell were you thinkin’?” He growled, dropping your wrist, “You know how damn close your heat is and you go and pull this shit! Any of those bastards could’ve-“ He cut himself off with a frustrated growl, his hands on his hips as he faced away from you. “You’re lucky my scent is still on ya, only a young pup like him would've tried it.” 

Your lower lip wobbled as you stared at his back, tears pricking your eyes.

“Why’d you come after me?” You asked, wrapping your arms around your body. That caused him to pause, the hard line of his body tensing at your question. Your legs were starting to wobble, your breaths quickening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked with a huff, turning to face you. You tilted your chin up, using the remaining bit of your strength to face him head on.

“You ain’t my alpha.” You said, tears stinging your eyes as you looked up at him. “You made that clear.”

-

He had been helping you ride out every one of your heats for the last few months. You were sweet on each other, the whole gang knew it, hell the whole world knew it. 

The way your eyes seemed to follow him wherever he went, drawn to him by some magnetic force.

Most would blame your designation. An unmated omega is going to naturally be drawn to any alpha, it’s in your nature. But you weren’t that kind of girl. Never had been. 

Sure, those few days every month when your skin turned feverish and debilitating cramps overtook you, you could do little but beg for an alpha to knot you. That’s why you were careful, leaving camp for a few days to hide away in an empty cabin, to ride out your heat.

When your biology took over, you couldn’t trust yourself. Your omega begging for any alpha, no matter who they were, to mate and knot you. Even the toughest omegas turned to putty around their heat. And ending up mated to an alpha who couldn’t control marking you, was oftentimes a fate worse than death. Breaking a bond, even an accidental one, could sometimes lead to death. That was in the case the Allha agreed to breaking the bond. Far too many omegas had been trapped in abusive bonds for your liking, and you wouldn’t be one of them.

Your fingers were a sorry excuse for a knot, hardly giving you any relief. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and there hadn’t been any alpha you trusted to take care of you. To not take advantage of your clouded judgement. That was until Arthur.

You had been running with the gang for quite a while, maybe a year or two. You would be lying if you said Arthur’s personality had first drawn you to him. He was an alpha in every sense of the word. Strong, loyal, caring, fierce. And he smelt so damn good, his scent covered damn near everything in camp. Pine and leather dusted against the hay bales, near Pearson's wagon, and absolutely covered his makeshift tent. 

You would catch yourself breathing in deeply whenever you walked past him, or his tent. Unable to stop the deep pull in your gut. 

But you never thought he’d look your way, never thought he’d see you. See you as more than an omega.

But he surprised you, treating you as more than just your designation. That had been what made you fall in love with him. To your delight, he had felt the same way. One thing had led to another, and he had offered to work you through your heats. How could you refuse? 

So when you walked over to his tent, your skin red and flushed, you thought he would jump to get you somewhere secluded. 

“Arthur.” You said softly, your heart faltering as he refused to look up at you. His eyes trained on the open page of his journal. “Arthur.” You repeated a little louder this time. His scent was nearly overpowering, settling over you like a heavy blanket. Pine, leather, tobacco, gunpowder.

“What?” He huffed, not raising his gaze. His jaw set as he shielded his eyes with the brim of his hat. 

“Well I…” You faltered, feeling yourself shrink in front of him. Trying to make yourself look smaller to appease him. “My… my heat is coming.” You watched as he took a deep breath, his chest expanding, before he exhaled shakily. No doubt smelling the slick spreading between your thighs. It was like time paused, both of you hung suspended as you waited for him to react.

“Don’t know why you’re talking to me about it.” He mumbled, scribbling in his book. You swallowed thickly, your brows furrowed as you took a step closer. 

“Well we-“ You spoke softly, tilting your head.

“There ain’t a we, don’t you get it woman?” He snapped, shaking his head. “I ain’t your damn alpha, it ain’t my job to help you through your heats.” His blatant rejection was like a slap to the face, your feet moving backwards as you stumbled. 

“What?” You asked, hoping, praying, that you had heard him wrong. 

“There ain’t nothing to discuss. Now I suggest you find somewhere to ride out your heat.” His words hardly a suggestion as his alpha command seeped into his words. You were helpless to do anything but obey him, turning on your heel as tears clouded your vision. 

-

“Damn it woman.” He sighed, the leather leads creaking in his hands as he clenched his fists. “That don’t mean I don’t care for you.” His words were tight, spoken through clenched teeth.

“I don’t need you Arthur.” You whimpered, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. “If I want to find someone to knot me through my heat, I’ll do just that.”

“Like hell you will!” He growled, snarling as he turned to face you. Your eyes widened as he met your gaze, red lined his eyes, the sigh of an incoming rut. A pitiful whimper left your lips, watching as his chest heaved with each labored breath. 

“You’re going into a rut.” You whispered, staring up at him as you clenched around nothing. He looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed harshly. 

“You think I don’t wanna help you through your heat? You think I want you to be in pain?” He asked, shaking his head as he looked down at the dirt road. “But I can’t- I can’t promise it- it won’t take over.” It being the alpha inside him. A shiver ran down your spine despite the intense heat that burned you from the inside out.

An alpha in rut and an omega in heat was a recipe for disaster. Well, an unmated omega in heat. Bonded pairs often went into ruts and heats together, one being triggered by the other. But most omegas didn’t come out unmarked if their alpha was in a rut. Not to mention, it was the best time to breed.

“What if- what if I don’t want you to fight it.” You said breathlessly, your lids feeling heavy.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” He sighed, shaking his head.

“I do!” You urged, stumbling forward. “What if my heat triggered your rut. What if-“

“Don’t say another word.” His scent was only getting stronger, and you had no doubt yours was the same. The gland on the side of his neck was red and glistening. 

“What if you’re meant to be my mate.”

“It’s your heat talking.” He snapped, turning to look at you. “If you were thinking clearly you wouldn’t- you wouldn’t want this. Wouldn’t want me.” His tone is harsh, covering up his obvious self deprecation. Wouldn’t want him? Wouldn’t want Arthur?

You scoffed, shaking your head. “I’ve always wanted you.” You confessed, laying your hand on his arm. As your skin connected, your stomach clenched, your legs giving out from under you as Arthur’s hands grasped your waist.

“Let’s get you inside.” He breathed, his chest heaving as he pulled you along to the nearest hotel. Your mind was going fuzzy, his scent too overpowering as he led you into a room. “Make your nest.” He said, his tone gentle as he leaned against the door. You ripped at your clothes, tearing them off of your body as you began to build your nest. Tearing the bed apart as you laid the blankets out to your liking, adding your own dress and underclothes. For the first time all day you felt some sort of relief.

But you were missing something, missing Arthur. 

“Alpha.” You whined, sweat dripping down your body as the fever started to overtake you. The ache in your core growing as you rubbed at your clit. He stiffened, his fists clenched at his sides. “Please Arthur.” You cried, slipping a finger inside your dripping cunt, “Alpha please.” You arched your back, pushing your breasts up as you tried to entice him.

“It ain’t right.” He said through gritted teeth, shaking his head, “I can’t-“

“I want your knot, I want your mark.” You cried, adding another finger to your heat. Pumping them in and out as you writhed on the bed. It wasn’t enough. Your entire body was ablaze, and the only remedy was his knot. 

“You’re not thinking clearly.” He repeated, his boots scuffing against the floor as he fought against his primal instincts. 

“Oh fuck me Arthur!” You cried out, throwing your head back as your first orgasm washed over you. It soothed the ache, but only for a moment before the next cramp ripped through your body. 

His expression was pained, his brows drawn tight as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

“Darlin I-“ He shook his head, his resolve crumbling, “You know I want you so bad.”

“Then take me, please.” You whimpered, spreading your legs, his red rimmed eyes immediately drawn to your wet cunt. 

“Christ almighty.” He whispered, dropping to his knees as he crawled towards the bed. Pulling off his clothes as he drew closer. He laid his hand on the edge of the bed, his eyes finding yours.

“Come here.” You pleaded, giving him permission to enter your nest. He climbed onto the bed, a deep growl rumbling in his chest as he quickly slotted himself between your legs. His hands gripped your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the swollen glands there. Slick mixing with your pheromones as you writhed under him. “Alpha!”

“Shhh,” He shushed you, “I’m gonna take care of you ‘mega, you know I always do.” He ripped off his shirt, sending the buttons flying across the room. You grabbed the blue fabric before he could discard it, tucking it into your nest. 

“Want you- want your knot- need your knot.” You babbled, reaching for him as he shucked off his pants. His cock bobbed up against his belly. Thick and weeping, as he settled between your legs. He lowered his head, running his nose against the gland on your neck as he scented you. 

“Fuck me darlin’-“ He groaned, white knuckling the fabric as he fought the urge to knot you right then and there, “Smell so damn good- always so goddamn good.” He dipped his hips, the mushroom head of his cock bumping against your clit. A cry ripped through your chest as you raised your hips, chasing after him. “Easy, easy sweetheart.”

“I can’t-“ You cried, tears springing to your eyes, “I need you, need you to knot me! Mark me!”

He thrust into you with a growl, filling you completely. Even with your slick it’s still a pinch, your mouth opens in a silent cry as you clenched down around him. Too sensitive and on edge to stave off your orgasm. Not that you would want to.  He doesn’t wait, pulling out to slam back into you. His cock rubbing up against your walls in a way that has your toes curling.

With each thrust he pushes you higher up on the bed, the headboard thudding against the wall. If the other customers at the inn couldn’t tell what was happening by the stifling scent of pheromones and moans, the slam of the wood against the wall was a dead giveaway.

“So tight- how the hell are you still this tight?” He gasped, clenching his jaw so tight his teeth ached. Fighting the urge to bite down on your swollen gland. His tongue darted out, tasting the sweet skin of your neck. You jolted, clenching down on him as a gasp left your lips. Your nails raked down his back, locking your legs over his hips.

“Y/n… omega…” His breath fanned against your neck as he panted against you. The sound of skin slapping against skin filling the hotel room. 

“I want it-“ You whimpered, baring your neck as you pulled him closer. You knew what he was thinking, a pained groan rumbling through his chest. “We’re meant to be.”

If he marked you, you’d be branded not only with his mark but his scent. Anyone would be able to smell him on you, know that you were his mate. While that wasn’t a problem for law abiding citizens, Arthur had too many enemies. With a bounty on his head that size, not to mention O’Driscolls and Pinkertons on his tail. You’d be an easy target, something to be used against him. 

But goddamn it, he wanted you to be his. You were in every sense of the word, but still unmarked. Which meant any alpha or beta out there could still have you. 

Your hand reached up, cupping his cheek as you made him face him. Your eyes hazy, lined with omega silver as his hips pistoned in and out of you. Wincing slightly as the bulb of his knot began to swell. Catching around the ring of your cunt with every thrust. 

“Mark me. Make me yours.” You pleaded, your voice shaking as you clung to him. 

Arthur considered himself a strong willed man, with a good head on his shoulders. But at the end of the day he was only a man.

“I’ll take good care of you, omega.” He promised, sinking his teeth into your gland before he could change his mind. As his teeth pierced your neck, a mix of pleasure and pain washed over you. He growled against your skin, pushing deep inside you with a final thrust as his knot slipped within your pussy, locking the two of you together. Another orgasm washed over you as he began to fill you with his cum. The cramps in your belly almost nonexistent as you breathed out a content sigh. His jaw loosened, pulling away from your neck. His tongue lapped at the torn skin, cleaning you up as you laid boneless under him. 

His knot was still pulsing, pumping load after load inside you. Maybe this time it would take. That thought sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“C’mon darlin’.” He cooed softly, gently moving your legs off his hips. He tilted your body so you were on your side with him behind you. Both of you moaning as his knot tugged at your walls from the movement. “That’s better.” He whispered against the shell of your ear, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. His hand spread across your belly, warming your skin.

You could sense his fear, the insecurities lying deep within him. Your bond now set in stone, his feelings, his scent, all that stronger. 

“It wasn’t my heat talking.” You promised, his arm tightening around your waist.

“You’re still in heat.” He mumbled against your skin, running his nose up and down your neck as though he couldn’t help himself. 

“I’m clear enough to know that.” You said, turning your head to look back at him. “I’ve wanted you to mark me ever since you started helping me.” 

“I believe you.” He whispered, a myriad of emotions shining in his eyes. “I just- don’t know why you’d want to be tied to an old outlaw like me.” His gaze lowered, an almost shameful expression crossing his face.

“I don’t care what you’ve done Arthur.” You said softly, his thumb rubbing small circles against your skin.

“You should.” He mumbled, “If you were in your right mind you’d run as far away from me as possible-“

“I don’t care because I see you.” You said cutting him off, “Past the bullshit, past the persona you have to play, past even the alpha.” You placed your hand over his, lacing your fingers together. “I see you Arthur.” 

He pulled his hand away, your heart sinking. But before you could dwell on it, his hand tilted your jaw. Turning your head to look at him as he covered your lips with his. You eagerly returned the kiss, parting your lips as his tongue darted out to taste you. The metallic taste of your blood still heavy in his mouth.

“Don’t know how I got so lucky.” He mumbled breathlessly as he pulled away, “But I swear to you, I won’t let nothin’ hurt you. Even me.”

“I know you won’t.” You said, pressing your lips against his.

[echantedtoon]

Oh, okay, so how about.... Jealous cookies ?

Like, we were doing how own thing, (they were not too far away from us) then a cookie started to flirt and our (dear) husbands arrived saying "we're leaving now."

And sorry for disturbing you again !! Sometimes drama get over me >_<

Its ok. Don't apologize. Sorry for taking so long with this, however please read the rules before sending anything. Usually I don't do requests but I'll do yours cuz I like some jealous cookies. I'll be using the same cookies from my last post hope you're ok with that. Warnings for harassment.

ELDER FAERIE COOKIE:

-Im gonna say it now, he doesn't get jealous very easily. He trusts you fully and in very secure in your relationship. After all you both had been married for hundreds of years. Of course you both being gorgeous cookies has had lots of admirers over the years so he's very much used to it. So in short it takes a lot for him to be jealous- However a persistent cookie who's constantly making googoo eyes at his wife while he's right there and knows she's VERY married?? Oh yeah. That'll wear down his patience after a while.

-He's probably kept his mouth shut about your new 'assistant' for a long while now because he knows you'd always shut him down and he didn't want to look insecure in front of you or his subjects. However even White Lily Cookie noticed her friend's glares at the flirty cookie. The way he'd frown and narrow his eyes whenever he'd tail after his wife and make comments. "You're so lovely today, Your Majesty.~" "Thank you." "It's a shame his lordship can't accompany you, perhaps I can-" "Can you please bring me the reports about the delegation? I have to go eat lunch with my husband."

-However his breaking point was when he walked into the assistant fairy going through your belongings in HIS bedroom- "Darling?" "Hm?" He doesn't look up from his book. "Where is Assistant Fairy Cookie? I thought he was going to help me coordinate the festival?" "Oh. He was fired for unprofessional workplace conduct. I'll have a new attendant assigned to you soon...Preferably a lady attendant." You're not surprised but you were surprised by your husband contemplating constructing a dungeon for a cookie in particular-

SHADOW MILK COOKIE:

-The cookie is DEAD. He's either going to be instantly crumbled or be prolonged at his whims thanks to his strings. There's no in between. Shadow Milk is THE strongest of the Beasts and we know how possessive he can be towards things that belong to him or he perceives at his and you are no exception. It all really depends on what mood he's in when the 'Nice Guy' Cookie shows up and starts flirting on you. It also depends on how the cookie flirts with you.

-If he apologizes and leaves when you tell him you have a husband, then he might not do anything at all. He'll be extremely clingy and suspicious for the rest of the day but that's about it, might still send Candy Apple to prank him tho. If he persists then he has no problems with appearing, threatening, and literally throwing hands if he gets heated enough. However if he grabs you or Witches forbid tries to forcefully kiss you or something similar then it's 100% over for him. Either he's getting crumbled right then and there doesn't even care who's watching, or he's disappearing into the Spire where he'll 'take care of' his new toy later. As I said it really depends on what mood he's in and how the cookie reacts to your rejection that decides his choice.

BURNING SPICE COOKIE:

-Hoo boy. Another very jealous and possessive cookie. His possessiveness rivals Shadow Milk's however with Shadow Milk you have a chance to walk away unharmed and with your dough in tack. You don't stand a chance of living if THE LITERAL COOKIE OF DESTRUCTION so much even THINKS you're looking at HIS woman. HE staked a claim on her once he conquered her village and took her for himself. He has her wear his colors and soul jam symbols for a reason!! Despite the fact that he refers to you as his 'concubine' and there really wasn't any official ceremony, you're MORE than married to him so others making eyes at your beauty is a direct challenge and insult in his mind.

-It was learnt pretty fast to keep away from you, and even the female servants you were given often didn't look you in the eye in fear of Burning Spice mistaking eye contact or interest. The few times that someone WAS bold enough to try anything was immediately crumbled as soon as he found out.

PURE VANILLA COOKIE:

-This sweet boy has the patience of a saint! Literally since he actually IS one. Like with Elder Faerie Cookie, he's very secure in his relationship with you and trusts you to not cheat on him. He knows you can handle yourself so if someone starts hitting on you, he'll patiently watch and see what happens. If the guy persists then he'll step in and defuse the situation trying to get him to go away politely first. If it escalates to the point of a physical fight-...Well Pure Vanilla won't be so vanilla then. A lot of people mistake his patience and kindness for weakness but he won't tolerate someone insulting and trying to get through him to his wife, so they'll harmlessly find themselves thrown across the room eating dirt. A harmless blast that won't hurt them but gets his point across. He doesn't like violence but will use a small amount of it if needed.

MILLENNIAL TREE COOKIE:

-A mixed reaction of Pure Vanilla and Elder Faerie Cookie. He's very, secure, trusting, etc. He also doesn't intervene unless he deems absolutely necessary for him which may sometimes cause a problem if it seems like he doesn't care but really he's just patient. If they keep bothering you then he'll conjure up a few tree branches around you both. To bring you to him, and to go dump the instagater into the nearest body of water.

[colorlessjay]

I was thinking, there should be a Supernatural game. Like an open world one where you can do world or side quests/case or commissions.

John's journal could be where you can see the quests/case. Maybe there's a page there that's just all about the monsters you'll encounter.

Collect items to upgrade, maybe there could be a "this week's monster". The more stronger or boss level monsters can be, like, the Leviathans or other big bad ones they fought on the show.

Maybe there's like a thing or points where you can save up to unlock other characters.

Idk why you're telling me, a non-game developer, this, BUT

[Cracks open my idea book]

Hear me out

There are two games: The first one takes place from season 1 to season 2, and is more so a small-scale concept of the game

Think Phasmaphobia, but instead of just identifying the monster in one night, there are types of investigation you can choose from:

Stake out - Where you go to the scene of the crime and use John's journal and little tricks to figure out what monster you're up against. Not a guarantee you'll pinpoint the exact monster, but it's the least suspicious and you may find extra weapons

Interviews - You go around town talking to people, trying to find clues. You get WAY more information that you can cross-reference with the journal, and have the opportunity to visit shops and gain extra equipment. However, you have to keep suspicions low and avoid getting sussed out, which can lock certain interactions

Police Files - Sneak mission. It's repetitive, but a guarantee you'll get all the info you need to identify the monster. It is difficult, though, as it requires you to break into the police station, navigate it, avoid guards, get the files, and sneak back out. Getting caught is an automatic fail, so it's a high-risk, high-reward.

In the Investigation Section, you get the opportunity to explore and find collectables. References to the show during the era and added information in John's Journal

The next stage is the actual monster fight:

Depending on what you find out about the monster, you have to pack what you need in a single dufflebag, choose your next location (Graveyard, house, forest, etc.). If you guessed the monster wrong and chose the wrong location, it goes to a cut scene of the brothers going back to the motel after a bust, and another victim is taken. It gives you an extra clue as to what the monster could be, BUT your final score for the hunt does take a hit

If you DO pick the correct location, you then have to find and hunt the monster. I'm thinking a Silent Hill style fight. Maybe Death by Daylight esque where you either choose to fight the monster head-on, or sneak up on it

A game like this, I feel like HAS to be a multiplayer where one plays Sam and the other plays Dean. And you both work together to take the monster down

If you fail, it's just game over. If one of you gets deathly injured, the other brother has a chance to heal them (video game logic). The game only ends when you both die

If you win, it jumps to a cut scene of the salt and burn, where Sam and Dean recite to you what you did and your fuck ups. If you get a perfect hunt, instead of the salt and burn, you get a mini cut scene of the brothers eating at a diner, grabbing a beer, relaxing at their motel, or just on the road again.

Then the game repeats, randomizing what monster you get and where you are. And there's a difficulty slider that gives you more monsters to fight in one game, makes you remember random facts from the show itself to identify them, and forces you to be smart about your attacks

The second game, or more so the sequel to this one, would take place around season 8 and beyond, where they gave the bunker ad more allies

THIS ONE would be a semi-open world because I don't think it's a good idea to have a game that gives you the opportunity to explore THE ENTIRETY OF AMERICA

So, instead, you choose the location of your next hunt using the Map Table in the bunker, and it loads you to a small, randomized town/city in that state.

The bunker, I feel would act as home base that you can kinda decorate depending on if you play as Sam or Dean. You can decorate your own room, add collectibles to the walls, and utilize parts of the bunker

Unlike the previous game, you can upgrade Sam and Dean's skills. You can work out at the gym to gain strength (Makes your melee attacks stronger), read lore from the library (Unlocks new information about monsters), go to the shooting range (Better aim, stability and less recoil when using guns), or do fun activities like watching movies, cooking, or hanging out with NPCs like Charlie, Kevin, Castiel, and more (Improves social skills and gets you more information through interviews), or explore the towns outside the bunker and unlock certain cutscenes and character interactions. And more stuff like speed and durability

The actual hunting gameplay is similar to the first game, but with some major changes.

Instead of a monster of the week, you actually have a storyline to follow. Definitely a condensed version of the actual series' story beats cut into chapters/seasons. Each chapter has you fighting a big bad, be it the Leviathans, the British Men of Letters, Lucifer, and more. You have to investigate where they are, what they're up to, and what to bring to stop them, meeting new characters along the way, and having to fight minor enemies

It's definitely less replayable than the first game, focusing on upgrading Sam and Dean and defeating Chuck, the final boss. It's more story-focused, and I'm imagining something similar to GTA where people can and will definitely notice Sam and Dean acting off, and there will be times when you HAVE to run away and hide before the cops get you. There are more cut scenes, more customization on what the brothers wear, and where they can go.

Game two has a DLC where you can play as Castiel on his own, and it's a side story fetch quest where you need to go around trying to obtain certain ingredients for a spell

You get to fight monsters still, but you don't upgrade Castiel. You only have Cas' angel blade and grace as your weapons (Grace being used to either attack or heal yourself mid battle, but you have a limited supply. It replenishes over time). Your final boss is like a monster/villain we haven't seen in the show, and defeating it gives you a cut scene of Cas coming back to the bunker

Sam and Dean are all like, "Where have you been???"

And Cas just drops what he's got onto the table and says, "There was a road bump."

And it turns out they didn't need it anyway, so they store it in the storage room and the game ends with Cas laying in bed watching shitty TV

------

Anyways, thanks for listening to me ramble about a game that's never gonna exist

[angsty-art-ist]

part 2 of the NPMD Monster High AU! seriously thank you guys for all the love on part 1, it means a lot that you like my silly hyperfixation crossover :]

a little lore note: in this AU, monsters can use magic to blend in with humans during the day, sort of like in the g3 cartoon. Hatchetfield is kind of split into the normie side and smaller monster side. the monster part of town is magically warded to make humans want to leave quickly, and monsters don’t tend to cross over into the human areas (with the exception of adults with normie jobs, like Mayor Lauter and most of the adult HF cast). Hatchetfield High is a “exclusive private school” in the monster part of town, and the normie teens, like Grace and Max, go to Sycamore.

why are Grace and Max humans if this is a monster AU, you ask? don’t worry, i have plans for them :)

Steph:

she’s a vampire because… well because she’s rich. you’ve heard of old money? these Lauters are ancient money

i had a hard time with her outfit because my main references were Draculaura and Elissabat, who are both very dressy, but i wanted to stay true to Steph’s casual grungy style… and then i remembered The Lost Boys were THEE original grunge vampires, so i mashed David and Paul’s jackets together and gave her a Santa Carla tee as a shout-out

the chains and plaid pattern tie back to Pete’s design, like the plaid of her flannel and his bow tie in the show <3

her father isn’t technically actually a king, but runs Hatchetfield’s monster community like he is one. a close encounter with a band of monster hunters the better part of a century ago forced the monsters into hiding under his command, and Steph’s mother ended up staked. Solomon hasn’t been the same since…

Max:

his design is simpler than the others, but that’s for a reason :) the mansters usually have more boring outfits than the ghouls, so it’s not that out of place for Monster High, right? i plan to make a few more ‘doll lines’ for this au- i’m thinking Dawn of the Dance next ;)

his jacket is based on the G1 varsity jackets that Heath Burns and Slo Mo had in their first waves, but with Max’s iconic blue. i got rid of the Hatchetfield ‘H’ since he goes to Sycamore with the other normies in this AU. go Timberwolves, i guess?

his striped shirt is based on Freddy Krueger’s iconic sweater, because Max in the musical seems to take a lot of cues from Freddy; coming back from the dead to get revenge on his killers, vulgar one-liners, gruesome kills, and even a parody of the Freddy rhyme painted on the set background. one, two, Jäger’s coming for you…

side note but i had a really hard time getting Will’s likeness in this pseudo-MH style. i think he ended up a bit too Bruce Campbell-y. maybe it’s the chin.

Grace:

sorry, Grace, i’m changing your name a bit. if you need a refresher on the G1 MH lore; Van Hellscream is the Monster High expy of Van Helsing. his niece Lilith appears in the Ghouls Rule movie, but i’m stretching out the timeline a bit so let’s say Lilith is Grace’s aunt or something. Chasity is her maiden name, which the family goes by because “Hellscream doesn’t sound very Christian”

these days, the Van Hellscream’s monster-hunting legacy is more of a family legend than history, and her parents don’t even believe that monsters exist… but Grace knows that something unholy is going on at that “private school”. she may not have Great-Uncle Abraham’s arsenal, but she has the power of God and years of repressed rage on her side

design wise she changed the least from her canon outfit. she’s covered in monster-killing weapons- crosses, stakes, silver bullets, and the flowers on her blouse and jeans are alliums, aka garlic flowers- which, fun fact, were originally thought to be what repelled vampires, rather than garlic bulbs!

her blouse is based on Nancy’s nightdress in Nightmare on Elm Street to match with Max’s Freddy stripes

[m1tchgp]

i stand by it

@m1tchgp great take

[aventurineswife]

you said you would do it if someone requested soooo……

Could you make a part 2 of the Pirate!Aventurine x Mermaid!Reader ? Do what you want I just want a part 2 honestly hehe

please please please please please please please please please please please please Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please Please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please please

Compass of the Heart

Summary: Aventurine, a cunning pirate with a taste for risk, finds himself haunted by the memory of a mermaid who once sang him into peril. When you reappear, drawn by a shared pull neither of you fully understands, an unlikely partnership forms. As you navigate the open seas together—he on his ship, you alongside it—the lines between adventure, freedom, and love begin to blur. In each other, you uncover the courage to face the past and chart a new course, proving that even the most restless souls can find their anchor.

Tags: Pirate!Aventurine x Mermaid!Reader, Romance, Found Family, Pirate/Mermaid Dynamic, Slow Burn, Emotional Healing, Forbidden Love, Adventure and Freedom, Soft Moments Amid Danger.

Warnings: Mild references to past trauma and betrayal, Brief mentions of danger at sea, Emotional vulnerability and introspection.

A/N: I DID NOT EXPECT PEOPLE TO ACTUALLY LIKE THAT FIC WTFF!! 😭😭

[Part 1]

The cove was quiet, save for the rhythmic lapping of waves against the rocks. Aventurine stood where you’d last disappeared, his elaborate coat billowing slightly in the sea breeze. He turned the glowing blue gemstone on his belt absentmindedly, the faint light reflecting in his eyes. Months had passed since he let you go, and yet, the memory of your voice haunted him.

Perhaps it was foolish to hope the sea might bring you back. But Aventurine had always been a gambler, and this was a wager he was willing to take.

He didn’t have to wait long.

A hauntingly familiar melody rose from the depths, weaving through the salty air and settling over the cove like a mermaid’s lullaby. Aventurine’s heart leapt, though he schooled his features into their usual mask of cool confidence. The water shimmered, glowing faintly under the moonlight, and then you emerged—graceful and radiant, your tail catching the silver light.

"You’re late," Aventurine drawled, tilting his hat. His smirk softened as he caught your eye. "I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me."

You floated closer, your expression unreadable. "And yet you stayed here, waiting. Why?"

He chuckled, stepping closer to the edge of the rocky shore. "Why does anyone gamble? For the thrill, of course." He paused, letting his gaze linger on you. "And perhaps... because I couldn’t quite forget you either."

You tilted your head, a small smile curving your lips. "Careful, pirate. I might think you’re getting sentimental."

"Sentimental?" He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Perish the thought. I’m merely staking my claim on the most intriguing treasure the sea has ever offered."

Your laugh was soft, musical—a sound he realized he’d missed more than he’d admit.

The days that followed were a strange kind of bliss. You joined Aventurine aboard his ship, though you kept mostly to the water, swimming alongside the vessel. His crew, wary at first, quickly warmed to your presence. You warned them of storms and hidden reefs, and in return, they treated you as one of their own, tossing you trinkets and sharing stories from the deck.

Aventurine, true to form, kept his cards close to his chest. He entertained you with his wit and charm, though every so often, his gaze betrayed something deeper.

One evening, as the ship rested in calm waters, Aventurine found you perched on the railing, your tail trailing in the sea. The moonlight painted you in silver and gold, and for once, he found himself at a loss for words.

"You’re quiet tonight," you observed, glancing at him.

"Just thinking," he replied, leaning against the railing beside you.

"About what?"

He hesitated, then let out a soft laugh. "About how much trouble you’ve caused me. First luring my ship into a trap, and now... this."

You arched a brow. "This?"

"This," he repeated, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. "You’ve gone and made me care, haven’t you?"

Your laughter was soft but genuine, and for a moment, Aventurine forgot the weight of his past.

Weeks turned into months, and together you charted a new course—not for treasure or conquest, but for freedom. Aventurine’s ship became a sanctuary, a place where neither the laws of men nor the bindings of the sea could reach you.

Over time, your relationship deepened. Aventurine, ever the enigma, began to let his walls down, sharing stories of his past—of loss, betrayal, and the relentless drive to survive. In return, you shared your own tales, of the sea’s cruel bindings and the song that had once been your only solace.

"You’re not the man I thought you were," you said one evening, your voice soft.

"And what man did you think I was?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes searching.

"A villain," you replied, meeting his gaze. "But you’re not. You’re just... lost."

He smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. "And what does that make you, then? My compass?"

"Maybe," you said, your smile mirroring his. "If you’ll let me."

Their legend grew, whispered in taverns and sung by sailors. The pirate with the jeweled eyepatch and the mermaid with the haunting voice, defying the odds and carving their own path across the waves.

Together, they became a force to be reckoned with—a pair bound not by chains, but by choice. Aventurine, the gambler who had always played to win, had finally found a game worth staying in. And you, the mermaid who once sang of loss and betrayal, had found a home beyond the sea.

In the end, it wasn’t the ocean or the treasures that defined their story. It was the gamble they’d taken on each other—and the happiness they’d found in the unlikeliest of places.

Your welcome 😇💖