#this is an easy credit but i do NOT like you

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

60 / 3.9k / part 4 of shark mermen Gaz and Soap with human!reader

kinktober keywords: dubcon, monster mermen, monsterfucking, teratophilia, overt predator/prey dynamics, hypnosis/hypnokink, praise

...

Gaz's hands slide back down, and his palms are warm and rough over your belly and hips. It's all he can do not to crush you against his chest and take what he wants. He can't stand how helpless you look.

Soap's eyes are on your legs. His hands nearly engulf your calves. He hooks his fingers under your knees to open your legs further.

You watch them softly, offering yourself to them in your trance.

nsfw ⬇

Gaz watches Soap dip his head and run his teeth over your calves. "Stay still," Gaz repeats. "It's easy to do what we ask. Isn't it?"

"Uhm..." You shift your hips at the ticklish feeling Soap's mouth is giving you.

Soap glances up from your legs to your face. Your eyelids droop, breath steady and body warm. He strokes your leg with his thumb and then slides his hand higher, making a low sound in his chest. "You don't need to answer yet."

"Okay."

Gaz's hands shift lower. His claw-tips brush the waistline of your shorts. "I’m curious. You said before--humans mate for fun just like mer do." Gaz's voice is still low and sweet, and his hands slide up and down your lower stomach. He pushes your shirt up an inch. "How long had it been since you've mated with another human?"

"I dunno." A lazy, obvious lie.

"Yeah?" Gaz's fingers move ever so slowly up to your chest. "Have you never been mated before? You want to know how it feels?"

You look away and watch Soap, who in turn watches Gaz lift your tattered shirt higher on your body.

"Or it's been a while," Gaz murmurs. "Long enough for you to be needy."

Soap, to his credit, keeps his nature in check. As much as he wants to seize what he wants with both hands, he's stock-still. His eyes are ravenous at the edges of your torn clothes.

Gaz strokes the hair back from your ear. You're dimly aware of the cold air and sea spray reaching your chest as he pulls your tattered shirt away. His hands feel so good. Soap leans forward, and his tongue, rough and warm, slides up the swell of your breast and scrapes against your nipple. You jolt. But Soap’s weight in front of you and Gaz at your back keep you where you are.

Gaz studies you as you surface briefly and squirm. He’s enthralled with you the way he is with everything else he can see from the water but never touch. Rare and prized. A human--something he's wanted in his grasp for so long, and now that has you in his greedy hands, he's determined to smudge his fingerprints across every shiny inch.

"Let him feel you," Gaz murmurs, a hand sliding up and under your neck, tilting your head up until his breath fans down your neck. "Let me see."

Soap's tongue drifts down your sternum and against your belly as he lowers his head. You shift. The urge to stir within this pleasant dream grows the more their hands and mouths run over you. It’s too good. Gaz's hypnotic suggestions can't quite quell your body's natural instincts to buck and move with idle pleasure under their touches. Your eyelids flutter. Your limbs are full of mercury, heavy and liquid. Gaz's voice floats over you, and his hands roam every inch that Soap hasn't already covered.

Gaz's hand slides from your neck into your hair and pulls your head back to kiss your open, panting mouth. The movement makes your back arch. Soap takes full advantage. He nips at your tits with shark teeth.

You gasp, hips jerking forward, and momentarily surface from the trance with Gaz's tongue in your mouth, Soap's teeth on your chest, his hands squeezing your tits, and two of Gaz's fingers pressing down on your core through your shorts. You're already pushing your hips up against his fingers, waking up in the middle of the act your body has already acquiesced to.

Your groan of confusion is swallowed by Gaz's mouth on yours. He keeps your mouth open and your chin tilted up as his fingers work you over your shorts. You can’t hide how you respond--your hips move to press more sensitive nerve endings against his claws.

Soap feels your chest push out as you swallow your complaints. "She supposed to be waking up?" Soap mutters drunkenly with his mouth full of tits.

But Gaz isn't shocked. "She likes this," he replies. "Feel."

Soap's hand joins Gaz's, and you feel his thick, rough fingers push against your core alongside Gaz's. You're already wet and responsive. He groans a curse against your skin.

As Gaz pulls away, your hips keep circling and your eyes begin to close again. Your wet folds stick to the fabric of your panties, slick and cold. "Nn, what's happening?"

Gaz looks down at your half-lidded expression. "I'm afraid we're taking our time with you."

"Hard to keep your eyes closed when you enjoy it so much," Soap says. His hands slide up your thighs and back down again like he’s deciding what part of you to touch next.

Gaz's thumb slips down against your core again and presses down harder. You pant and let your head fall back against his chest. You try to remember why you shouldn't be doing this, but it just seems so much easier to let it happen. To let it feel good. They're just curious about you. About your human body. Right?

You feel Gaz's hand slide around your torso again, pulling you closer. He guides your legs open and you feel Soap slot his body between them. His body is so warm and heavy. Gaz rubs you from behind you as Soap's mouth works your chest again, all slick tongue and mouth.

Gaz’s clawed fingertips hook the tattered fabric of your shorts and pull gently. The fabric begins coming off in downy strips. Soap's mouth is on your core before it's all stripped away, tongue lapping at you between strings of saltwater-soaked polyester.

Gaz’s chest vibrates behind you again, and his hands slide over your legs and hips. Soap's mouth works between your legs, and Gaz slides his fingers through your hair and over your shoulder. "How does she feel?"

"S'all soft," Soap mumbles. He slides his hands under your thighs to keep you open.

You wriggle against the odd sensation of Soap lapping circles around your hole and finally sliding in. His tongue is so big and wet. It goes so deep. You feel dizzy.

Gaz watches--feels--your hips moving against Soap's mouth with half-open eyes and parted lips. You grab Gaz's arm with one hand, digging your nails into his forearm in your haze. Your other hand goes to Soap's hair, grasping the wet strands roughly. Soap groans against you. His fingers dig into your thighs and he pushes your hips back to him. He wants more. He wants to pull you against his mouth and work you harder, but it’s difficult with you in Gaz’s lap. He hands slide up to grip your hips.

"Ah..." You feel Gaz's cock emerge from its sheath underneath you and squirm, dizzy. You should pull away, but then you feel yourself tightening up around Soap's tongue. "W-Wait, I can't--"

The plea turns into a cry as an unexpected climax seizes you. You clamp down hard on Soap's tongue, your legs trying to squeeze together despite his hands holding them apart. He doesn't stop. Not until Gaz pulls you away from him to lay you on the gravel on your side, your back still pressed to his chest.

You remember again you should protest. But at what? In his hands or Soap's--it should make no difference. Your pussy felt so good with Soap’s tongue inside it. His saliva is all over your slit, mixed with your fluids, coating your thighs.

Gaz’s lust makes him restless. He wants to leave his mark on you. He nips the shell of your ear, his hand sliding to your hair again. You bump back against his cock, standing ready so close to your pussy. Your hips shy away, but he doesn't let you go far.

He bites and grinds against you. The friction isn’t enough. His hand slides down to your hip, his nails sliding along your lower belly.

He wants you but he doesn't want to break you. He has to compromise. With his hands on your hips, he slides his length through your slippery thighs.

You gasp at the feeling against your oversensitive outer core. You stare down to see him poking out from between your thighs, glimmering with your slick and Soap's spit. He's big. So big. Maybe too much to handle. But you can't hide your real thoughts as he slides his hand lower to rub your poor swollen clit and feel how wet you still are.

You squeak and gasp. Every roll of his hips is going to skewer you, you just know it.

"Gods, human," he growls. It has nothing to do with the shark-like parts of his brain. His chest rumbles against your back, and his breathing is heavy in your ear. You have him so riled up that it's all he can do not to bite you hard enough to draw blood now. "I'd hurt you if we did this," Gaz whispers, his breath hot against your neck. He groans softly as he slides through your slickness. "We'd hurt you, wouldn't we?"

You're sensitive and wet and close, and you don't want his perfect hands and perfect voice and perfect length to go away. "No, ah--! Put it in!"

He grips your waist and pulls you harder against him. "You don't know what you're asking for."

"Put it in, please.” You try to angle your hips back toward him even while he stops you.

He makes a sound of heated irritation. The vibrations resonate through your body and make your thighs clench harder.

"You might regret this," Gaz says. The more you beg and plead the more his mind is clouded by the need he feels.

But the look Soap is giving you. Like he wants you just as badly as Gaz does but in a dozen worse ways. And you know he knows what you're asking for, too.

Gaz must see you looking at Soap, because he snarls and thrusts between your thighs, jerking you back roughly in time with his movements. You cry out in surprise and delight. The gravel bites into your arm and hip, but you're too dazed and ecstatic to care.

"Use me," you pant.

Soap looms closer. His hands slide over your body and he licks a hot path up your neck to your jaw. He mouths your earlobe and his shark teeth graze your neck. "You wanna get hurt, hen?"

"Mm!"

Soap pulls your face up to meet his. It's a chaotic kiss--teeth, tongue, open-mouthed and messy the way he likes it. He can't get close enough.

All the while, Gaz's hands are on your hips, your waist, your thighs. He's biting at your neck and shoulders and growling into your ear. "We don't want to hurt her," he hisses. But his claws leave tiny pricks in the skin where his grips you.

You're lost between them. Soap bites your bottom lip and it stings with saltwater. Gaz angles his hips up to keep himself from sliding inside you, and you moan desperately for more stimulation.

You're so close to having him inside. You know how much he wants he wants to stretch his way inside. And Soap's teeth are on your neck again, his hands exploring, wanting to touch so much of you as your mouth is occupied with his. You're so small and soft, so warm and receptive. He wants to do whatever will make you feel good. He's dizzy with it all.

You squeeze your thighs together around Gaz's length. If he won't use you the way you want, you'll just make him feel good like this. You have to.

Gaz groan of pleasure blows through your hair. His hypnosis was too effective. Not only are you docile enough to let them play with you--you want this so bad it's driving him over the edge of his cratering willpower.

Soap's teeth are sharp and his tongue is warm, and for a moment you just lean back to let him take control of your open mouth. He's got your chin tilted up with the pressure of his lips alone, and his tongue slithers along yours to pull the taste of you from your mouth. One hand comes up to squeeze your jaw, keeping your head tilted forward, and your body is so small—so easy—that it's so natural for his other hand to wrap around your neck.

As soon as his hand tightens gingerly, you moan. Gaz tenses up behind you. Then he starts railing your thighs for all he's worth.

They both feel the moment change. It's like a switch is flipped.

Gaz feels how wet you get once Soap's hand tightens around your neck, and he leans down and kisses you. Gaz's lips graze your neck, too gentle at first, and then the kiss turns into a bite. His teeth sink in, breaking the skin and making you cry out. He empties himself between your thighs, thrusting furiously.

You squeal with pain until his movements grow languid. The sharp pain clears the fog in your mind somewhat as his mouth unlatches from your shoulder. Your neck is stinging, your skin and muscles protesting. Gaz kisses the mark he left. Your hips are going to be sore and covered in bruises come tomorrow. You push on Soap's chest, trying to get your bearings.

He hardly notices your comparatively small human hands pressing against him and doesn't budge. He laps at Gaz's bite mark on your shoulder. He needs more. He pulls you forward into him to press his length against your core.

"Help me help you," he says, voice low and rough.

"Wait, it's--” Your voice wavers. Too big. You think it's too big--he wonders if you really mean it, or if you're just afraid. It's big, and big is dangerous. But you're not supposed to say no. You're supposed to agree. You're supposed to let it happen.

Soap glances up at Gaz with an expectant look.

Gaz looks down on you, laid out under Soap, with dark eyes. "Don't fuss," he murmurs. "You remember why?"

You gasp as Soap ruts against you. Your mind is tattered, buzzing with the desire to lay down and be easy--but just as much with the need to orient yourself, Gaz's hypnotic voice be damned.

"Just lie back and let Soap feel how good you are," he says. His voice feels distant now. Your thoughts are scrambled, and it's still too hard to listen to your instincts.

You arch as Soap ruts again, your struggling turning into pleased overstimulation.

He feels the fight going out of you. It's about time. You need relief, he’s certain. You need someone to make the right choice for you. Soap flips you onto your stomach. His hands are all over you, dragging down your sides, shifting your hips, spreading your thighs. "Such a convenient place for a hole," Soap says, smirking. He circles your entrance with a big fingertip.

Before you can decide whether to protest or not, he sinks his finger into your tight heat. You gasp, pitching forward with your forearms onto the rough gravel.

Soap slides his finger back and forth curiously. He plunges another inch every thrust. You're so wet he doubts you can feel anything but the size of him. You certainly don't seem to mind how big his fingers are. Or his claws gliding past your walls. In fact, the deeper he goes, the more you press your hips back into his hand. His smirk turns into a crooked grin. "Think she likes this, aye?"

"No argument there," Gaz says. He coils in front of you on the gravel and pulls your chin up to look at him. With your head angled up, he sees the flush on your face and the dazed look in your eyes. He tucks some hair behind your ear. Your neck is marked where he bit you. It's not even bleeding, but it's bruised and shiny. His eyes darken.

His teeth marks span most of your shoulder. His hands, too, are bigger than yours. He could wrap the entire lower half of your face in his fingers to keep you in place. To guide your mouth where he wants. The idea is more than a little attractive. "She's so small we can touch everything at once," he muses.

"Think she’d like that?”

Gaz looks at him and smirks. "She doesn't seem to be doing a lot of thinking right now."

You gaze up at him as best you can. Your eyes are half-lidded. You grasp his hand with one of yours, your tongue slipping out of your mouth to run up his fingers.

"So, so small," he says. His thumb and index finger pinch your jaw. "Careful," he murmurs, voice low. "Watch those teeth."

His thumb goes to your plush bottom lip, slips into your mouth, and rests gently over your tongue. You hollow your cheeks. The suction is too gentle to stimulate him the way he'd need, really. He shifts to lay out in front of you and presses down on your tongue to keep your mouth open. "You've got no room for me in that pretty mouth of yours, do you?"

"Ahn?" you reply dimly.

Your pink tongue and tiny human teeth fascinate him. He can't believe something so small and harmless is dangerous enough to have earned you a place at the top of the food chain on land. He's even more fascinated by the way you're sucking on his thumb and rubbing it against your tongue’s rough, warm surface. He chuckles and shifts his hand under your chin again to hold you in place. "No, a little human thing like you hasn't got room for one of us," he says. "All I'd have to do is push a little, and you'd be full up."

Soap groans. "Fuck, yes." He worms a second finger into you and you squeal.

He's careful--he really is. Soap might be a bit rough sometimes, but this is nothing compared to his usual way of doing things. Gaz's eyes follow the line of your throat you arch back.

He looks up at Soap and his smirk turns vicious. "You getting something out of this?"

Soap's gaze flicks up. He adds another finger and you whine. "What, it's a competition?"

"When is it not?"

While they bicker, you bend yourself into position after position to better take Soap's fingers. You finally manage to ease all three in and grind your hips back against him with a heavy breath. You're dripping--not just with Gaz's spend, but with your own slick.

Just then, right as you’re starting to rapturously enjoy all three fingers, he's pulling them out of you and positioning himself between your legs.

Soap puts his hands on your hips and looks up to see the stare Gaz is giving him. "I was playing fair," Soap argues, dropping back into the mer-tongue. "You weren't."

"Watch your size," Gaz warns. "Don't play too much and hurt her. She's small."

"Why? You want another turn after I'm done?" Soap says.

It’s not that. That's what Gaz's eyes say. In fact, he doesn’t much care for Soap having a turn at all. Gaz wants to fill you full by himself and keep you that way.

But his lips stay clamped shut. Soap gives him a knowing, sly smile.

"Don't get greedy," Gaz says. There's bite in his tone. "She’s my catch."

Soap lets it go for now. His attention drifts back to you and all the things he could do.

You rut backward impatiently. "What are you talking about?" you ask.

"Don't mind us," Soap says, grinning. "We're just figuring out how we're going to play with you."

He pushes himself against you and the size difference is enough to make him pause. He could just press you into the gravel without any effort. He would love to use you in so many ways, but he's holding back. He doesn't want to break Gaz's apparent hypnotic hold on you.

You sigh and push back against him. You manage to catch his tip in your folds, but you can't quite make it go in. Soap hisses softly at the feeling. It's all he can do to keep from pushing all the way in to your wet warmth. Instead, he leans forward and plants his hands on the hard ground, surrounding your body with his arms and waiting for you to move.

You try bouncing backward, riding his tip, determined to take him in. You don't fully understand how much trouble that will be until you ease yourself back enough to stretch your pussy as far as three of his fingers had. You glance back to see you haven't taken him all in yet--not even close. Then you feel a strange bump up against your clit and look down to see him sporting not one cock, but two.

"Oh," you say in a distant voice.

"Not too observant for a human," Gaz says. But then, it's partly his fault you're too focused on trying to bury some cock in you to notice they both have two.

Your gasp turns into a long, breathy moan as Soap pushes into you a few more inches. You're slick and ready inside, but you slide your legs apart further, needing to take more but unsure how you'll make it fit.

"Easy on her," Gaz says again. "She can't take all of you."

Soap looks back at Gaz, his eyes dark. "You seem awfully concerned about her all of a sudden."

Gaz scoffs. "I just know you. I know how impatient you are."

You ease back and circle your hips until you've seated him as deep as you can. Then an inch deeper. Soon enough you're rocking back and forth, fucking yourself of on him and making terse, dreamy sounds of need. Soap lets out a ragged breath. It's a squeeze, but worth it. So worth it. How'd Gaz find one that feels so good?

You spread your legs as far as you can to accommodate his girth. You feel air-tight, like it should hurt, but every tiny movement you make sets your nerve endings alight. There's pain in your palms against the sharp gravel, dull scraping against your kneecaps, and an impossible heat burning in your lower stomach. Pleasure-pain glazes your already-distant eyes.

Soap begins fucking you slowly. Not that he holds much concern for your strange human senses and boundaries--it's more that he wants you nice and tame. Gaz notices that hesitation despite being distracted with your moaning and begging and wiggling as Soap spears into you steadily over and over.

"Thought you wanted to break her," Gaz says. He speaks your language to taunt both you and Soap.

Soap grins. "You went to all this trouble to hypnotize her. Wouldn't want to jostle her too hard, aye?"

Gaz smirks. "Don't worry about that, mate. You know there's no way to hypnotize someone who's unwilling."

Your breath hitches. "What?"

You hear Soap smirking as he says, "You aren't going anywhere, are you now?"

He presses into you with a long, deep stroke that turns your protest into a shuddering moan.

"Told you she wouldn't run," Soap says.

After that, you can't manage much coherent thought at all.

...

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / [part 4] / part 5

more Gaz / more Soap / more mer au / masterlist

[dollyhyuckii]

FOR YOU, I’LL WAIT-SEUNGCHEOL ⋆୨୧˚

seungcheol!xfem!reader ⋆୨୧˚ 𝘄𝗰-1.7𝗸⋆୨୧˚

cw-a bit suggestive, everything is in lowercase ⋆୨୧˚ an-reblogs and feedback help!!, dividers are not mine credits at the end!! ⋆୨୧˚ seventeen master list here ⋆୨୧˚

the door clicked open, and he heard your footsteps in the hallway. you were home late, a little unsteady, and when he glanced up from the couch, he saw you standing in the doorway, your cheeks flushed and eyes a little hazy. you had that mischievous smile on your face, the one that always made his heart beat a little faster. you swayed as you stepped forward, your purse slipping off your shoulder and landing with a soft thud by the door.

“there you are,” you murmured, a hint of a slur in your voice as you made your way toward him, reaching out as if you couldn’t wait to be in his arms. he caught you, steadying you as you stumbled forward, and you let out a soft giggle, leaning heavily against him.

“hey, you,” he greeted, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “looks like my baby had a fun night.”

you pouted, your fingers tugging at his shirt. “missed you,” you mumbled, your voice a mix of need and playfulness. “didn’t wanna be there without you. i need you.”

he chuckled, wrapping his arms around you to keep you steady. “you’ve been drinking, sunshine,” he said gently, his tone light but cautious. “a little too much, maybe?”

you shook your head, your expression growing more determined as you slid your arms around his neck. “i’m fine,” you insisted, leaning in closer, your lips grazing his neck in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. “come on baby.., your gonna make me wait. i want you so bad right now.”

he exhaled slowly, resisting the urge to pull you closer, to give in to the way you were looking at him. as much as he wanted you, he knew it wasn’t right. you were drunk, and he didn’t want to do anything you might regret or feel uncomfortable with later.

“sunshine i need you to listen to me,” he said softly, cupping your face in his hands and gently lifting your head so you would look at him. “i want you too, trust me. but not like this. you’ve had a lot to drink, and I’m not going to do anything that you might regret.”

your expression shifted, a mixture of frustration and hurt flashing in your eyes. “ cheol why are you being so difficult?” you whined, leaning back slightly and crossing your arms. “i know what i want. and right now, i want you.”

he couldn’t help but smile your determination. you could be so stubborn sometimes, and he loved that about you. but tonight, he needed to be the strong one.

“i know, baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “but let’s just take it slow, alright? i don’t want you to do anything you’re not sure about.”

you huffed, your pout returning as you leaned into him again, resting your head on his shoulder. “you’re trying to kill me,” you muttered, sounding both frustrated and resigned. “as much as i want you right now, you’re making it so hard.”

he chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “trust me, it’s not easy for me either sunshine,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. “but we’re both going to have to be patient okay baby?.”

you let out a soft sigh, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest as you settled into his embrace. despite your initial frustration, you seemed to relax, and he could feel you starting to lean into his warmth, your breathing slowing as the night wore on.

he held you close as you nestled into his arms, your face buried against his chest. he could still hear your soft, whiny murmurs about how much you wanted him, how you didn’t understand why he was holding back. but he just smiled and continued to gently brush his fingers through your hair, calming you with his steady presence.

“let’s get you cleaned up, alright?” he whispered softly. “a nice bath might help you feel better.”

you looked up at him, a little pout still lingering on your lips. “i don’t need a bath,” you muttered, though your voice lacked conviction. you swayed slightly as you tried to stand on your own, and he quickly steadied you, guiding you toward the bathroom with a gentle hand on your back.

“yes, you do,” he said with a small laugh. “come on, you’ll feel a lot better afterward.”

he helped you sit on the edge of the bathtub, then turned on the faucet, adjusting the temperature until it was just right. as the tub filled, he turned back to you, watching as you tried to kick off your shoes, only for one of them to get stuck halfway. you let out a frustrated huff, looking up at him with big, pleading eyes.

“here, let me help baby,” he said, crouching down to untangle your foot from the strap. you grumbled softly, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as he slid the shoes off your feet and set them aside. you watched him with a half-lidded gaze, a lazy smile tugging at your lips.

“you’re too good to me,” you murmured, reaching out to run your fingers through his hair. “i don’t deserve you.”

you chuckled, shaking his head as he gently took your hands in his. “you deserve every bit of it, angel. now, arms up.”

you lifted your arms obediently, allowing him to pull your shirt over your head and fold it neatly on the counter. you shivered slightly as the cool air hit your skin, and he quickly wrapped a towel around your shoulders to keep you warm as he helped you out of the rest of your clothes.

once you were undressed, he held your hand, steadying you as you stepped into the warm water. you let out a soft sigh as you sank into the bath, the tension slowly melting from your shoulders. he watched you for a moment, a tender smile on his face as he took in the way your eyes fluttered shut, your head resting against the edge of the tub.

“feel good?” he asked, kneeling beside the tub and brushing a damp strand of hair from your face.

you opened your eyes, giving him a lazy smile. “mmm… so good,” you murmured, reaching for his hand and lacing your fingers with his. “but it’d be better if you were in here with me.”

seungcheol laughed softly, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “nice try sunshine,” he replied, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “but tonight’s all about taking care of you.”

yoy pouted, letting out a little whine. “you’re no fun.”

“not tonight,” he said, dipping a washcloth into the water and gently running it over your shoulders. “but i think you’ll thank me in the morning.”

you closed your eyes, relaxing under his touch as he carefully washed you, his movements slow and gentle. he took his time, making sure you were comfortable and relaxed, and you seemed to melt under his care, your complaints and stubbornness gradually fading.

when he finished, he reached for a large, fluffy towel and helped you stand, wrapping you up and holding you steady as you stepped out of the tub. you leaned against him, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips as he dried you off, his hands moving carefully over your shoulders and down your arms.

“alright, let’s get you dried off and into bed,” he murmured, guiding you back into the bedroom and sitting you down on the edge of the bed.

you let out a little huff, crossing your arms as you looked up at him. “only if you promise to stay with me.”

he chuckled, reaching for the blow dryer on the dresser. “of course I’ll stay,” he said, plugging in the dryer and turning it on. he gently lifted your hair, working his fingers through the damp strands as he dried them. you closed your eyes, leaning into his touch with a small smile.

the warmth from the dryer was soothing, and you felt yourself growing drowsier as he continued to brush and dry your hair with slow, gentle movements. he worked in silence, his touch so tender and patient that you could hardly keep your eyes open. by the time he finished, your hair was soft and dry, falling in gentle waves around your face.

“there we go baby,” he murmured, setting the dryer aside and brushing a final strand of hair from your cheek. “feeling a little better?”

you nodded, giving him a sleepy smile. “yeah… thank you,” you mumbled, your voice soft and a little slurred. “you always take such good care of me.”

he smiled, reaching for a comfortable, oversized t-shirt from your drawer. “let’s get you dressed, alright?”

you nodded, lifting your arms as he helped you into the shirt, the fabric falling loosely around your shoulders. you giggled softly, your eyes shining as you looked up at him.

“you’re so sweet to me,” you murmured, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “i don’t know what i’d do without you.”

he. chuckled, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. “you don’t have to worry about that,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “i’m not going anywhere.”

you let out a soft sigh, snuggling against him as he carefully guided you under the blankets. once you were settled, he climbed into bed beside you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. you let out a contented hum, resting your head on his chest as you nuzzled closer.

“promise you’ll stay here all night?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

he tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i promise,” he murmured. “i’ll be right here when you wake up.”

you smiled, your eyes growing heavy as sleep began to pull you under. and as you drifted off, you felt a warmth and comfort you never known before, a sense of safety and love that wrapped around you like a blanket. you knew, deep down, that he was someone you could trust completely, someone who would always put you first.

⋆୨୧˚ pink divider credits-@h-aewo

⋆୨୧˚white star divider credits-@graphicstorage

[macgyvermedical]

Moving vs Fleeing (and what you need to flee)

I was on a call last night with a very reputable LGBTQ+ organization in my state that discussed the difference between moving and fleeing.

Essentially, moving is planned. You get an apartment and a job in another city- hopefully you visit that city to scope it out. Then you move your life. It takes, at minimum, months.

Fleeing is unplanned. Something is happening that is so bad in your area that you have to cut and run. It may not be police at your door. But it might be legislation that prevents you from using restrooms without the risk of being killed or arrested. It might be lack of access to medications and something that makes it illegal to get those medications in a different state. It might be the classification of your life (as someone gay or tans) as a sex crime, and sex crimes being punishable by death (a goal of project 2025).

And, they recommended, get things together before it gets to that point, even if you aren't sure that it will happen, so fleeing is as easy as possible if you need to do it.

Here's what you can do:

Pick a location you can get to either by bus, train, or car that has a good track record for your needs and that you think you could live. Do your research- are there jobs there in your field? Housing?

Then get yourself a bag or large backpack.

Get a file folder and put your documents in it. I mean things like your passport, your birth certificate, your social security card, copies of any professional licenses you have, a checkbook, name change documentation, copies of financial documents like mortgages, copies of insurance cards and policies, copies of marriage licenses, and a copy of your driver's license. These are things you might need if you have to prove your identity or get a job or apartment. Then print out maps of several routes to your destination. Put the file folder in the bag.

Add to that: a couple of changes of clothes for each person including a hat and a cloth or disposable face covering (people don't question them as much since the pandemic, and they're convenient to hide your face). Lightweight, caloric foods for at least 3 days that don't require cooking (protein bars work great for this). A month of medications and an emergency script for each medication for each person (get a paper prescription from your doctor that is good for a year or the max allowed for each medication) if you can get it. Pay out of pocket with a coupon card if your insurance won't cover your refill early. 1-2 containers of baby wipes so you don't necessarily need to shower. An empty water bottle for each person. A phone charger.

Buy a gift card that can be used for anything. I won't say how much because I don't know your situation, but make it enough that you can pay for gas or bus/train/airline tickets to your destination and (if you can) temporary lodging/food once you get there. Gift cards are less traceable than debit/credit cards and aren't easy to cancel. An alternative is cash, but that can be an easier target for theft if people see you with it.

Finally, bring something of comfort, like a blanket or memento or stuffed animal.

[alotofpockets]

Common ground | Part 2 | Niamh Charles x Arsenal!Reader

Where you and Niamh grow closer after having hosted a children's event together

Read part 1 here

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.6k

-----

After going out to dinner with Niamh, you couldn’t even remember why you were dreading spending the day with her so much. All throughout dinner you were talking and getting to know each other, you had been so comfortable that your waiter had to come over to let you know that you had to leave since the restaurant was closing soon.

Once outside you laughed at practically being kicked out the door, you reached your cars with the biggest smile on your face, “We should do this again sometime.” With a matching smile Niamh agreed. You exchanged numbers before saying bye and each heading home.

Exchanging numbers turned into texting every day. Texting turned into calling, and calling turned into facetiming. Whenever you both had a free moment, you would video call and be in each other's presence. 

Besides online contact you also meet up at a restaurant or at each other’s places at least once a week. You were growing closer with Niamh every day, and when you were sitting together on the couch, watching a movie together, everything just felt right.

You quickly realised your feelings for Niamh, and it seemed like she felt the same way about you from the way the two of you interacted with each other.

When she knocked on your door that evening you quite literally pulled her into your apartment. “Come on, I'm making your favourite.” By her hand you pulled her into the kitchen, where you had already started dinner.

“No music while you’re cooking? That’s not like you.” You hadn’t even realised you had forgotten until Niamh mentioned it, “Can you put some on, please?” Busy with stirring the pots, you handed your phone over to Niamh, and went to Spotify and turned on her favourite playlist. 

The soft music filled the room, and Niamh slotted in beside you. Helping with dinner, but mostly just snacking on the ingredients when she thought you weren’t looking. Cooking with Niamh has quickly become one of your favourite activities. 

That night laughter filled the kitchen, and you were alway standing just a little closer together than was necessary. It all felt so natural, and each moment Niamh’s hand touched you a jolt of electricity moved through your body.

After dinner the two of you settled on the couch to watch a movie, like you always did. You didn’t know how Niamh convinced you to watch a scary movie, well you did of course. All she had to say was please, and you had crumbled. Now you were hiding behind the blanket that was draped over the both of you, whenever a scary scene came up.

Niamh chuckled every time you hid. It wasn’t until maybe the fifth time you had done so, that she pulled you into her side for some comfort. For a moment all you could focus on was Niamh, but then a loud sound from the movie scared you again and you hid your face into her.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Niamh joked when the end credits rolled. “Not so bad? I am frightened for life!” She chuckled and got up to clean up the dishes. 

The second you heard a noise, you sprinted after her. “Wait! Don't leave me here alone!” Niamh, completely unphased by the movie, chuckles again. “How are you gonna sleep here on your own?” Her comment was more so meant as a joke, but your eyes widened in fear. “Oh God. You have to stay the night, please.” 

You looked in your closet for some clothes for Niamh to bed, your eyes landed on a pair of your Arsenal shorts. The idea alone made you giggle, but you know you couldn’t do that to her. Instead you opted for one of your old national team shorts along with an oversized shirt. 

“I see what you’re trying to do here.” She joked upon seeing the shorts. “If I hear any complaints, next time I will offer Arsenal ones.” She held up her hands in surrender. “No complaints here.” 

It was easy enough to convince Niamh to share your bed, rather than her sleeping on the couch. I mean the argument that her sleeping on the couch would still leave you alone in your room with all the scary noises surrounding you.

You were laying in bed face to face, just looking at each other for a while before you spoke up. “Besides your choice of movies, I really enjoyed tonight.” Niamh smiled, “Yeah me too, but I also liked my movie choice very much. At the very least it meant I got to hold you close.” 

Her words caught you by surprise, and your cheeks flushed immediately. “Yeah, I did like that part.” Niamh’s hand reached over to move a fallen strand of hair behind your ear, the moment itself had you frozen in place, your eyes moving down to look at her lips. Niamh took that as her sign to lean in.

The moment her lips were on yours, you melted into the kiss. Kissing her made the rest of the world fall away, only leaving the soft and warm presence of her. She was gentle at first, seeing how you would react. But when you leaned in, closing the space between you, she let her hand slide to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.

The kiss deepened, your mouths moving in a slow rhythm. Your hand found its way to her cheek, gently brushing it against her skin as you felt her smile into the kiss. When you finally parted, both slightly out of breath, and your foreheads still pressed together, you shared a soft laugh.

“Took you long enough.” You say softly before placing another quick peck on her lips. “I was waiting on you to make the first move, actually.” You laughed at the situation, both having been waiting for the other to make the first move, and at the same time being glad that one of you did.

The comfort of the moment made you feel safe, no longer scared from the movie. Niamh wrapped her arm around you and pulled you closer. You cuddled into her side, making yourself comfortable. She kissed your forehead before resting her head on yours.

As you were playing with her hand, your mind was working hard, trying to figure out how to ask Niamh what was circling your thoughts. “Do you think we could be something more? More than just friends?” 

“I think we’ve been something more than friends for a while now.” Niamh answered instantly. It warmed your heart, knowing that she had felt the same way. “But if you are asking me to be your girlfriend, the answer is yes.” You smile into her shoulder, “I like that.”

You continued talking until you fell asleep. The next morning you woke up in her arms, and couldn’t help but smile as the memories of last night flashed before your eyes. As you were about to turn around, Niamh tightened her grip on you, “Don’t go, this is way too comfy.” You kissed her cheek and cuddled back into her side. “Okay five more minutes.” You had a match later, so you knew you couldn’t stretch it too long, as much as you would have really liked to stay like this for the rest of the day.

True to your word, you dragged Niamh out of the bed five minutes later. She was still a little groggy, her hair slightly messy and her eyes sleepy, but she looked adorable. Her in your clothes brought a smile to your face. “We should do this more often.” “Get up this early? No thanks.” She joked, as she wrapped her arms around your waist. “But yeah, I think so too.” With a peck to your cheek she moved over to make drinks, while you made the food. 

As you were plating the food, a knock came at your door. “Oh shit, I forgot Leah was giving me a ride today.” Niamh’s eyes widened, her national team captain was at the door. “Don’t worry, she won’t think anything of it.” You said, followed by a whispered, “I think.”

You opened the door to Leah, already clad in her Arsenal tracksuit. “Hey Lee, come in. We were just having some coffee.” Her eyebrows arched, “We?” Your eyes moved over to Niamh at the counter. “Morning.” She said nervously, while raising her cup of coffee.

Leah looked her teammate up and down, noticing the messy hair and shorts that were definitely yours, “Well this is unexpected.” She didn’t give anything away with the way she said it, which was making you nervous as well. Leah noticed the way the two of you were sharing anxious glances. “Oh chill out you two, I think it’s cute.” You sigh with relief and finish your breakfast. You leave Niamh and Leah to talk while you take a quick shower, before re-entering the kitchen in your Arsenal tracksuit as well. “I’ve got to go, but you’re welcome to stay however long you would like.” You move closer to kiss her but stop and look at Leah before you do. “Right, I’ll be in the car.” She hurriedly leaves your apartment, making the both of you chuckle.

“How would you feel if I was still here when you came back home?” You smiled instantly at her question. “I would love that very much.” You kiss her softly before grabbing your bag and heading out the door. Already excited to be coming home to your girlfriend after the game.

“Don’t say it.” You say as you step into the car with Leah. She lifts her hands, “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

-----

💗 If you enjoyed this fic, please consider liking, commenting, and reblogging! You can also supporting me by leaving a tip 💗

[dazzlerwriting]

call me & i’ll come

robert ‘bob’ floyd x singer!reader

Pictures are not mine, credit to pinterest!

3.5k words

summary: inspired by “Watermelon” by Jane + John Q Public. after bob joins a D&D campaign to make friends in San Diego, he gets talked into also joining the band that is formed within the group. Over time he and the lead singer slowly get closer and closer. What happens when they kiss, but don’t talk about what the kiss meant to them?

warnings: slight miscommunication! fluff fluff fluff. a bit angsty at one point. the end gets a bit heated so 18+ MDNI!!!! Reader uses she/her pronouns, but theres no other descriptors! petname “darlin” is used twice. use of y/n (i tried so hard not to lol) flashback is bold and italicized

authors note: first off, thank you @lewmagoo for posting about drummer rhett, which in turn helped inspire this story! & everyone posting their Atta Boy stuff was also a huge inspiration to this!! only my second fic and i wrote so much. i just kept going and didnt stop until it was finished! im so sorry lmao. but i hope you enjoy!! this is mostly from bob’s pov!

Bob Floyd has a secret. Well, two. The first one is that he plays in a band in his free time, specifically, he plays the drums. Anyone who may watch how Bob acts when he thinks no one is paying attention, they would see him drumming on his lap, on the desk, or on any free surface. But the Dagger Squad isn’t that astute when it comes to their fellow workers lives. Natasha knows but, there’s a certain trust to be had between a pilot & their WSO. So Bob told her, and while she was taken a bit aback that the quiet Bob Floyd played the drums in an actual band, she was supportive.

Now, the secret that not even Natasha knows, the one Bob would swear he would take to his grave, is that he has a crush on the lead singer in their band. It's not just a silly crush that would go away with time; no, this crush has stuck since he first met her at a community D&D meetup.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Flashback

He saw a sign that read “New Dungeons and Dragons campaign, starting Wednesday! All leveled players welcomed!” on the board at the grocery store a week after being stationed in San Diego. He decided he needed a creative outlet after work and maybe to make friends that weren’t pilots. So he went, and that’s when he saw her. She was their Game Master and she was wearing a renaissance faire-esque outfit. From that first sighting, he was a goner. He would look at her theatrical storytelling during their sessions with a fondness that rivaled the way Orpheus looked at Euridyce. Quickly he would look away before she caught him, but if he had kept looking, he would have noticed her looking at him the same way.

Somewhere along the way, another member of the party, named Blake, noticed Bob drumming on his thigh when the game would die down for a bit. They suggested Bob joined their band, seeing as they were in desperate need of a new drummer, the last one leaving to hit it big time. He went on a whole spill about everything having to do with the band and Bob was apprehensive at first, performing was way out of his comfort zone. He wasn’t like Rooster, he didn’t think he had the proper stage presence to perform for a crowd, and he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

But that’s when she walked over to the two, a smirk on her face as she looked at Blake and said “Blake… go easy on Bobby boy here. I’m sure he doesn’t need a whole infomercial on why he should join us.” She turned to Bob and put her hand on his arm, and for a second he was sure his brain short-circuited. Now with a soft smile on her face, she gently said “Bob we would love for you to join us, only if you’re comfortable. I know you could be called away at a second’s notice, but regardless it would be an honor to have you as our drummer.” He sat there for a second just taking her in, from the casual way she was dressed, to her kind demeanor. He realized at that moment he was royally fucked because he would do anything she asked. He looked her in the eyes and responded “I-I’ll do it,” stuttering a bit but getting through it. Her smile widened, her eyes lit up with what Bob thought could be adoration, and she jumped up a bit clapping, “Great! We rehearse every Saturday, usually, gigs are small just hangouts for friends or family! I’ll text you all the details.” He missed the warmth from her hand as soon as it was gone but her reaction was worth it. That night while Bob was getting ready to sleep, his phone lit up with a text.

Y/N: Thank you for agreeing to this Bob, it truly means a lot. I’m glad you decided to come to our session that first night :)

And after replying, he fell asleep with a grin on his face, not regretting his decision one bit.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Now after a few months, Bob and the rest of the members have gotten close. They hang out outside of rehearsal and game sessions, and they’ve even been to Bob’s apartment for dinner. That’s when he told Natasha that he was in a band, and introduced them to her. They had a great night and Bob felt like he had found his group of people. The thought of leaving them for a mission, where the outcome was unknown, was scary, but the idea of having them all there to come back to, outweighed the formidable thoughts. Especially when he thought about the kind, charming, and beautiful singer who made it her mission to text Bob every day to ensure he was having a good day. Over the few months they had learned a lot about each other, she made sure to ask him the same questions he would ask her. Including dreams, they had as kids, favorite movies, biggest music inspirations, etc. He opened up to her about the constant teasing from the Dagger Squad, including the “Baby on Board” joke. And he learned she was the biggest nerd outside of D&D, texting him updates on the latest comic she had read, the newest Doctor Who update, and random fun facts about his favorite movies. With every text he received, Bob fell deeper and deeper into Cupid’s chokehold.

It all kinda got turned upside down when he and Phoenix suffered from a Bird Strike during training, and they had to eject. Early morning, after leaving the hospital and getting home, he texted the band group chat to let them know he would be missing both D&D and band practice. He was bombarded with questions regarding his well-being, and texts lending out sympathy to him. But y/n had been quiet, that is until he heard a knock on his door. When he opened it, he saw her standing there with several bags full of groceries and a shy smile on her face. “Hi,” she said softly “I’m sorry for the intrusion but I just wanted to make sure your recovery was a stress-free time, and well, I just, I’m sorry I can drop all this off and go if you want me to. I should’ve texted beforehand and I..” she was rambling now and he thought he couldn’t find her any more endearing than he did right now. He adjusted his glasses and stepped out of the doorway, “N-no come on in, you are welcome here at any time, you know that.” At that, her shoulders dropped a bit in relief and he could see her let out a breath he doubted she knew she was holding in. He led her to the kitchen and watched her get to work doing whatever she was here to do.

“Okay so I have the stuff to make baked potato soup, Alfredo, and I also brought peanuts, chips, Gatorade, and a bunch of other snacks for you.” She quickly got everything out of the bags, putting things in the right place, and Bob was hit with a daydream of this being a normal occurrence. A domestic life with her, both of them dancing around each other in the kitchen, making dinner while dancing to songs like “I’ll Be Seeing You” by Billie Holiday. He was so caught up with his daydream, he didn’t even realize she was talking to him. “I’m sorry what did you say?” He asked with a bashful smile. She shook her head with a gentle laugh, and said “I was just saying you should go get comfortable, I’ll be in here for a while.” He looked at her and gave a soft nod, immediately going to lie down on the couch and continue his daydreaming. For a while, he could hear her gentle hums coming from the kitchen, and he let that lull him into a peaceful sleep where he dreamed of a future where they were together.

A few hours later he was woken up by someone gently shaking his shoulder. He rubbed his eyes, put his glasses on, and when he looked to see who it was, he swore he was still dreaming. She looked almost angelic standing above him with a caring smile and a bowl of something in her hands. “Sorry to wake you, it just hit 4, so I thought you might be hungry,” she gave a soft shrug and looked a bit nervous to see what his reaction might be. He took the bowl from her hands and gave a soft thank you with a smile he hoped was kind, and not some kind of grimace from still being a bit tired. He realized it was baked potato soup and he had to admit it was the best soup he had ever had, “This is amazing, thank you so much.” She gave another shrug and replied “It’s the least I can do, need our best sorcerer and drummer to get better soon! I put the rest in the fridge along with the Alfredo. The snacks are still on your island, but I should get out of your hair now. If you need anything please know I am a call away.” He really didn’t want her to leave just yet so he did something that even shocked him, “Do you want to stay, I’m sure you’re hungry as well and we could watch a movie or something?” Her eyes widened and a bright smile appeared on her face, “I would love to if you really don’t mind.” Of course, he didn’t mind, was she crazy?? If he could he would spend all of his time with her. “I don’t, please you’ve done so much for me today so please stay.” He didn’t mean to sound so needy, but it didn’t seem to deter her. In fact, her smile got brighter and she nodded her head.

They decided on watching Wall-E, it seemed like a good idea at the moment, but now they are both sniffling on the couch. “God who knew a cute robot could turn two adults into an emotional mess?” she said while turning to him, wiping the tears from under her eyes. He looked at her and she was gorgeous he thought. They sat looking in each other’s eyes for a moment and in a flash, their lips were on each other. He doesn’t know who leaned in first, all he knew was her lips were soft and he could feel her breath from her nose. As soon as it started, it was over and he chased her lips when she pulled away. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I’m so- I’m gonna go. Thank you Bob.” she rushed out, quickly grabbed her stuff, and practically ran from his apartment. He sat there dumbfounded, had he messed it up so quickly? Did she not like him in the same way he did her? He didn’t know, he kept wondering what happened while putting things away, and he fell asleep asking himself what happened.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

A few weeks have passed, and things have gone semi-back to normal. There’s an awkward tension between them every session, every band practice, and the texts from her have stopped outside of letting him know of any changes to the schedule. Natasha could tell something was going on with her backseater, but he wouldn’t budge. He just told her it was nothing and that he was fine. But anyone with any common sense could see he wasn’t fine, he was distracted at work, he didn’t have the band members over for dinner, and he just seemed lost in thoughts every time someone talked to him at Hard Deck. But Natasha wasn’t having it, so she contacted Y/N, she told her Bob was acting strange. Y/N let her know what happened, and that she felt as if the kiss had only happened because Bob was emotional. She also let it slip to Nat that she had been harboring a crush on Bob since they first met, and despite trying to ignore it, it continued to grow. Nat told her the band should perform at the Hard Deck that weekend, and Y/N agreed only if Bob was okay with it. She texted Bob and he decided it was time to overcome the fear of the Dagger Squad knowing he was in a band. If he couldn’t overcome the fear of telling her how he felt, and how the kiss made him feel, then he could at least do this. And so it was set, the group would be performing at the Hard Deck, and Bob let that distract him from whatever else he was feeling at the time.

Saturday finally came, and Bob was a ball of nerves. He was sure the squad wouldn’t be too harsh towards him, but when it came to Hangman, he could never tell. When he arrived at the bar to do sound checks, he saw her again and a bit of his nerves calmed. She looked at him with a gentle but nervous smile “Hey Bob, glad you made it. We’re just gonna run through a few songs, and then we’ll get going with the show. I also brought a new song, it’s not too much but it will be the last song for the night.” He nodded his head, a bit lost in her eyes. He pushed his glasses up a bit and got his drums set up. After sound check, people started filling in the bar. Nat came up to him with a bit of a smirk, “I know about your kiss with Miss Gorgeous Singer up there.” She then lightly punched his arm, “Why wouldn’t you tell me, Bob? This is important information and I thought we were best friends.” She had a faux pout on her lips now and he shrugged, “I don’t know what happened Nat, it was going so well and then she just ran out.” He looked down, twirling his drumsticks, and she realized he was quite upset. She’s guessing the two idiots haven’t even talked about it. “I’m sorry Bob, but hey maybe things will work out after tonight,” she said with a comforting smile. It was at that moment, Jake, Javy, Bradley, and Mickey realized it was their own “Baby on Board” on the drums for tonight.

“Well well well, what do we have here?” Jake said with his usual smirk on his face. “Cut it bagman.” Natasha quickly replied, she realized it was time for the band to start so she gave Bob a final comforting smile, then quickly pushed Jake and the rest of the guys back.

You got on stage and introduced the band. The show started and everything was going well. Bob was keeping up, concentrating hard and using the quick time between songs to push his glasses up his nose. Finally it was time for the new song, and he was a bit nervous, seeing as they hadn’t rehearsed it yet. He heard you clear your throat as you said “Hey y’all, this last song is a new one I wrote about a week ago. Sometimes you just meet someone and realize you will always be there for them no matter what.” With that, you looked back to the group and nodded to let them know it was time to start.

I’m the watermelon slammed into your driveway

Crack me open so I feel the air inside me

Bob stared at her while playing and realized that in someway, she had cracked his introverted shell. She helped him become more comfortable. She even was a huge reason he had a group of people who cared about him, outside of the dagger squad. He quickly looked at Natasha in the crowd, just to see her smirking right at him.

Music boyfriend I’m your yum yum

Call me and I’ll come

Y/N’s words from weeks prior echoed in his head as she sang, “If you need anything please know I am a call away.” And it hit him in this moment that maybe just maybe, she did feel the same way about him.

Am I dreaming or did you just kiss me

You don’t know it but you already miss me

He looked back at her and realized she was looking at him. Singing this song to him. She had a bashful smile on her face, and he could tell she was a nervous.

Fuck the rest of them

Fuck em all

Fuck em all but us

In this moment, everyone else in the bar seemed to fade away. It was just them, and he made the decision to admit what he was feeling after the show. She was breathtaking, and he thinks he may not make it if he doesn’t tell her tonight. She finally turned away in time to sing the last line to the crowd.

Fuck em all but us.

When the song ended, the bar was full of applause, even the squad looked impressed by the show. Bob watched her walk off stage after saying her thank yous, and head for the back deck. He got up to follow but was immediately stopped by the Dagger Squad, they were all patting him on the back and smiling at him. “Didn’t think you had it in you Bob, but that was truly amazing. And it seems as if the singer thinks so too.” Jake said to him with a genuine smile on his face. Natasha pushed Jake out of the way and gave Bob a hug, pulling away she said “Go get her, we’ll all still be here when you get back.” With that Bob gave a quick thank you and rushed toward the back door.

He saw y/n standing there, arms crossed over the railing and head up to the sky. When she heard the door open, she turned her head and she had a sheepish smile on her face. He thought she looked so beautiful, a bit sweaty from the show, the moon as backlighting. Her beauty rivaled that of the ocean. She was gorgeous in every sense of the word.

“You did good tonight Bobby. Thank you for letting us come play here.” She said softly as he made his way over to her. He felt warmth crawl up his neck at the use of his nickname, and he put his hand on his neck as he told her “You were gorgeous tonight.” She gave a soft laugh and bashfully turned her head. Before she could respond he continued talking, “Thank you. For everything. You invited me to this band, not even knowing if I was a good drummer. You texted me daily just to make sure I was doing okay. You made me possibly the best food I’ve had in forever. Don’t tell my ma I said that, she would never let me live it down.” He chuckled while saying that, he took a deep breath in and continued, “You have changed me as a person, so thank you.” She looked back at him, eyes wide, mouth agape. She had tears lining the bottom of her eyes, as she rushed over to hug him. “I’m so sorry I ran out of your apartment that night. I was nervous you were only kissing me because of the emotions from the movie and the tiredness. But that kiss meant everything to me. I haven’t stopped thinking about it or you since it happened.” Her speech was a bit muffled from the way she was pressed to Bob. Now it was his turn to look a bit shocked, he hadn’t even thought about how she might have thought it was all her fault. He held her and said“Darlin’ I think we’ve both been a bit idiotic. I’ve wanted to kiss you ever since I met you, and after that night I thought I messed everything up. I truly like you, I think I might even be falling in love with you if I’m honest.” She pulled back a bit and looked him in the eyes for the slightest sign that he could be lying, when she couldn’t find one she put her hand on his neck and pulled his lips to hers. This kiss was different. This kiss held all of the unspoken feelings they’ve both kept bottled up for months. He grabbed her hips and pushed her back against the railing, she opened her mouth to gasp, allowing his tongue to slip inside.

She tugged at his hair and he let out a quiet groan. Just as he was making way to pick her up, the loud noise of several nosey aviators cheering burst their bubble. She pulled back and leant her forehead on his chest, shying away a bit. He turned back to see the group smiling, clapping, whooping, and hollering. He turned back towards her and lifted her face up to his, “I’m sorry about them. Also I’m sorry I feel like I’m doing this a bit backwards, but would you like to go out for dinner soon?” He felt a bit nervous asking the question but she just looked at him like he hung all the moon and stars. “Sure, how about we go talk to your friends for a bit, then go pick up some food, and maybe finish what we start at your place?” She asked with a flirty smirk on her face. Yeah she was going to be the death of him.

[seitmai]

Many thoughts...

Love at first sight, it was. But hell, love wasn’t enough, was it?  What did he know about raising a little girl?  What did he know of walking that tricky line between being overprotective and being too blasé, of giving you space but making you feel safe?

 just that he is questions this, shows how much he cares about her 🫶🏻

Cecilia had stopped over a lot in the beginning, had soothed his fears.  Had reassured him that love was enough, that he was doing a good job.  He was kind and well-meaning, and you had been a smart kid who became a smart woman, and on the balance, he would have agreed with Cecilia and said he did alright.

Awesome job right there👏🏻

For the first time in his life, Rhett truly considers his future.  What his life may look like in five, ten, twenty years.  Will he always wake to grey mornings that sit on his chest like a stone?  Will he become bitter and mean, the way his father has despite having a wife and sons and a granddaughter? 

Uff he truly doesn't have the best role model..

Then, on top of the annoyance, another layer of shame.  Of course you run.  The death of your parents left you with that wound, the inability to handle hurt in a healthy way.  You flee and tuck yourself in a corner, tend your wounds alone.  It’s a flaw, but it’s understandable why you do it.

Very understandable reaction especiallywith that backstory..

Rhett had been your best friend, and for the briefest summer, he was your lover too.  He should have been the one person to help you work through that fear.  Instead, he only cemented it further.

💔💔💔

It’s easy to blame Rhett when Wyatt eats dinner alone each night.  When he runs a vacuum over the floor of your bedroom, keeps it dust free like you may turn up any day and take your place back on the family ranch.  When he studies the row of family photos on the mantle, sees his sister’s face and feels like he’s failed her in the care of her daughter.

He misses her so much 🥺

But Wyatt doesn’t confront Rhett at the Double Deuces.  He doesn’t seek him out at all. Rhett comes to him.

👀

“You never fucking think, do you?  Jesus fucking Christ, my sister…her husband…they were killed by a fucking drunk driver, and you have the fucking balls to…you asshole…you fucking piece of shit.  You—” The kid seems to track Wyatt’s meaning.  His bleary eyes clear a fraction and fix on where Wyatt’s fists wait, eager to offer some payback for his sins.  Rhett nods, as if to himself, and he takes a deep breath.  Closes his eyes, opens them.  He struggles to stand, staggers a little, but eventually finds his feet.

Wyatts anger is very understandable and valid, but it seem to penetrate even Rhett’s drunken state

“Make it her.”  It comes out one slurred word, makeither, and Wyatt’s anger cools by the barest degree.  He unclenches his fists, holds them looser. “What the fuck you trying to say?” Rhett coughs, sways.  Coughs again, then enunciates, clarifies. “Make it hurt.  Make sh…sure.  Make sure it hurts.” Wyatt’s fists uncurl more.  “Now what are you—” “Am.  Piece of shit.  I am.”  The kid sways more but takes a wide step, braces his legs wide to keep himself upright.  “Y’right.  Imma piece a’shit.” He wants to be hurt because it’s the only thing he knows, he thinks.  Like I used to.

💔😭💔😭💔

Maybe Wyatt only fell into fatherhood because of a tragedy, but he gets more of it right than he will ever give himself credit for.  He faces the kid, and when the kid comes swinging at him again, spoiling for a beat-down Wyatt will never deliver after all, Wyatt only opens his arms and lets Rhett step into them.  The kid struggles for a beat but he’s drunk, and he seems tired down to his soul. It only takes a moment for the kid to stop struggling in Wyatt’s bear-hug, then sag against him in exhaustion, then weep in dry, barking sobs that feel like they’ve been building up for his entire life.  And Wyatt knows exactly what sort of pain the kid is bleeding out because it was his pain, and his sister’s too, until they both fled their unhappy childhood home and made a happier one here on this ranch.

Wyatt gives Rhett the hug he himself needed years ago 😭🥺

Wyatt is never sure the right way to tell you that Rhett Abbott is currently crashing with him.  A month passes and then another, and he starts to feel guilty that the kid who broke your heart has been living down the hall from your childhood bedroom, sitting at your kitchen table.  That he parks his truck beside yours, and that he’s caught the kid—more than once—lingering by your bedroom door, lingering by your truck, like your ghost might manifest if he stands still enough.

That's a tough spot..

I can’t be mad about it, you write back.  How many times did you look the other way when I brought a stray home? 

I guess you deserve a stray of your own.  Might want to take him in for his shots though. :-) 

You got a heart of gold, kiddo, Wyatt texts you, and your response is immediate.

That's so cute, they have such a beautiful relationship 🥰

Wyatt grins when he reads your email, then glances over at where Rhett is sitting on the couch, watching TV.  The kid does act like a stray; he cringes the barest bit if Wyatt moves too suddenly or too close to him, but like a stray, he relishes the comfort of a warm home, food in his belly, and even the tamest praise.

He really is a stray 🤭

Got it from my uncle.

🥹🥹🥹

Wyatt won’t know it until years from now, when he’s an old man and Rhett has grey in his own hair, but this stretch of time—the two men working and living together—is when Rhett starts to learn how to be a man.  That Wyatt is the gruff but kind, slightly awkward father-figure Rhett always needed.

I'm so glad Rhett gets the chance to experience this kind of relationship and space to grow 🥹

Heart of gold, indeed.  It makes Wyatt tear up, first from so much pride it feels like his chest might burst, then from that knife edge of grief that his sister isn’t here to see what a force for good her daughter turned into.

🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

“Nah.  I don’t know if hate is something she can even feel.  Dislike, maybe.  Disappointment.  Not hate.”  “She should hate me.  I deserve it.”

He is so hard on himself 🥺

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, you know.  Sounds fucking stupid, but at the time, I didn’t even realize what I was doing to her.”  Rhett glances over at the man, fixes his eyes back on the floor.  “Looking back, it felt like I was sleepwalking through that summer, and now I’m awake and see all the damage I did.” “Damned if I know.  But take it from me, kid.  I had a girl when I was your age, and I fucked it up completely.  Even once I realized how badly I fucked up, I was too proud to try and set it right.  Now it’s been years and it’s far too late.  So you gotta try, so even if she never forgives you, it’ll set right in your chest that you did everything you could.”

I love their honest and open conversations 🥰

Your uncle glances over at Rhett, nods in his direction.  “We’re doing okay for a couple of guys.”

They truly are 🫶🏻🥹

You laugh, and the sound makes Rhett smile – when was the last time he heard it?  It draws another laugh, which makes Rhett laugh, which makes you stop and ask your uncle if Rhett is there too. “He is,” Wyatt admits.  “We’re watching the football game.” There’s a beat of silence from you that seems to stretch out forever but is probably only a second or two. “Merry Christmas, Rhett,” you say, and Wyatt hesitates, then tilts the screen so Rhett can see you and you can see him.  He almost doesn’t want to look but he can’t help himself.

🥹🥹🥹

“In that case, Uncle Wyatt, work him into the ground,” you joke back, and Wyatt turns his phone back to him this time, and Rhett is left with perhaps a bit more than a sliver of hope.  He leans back on the couch and thinks that yes, maybe he can salvage this after all. Maybe trying his best will be enough.

I'm sure it will 🥹🫶🏻

I absolutely loved this story and the relationship Rhett and Wyatt built, truly beautiful 🥰

Kind of a Sh*thead

(Rhett Abbott x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst; family-type healing; allusions to and threat of violence; bit of fluff at the end.

Word Count: 5256

AN:  This was originally requested by @elegantmusicdragon from a long-ago Christmas prompt list: "trying to hide their sadness during the christmas celebration" from the sad christmas prompts? Definitely angst...maybe with a little hope at the end?"

AN: This is the next piece in the "Mending Fences" miniseries, found here.

It will shame Rhett in the future, how long it takes for him to realize what has happened. 

That night at the bar, he sat waiting for you:  nursing a beer, his eyes on the door, ready to get a little loose with you and maybe head out to the open range and fool around. 

Then Maria appeared in front of him.  Like magic.  Like an angel spirited back to Wabang and right in front of him.  It threw him off completely, his world tilting sideways  He found himself dazzled by the fact that the girl he pined over for years was suddenly in front of him, smiling, laughing, touching his arm and squeezing his bicep while he subtly flexed it under her fingers.

It wasn’t until last call that Rhett surfaced for a moment, the spell lifting for long enough to remember he was supposed to meet you, yet you were nowhere to be found.

She must have been held over late at work, he reasoned, and even as he thought it, he knew it was a lie. 

It will shame Rhett in the future, but it will take months before he really feels that shame.  He’ll find out you left early for school, but by then, he will be entirely wrapped in the magic of Maria, dumb with lust and love that he thinks is finally reciprocated.  He'll send you a handful of texts, bland little things that you read but don’t respond to. 

Months later, when Wabang is sliding fast to a cold winter and Maria is gone again, disappeared as quickly as she appeared, Rhett will feel shame.

And you’ll be long gone.

*****

Wyatt wishes he knew what he was doing.  Hell, he’d be happy for an inkling.

When his sister and brother-in-law died, he didn’t even hesitate to step up and take his niece in.  No brainer.  Blood is blood, but Wyatt loved his sister something fierce, and taking you in was like holding on to a part of her even if she was gone. 

Didn’t hurt that Wyatt loved you for you.  That he had loved you from the first time his sister set you in his arms, a bundle only a few days old.  You’d set your wide eyes on him and blinked sleepily, then puked up a torrent of milk on him that reeked something fierce.

Love at first sight, it was.

But hell, love wasn’t enough, was it?  What did he know about raising a little girl?  What did he know of walking that tricky line between being overprotective and being too blasé, of giving you space but making you feel safe? 

Cecilia had stopped over a lot in the beginning, had soothed his fears.  Had reassured him that love was enough, that he was doing a good job.  He was kind and well-meaning, and you had been a smart kid who became a smart woman, and on the balance, he would have agreed with Cecilia and said he did alright.

Nothing about this feels alright, though.

Wyatt always guessed it was Rhett Abbott who left you stranded at that hotel when you were a senior in high school.  Little fucker skulked around that entire summer, scampered away like a cat with a lit tail when he saw Wyatt coming.  Something had happened between the two of you.

When you came back to Wabang finally, you took up with the little fucker again, and Wyatt thought maybe he had been unkind.  Ungenerous.  He tried to be nicer to Rhett, but the kid barely ever mets his eyeline.

What the hell, Wyatt thought.  The Abbotts can be a squirrelly bunch.  As long as he doesn’t hurt her.

All those years ago at the hotel, Wyatt was never sure who it was that left you stranded and tear-streaked.  This time, though?

You confirmed it that evening when you got home, eyes unseeing as you charged past him, thundered up the stairs, started packing.  When he confronted you, you burst into tears and spilled the entire sorry affair.

You and Rhett, hanging out all summer.  You in love, and Rhett…not.  Not with you, anyway. 

Wyatt wasn’t stupid.  When you said hanging out, he could guess what you meant.

Seeing his niece hurt like that made him see red, but he has a modicum of maturity, which means he bides his time in most things. 

*****

Maria’s been gone for months.

You’ve been gone for longer.

Winter in Wyoming is no joke.  Wabang gets less snow than other parts, but the wind cuts marrow-deep, and the days are short, grey affairs.  The holidays could be a break from the doldrums, but Royal has been on a tear lately, lighting into Rhett for every little thing, so Thanksgiving, then Christmas are tense and joyless.

For the first time in his life, Rhett truly considers his future.  What his life may look like in five, ten, twenty years.  Will he always wake to grey mornings that sit on his chest like a stone?  Will he become bitter and mean, the way his father has despite having a wife and sons and a granddaughter? 

He sends you texts.  Little one-liners, asking how you are, saying he misses you.  He tries to feel you out, but you leave him on read and never respond.

Once, he gets blisteringly drunk and tries to call.  You don’t pick up, and he doesn’t leave a message.

By now, the shame has settled into him and made itself at home. 

He can guess that you came by the bar that night.  He can guess that you saw him and Maria, and that’s what caused you to flee.  Layered on top of the shame is an annoyance with you and your knack for running.  He may be an asshole but you’re a child to run and hide when shit gets tough.

Then, on top of the annoyance, another layer of shame.  Of course you run.  The death of your parents left you with that wound, the inability to handle hurt in a healthy way.  You flee and tuck yourself in a corner, tend your wounds alone.  It’s a flaw, but it’s understandable why you do it.

Rhett had been your best friend, and for the briefest summer, he was your lover too.  He should have been the one person to help you work through that fear.  Instead, he only cemented it further.

*****

March.  The leaden skies start to take on some blue, high up in the atmosphere.  The sun burns a little warmer.  The barnyard thaws into a swamp, and Wyatt has to handle the anxious animals, pawing and snorting and half-mad from a winter of cabin fever.

March is a tough month, though, because you call and tell him you aren’t coming back to Wabang for the summer.  You got a coveted internship with a specialty vet hospital in the city, and while Wyatt knows it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for you, it’s far easier to blame that fucking asshole Abbott boy.

It’s easy to blame Rhett when Wyatt eats dinner alone each night.  When he runs a vacuum over the floor of your bedroom, keeps it dust free like you may turn up any day and take your place back on the family ranch.  When he studies the row of family photos on the mantle, sees his sister’s face and feels like he’s failed her in the care of her daughter.

He’s not irrational about it.  He knows he has to let you fly and trust you’ll return.  Vet training is a long process—it’s not like you went off to Cheyenne for a handful of bookkeeping courses.  He knows, deep-down, you would have always left for your schooling.

Still, that fucking Abbott boy has built up a tab, in Wyatt’s eyes.  March is when that tab comes due.

-----

He knows the boy drinks at the Double Deuces.  It’s common gossip how he overdoes it and either gets ornery with the Tillerson’s or pukes himself silly in the parking lot.  There’s whispers of the fights between Royal and the boy, how the elder Abbott is tired of bailing out his youngest son, though no one would ever accuse Royal of having any patience, especially where Rhett is concerned.

If it were anyone else—any other dickhead young buck—Wyatt would chuckle in sympathy.  He used to do the same when he was younger.  He knows what the Wabang drunk tank looks like.  Hell, maybe his name is still there—he scratched it into the pea-green paint of the wall decades back to commemorate his first overnight stay.

But Wyatt doesn’t confront Rhett at the Double Deuces.  He doesn’t seek him out at all.

Rhett comes to him.

It’s a Saturday night, and Wyatt is lazing in front of the TV, watching the recaps of the week’s basketball games.  He’s half-asleep when he hears the heavy, scuffing tread of boots on his porch, then a thumping fist at the door.

When he peeks out of the window to see who it is, it’s the fucking asshole.  Rhett sways unsteady on his feet.  Wyatt opens the door, and he can smell the reek of cheap beer and brown liquor.  When he peers out farther, he can see where the fucking asshole parked his truck, half in the driveway and half in the yard, the tires sunk deep in the soft spring turf.

“You drive here like that?” Wyatt asks, though it’s obvious.

The kid nods.

Wyatt sighs, scrubs his hand over his jaw.  “Tell me you came from next door.  Tell me you were drinking at home and not out on the roads fucking loaded.”

Rhett stares at him, his eyes bleary and blood-shot, his blinks slow and deliberate.  “Came from t’bar,” he slurs.

“Fucking prick.”  Wyatt breathes it out. 

His vision wavers for a moment, the rage that courses through him is so hot and sudden.  He moves towards the kid just as Rhett sways towards him, and in a blink, Wyatt finds his hands on him, his sweat-dampened t-shirt twisted in his fists.  This close, the beer fumes make his eyes water, and when Wyatt studies the kid’s face, he sees blank stupefaction. 

“You fucking little prick.”  He pivots, turns, hauls Rhett away from the front door, down off the porch.  He half-drags, half-carries him, and once they are on the soft grass of the front yard, Wyatt shoves him away.

“Stupid, selfish.  So fucking selfish.”  The rage feels good, like a narcotic in his veins.  “You could have killed someone, driving like this.”

“I didn’t…”  Rhett sways on his feet, struggles to get his balance.  “Didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t t-think—”

Wyatt is on him again, his hands firm on Rhett’s chest as he shoves him in earnest, sends the kid stumbling back on his ass.  “You never fucking think, do you?  Jesus fucking Christ, my sister…her husband…they were killed by a fucking drunk driver, and you have the fucking balls to…you asshole…you fucking piece of shit.  You—”

But he can’t even finish.  His sister and brother-in-law, your parents.  Years ago now, but the pain is still fresh, a keen edge of a knife blade that takes his breath away.  It was after a rodeo, a random Saturday.  One stupid fucking decision and Wyatt lost his family, you lost your parents, and the rest of the world had the bad taste to keep on going. 

There’s a roadside memorial on the road out of Wabang that marks the site of the crash.  It makes that knife blade of grief twist in Wyatt’s gut every time he sees it.

Anger—rage—is such a close neighbor to grief.  Grief is something one has to feel, but anger?  That’s something to embrace, to lean into.  To do.

Wyatt advances on Rhett, his big fists opening and closing as the kid struggles to get back on his feet.  Wyatt wants to beat the shit out of him, wants to see him bruised and bloodied on the ground:  for hurting you years ago, for hurting you more recently, and now this.  For taking his life and the life of anyone else on the road into his own stupid, selfish hands.

Rhett manages to find his knees, and he kneels in the grass but can seem to get no further.  Wyatt towers over him.

“Get up,” he orders.  His voice is low, deadly, and his tone must penetrate the booze-fog because the kid tilts his head up and looks at him. 

“Get up,” he repeats.  “Get up and face it like a man.”

Rhett only manages a dumbfounded, “huh?”

“You wanna drive a big truck like a big man?  Drink at the Double D’s like a big fucking man?  You wanna fuck around with my niece and break her fucking heart like a big man?  So stand up and take what’s coming to you like a man.”

The kid seems to track Wyatt’s meaning.  His bleary eyes clear a fraction and fix on where Wyatt’s fists wait, eager to offer some payback for his sins.  Rhett nods, as if to himself, and he takes a deep breath.  Closes his eyes, opens them.  He struggles to stand, staggers a little, but eventually finds his feet.

“Make it her.”  It comes out one slurred word, makeither, and Wyatt’s anger cools by the barest degree.  He unclenches his fists, holds them looser.

“What the fuck you trying to say?”

Rhett coughs, sways.  Coughs again, then enunciates, clarifies.

“Make it hurt.  Make sh…sure.  Make sure it hurts.”

Wyatt’s fists uncurl more.  “Now what are you—”

“Am.  Piece of shit.  I am.”  The kid sways more but takes a wide step, braces his legs wide to keep himself upright.  “Y’right.  Imma piece a’shit.”

As quickly as Wyatt’s rage came on him, it flees him just as fast.  He sees it just as clear as day, how Rhett Abbott ain’t a man.  He’s just a boy playing at it, fucking up as he goes.  Wyatt knows as well as anyone the sort of father the kid has, Royal Abbott is no model of what a man should be. 

The kid standing in front of him is just a hurt animal:  hurt by his own father, hurt by his own behavior because he has no idea how to not take out his hurt on others.

He waves his hand at the kid, a dismissive gesture, and he starts to turn away.  He is halfway back to the house when he hears the kid coming for him, feels the weak glancing blow of the punch that has no aim or power because the kid is too drunk.

He wants to be punished, he thinks as he turns back around to face Rhett.  He knows Royal is hard on his youngest son, can guess that the kid’s been knocked around plenty.  His own father…well, he keeps that buried in the past, but sometimes it pops up like a bad penny.  Like now. 

He wants to be hurt because it’s the only thing he knows, he thinks.  Like I used to.

Maybe Wyatt only fell into fatherhood because of a tragedy, but he gets more of it right than he will ever give himself credit for.  He faces the kid, and when the kid comes swinging at him again, spoiling for a beat-down Wyatt will never deliver after all, Wyatt only opens his arms and lets Rhett step into them.  The kid struggles for a beat but he’s drunk, and he seems tired down to his soul.

It only takes a moment for the kid to stop struggling in Wyatt’s bear-hug, then sag against him in exhaustion, then weep in dry, barking sobs that feel like they’ve been building up for his entire life.  And Wyatt knows exactly what sort of pain the kid is bleeding out because it was his pain, and his sister’s too, until they both fled their unhappy childhood home and made a happier one here on this ranch.

“Christ almighty,” Wyatt says after the kid calms.  He doesn’t let him go—he only gets an arm around his shoulders, and he leads him inside. 

No sense sending him home to his father.  He’s here now, so he might as well sleep it off on the couch.

-----

It’s less than a month before Rhett returns.  Maybe a handful of weeks later, the kid turns up on Wyatt’s step, sheepish.  Looking small.

Wyatt will never be clear exactly why Rhett and Royal fall out so terrifically.  Who can say?  The Abbotts can be squirrelly fucking assholes, back to Royal’s father and probably even further back, but Rhett finds himself kicked out with nowhere to go.

He takes the couch for a night, but the next day, Wyatt thrusts some fresh sheets in the kid’s arms and directs him to the guest room down the hall.  Past your bedroom.

“Might sleep better in an actual bed,” he tells the kid, his voice gruff.

“I’ll be out as soon as I can.”  Rhett’s ears burn red in shame.  “Just gotta line up a place.”

“No rush.”

“Seriously, I’ll—”

“I got plenty of room.  You ain’t putting me out.”

-----

Wyatt is never sure the right way to tell you that Rhett Abbott is currently crashing with him.  A month passes and then another, and he starts to feel guilty that the kid who broke your heart has been living down the hall from your childhood bedroom, sitting at your kitchen table.  That he parks his truck beside yours, and that he’s caught the kid—more than once—lingering by your bedroom door, lingering by your truck, like your ghost might manifest if he stands still enough.

Every time you call.  Each Facetime.  Wyatt wants to say something and doesn’t.

Wyatt ends up taking the coward’s way out:  he sends you an email.  Keeps it short and sweet, apologizes for not saying anything sooner.  He alludes to the situation between father and son, but clarifies that Rhett is in no way forgiven for how he treated you.  It’s just that the kid needed a soft place to land, and he had the ability to help, so he felt it was his God-given duty to do so.

But I can ask him to leave, if you want, he writes.  If it makes you uncomfortable.  You’ll always be my first and top priority, kiddo.

It takes you two days to reply, but that means nothing.  You have a brutal schedule and often go radio silent for stretches of time.  When you do reply, it makes Wyatt smile.

I can’t be mad about it, you write back.  How many times did you look the other way when I brought a stray home?  I guess you deserve a stray of your own.  Might want to take him in for his shots though. :-) 

Wyatt grins when he reads your email, then glances over at where Rhett is sitting on the couch, watching TV.  The kid does act like a stray; he cringes the barest bit if Wyatt moves too suddenly or too close to him, but like a stray, he relishes the comfort of a warm home, food in his belly, and even the tamest praise.

You got a heart of gold, kiddo, Wyatt texts you, and your response is immediate.

Got it from my uncle.

-----

Through the summer and autumn, the two men fall into a rhythm.  It isn’t so bad living with the kid, once he starts to get his sea-legs under him.  Once he starts to feel like the bottom won’t drop out.  Rhett puts in an honest day’s work on the ranch, and Wyatt pays him.  The first time he presses money on the kid, he tries to push it away, embarrassed at what he thinks is more charity on top of the charity of room and board…

“You work for me, you work for me,” Wyatt said, blunt.  “Means you get paid by me.  Take it or leave.”

Wyatt won’t know it until years from now, when he’s an old man and Rhett has grey in his own hair, but this stretch of time—the two men working and living together—is when Rhett starts to learn how to be a man.  That Wyatt is the gruff but kind, slightly awkward father-figure Rhett always needed.

There are lessons embedded in their days working the ranch.  The lessons ease Rhett out of the fog of his life, the strange liminal space of being in his early twenties but still just a kid.

When Rhett royally fucks up a stretch of fencing, ruins a day of work.  Wyatt only grunts, shakes his head, then claps Rhett on the back.

“You can either take the time to plan out a job, or plan on doing the job twice,” is all he says, and he guesses that Royal would have belted his son into the dirt for such an error.

When Wyatt tasks Rhett with a simple rewiring job in the barn, replacing some light fixtures, and the kid has no idea where to even start.  He spends half the day sweating about it, a sick feeling churning in his stomach, until he decides to throw up the white flag and admit he has no experience working with electrical fixtures.

“Well, hell, kid.  Why didn’t you say something?”  Wyatt jerks his chin towards the barn.  “C’mon, I’ll show you.”

When at the rodeo, Rhett is tossed from the bull within seconds, a humiliating display.  Afterwards, his body bruised but his ego far worse off, Wyatt only chuckles at him, says life will throw you off like that sometimes and it’s the getting back up that shows character.

“You got back up,” he tells Rhett.  “That means something.”

“Means I didn’t want to get trampled,” he grumbles.

“Still means something.”

-----

Always, though, there’s the specter of you.

Wyatt catches the kid standing in the doorway of your bedroom sometimes still.  Peering in at the time capsule of your stuff:  the clothes you’ve left behind, the framed photos, the beat-to-shit stuffed bear on your bed. 

Wyatt mentions you in passing, but he never brings up that long-ago night at the hotel or your sudden flight from Wabang the summer before.  He guesses Rhett already feels terrible all the time, so why bother bringing it up and make it worse?

The kid eventually broaches the subject all on his own, just as winter descends on Wabang again.  It’s been over a year since either of them have seen you in person, though Wyatt Facetimes you at least once a week.

Rhett makes himself scarce during those calls, but Wyatt’s always had the impression he’s not far off, maybe straining to make out your voice through the wall.

In early December, you break the news that you aren’t coming home for the holiday break.  Wyatt would suspect that Rhett might be the reason, but your eyes practically glitter with excitement as you talk about a massive stray animal sweep you’ve helped plan, a Christmas-into-New Years take-to-the-streets movement to find and rescue as many street dogs and cats as you can.  You’ve been working with local Girl Scouts to build feral cat cold-weather shelters, and you’ve been raising money and donations, and you’ve built a strong foster network, and local clinics are ready to spay and neuter and administer vaccines—

Heart of gold, indeed.  It makes Wyatt tear up, first from so much pride it feels like his chest might burst, then from that knife edge of grief that his sister isn’t here to see what a force for good her daughter turned into.

When Wyatt breaks the news to Rhett later, though, the kid sorta deflates, and that’s when he brings it up himself.

“It’s my fault,” he mumbles.  “She’ll never come back if I’m here.”

“Not true.”  Wyatt goes to the refrigerator and snags two bottles of beer, then hands one off to Rhett.  He settles in his easy chair and studies the kid.  “You know she loves animals.  She’ll come back eventually.”

“She hates me.”

“Nah.  I don’t know if hate is something she can even feel.  Dislike, maybe.  Disappointment.  Not hate.” 

“She should hate me.  I deserve it.”

And then it spills out, one clipped sentence at a time.  The entire history of you two, from best friends in childhood to passing acquaintances to an awkward moment in a hotel that Wyatt now knows was not actual sex but just some fooling around that ended in a cruel words.  When Rhett gets to the part of the story about your summer together, Wyatt holds up a palm, says, “yeah, don’t want the details at all,” and Rhett slouches against the couch and sighs.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her, you know.  Sounds fucking stupid, but at the time, I didn’t even realize what I was doing to her.”  Rhett glances over at the man, fixes his eyes back on the floor.  “Looking back, it felt like I was sleepwalking through that summer, and now I’m awake and see all the damage I did.”

Wyatt chuckles sadly.  He knows the feeling.  He has his own hurt women in his past, experienced the same sort of heartless sleepwalking. 

The kid shakes his head and continues.  “Wasn’t worth it.  Maria, I mean.  I don’t even know what I saw in her. 

“You were thinking with the wrong brain,” he tells Rhett.  Wyatt may have no lost love for Maria Olivaries, but he’d admit she was a pretty gal.  He could see why the boys went a little stupid around her. 

“Wasn’t thinkin’ at all.”  He says your name, a sigh in his mouth, then adds, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Look.”  Wyatt sets his empty beer bottle aside, leans forward.  “You gotta try to make it right with her.  How you square it up is up to you.  Maybe she’ll forgive you, maybe she won’t, but you gotta make an honest try at it.”

“How?”

“Damned if I know.  But take it from me, kid.  I had a girl when I was your age, and I fucked it up completely.  Even once I realized how badly I fucked up, I was too proud to try and set it right.  Now it’s been years and it’s far too late.  So you gotta try, so even if she never forgives you, it’ll set right in your chest that you did everything you could.”

Rhett stares at him for a long beat, then nods.  Then there’s a beat of glassiness in his eyes, near-tears, that Rhett blinks away almost angrily before he turns and clears his throat.

“I don’t mean to, you know.  I don’t mean to be a piece of shit,” he says, his voice rough-edged.

“Aw hell, kid.”  Wyatt heaves himself out of his chair and starts to make his way back to the kitchen for another beer.  He stops in front of where Rhett sits, slouched over, and he lays a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re a piece of shit,” he tells him.  “I just think you’re kind of a shithead.”

Rhett snorts.  “What’s the difference?”

“First one is a lost cause,” Wyatt says.  “Second one is just an idiot trying to do his best.  Like most of us.”

*****

Christmas day at a bachelor’s ranch is not as sad as it might seem.

Wyatt brings in a tree but they only throw some lights on it to give it a bit of cheer.  They build a fire in the fireplace, exchange no gifts, settle in and watch the football games.

Christmas dinner is a pot of Wyatt’s ulcer-inducing chili and a pan of cornbread.  Cecelia drops by in the morning with a plate of cookies and a handful of gifts for Rhett, but it’s just the two guys for most of the day.

Until you call to Facetime your uncle.

You take Rhett unawares; you call off-schedule.  You usually call in the evening but this is the afternoon, and Wyatt mutes the football game and take the call from the couch.  Rhett starts to stand up, but the man waves him to sit back down.  No need to hide out like he usually does.

So Rhett gets a full accounting of your life from you directly.  He can hear your voice, and you sound like you have a sore throat.  You tell your uncle about your big rescue mission, how it’s bitterly cold in the city but how you’ve saved so many dogs, so many cats, and how you can’t wait to head back out after you warm up a bit.

“I just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas,” you tell Wyatt.  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.”

Your uncle glances over at Rhett, nods in his direction.  “We’re doing okay for a couple of guys.”

“You decorate a tree?”

“Just string lights.”

“The prettiest part of a tree anyway.  What about dinner?”

“Chili.”

You laugh, and the sound makes Rhett smile – when was the last time he heard it? 

“Happy Birthday, Jesus.  Here’s some indigestion,” you joke.

“Good thing the kid went to Costco and got a gallon bucket of Pepto,” Wyatt jokes back.

It draws another laugh, which makes Rhett laugh, which makes you stop and ask your uncle if Rhett is there too.

“He is,” Wyatt admits.  “We’re watching the football game.”

There’s a beat of silence from you that seems to stretch out forever but is probably only a second or two. 

“Merry Christmas, Rhett,” you say, and Wyatt hesitates, then tilts the screen so Rhett can see you and you can see him.  He almost doesn’t want to look but he can’t help himself.

You’re smiling at him.  Not as broadly as you usually smile when you’re delighted in something or someone, but it’s a medium-sized one that touches the corners of your eyes. 

It’s genuine.

It’s a place to start.  It’s a sliver of hope.  It’s not a door slamming shut in his face but a door left ajar by a fraction, and maybe Rhett can toe it open if he can just find the right way to try and square things up with you.  It’s confirmation that he’s not a piece of shit, just kind of a shithead, and if he tries his best, maybe that will be enough.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies, and if you notice the gruffness in his voice, you don’t react.

“Thanks.” 

Wyatt holds his phone there a moment, starts to turn it back to him, but Rhett blurts out, “be careful out there, okay?” so Wyatt turns it back.

Your smile grows the barest bit.  “Will do.”  A pause.  “Don’t let my uncle work you too hard.”

A toe in the door.  A sliver of hope.  The fire snaps in the fireplace and the string lights twinkle on the tree, and Rhett may be an idiot just trying his best, but maybe that’s enough.

“I barely work at all,” he jokes.  “Gotta leave plenty of work for you when you come back.”

It makes you chuckle.  It’s not a laugh, but it’s something.

“In that case, Uncle Wyatt, work him into the ground,” you joke back, and Wyatt turns his phone back to him this time, and Rhett is left with perhaps a bit more than a sliver of hope.  He leans back on the couch and thinks that yes, maybe he can salvage this after all. 

Maybe trying his best will be enough.

[aibidil]

Ok millennials and parents of Gen Z, huddle time. What are we going to do about our Gen Z and (preemptively) Gen Alpha kids' politics? Especially those of us who are parents to Gen Z men? We've all seen the data showing that millennials aren't getting more conservative as we age. To give them credit where credit is due, Boomers were the ONLY age group to shift left in the 2024 US election. Millennials didn't move much from 2020, but it was slightly to the right. Gen X and Gen Z moved significantly to the right—9 points and 13 points, respectively. Gen Z men shifted 15 points to the right, while Gen Z women shifted 9 points to the right.

Obviously the left as a whole has some work to do here, but I can't help thinking that some of the work might be done by us as parents or friends of Gen Zers and, preemptively, Gen Alphas. (Maybe part of the issue is that most Gen Zers have Gen Xer parents, and we know that Gen X is the other age group that shifted significantly to the right?) These kids are coming of voting age in a really fucking difficult world political moment, and it makes sense to me that they need guidance in this venue like they do in the rest of life.

Clearly parents don't have control over our kids' politics, but we also have a huge ability to influence and help educate them. Some spit-balling thoughts of things we need to be doing:

Talk as rationally as we can about economics and how economic policies affect us. Help them understand what politicians are saying about the economy, e.g. what is a tariff? what causes inflation? If we aren't clear about these things, let's include them in our research trying to figure it out. I can't help but think that most Trump voters simply do not understand what a tariff is and what it will mean for US consumers, if it's passed

Help them learn to play out different scenarios—to think through what will happen down the line if various proposed policies were enacted. That is, help them to think logically about not just what will happen immediately after a policy is passed, but what that would be likely to happen next, and next, and next. This ability to think down the line is so important in so many parts of life, and it's not necessarily something that comes easy to most of us.

On abortion: This wasn't a huge issue this election in the US. That said, I've had really good luck talking with my boys about why abortion is important, and this is a case where the framing of the issue is so important. "Parenting is hard. Don't we want all kids to have parents who actually wanted to be parents? Do you think that someone who doesn't want kids, or knows they can't afford kids, or knows they can't handle kids should be forced to give birth? What would that mean for their baby?"

Talk about it whenever political issues affect you. It's much easier to understand politics when it touches your family, but if we don't talk about it, they won't understand it. For example, I've got a lot of chronic health issues, so health insurance has been a big political concern of mine. I can explain that insurers not very long ago used to be able to deny people coverage if they had any preexisting condition, and that it's only democrats and the pressure of the political left that accomplished getting rid of that. And now we need to make sure we keep that win, because it's the right thing, but also because here is how it would affect us

Talk about all the rights we have that are actually quite new. Lawrence v. Texas (legalizing consensual sodomy) was only in 2003! Gay marriage has only been nationwide since 2015! Explain why gay marriage is important. Not because we believe marriage is some mystical thing, but because it confers legal benefits like the ability to visit your sick partner in the hospital, to be the next of kin, to get spousal health insurance, etc. It's so easy to think these rights have been around longer than they have.

If we're worried about vulnerable people under a Trump presidency, talk about our worries in as concrete a way as possible, because if we aren't concrete, they are tempted to think we're being hyperbolic. "I'm worried that trans folks won't be able to access medical care or their medication because Trump has talked about passing laws to do that. I know that access to gender-affirming care is vital because suicide rates are high among trans folks if they can't access care. When I listen to politicians talk about trans people, it makes me angry and sad because they're stoking fears but those fears aren't based in reality. Meanwhile trans people will actually be hurt by these policies right away." Or about mass deportations: "Trump has promised to deport immigrants, which is wrong—how does he think our country will survive? The people he's talking about deporting are an important part of our society. And aren't we all immigrants, if we're not indigenous? But it's even worse than that because he isn't only talking about deporting undocumented people. The policies he's promised to enact also plan to deport even people who are here legally with visas or temporary protected status, and he wants to use a law from 1798 called the Alien Enemies Act to justify it. That's the same law they used to justify horrifically holding Asian Americans in camps during WW2! I worry for these fellow people because it's inhumane and I also know it would be terrible for the economy, which seems like it would be against the right's purported goals, doesn't it?"

Any time you start a discussion like this, listen to what they have to say in response. Don't shut them down! It's tempting to shut them down especially if they say some nonsense—especially if it seems like nonsense they're parroting from right-wing youtubers. It's so tempting. If it triggers you, buy yourself a minute to cool down by asking them to say more or explain what they mean.

Help them learn to vet news and images, especially in this age of AI. We can talk through our own thought processes when we hear a fact or story. How do you know if something—a fact, an image, a video—is true? What kind of process should you be running EVERYTHING through? We need to help them develop this skill so they don't give up on even trying and become full of despair at living in a post-truth world.

What other ideas do you have? Please add on. I feel such a sense of responsibility over my white Gen Z boys, and I know I can't be the only one who thinks we need a fucking plan. No one has ever parented in this environment before—let's help each other.

[glowing-arachnid]

Incorrect Spiderverse Quotes 2.0

Kyoki: So how do you know the host? Mila: They were a former vegan, and they bought milk. Bridge: That BITCH! Fable: I pulled them over for money laundering. Peter B: I'm chaperoning their dinner party. Lyla: They stole a baconator! Bridge: That BITCH! Kyoki: I tanked the store they were managing and they convinced me to quit from one of the only jobs I've ever had. Now I'm living off of unemployment checks and fear! ------------------------------- Lyla: *tapping fingers on table* Bridge: *taps fingers back furiously* Mila: …What’s going on? Fable: Morse code. They’re talking. Lyla: -.-- ..- .-. / - …. . / -.-. ..- - . … - Bridge: *slams hands on table* YOU TAKE THAT BACK! -------------------------------- Mila: I’m proud to say I’ve come over my fear of ghosts! Kyoki: Eyy, that’s the spirit! Mila: *gasps* whErE???!!!? ------------------------------ Miguel: *working in a flower shop and minding their own business* Kyoki, storming into the store and slapping $20 on the counter: HOW DO I PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVELY SAY “FUCK YOU” IN FLOWER??? ----------------------------- Miguel: Some people are like slinkies. Lyla: What? Miguel: Not really good for much but bring a smile to your face when you push them down the stairs. Lyla: Lyla: Please don't push Kyoki down the stairs. Miguel, pushing Kyoki down the stairs: Too late. ----------------------------- Kyoki: Time for plan G. Fable: Don’t you mean plan B? Kyoki: No, we tried plan B a long time ago. I had to skip over plan C due to technical difficulties. Hobie: What about plan D? Kyoki: Plan D was that desperate disguise attempt half an hour ago. Bridge: What about plan E? Kyoki: I’m hoping not to use it. Lyla dies in plan E. Miguel: I like plan E. ---------------------------------- Bridge, singing: I don’t want a lot for Christmas, there is just one thing I need— Kyoki: A family. Peter B: A better love life. Mila: Mental stability. Gwen: *clueless* Bagels? ------------------------------- Kyoki: I’m going to hell. Bridge: Probably. Kyoki: I'll pick you up? Bridge: *nodding* Carpool. ----------------------------- The demon Kyoki summoned, standing amidst the destroyed kitchen: How? How were you able to summon me?! Kyoki, flipping through a cookbook as fast as they can: I don’t know!! You were supposed to be chicken soup! ---------------------------- Gwen: Who knew getting in trouble would be so impossible? Peter B: I gotta give you credit, Kyoki. You make it look easy. Kyoki: Years of practice. ------------ @peterbsideparker @spiderbite-from-0202 @spiderman2-99 @ghostly-sunflower @spiderpunkofficial @nan0-sp1der @crybaby-spider @lyrate-lifeform-approximation

[jakegooglyeyes]

Emblem of Roses - Chapter 6

Hi, everyone. Sorry for the long hiatus. I finally sorted my stuff out so the update should be more frequent from now on. I've received a few messages and they are very encouraging. I apologize if the pacing of this chapter is a little bit choppy. I wrote it in a span of months and a lot of things happened during that time.

Pairings: Jake Gyllenhaal x reader, Maggie Gyllenhaal x reader (Medieval AU)

Summary: Lady Maggie's plan is set in motion, something is growing between the Lord and his wife (if you squint really hard).

Word count: 6000

Warnings: brief mention of forcing marital sex on the reader, power dynamic

MINOR DNI. If any of these content upsets you, DO NOT READ!!!

Divider credit: @/firefly-graphics​

Tagged: @gyllenhaalstories, @looloolily, @charliehoennam

Author's note: I retconned a few small details from the Prologue. Namely the nickname of the character (Dog => Jackal), and the condition Jackal was in. He was temporary blinded during the time he was rescued by reader.

While the Lord is being requested to settle the unfortunate altercation, the musicians continue playing their melodies inside the Great Hall. The crackling sounds of the large fire pit and the joyful tune make it easy to forget the terrible intentions hidden beneath one’s mask.

As the guests become more intoxicated and well-fed, a mysterious figure, one among the King’s delegates, makes their way toward Lady Maggie’s table.

The woman dons a flowing gown made of dark velvet and adorned with elaborate needlework. Despite the fine quality of her garment, the dull choice of color makes her almost invisible among the opulence flaunted by other high-ranking members.

She makes her way through rows of drunk guests, her eyes sharp as that of a hawk, and her face cold and stern, making her appear unwelcoming and intimidating to the weak-willed.

Lady Maggie’s discerning eyes catch the sight of a peculiar gold pendant hanging below the old woman’s neckline, depicting an oak leaf. The two handmaidens accompanying her also bear similar accessories. Only theirs are made of iron.

The Lady’s brows arch. Not out of surprise, but intrigue. It seems she has expected this special guest’s arrival.

“Please accept our gratitude for the hospitality and care you have shown to our princess, my Lady.”

After greeting the Lady, the old woman receives a small golden box from one of her maidens and places it in front of Lady Maggie, who graciously acknowledges the gesture. The women silently return to their seats, avoiding any further conversation. Regardless of the old matron’s motives, she must not be seen socializing with the kin of the Usurper.

As the Lady opens the box, a dazzling piece of finely crafted jewelry catches her eye. It is exquisite, but not particularly remarkable, especially coming from someone like the old woman.

However, only Lady Maggie can see that the box’s interior is narrower than its external profile. After studying it for a brief moment, the Lady allows her steward to take it back to her chamber. Leaning back against her chair, a pleasant smile spreads across her face as her plan is set in motion.

Her watchful eyes gaze upon the heavy gate of the Great Hall, wondering what has taken her brother so long.

The weight of the cape presses against your shoulders, keeping you warm and protected from the prying eyes. You can feel the glaring behind your back and hear the muttering among the servants.

The Lord is walking beside you, surprisingly mirroring your pace with small steps. His jaw tightens as firmly as his grip on the hilt of the sword. He must be extremely angry, you can tell. His enemies have made themselves comfortable in his home, drinking his wine, and laughing as if the bloody war never happened.

And now he must forgive one of them.

For what? To maintain the illusion of a truce? This is asking too much of him.

The Lord, of course, has no intention of rejoining his sister in the Great Hall. Your “very serious” injury presents him a convenient excuse to extract himself from the noisy, inebriated crowd.

He accompanies you to your chamber and summons the old physician to attend to your wound. You want to decline. It is only a tiny scratch, and you can perfectly take care of it on your own.

You are about to protest, but the moment your eyes meet the Lord’s, you quickly swallow your words. The incident has left him furious, and he is still fuming over it. And it does not seem wise to cross him at this moment.

After fulfilling his duty, the physician bows and takes his leave, leaving you in the room with the Lord.

You have expected your husband to return to the feast or his chamber, seeing there is no reason for him to still linger here. And yet, he remains. His presence stretches the stillness in the air. At least the warmth emanating from the fireplace brings you some comfort, fighting off the harsh winter winds.

“Thank you for aiding me.” Suppressing your nervousness, you utter a few words to disrupt the awkward silence.

The Lord did save you during that commotion. Whether he did it out of the gallantry in his heart or because he saw the royal family as an eyesore does not matter (though it is most likely the latter). What matters is that he did you a favor he was not obliged to. And he graciously walked you back to your chamber, shielding you from the curious stares of the servants.

“Why did you forgive her?” The Lord’s brows furrow, a familiar sight when he gets frustrated. His voice carries a subtle annoyance, unable to comprehend the rationale behind what he considers foolish mercy.

While he harbors no affection for you, he was not about to let the King’s dogs bear their fangs in his domain. If you didn’t stop him, he would have cut that crone down. And a few others, just to be thorough.

You never expect to be asked such a question. You hesitate, searching your head for the right answer. It is difficult when you can't seem to understand why he would ask you such question.

“It is not my wish for anyone to die because of me.”

Indeed, you detest that woman, and there were, undeniably, times you have dreamed of her demise. But you have no desire for any bloodshed.

In the years spent learning from your mother, you witnessed more deaths than you could count. And it was under that guidance that you took a healer’s oath, sworn to save lives, not take them.

Moreover, her death on the Lord’s ground would only further complicate the situation between the King and House Gyllenhaal, would it not?

Any transgression from either side will be used as leverage against the other. And the last thing you want is to be the cause of it.

The Lord responds with a dry laugh. He finds your explanation very—irritating.

Given your status as a bastard, he can imagine the mistreatment you faced from people. And that old crone, in particular? It certainly was not the first time she struck you.

He recalls the days he used to serve under the King. Even then, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the sight of your misery. He may pity you a bit. However, people of his status rarely prioritize the suffering of the unfortunate mass, unless there is something to gain from it. You would have been just another poor bastard whose entire existence is shameful and insignificant.

Everyone values lineage and legitimacy. His family, despite all the tales of heroism and altruism woven by his brilliant sister, is no exception.

You should be angry. You should not have asked him to spare that woman, but you did, and it is baffling to him. He finds that kind of empathy a nuisance, a weakness. It’s the kind of weakness that ends up as the blade to your back.

“Your wish? I can’t tell if you are arrogant or naïve. Her insolence is enough of a reason for me to take her life.”

He takes a step closer to the bed, where you sit, as he looks straight into your eyes, wanting to dig out your misplaced compassion. He cannot explain why, but it is upsetting him.

“Had she died, it would be by my will and my hand.”

“I understand that.” You concede softly.

“You understand nothing.” The Lord’s voice is snappy yet quiet, startling even the man himself.

He finds it absurd that he is standing here instigating an argument with you for a petty reason.

You were not at fault, and he knows that. Your only guilt was that you did not choose to act as he would.

He takes a moment to collect himself, calming his nerves before leaning down, closing the gap between you and him. With only the flickering fire illuminating the side of his face, his expression is unreadable.

“Only a fool spares his foes, expecting them to show him the same mercy he did. She threatened you, did she not? Spare her life does nothing but give her another chance to bite you. You are safe here, but what about the old healer you spoke of?” His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

The Lord notices the slight twitching on your forehead. He knows he has touched a nerve.

Although he is in no way comparable to his sister when it comes to the elusive art of reading people, he can still uncover little weaknesses others hold close to their heart.

That woman, the healer you spoke of, must be very important to you, since every mention of hers draws a powerful reaction. When his sister confronted you about your letter or when that woman used her name against you, you became agitated, betraying how much you care about that healer.

She is your weakness.

The fabric of your dress is crumpled into a small heap between your hands as you are unable respond. The Lord’s words are as sharp as a blade, driving into your chest.

It has been a long time since you parted with your mother. You haven’t been able to write to her, nor have you heard anything from her. You have kept your composure, but the truth is, missing her is driving you mad deep down.

The Lord sighs, exhausted from having to remind such a simple logic to you.

You, who have the misfortune of being a part of this undignified marriage. How are you going to survive when you can barely put up a fight? When you don’t know when or how to strike your enemies? You are just so… so shortsighted and unguarded.

“My Lord!” You let out a small yelp.

The sudden chill of the Lord’s fingers grazing your cheek catches you off guard. As your body meets the softness of the bed after being pushed, you let a gasp escape your lips.

His form looms above you, pinning you down by the shoulders. In the dimly lit room, you catch an orange glimpse of the hearth fire reflecting off his long lashes.

When was the last time you observed your husband so closely? You can’t remember.

Your muscles tighten in response, a surge of tension coursing through your body, feeling unprepared for whatever will happen.

“What are you doing?” You swallow the lump in your throat.

Your hands press into the fine fabric of the Lord’s garment as you brace his weight on top of you. The memory of his body heat against the cold, dark cellar suddenly resurfaces, vividly replaying in your mind. Your eyes dart away, unable to meet the Lord’s penetrating stare.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Indulging in my privilege as your husband.” His retorts, his voice low with a hint of enticing charm you rarely witness.

His face inches closer, bridging the distance between you. The heat on your cheeks intensifies, and you are unsure whether it’s from the Lord’s breath against your face or the blood rushing beneath your skin.

As he leans in to meet your lips, the air is filled with the faint scent of wine, enveloping your senses. The sensation isn’t exactly unpleasant, but neither is it entirely enjoyable.

His touch is gentle as he seeks to coax your rigid jaw to relax, but nervousness holds you in its grip, making it difficult to comply.

This is unlike any of your previous intimate encounters, if they could even be labeled as such. The first time was agonizing and humiliating, while the recent incident in the cellar left you feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. However, now, it feels as though the Lord is actually taking his time with you. Just you, not his spiteful enemy, not a substitute for his long-gone beloved.

The sensation is indescribable.

You wonder if the pounding in your chest is a normal reaction. Surely it must be, right? After all, the Lord is a man in his prime, undeniably handsome, too. It’s not unusual to be captivated by his uncharacteristic tenderness.

Regardless of the circumstances, you two are still husband and wife. You should expect these things, or at least, you were taught to expect them. Still, you struggle to make peace with the situation.

On complete instinct, you turn your head to the side, denying him the touch of your lips.

The Lord’s eyes capture every expression on your face, even when your eyes clench shut and your brows knit. He rises from you, a finger smoothing away the creases on your forehead.

You hear a drawn-out, weary sigh.

“See? You freeze up like a scared little lamb. Are you going to lie still and wait to be slaughtered?” The Lord asks, as he moves away and gives you back the freedom of movement.

You find yourself speechless, your head still spinning from the surge of excitement.

The Lord silently muses himself, savoring the colorful expressions on your face. He finds himself no longer upset.

It hasn't been a full day and he has spoken to you more than he ever had in the past. Somehow, he derives much comfort from these interactions, despite your severe lack of common sense. At least, he does not have to exert his mental strength like the times he converses with his sister.

The Lord is taken aback by the sudden wave of emotions he experiences in your presence. He is absolutely confident that he doesn't hold any genuine fondness for you.

Even if illegitimate, you are still the King's daughter, and that fact continues to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. You can't never by fully trusted, as blood and allegiance always matter in his world.

If it were up to him, he would have you removed from his domain. Be it setting you free or a less merciful alternative, you wouldn't be sitting here and being a thorn in his side.

Yet, if you are still being kept around, it can only mean Lady Maggie sees you as being of great use.

In the end, no matter what his sister has planned for you, you will not emerge from this war unscathed.

It is a pity.

As he prepares to leave, he turns around to look at you one last time, his face obscured by the darkness, disallow you to read his expression.

The door soon closes behind him, separating the two of you. You are left with your own thoughts amidst the soft cracks of the fireplace.

A few days have passed since the incident. The Lord's tolerance has been severely tested by the delegates' constant display of arrogance in his Keep.

They strut around, ordering the servants and making snide remarks about the absence of luxuries.

His sword arm has been itching non-stop. He should have executed a few when he had his wife as an excuse. It is a relief to everyone that the delegates are to leave soon. If this goes on any longer, Lord Gyllenhaal will make sure peace is no more, because he will skin these royal stains alive.

The festivity ceases and everyone goes back to their usual work.

Well, everyone except you, that is.

The Lord forbids you to work as a servant. Too many people have seen your face when you sat next to him that night, and words spread. He is indifferent about what you do as long as you are not posing a threat (and he thought you should try to be useful anyway), but the servants and even some of his men have given him strange looks.

No one knew your face when you first walked through that gate as the princess-bride. But now, more than a few people have seen you running around in servant's clothes. They are not blind.

The "new maid" who has been cleaning the stable and working in the kitchen turned out to be the Lord's wife. Royal princess or not, you are their lady Gyllenhaal. And this stirs people's curiosity, as well as their gossiping.

Truth be told, you have no qualm with his decision because the Lord is not the sole recipient of the judgmental stares.

The maids with whom you shared friendly conversations just a week ago are no longer interested in talking to you. They will respond to your queries, with ‘my lady’ appended to whatever they say. But they are only willing to speak when specifically asked. And even then, they speak with a distant, apathetic demeanor.

You are not surprised by their attitude. The Lord's enemy is not exactly welcomed in this place. They attribute your labor, perhaps, as a form punishment from the Lord or something akin to that.

Still, it hurts to lose the few genuine companionship you have gained.

And there is another issue contributing to your distress. People talk, and oh, do they talk? More than a few times, you've caught people stealing glances at your midsection as if they are looking for something.

And then it dawns on you.

A few relatives of House Gyllenhaal who greeted you during the feast had the same gazes, and at least one of them insinuated you might be carrying the Lord's offspring. Even your husband admitted that Lady Maggie was involved in spreading those rumors to ease the family’s concerns about the continuation of his legacy.

The siblings know you are useless as a political hostage at this point, but their subjects don’t. Even if you have no status to pass on to your children, at least you can make yourself useful by performing your “duty”.

It isn’t long before you hear whispers of your supposed development. The servants don’t confront you directly, but you catch the fragments of their conversations as they scrub floors or tend to the fire. And it’s not just the servants either.

“She must be with child,” they say. “Why else would she go into hiding like this? I used to see her in the stable all the time.”

“Haven’t you heard? The Lord commanded her to stop working, his intention is obvious.” they say.

Soon enough, it’s as though everyone in the Keep has come to a silent agreement.

They wait.

You feel their eyes on you constantly, searching for signs of life beneath your gown, scrutinizing every gesture, every bite of food you take—or don’t take.

But, of course, there is no child. You are quite certain of it. The idea of carrying the Lord’s offspring is as far-fetched as the whispers themselves. You haven't even shared a single proper night with your husband.

And even if he lay fingers on you, well, you haven't forgotten the potion Lady Maggie's asked you to take the day after your supposed consummation. You have an inkling feeling not everyone wants you to carry the the Lord's child.

Though, you must admit, the incessant gawking and whispering are really getting on your nerves. You stay away from others as much as you can.

It has got to the point where your own chamber becomes a suffocating prison cell. And you do not enjoy the look of maids who bring you food. So, you often wander in the courtyard, letting your feet and mind roam.

"…Your Highness."

An unfamiliar voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts. It takes them several attempts before you realize someone is addressing you. You turn around to a face you have never seen before. Judging by his clothes, he is a member of the delegates.

It's puzzling that any of them have needs to speak to you.

Discreetly scanning the area, you breathe a sigh of relief upon noticing several Gyllenhaal guards stationed within eyesight. At the very least, you hope to avoid a repeat of what happened the other night.

"Who are you?" With caution, you ask.

The man's lips curl into a sly smile.

"I merely wish to bid your farewell before I depart, your Highness. And perhaps…" His hand reaches into his robe, producing a small, folded cloth. "To present a parting gift, directly from His Majesty, the King."

With hesitation, you extend your hand, accepting the fabric. As you unfold it, a few strands of hair tumble out.

Time stops, and you are left breathless.

There, in the palm of your hand, is a silvering lock of hair. It takes everything in you to steady your knees, to keep your expression unchanged.

This color. This texture. You recognize this.

Your mother's hair.

The man leans in, his voice a hushed murmur, barely audible.

"My princess, I hope you have not forgotten the King's order. He is growing very, very impatient."

A sick chill bubbles in your stomach. The King's order. You have brushed it aside, pushed it into the recesses of memory where you thought it would fade.

Kill the Lord? You would never have the heart to follow through with it, nor have you ever intended to. But here is this man, this messenger, holding a piece of your mother in his hand as a warning.

Forcing yourself to calm down, you ask, “What is it he expects of me?”

The man’s eyes gleam, sensing your hesitation. His feigned smile disappears.

“The end of this foolish war, in exchange for this woman's safety. His Majesty hates waiting. Perhaps… this reminder will motivate you.”

“Leave me,” you try to keep your voice low, to appear fearless. But no matter how hard to try, you can't control your shaky breaths.

It takes all of your strength to be able to stand on your feet.

The man chuckles.

“Very well,” he replies, a smirk spreading across his face. “Do give this matter some thought, my lady. The King awaits good news.”

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your body with a mocking glint.

“And, ah… my congratulations. Lord Gyllenhaal must be overjoy.”

You aren’t sure how you left the courtyard.

Your knees threaten to buckle if not for the cold stone your hand is tracing.

The nobleman’s threat is almost overshadowed by the unbearable ringing in your ears. Perhaps it is your mind’s way to block out the dread.

The vision of your mother being harmed is consuming your thoughts, leaving your stomach churning with each step. Your cheeks are feverish, but you don’t even have the mental strength to discern if it’s your own tears or you are falling sick.

You have intended to head back to your chamber, to a place you can be with your thoughts and feel safe. But your mind is all foggy as your trembling feet carry you all the way to one of the Keep’s corner towers.

It’s a place you rarely venture, and you don’t even know if you’re permitted here. The realization that you might be somewhere you are not allowed to be brings you back to your senses.

Just as you’re about to turn around, a warm, earthy scent drifts through the air. It catches your attention.

Burning incense.

At the far end, a pair of heavy wooden doors stand, one slightly ajar. The scent flows from within. A chapel, perhaps?

The reeling in your head is clouding your thoughts and making it difficult to focus. You slowly move closer to where the incense is coming from, driven by an instinctual pull. Your thoughts drift among the whirling, fragrant smoke.

You’ve never been particularly devout, but with everything that has happened, a prayer might offer some momentary peace, allowing you to clear your mind.

There isn’t much you can do right now, but pray. A meager prayer to any higher power that is willing to listen.

As you peek through the door, your eyes are immediately drawn to the majestic sculpture of a grand oak tree towering at one end of the room.

A feminine figure is carved right into the tree’s main body. As her hair weaves through the branches and her limbs meld with the trunk, it appears as though she is an inseparable part of the tree itself. With eyes filled with benevolence and wisdom, she looks upon those who come before her like a loving mother. Ever knowing. Ever caring.

The intricate craftsmanship of the sculpture leaves you so mesmerized that you almost overlook the man kneeling in front of the goddess, hands folding together with utmost reverence.

“Have you come to gloat at me, sister?” Speaks the kneeling man. You are taken aback, realizing whom that voice belongs to.

“My apology, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Stepping back from the door, you apologize frantically, your heart pounding in your chest.

As the Lord turns his head, he notices the terror on your face. Contrary to what you assume would happen, he appeared more relieved than upset by your untimely interruption.

“It’s fine. Better you than my sister.”

Despite his bitter tone, the Lord seems to tolerate your presence.

A slight curiosity arises in you as to why he wouldn't wish to face Lady Maggie. But it is a question that you don’t have the right to even ponder.

He shifts his gaze back to the statue, still in the kneeling posture, leaving only his back to you.

You would never guess that he could be a devotee of any religion, much less one centered around the Oak Mother.

The Oak Mother Cult.

It’s an ancient belief that very few still hold on to, even fewer in the Capital city from where you came. Your mother used to tell you stories about it, but not much.

And there is a reason for that.

The royal family outlawed the worship long ago in favor of a more loyalist religion, but they only truly cracked down on it after House Gyllenhaal’s rebellion.

Originally, they rejected it because many of the Cult’s beliefs clash with what the royal family deemed crucial for maintaining their rule. However, the court turned a blind eye and allowed people to continue the worship.

Not that there were many believers left by the time you learned about their existence.

After Lord Gyllenhaal’s capture and his subsequent escape, things changed.

The few remaining shrines were all burned down and the priests and priestesses were forced to convert or be executed in public. It was forbidden to discuss the event, but there were rumors of the Cult having a connection with House Gyllenhaal. Thus, the King deemed its followers traitors.

“Are you familiar with her?” The Lord asks, a little more casually than you expect. His eyes never leave the solemn goddess figure.

“Not much, my Lord. The King does not permit the worship or teaching of the Oak Mother.” You answer in earnest.

“What do they claim, that she is the perverse goddess of prostitutes and thieves?” He whispers in a sarcastic tone. Words travel far. He knows of the twisted words the King has spread.

You are unsure of how to respond. The culling of the Oak Mother followers was bloody, and with many awful accusations, which you cannot repeat in front of this man.

“I was told the Oak Mother was the protector of the less fortunate,” You carefully pick your words from the modest sleeve of knowledge you possess. “She was once the patron of healers and midwives.”

You vaguely remember a small carved oak tree pendant you used to own. A little trinket you stole from one of the court healers because you wished to be like them. This was before you were taken under your mother’s care. That thing was buried a long time ago to avoid trouble from the King when he began persecuting Oak Mother followers.

“Too impractical for the mass. She does not bestow influence nor does she grant wishes of wealth.” A soft laughter escapes the Lord’s lips. “The pantheon sanctioned by the King is more enticing, don’t you think? Those gods promise abundance to those who obey and power to those who rule.”

Rising from his kneeling position, the Lord slowly turns around to face you. The light filtering through the windows cast a shadow over him, concealing his expression from your eyes. The lonely silhouette of the man beneath the towering goddess causes a lump to form in your throat.

You have an inexplicable urge to say something to console him, but words fail you at that moment.

He doesn’t seem to expect any answer from you, however. The Lord takes a few strides toward the door, but abruptly halts right beside you.

“Have you been crying?”

A gentle warmth brushes against your cheek. His unexpected remark, almost a whisper, and the sensation of his finger on your damp, feverish skin startle both of you. Retracting his hand promptly, he hurries towards the door, moving so fast that it seems like he’s fleeing.

Your hand reach up to touch your face, feeling the lingering ghost of his fingertips.

No, you shouldn’t. You must not. He’s not someone you could—

You felt something similar once, years ago…

“What’s this thing?”

Curious fingers felt around the wooden object falling from your satchel.

The man, with his eyes bandaged and bored out of his mind, was fiddling with your possessions. He resorted to this activity to ease his immense boredom, with no other options in sight (not that he had any at that moment).

“Don’t touch my stuff.” You wrestled the small wooded oak out of the man’s hand and tucked it back into the satchel.

“It’s a healer’s charm. The King doesn’t want to see people donning it though, so I’m hiding it.” You explained.

It took you so long to obtain this. It was so hard to sneak into the healers’ quarter too. What a shame that you couldn’t put it on. You could not be seen with this thing. The King had enough reason to hate you already.

“It’s not a healer’s charm. It’s an Oak Mother insignia. There is a woman on it, yes?” The man asked, unimpressed by your lack of knowledge.

It seemed he spoke the truth. The face was worn down, but one could still make out a feminine form edged into the pendant. You only knew that the guards were checking people to find anything oak-ish.

“You stole it?”

“I did not.” You huffed, digging a small pit in the corner of the shed before placing the small pendant inside.

“Well, the owner dropped it, so it’s mine. Finder keeper.” You pat the dirt a few times to make sure it looked completely flat.

He let out a disapproving sigh. But, considering you had saved his life, he wasn’t in a position to lecture you. He brought a hand to his bandage, tugging at the fabric. But you soon swatted his filthy paws away from the covered wound.

“It’s really itchy.” He complained.

“The wound is scabbing. Let it be.” You lifted the bandage a little to make sure everything was dry. Dry means good. No more blood and puss.

“Will I be able to see again?” He asked, his voice quieter this time.

“Yes, for the thousandth time. Your injury is external. It was the infection that spread to your eyes. The blindness is only temporary.”

You understood why he was anxious, but bothering you with the same question every day would not make his wound heal any faster. You counted on your fingers. The blindfold should come off in the coming week.

“Not to mention, your body also needs time.”

When you looked at him, you couldn’t help but notice his emaciated appearance. When you found him, he was so mangled and starved that you didn’t realize he was still alive.

His unruly beard grew into a thick, tangled mess, but he was adamant about not letting you shave it off (after you’d nicked him a few times and almost sliced his throat). He at least allowed you to chop off his hair after your bedding was infested with lice.

“Hey, Jackal. What’s Oak Mother, anyway?” You scooted closer to him to get some well-deserved warmth, mindful of the injuries on his arms and shoulders.

His brows knitted, still not pleased with the nickname you gave him.

“What, you are a healer and you don’t even know her?” He scoffed. His lips perked up as he turned his left ear to you. For some reasons, he seemed a lot more willing to talk today.

“I’m not a he— I mean, of course I am! Just tell me.” You pouted and poked his gangly forearm, making him hiss in feigned pain. “Don’t play with me. Your left arm wasn’t hurt that badly.”

“Hmm, the Oak Mother is old, much older than all the gods they taught you about. Healers and midwives used to revere her as their patron goddess. Some of them still do, such as the person you stole from.”

You had to hold back the urge to strike your patient. But it was exceedingly rare for him to engage in a conversation with you, practically never, so you let this slide.

“In the eyes of the common folks, though, she is hailed as the savior for the downtrodden.” He continued smoothly, as if he didn’t just call you a petty thief.

“You worship her?” You asked. How else would he be so knowledgeable about such obscure belief?

His hand moved instinctively towards the bandage over his eyes, but you intervened in time. Again.

His answer was brief, spoken in a gentler tone.

“I prayed to her.”

You understood what he meant. A person in his situation couldn’t do anything but pray. Had you not been in the right place at the right time, you couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him. He would have been left for dead, or worse.

“How do you know so much about her?” You were curious.

No one had ever mentioned the Oak Mother. You had seen healers wearing her symbol, but people in the court always wore all sorts of regalia you didn’t know about. Moreover, no one was willing to talk to the King’s bastard.

Jackal didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t want to.

Instead, he reaches out, his hand brushing against your cheek, in a “If you won’t let me touch my face, I’ll touch yours” manner. His thumb and index picked at the soft flesh.

A jolt of pain grazed your cheek, making you yelp and recoil from his touch.

“You— what’s wrong?”

He was sure he didn’t pinch you that hard. He meant no harm, just wanted to tease you a bit, so you could stop your incessant inquiry. But there was a sensation under his fingertip he couldn’t ignore. A small patch of toughened skin, slightly raised and warm to the touch.

“It’s nothing. I’m used to it.” You shrugged and sighed, rubbing your sore cheek.

The head maid always finds some reasons to strike you. Even if you did nothing wrong, it didn’t matter. This was considered a light punishment.

Jackal’s hand hovered in the air between you.

What do you mean ‘used to it’? A quiet anger brewed inside his chest. He felt completely useless in this state. Even his sword arm wasn’t moving well. He bit back the words he wanted to say, knowing they would be meaningless.

With a heavy sigh, he unclenched his jaws and dropped his shoulders. He searched in the dark to reach out to you once more. His touch this time was feather-light, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

“Take care of yourself.” he murmured. You could barely register his voice, as it was no more than a whisper.

You forced down the lump in your throat, grateful that he couldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes. There was a tightness in your chest. It was comforting, just for a moment, to have someone care about you, even if he couldn’t do anything to help.

[5ellaal5]

Here. The excerpt of this Fix-It Fic chapter with most of the flirting skipped.

This takes place after Singularity, after Burning Shores has started and Aloy’s companions disappear and leave data nodes for her.

It was inspired by the OP’s sentiment being shared by @fogsblue to give credit where credit is due.

Setting: Kotallo stops in at the Base and finds Erend already there doing some air guitar to [Travis Tate’s] death metal music videos/holos.

———————————

They were about to head out when Kotallo paused. Something about the Death Metal video had bothered him.

“Erend, would you bring up your music’s image once more. Uh, with the volume down. Just for a moment.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.”

Kotallo stepped beside and slightly behind him, looking over his shoulder. Erend glanced at him with his eyes only, holding his face still, seeming to hold his breath.

Kotallo pointed, reaching around him. “Are those… subtitles?”

“Yeah! It’s helpful to read the lyrics. I love the screaming, but I like to know what I’m screaming, ya know?”

Kotallo squinted.

“Why are they so small? And what is that font?”

“Small…? Font…? What are you talking about?”

Kotallo leaned in further, resting his chest against Erends shoulder to try to see, trying to avoid stabbing him with his neck spikes.

“Hmmm. Can you bring up a text file? Just something simple. Maybe a data point from around the Base or one of those messages people leave each other in ruins.”

“Uh, ok.” Erend manhandled some Focus gestures, and chose a text file at random.

Kotallo squinted again, leaning forward again. He looked at the file name, and then stepped to Erend’s side, opened his Focus’ display with the publicly-visible setting, and found the same file. The text was much larger, in a clear font, with ample line spacing.

Erend’s eyes looked back and forth between the two displays and then he abruptly shut his Focus display off so he could stare at Kotallo. “Hey, what? Is that the same file!? Why does yours look so different?!”

Kotallo closed his as well and stared back at his uncertain friend, who was so often putting down his own ability to read or make sense of things. How to offer help, delicately?

“Hmmm…”

“That’s all you’ve got for me, you brooding Tenakth? ‘Hmmm ?’”

Kotallo waved a hand for patience.

“When I first arrived, some of the Focus gestures needed two hands with normal settings. GAIA showed me how to adjust ‘Accessibility Settings’ so that I could use it with only one hand. She also directed me to particular ‘fonts’ because I would mix up the same glyphs over and over as I was learning to read. Something called, oh, what was it…?”

GAIA’s voice sounded between their Focuses’ speakers. “ I believe the phrase you’re looking for is ‘dyslexia-friendly fonts .’”

“Yes! That was it! Thank you, GAIA. Here, Erend. Let me see if I can lead you to these settings. Open the main menu and then go to Focus settings… Further down. Oh, wait, your menu is shorter. Maybe… there?”

Erend followed Kotallo’s gestures, with some help since the menu lengths were so different between the two displays and Erend’s display text was so very small and in a strange font that looked like handwritten Carja glyphs made with a leaky pen.

With his metal hand on his shoulder, Kotallo helped him pick a font that was easy to read, and switched it a few times to make sure Erend’s choice worked in multiple contexts, and set it to default. Changed the screen’s view size and taught him how to temporarily zoom in on a text file. They even experimented with shifting the saturation of the text display light until Erend said it wasn’t hurting his eyes as much.

Erend looked delighted.

Kotallo felt a little ill.

He had overheard Erend talking to Aloy on many occasions about how much trouble he was having learning to read and understanding the content, and the glyphs causing headaches, and it had never occurred to him to not take the man’s own beliefs about his stupidity at face value and just look at the damn settings. What kind of a friend believed their friend’s self-criticism?

Varl was also Erend’s friend. And Zo? Aloy knew him the best; why didn’t she…? Oh, but at that point, she was relying on GAIA to train everyone because she was almost never there, and everyone else was learning the Focus from the very beginning. Aloy had to believe what her team reported to her, when she stopped in, and her team was all doing their best.

Kotallo had gotten help from GAIA and Beta with ‘accessibility,’ and had received Aloy’s special attention for making his metal arm, and rebuilding his trust in himself, because his main impediment was physical and obvious.

But during Kotallo’s first days here, he’d had trouble with swapping glyphs, confusing words, having them blur before his eyes or fade into the environment behind him, causing headaches, as Erend might have been having this whole time. GAIA had talked about ‘dyslexia’ but also about past head injuries affecting reading, and that was an injury they likely both shared.

But unlike Erend, Kotallo had been shown how to make adjustments right away, and then knew it was possible to ask for a change. It had only impeded him for a few days at most, and after that he hadn’t been taking it personally when new but similar challenges slowed him down.

He shook his head in dismay and also awe.

Once Erend had closed the menus, looking stunned at how easy it was now that he’d made the font size match his fingertips for better precision, Kotallo spoke.

“Erend, you are one of the smartest people I know.”

“What?! What in the Forge’s tool chest are you talking about?!”

Kotallo just kept shaking his head, amazed.

“You learned everything we all did. But it was if you were learning to fight swinging a warhammer the size of a cart, rather than a practice wooden one. And you did it —you learned it— all the same.”

Erend looked even more stunned. He blinked.

“I did?”

He looked down. Quirked a smile. Huffed a laugh.

“I did!”

Kotallo slapped him on the shoulder and gripped where his hand landed. “Truly, you walk in strength, Oseram.”

Erend looked back up at him, still apparently amazed, and a few other things besides. Then firmed up his expression.

“Hey, we should still go hunting. A couple of us battle-hardened ancient tech experts, forging into the wilds, should have no trouble bringing down a brace of pigeons. Otherwise I’m going to get all emotional.”

Kotallo smirked. It seemed none of Aloy’s friends particularly enjoyed having many feelings. “Agreed.”

Erend in Forbidden West

maybe controversial opinion again but another thing i've noticed so far in Forbidden West is that they lowkey kinda butchered Erend...

idk if anyone else feels this way, i never see it talked about, but i swear to god he didn't used to be so one-dimensional. Again i'm only halfway through the game so there's hope for change, but i recently rewatched the Ersa mission in ZD and it just made me realise how he used to have so much character outside of just "haha funny dumb alcoholic", and that seems to be all he is in the second game (so far). I'm sooo sick of hearing constant jokes about how he's stupid, clumsy, drunk and annoying, as if that's all he is when i swear he didn't used to be. Sure there were jokes about him being a drunk in Zero Dawn too but it wasn't the majority of his character! They can have him be the comic relief character without making that ALL he is 😭 i'm honestly really really hoping we get more serious scenes with him to cancel this out... justice for Erend man, he's supposed to be more than that.

[faerociousbeast]

i dont like my drama teacher but she likes me too.mich

[reginamillls]

I work hard on my icons is the thing, and I know other creators do as well, they're small edits but they're still edits

It's finding the perfect screen shot, its lighting and coloring and even more!

then we put them nicely onto a rebloggable post, give people different color options and shapes, throw in lil graphics to give it a certain flair

All. For. Fucking. Free.

the least you can do is like the post you take your icon from, the best thing you can do is reblog them

I stopped making icons for months because my posts would get like 13 notes (most of them likes) and yet I'd see the icon be used by more than 13 people - NONE OF WHICH LIKED OR REBLOGGED THE POSTS

I've even seen people take my icons (again who didn't like or reblog the original post) and edit them and use them for something else WITHOUT MY PERMISSION or give me credit

its exhausting, please support the content creators on this website

[makotonaegiunderstander]

something I’ve been thinking abt is how many people think Makoto is immune to despair. I don’t think he is. I think becoming the ultimate Hope was BECAUSE he felt despair. He wouldn’t have fully reached that point without Junko. Makoto becoming such a beacon was his last attempt to avoid completely falling and it wasn’t because he didn’t feel despair, it was because he was too damn stubborn to allow everything to go to waste and he refused to sacrifice his beliefs for someone else’s. His inner monologue tells me he DID experience the same new low the other suvivors did in the final trial, but at the point where he had the choice to give up and die, he looked at the others and he looked at Junko and he couldn’t allow it to happen, not out of self preservation, but because the idea that Junko would have control over their lives made him FURIOUS. and that utter refusal to die kicked in, wether luck or otherwise, and he made the concious effort for one last push while something in him was breaking. He had to be broken in order for the Ultimate Hope to come through so aggressively, bc it could only exist in the face of the Ultimate Despair. He snapped the same way she did, but in the other direction. In what could have been his final moments he chose to embody everything Junko wasn’t, and every single optimistic and luck fueled ideal in him suddenly charged forward and pushed him. It was a combination of the final straw and a choice. Makoto isn’t immune to feeling despair, he’s just too stubborn to fall into it of his own volition. I think that’s why I like that scene in DR3 so much. People were SO SHOCKED Makoto actually fell for the tape, that he actually became despair for a moment. I saw people getting mad or disappointed, saying it was pathetic and Makoto seemed to fall from some sort of pedestal for them. Honestly part of me wonders if that sort of mentality, which clearly people had in universe, affected Makoto a bit. Like he started to see himself as less of a person, subconsciously. Prompting him to take more risks, less self preservation, act way more bold. It seems he has to be reminded a lot not to put himself in danger by his friends, to not do something too reckless. All over the place I would see in regards to that scene either this frivolous ‘oh this was just angst drama with no meaning behind it’ or ‘he can do better than that. he’s so weak’ or ‘come on, there’s no way he’d fall into despair, he’s the Ultimate Hope!’ This kind of mentality, which was kind of ironic considering Ryota was there the entire time saying the same thing and treating Makoto the same way. Like Makoto was superhuman. Like Makoto didn’t feel despair the same way ‘normal people’ did. In a way that was also how Munakata saw Makoto. Makoto stopped being a PERSON to the world when he became Ultimate Hope, he became a concept, a belief system, much the same way Junko ascended beyond herself. But the difference is that treating Makoto that way is the opposite of the reason Makoto became such a representative for hope. He wasn’t doing something no one else could. He was doing something everyone had the chance to, he just… was a little more optimistic, a little more stubborn, a little more ‘gung-ho’ about things. He just took the lead where no one else did, where no one else knew they even COULD in the face of Junko’s unstoppable force. She had overcome the biggest threats and obstacles in the world, what could one person do? And the answer Makoto found was, anything. Everything. It doesn’t all rest on Makoto, he’s just the one that was inspired to try to do what seemed like the impossible. But as evidenced by the change in his friends after that trial, it’s clearly not something only Makoto is capable of. The others pulled out of despair thanks to Makoto, but it was their choice to do so.

“But… this world is so huge, and we’re so small. What can we do…? No, we can probably do anything. Yeah! We can do anything!”

[pomrania]

Red Scare by @aismallard It might be due to word count, but I noticed that the number of strips put in the hat isn't specified, only that it's an equal number for each team; thus it's possible for the sides to not be even and/or for there not to be a saboteur at all, which fits perfectly.

Assassins at the Royal Masquerade by @electriceyespots I think this is cool. At first I wondered why there was a "no action" option, but if there's three masks drawn for a scene out of six masks total, and three players for a scene, then yeah it's possible for someone to not be able to do anything that scene. …it's also possible (albeit less likely) for there to be a scene where NOBODY can act, but you can't give guidelines for every possibility when you're limited to 200 words. There'd need to be something for it though, if I'm reading things correctly, else you'd get "nothing happens" and then know three out of the four masks which belong to players. I'm also a bit curious as to what exactly "protecting from afar" vs "protecting your employer" entails, like is it "watching for any potential assassination" vs "making sure that a given type of assassination doesn't work". Another of the (many, MANY) games that would benefit from an extra hundred words, but what's currently here seems workable, and -- more importantly -- like it's WORTH the extra work.

Door To Door Delivery to Dracula by @tiiimezombie I like the concept. I'm not so sure about the mechanics; both in terms of "I don't know if I understand them" (I'm also unfamiliar with poker), and also "isn't it dangerous to share your credit card number", but if that's actually an issue (I don't have a credit card so I don't know for sure) then it'd be easy enough to generate a random string of numbers ahead of time. The "suck it" example always makes me grin.

If It Had To Perish Twice by @ferncube …huh, I guess some changes were made to it, after it got reblogged, but that's okay. It's interesting to have different goals associated with different colours of dice, and I'm intrigued by the idea of replacing them depending on stuff. On a reread, the stuff with the black dice makes perfect sense, because there's no chance of succeeding, but it's literally a "lost cause". I think "what happens if you don't have any dice of a colour left to roll" (as in, they've all been replaced by other dice, not that you don't have sufficient dice of that colour in your dice bag) got lost in the edit, which, that happens even without a word limit.

Doing what I did last year (and hooboy but that post took forever to find, tumblr is a functional website), and talking about the @200-word-rpgs (it has its own blog now!) that I found interesting, as the compilation post comes out.

Canned Vegetables by @moth-surface I love the concept here, of finding ways to describe XYZ as though it's ABC, while still being truthful. I don't think I'd be able to play this as-is, since I don't know much about different vegetables, and this relies on both parties having a good deal of background knowledge; but I'm glad that it exists.

HEAVY METAL VAN WIZARDS by @henchmaxxing I have a fondness for things where all the stats are individual words from a phrase that describes stuff overall. …and on my reread of this one, for writing it up, I noticed something I hadn't registered before: that your character's stats are assigned by the OTHER players, presumably in accordance with how the character had been illustrated, and okay that's really cool. I also like the mechanic of ties being broken by who can metal scream the best, that's great.

Holy RPG, Batman! by @catsarehumanstoo This is a fun concept. I really like how a particular result comes from the most likely value when you roll 2d6, but especially how that's simultaneously desirable AND undesirable. There's some fun dice stuff there.

Radio Prophets by @toy-dragon I wish my brain was working more (it's nearing midnight) to say how I like this. The very concept, of flipping through the radio for phrases, that's a good one. The idea of interpreting a prophecy, then interpreting its misinterpretation, that's fascinating. Also, the bit about how if nobody responds, you can't try again until something timed by the car stopping; although now I've a bit of a question of whether "next full stop" means "the car comes to a complete stop, like at a stop sign" or "the car is parked and turned off". But I feel that's something which would be negotiated on a per-roadtrip basis.

Rhyme Schemes by @bookoramaenderteeth "Transforming things into things that rhyme with it" is a classic. I appreciate the twist here, where after the power's been used a certain number of times, it has to become a more complex rhyme.

If you're reading this and have no idea what I'm talking about... well I prolly shouldn't have left my "this is what the post is about" to the end, especially not late at night. But basically there's an event going on where people write up RPGs with a word count maximum of 200. If you're curious, check the blog mentioned in the first paragraph.

[skitskatdacat63]

And now my art has been reposted on tiktok, have I finally made it as a creator? 🥺 But like seriously my god, I didn't think I had to say but don't repost??????? I think I've been pretty safe from it cause I normally just draw AU art but ahh making relevant art, it's a dangerous game....I just yeah, don't necessarily know what to do about it, but yeah just don't please?

[platihbm]

MIKU!!! SHE WILL KILL GODS IN THE LANDS BETWEEN!!! SHE WILL BECOME THE NEW GOD!!!