#Felting Geode | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

junicult · 7 months

Text

!! showering w the bachelors for the first time

contains ; mostly fluff. fem!farmer. some suggestive parts. making out. newly established relationships. nsfw in sebastian’s, implied in shane’s & alex’s. afab!farmer. brief mention of fingering. not proofread, will later.

note ; i intended for this to be entirely sfw i swear

harvey.

- the honeymoon phase.

- where he doesn’t even live with you, yet he’s at your house nearly every night, or sometimes vise versa.

- when he uses your stove (with permission) to make you both dinner to share after you’ve finished work.

- where you’re still so in love all you wanna do is gaze into each others eyes and kiss until you can’t breathe.

- that’s exactly what kind of phase you’re in.

- and it’s been a long time since he’s been in that phase.

- you sorta have a whole routine atp.

- whenever he comes over, you make it a plan to wrap up work quickly & spend the evening with him,

- which is why you felt so guilty when you lost track of time, backpack full of rocks and geodes you couldn’t wait for clint to break open the next morning.

- when you glanced down at your watch, you nearly jumped ten feet in the air like a cartoon lmfao

- and you’ll definitely regret running up the ladder one level before you reached another button on the elevator—but right now, you weren’t even focused on that.

- by the time you made it back to your house, a mere two hours after you told harvey you’d be back, it was pitch-black outside.

- thankfully, he didn’t leave. instead, he stood scrubbing the dishes clean, before whipping around at the sudden swing of your front door.

- “harvey! i’m so sorry, i lost track of ti—“

- “oh thank yoba you’re okay,” he sighs, (u already know he wanted to call someone to check up on u but he didn’t want to seem controlling😭😭)

- and he didn’t waste a second to meet you at the door, scanning you just to see if you were injured.

- “i’m fine, i’m fine, just got way too distracted. did you make dinner? did you have to eat alone?? oh, i’m so so sorry i didn’t mean to—“

- ur word vomit is making him fall in love with you even more. two peas in a pod🫶🫶

- then it’s just back and forth of you constantly questioning and reassuring each other for a few moments.

- “but you made such a nice meal for me, and i kept you waiting, i just—i’m so sorry—“

- “sweetheart, it’s okay, i’m not mad,” he almost chuckles, holding you close.

- as soon as he established you’re not hurt or injured, he’s no longer stressed.

- he understands what it’s like getting carried away at work, so who is he to ever be mad at you for that?

- after you ate and assured him you were fine, that’s when you mentioned it.

- “i’m pretty dirty from the mines, i was gonna shower. make up for lost time with me?”

- his mind doesn’t inherently go to sexual things.

- honestly, he was just excited you wanted to.

- he also doesn’t give a fuck that he took a shower earlier. he just wants to spend time with you lol.

- although ik he’s all organized and has like a little routine where you both keep taking turns under the spray LMFAO

- like you get in first, rinse yourself off, then switch with him while you soap yourself up, switch & rinse, switch and apply shampoo, switch, etc, you get it.

- it’s so fucking funny LMAO.

- but the entire time you’re making casual conversation, some little comments about how much you missed each other, things like that.

- he loves how you look in the shower. not even bc ur naked, it’s just a vulnerable way to see the person you love, and there’s nothing sexual in the way he’s looking at you.

- even when you tug on his neck to pull him down for a kiss, he’s just swooning over your affections.

- unless the implication, or intention of sex came before the shower…he’s probably not approaching anything with that.

- it’s a completely different story if you’ve had a ton of tension all day,

- constantly making passing remarks that make his palms sweat, but unable to go any further because of your busy day,

- and you leave him all hot and bothered until you come home in the evening, and ask him to join you in the shower.

- that’s when he forgets all about the little routine.

sam.

- ah, the start to ur most important routine.

- honestly, i feel like you were the one who started it all.

- the whole, “every time you shower, we shower together” thing.

- at least, that’s what it becomes once you move in together. but before that, anytime he was over & you needed to shower, he’d totally join in.

- it’s not even sexual. there’s only like a 30% chance you’ll end up having sex, or even just do foreplay whenever you shower together.

- he’s just so clingy, and he craves the closeness after he realized how much he enjoyed you being there the first time.

- you both were quietly laying together, watching the tv wordlessly, just enjoying each others company after you two decided he should spend the night.

- which then prompted in him asking, “do you think i could use the shower? i smell bad.” he frowns after taking a whiff of his arm.

- you giggle. “i think you smell good, but go ahead. i don’t have your soap, though.”

- like he could care lmfao.

- “thanks!” he just grins, hopping on his feet and giving you a little kiss on the forehead before he skips off.

- you give it like 5 minutes before you decide u miss him too much (attachment issues😞)

- “sam…y’think you got room for two in there?” you knock before creeping the door open.

- he peeks his shampoo’d head from behind the shower curtain. “you wanna come in?”

- “is that okay?”

- u might’ve just asked him to marry you.

- his whole face lights up, grinning wide and opening the curtain wider as he steps to the side. “the more the merrier!”

- he doesn’t even care ur naked. there’s nothing sexual running through his mind, he’s just excited you’re standing with him rn. now he doesn’t have to rush to go see you.

- he even steps to the side to give you the chance to soak your hair under the spray.

- it’s easily just a little awkward at first.

- you’ve had sex before, that’s not why it’s awkward,

- only because it’s the first time you two are seeing each other completely naked without any intention of sexual advancement. not that it would be such a burden if you did, but neither of you want to.

- while you drench your hair, he can’t help but smile lovingly at the sight of water droplets all over your skin.

- he could easily be thinking about how much fun it’d be to have sex right here, but he’s too focused on how this might actually be his favorite thing you’ve ever done together.

- like minutes of silence pass, nothing but the water running and he’ll just lean in and press a kiss on your temple or shoulder.

- it’s not bc he’s trying to hint at something,

- he just wanted to do it, and he doesn’t really overthink the things he wants to do.

- but the affection makes you smile, and by how pure it was, it doesn’t send any false messages.

- it really doesn’t last that long. probably about 15 minutes of you both washing off and short displays of affection.

- yet it clung to you both so well, that it just became the routine you never skipped out on.

shane.

- it definitely just happened naturally.

- ur relationship at first was strictly sexual.

- to the rest of the town, no one even knew you guys even spoke. which, to be fair, there wasn’t much talking between u two anyways💀💀

- but i wanna say that was only for a couple weeks.

- it was still super slow and progressive. your conversations went from short & passing, to getting to know each other a little more. but the sex was still there.

- it went from instead of him leaving right after you finished, you’d stay up and talk for a couple hours.

- to waking up together, to spending the day together, etc etc.

- now ur relationship was approaching friends w benefits category. except it was unspoken, but neither of you wanted to be friends at this point.

- despite all of this, you’ve still never showered together.

- until you spent the whole day working outside. you feel gross, sticky, and sweaty. he just so happened to stick around after you started working.

- ur checking in on your animals he just follows you lol.

- before u both knew it, the sun was coming down and he spent the whole day helping you.

- the thing was, neither of you wanted to mention it. you were both nervous even bringing it up would spark the implication of wanting him to leave.

- which was not the case.

- not to mention, he’s a huge help. when u passed him ur axe to chop down trees, you almost couldn’t look away 🤷‍♀️

- so after you’ve finished, sun starting to set and sweat dripping from your temples—he’s still standing with you.

- “i feel gross, i’m gonna shower.” you frown, plucking your clothes away from your sticky skin.

- ofc he’s thinking it.

- but he doesn’t have time to make a sly comment before you shoot one over your shoulder, “there’s room for two, y’know.”

- say no more, he’s following close behind you throwing off his shirt.

- “thought you said there was room for two, there’s hardly room for one.” he snorts, squeezing himself beside you in the cramped space.

- “oh c’mon, you’ve never had a problem with making it fit.”

- he’s gonna lose his mind.

- u don’t really waste any time LMFAO

- drenching your hair under the spray before you look over at him,

- and you both just lean in cus it’s unspoken, but obvious you guys aren’t in there just to shower.

- he’s quick to slotting his hands at the small of your back, while you wrap yours around his neck and press yourself against him.

- …not much showering gets done, i’ll just say that.

sebastian.

- i feel like sebastian spends more nights at your house then he does at his own at this point.

- he’s not the type to get super attached very easily, even getting to the step of sleeping together took a while.

- but after it happened, he found your little cottage so comfortable. he liked waking up to you in the morning, and falling asleep in your arms at night.

- the only reason he goes home is to work.

- and the minute he finishes up, he heads back over.

- honestly, if he could pack up his computer and leave it at your house, then he’d never leave—which is probably why you made it clear he can’t do that.

- your relationship is already committed.

- i don’t really think he’d wanna sleep with you if hadn’t discussed a romantic relationship.

- anyways, i feel like bc of this, he’s already showered at your place lol.

- you were too busy to ask, and he knew you wouldn’t mind, so he just jumped in and took a quick shower.

- hours after you already started your chores for the day, he woke up & just sniffed his shirt and winced a little.

- he also did some laundry (for your sake).

- so then it kinda just became a, “hey, do you mind if i take a quick shower?” while you were preoccupied.

- sometimes you’d be the one to ask. like if you were lying together, on your bed in your house, you’d turn to him and say the same thing.

- it never rly occurred to either of u that you could knock out two birds with one stone🤷‍♀️

- one evening you were exhausted. you smelled horrible, you could already tell. you had spent nearly the entire day down in the mines, just covered in dirt and rubble, stinking like sweat yet he still kissed you when you came in.

- “i need to shower,” you groan, still accepting his kiss.

- ugh but he’s already spent the majority of the day without you, why are you going to deprive him of more?

- “i think you smell fine,” he tries his best to persuade, but you won’t budge.

- pressing against his chest, you giggle, “you know that’s not true. i’ll only be a few minutes, promise.”

- he’s honestly so clingy, literally tugging on your arm as you try to walk away and following behind you like a lost puppy.

- and suddenly, “i could use a shower too…” despite him using it earlier.

- you look at him for a second, narrowing your eyes, before you tease, “yeah, you could.”

- he’s much like sam, just less openly enthusiastic.

- when you tell him to get the water running, he’s only nodding, but it’s not hard to miss the way he’s turning to start the water so quick.

- and how he’s undressing like he has somewhere to be, despite presenting so nonchalant about it.

- for him, it’s just a better reason to be so close to you. he likes when you’re around.

- it really depends on how much he was missing you, but for the most part i don’t think it ever leads to anything sexual.

- sure, he stands back to let you rinse yourself off and his eyes wander, but that’s about as much that’ll happen if neither of you are in the mood.

- and even then, if you end up wanting to have sex, it hardly ever happens in the shower. most is just foreplay.

- which he is never opposed to.

- i’ve said it once, i’ll say it a million more times,

- he lovesss fingering you.

- and lowkey, if you’re intending on having sex and starting with foreplay in the shower…phew.

- gently pressing you against the shower wall, the water running all down his back but he doesn’t even care,

- and his lips are making out with yours, which are sloppy in response while his fingers press against that spot inside of you that has your neck craning and moans spilling…

- that’s what he wants when he’s been missing you and joins you in the shower.

alex.

- i actually think he’s similar to sam too.

- he’s a huge fan of showering together.

- for starters, he’s the kind of man who makes himself at home very quickly💀💀

- even when you guys weren’t even dating yet, still just in that getting to know each other and hanging out regularly phase.

- when you’d plan for him to come over once you finished up work and spend time w each other casually.

- the cocky side of him just took your hospitality as flirting.

- which, i mean, isn’t unbelievably far off. you do like him.

- but it was probably like his second time over at your house, and he just casually asked if he could take a shower.

- you might’ve raised an eyebrow, but you still said sure.

- so then it became a pretty normal thing. he never took longer then 10 minutes, so you could appreciate that.

- after you both started dating, and had seen each other naked, it became much more casual.

- the transition between not showering together, to showering together was so subtle.

- it just started with you showering, and he needed to pee so he’d just come in and, well, pee.

- then he’d be showering but you still needed to brush your teeth and do your skincare, so you hung out in the bathroom.

- and pretty soon it was so normal that when you asked if he wanted to join you one evening—you didn’t even think much of it.

- it wasn’t until you were midway through washing your body when you realized he was doing the same thing beside you.

- it was just like a, ‘oh, okay, this is normal now’ kind of realization.

- “can you pass me the shampoo?” like he was asking for the salt at the dinner table.

- it just felt natural, especially after he moved in.

- it became a thing you both do together.

- literally a part of your nightly routine. when you were ready to shower, you’d let him know and he’d start the water while you got undressed.

- so since it was your nightly routine, i feel like the longer you’re together, showering together and having sex doesn’t really pair up.

- you shower 9/10 times together. there’s no way you’d be able to keep up (he can tho lol)

- but that doesn’t mean it’s rare.

- he loves looking at you when you’re naked. no shame.

- there could be zero sexual energy between you two at the moment, and he’s still looking you up and down, admiring.

- he can’t help it! he doesn’t even have to be turned on for his body to react to yours.

- “are you hard right now?” you laugh almost like you’re making fun of him.

- and his response will always be, “well duh,” because you just have that affect on him.

elliott.

- another man that loves to shower with you.

- well…yes he likes to shower together, but he’s definitely a bigger fan of bathing together.

- i’ll get to that in a minute.

- your relationship progressed very steadily. it wasn’t until after a few dates when you actually slept together.

- once you had sex though, i feel like it opened you up into being much more comfortable around each other.

- spending time constantly, always inviting him over, allowing him to see you in more vulnerable ways like in your pj’s or all dirty.

- he approached the idea first, i feel like.

- you’ve been having a stressful week, working nearly every hour you were awake, and you had complained about it prior.

- so he just wanted to help you relax, setting up a nice bath with candles and bath salts and anything to help you relax.

- he’s so sweet about it too, not even intending on joining you until you clasped your hands together and asked him to.

- “join me, please. i’ve hardly seen you all week.”

- and he’s all ears.

- sitting in the opposite end, either sitting in peaceful silence or listening to you recap your day.

- i lowkey think he’d bathe you LMFAO

- like hear me out, he’s offering to wash your hair and he’s all delicate with it, giving you a whole head massage and dipping a cup of water to rinse it out.

- kissing your neck and shoulders, pampering you while you don’t even care to protest.

- and even if you did, he wouldn’t allow it. not when you’re all he wants to focus on right now.

- and despite him loving to bathe with you, i feel like his shower routine is so intensive and meticulous that it’s not often you shower together.

- he never minds your company, i promise you that.

- i just firmly believe he’s a morning showerer and you don’t really have the time for that in the morning.

- if you were to ask for him to join you, i don’t think he’d turn you down. he’d just stand away from the spray and tie his hair back so it doesn’t get wet LOL

- but he’s all for spending as much time as he can get with you.

964 notes · View notes

dreaming-of-lu · 2 months

Text

A thought that I shared with a couple of mutuals, cause I cannot shut up about Stardew Valley right now. Imma mix mash my favs together and make y'all spiral with me.

You, the only beloved grandchild of your grandfather, was given a letter by your grandfather who was on his last leg, filled with information regarding his left behind farm and cottage in your name. He told you when the day comes that when you've grown tired of the city and yearn for a life free from the shackles of the ever growing demand of corporates and nonstop hustle bustle. The farm and cottage will be waiting until you are ready. Years passed and of course, you become tired, exactly what your grandfather told you would. With no thoughts to spare to the city you left behind and little clothes on your back. Quitting your job, you head towards Pelican Town.

The mayor was friendly, save for the carpenter that definitely made you laugh until she made a jab at your grandfather's cottage. While you could agree, since it's honestly not much, yet you'll make do with what you got for now and add things on later. However, the slight pang went through your heart at the disrespect she gave to him. Before the mayor could set off, he highly encouraged you to introduce yourself to the entire town. He then goes over with you about the shipping container, what to put in there while handing you a sack filled with parsnip seeds. He also gestures to the tools he was able to get you that were sitting on the porch, with a wordless pat of good luck, he sets off down the road back to the town.

MEET OUR BACHELORS

First: Single (Bachelor)

Meeting First was quite quick since the man was known to be busy and quite on the run to get things done before heading back to the adventurer's guild that his great uncle runs. He was short in his greetings to you and apologized swiftly that he had to be somewhere.

It may not seem like it, but this man is definitely a poet with words. Chivalrous, that had his great uncle playfully rolling his eyes at his nephew.

Yet there's something underlying mysterious about him that drew you in to him. Perhaps you should gift him things and get to know him a little more better!

Sky: Single (Bachelor)

The eldest son of the carpenter! He lives down southeast of Lon Lon Ranch. He's the absolute sweetest person you've ever met in your entire life. The bright smile on his sleepy face had you mentally cooing at him.

He carves, paints, builds little bird houses just like what his mother use to do. He definitely decorates his home each time the season changes, it's so damn adorable.

He's single due to a breakup that did not end on good terms unfortunately. While he still respect her, however, there are things that were said that ended up hurting the other.

Four: Single (Bachelor)

The grandson of the blacksmith. He was working behind the counter when your fresh face entered the shop. Obviously, a little put off since not many people tend to flock to Pelican Town. He's a bit shy yet he makes small talk just to get to know you better. Until his grandfather emerged and the look on his face had him laughing.

Yeah, he ain't laughing anymore when his grandfather told him 'that's the kid you used to play with all the time when you were younger.'

He takes the tools you got and upgrades them or process the geodes that you tend to bring in.

Time: Single (Bachelor)

The working left hand man of Lon Lon Ranch. This man scared the absolute shit out of you when he showed up on your front porch that morning. To open a door to a towering, one eye, scarred man was not on your bingo card of shit you witness while living here.

He was straight to the point of who to come to when buying animals whenever you get your barn and coop up n going.

He's someone you want to be careful around, an anger you do not want aimed towards you. That mask you saw sitting on his belt felt ominous. He's hard to get warm up to.

Twilight: Single (Bachelor)

You were just planting the parsnip seeds when you heard a bark come from behind you and yelling from someone telling to 'Come back!' A black and white dog ran up on your porch with its tail wagging a mile a minute. A cute dirty blonde haired male came jogging up with an exasperated look before realizing you were the new farmer there.

He was embarrassed yet quickly introduced himself. The adopted son of Uli and Rusl's, the older brother to Colin and his soon to be born little sister. He also works at Lon Lon Ranch.

He's hiding something.

Hyrule: Single (Bachelor)

The doctor of the town. A shy sweetheart that introduced himself to you after you came in due to an already early incident on the farm. He scolds you gently for doing something stupid and rash.

May or may not have told you one day that he wasn't getting enough patients which affected his pay heavily.

Man has unprocessed trauma.

Wild: Single (Bachelor)

He runs the saloon, all by himself, save for his friend Flora does tend to come help him to keep things smooth and sailing when it gets packed. He was friendly enough to introduce himself to you when seeing you pass him on your way to Ravio's General Store.

He def encouraged you to take a load off once and awhile to relax in his Saloon.

He doesn't remember his old life, it seems like he doesn't want to either way.

Warriors: Single (Bachelor)

The older brother to Wind and Aryll. House is on the beach and he's dramatic as hell yet he comes in later on year 2 of your life on the farm. He introduced himself first thing in the morning and he's a bit stiff about it.

He's the only soldier(?) in Pelican Town and ties to the city, he seems so tired and run down honestly.

He's doing his absolute best to raise Wind and Aryll after the funeral of their grandmother.

Legend: Single (Bachelor)

The lone wizard that "summoned" you to his tower to gift you the language of the Junimos. Just to be able to easily translate the language and to fix up the community center.

His sassy attitude def threw you off yet he's standoffish. Only asking you of things he needed from the mines.

He seems to be mourning something.

Ravio: Single???

The owner of Ravio's General Store. The sight of his bunny ear hat sat upon his head was the first thing that caught your eyes. His eagerness to greet you while showing you the package of seeds he was given, showing off the wares he gotten.

The sight of his broken heart made yours clench when one of the workers of Joja mart came in and declared loudly that things were on sale for 50% off. He's trying his best, but the income is needed.

Is finding ways to take down Joja Mart

-TO BACHELORETTES (To be added at some point-

#linked universe x reader #.bea's writing #lu x reader #linkeduniverse x reader #linked universe #link x reader #lu time x reader #lu first x reader #lu legend x reader #lu sky x reader #lu four x reader #lu twilight x reader #lu warriors x reader #lu wild x reader #lu hyrule x reader #ravio x reader #loz x reader #loz link x reader

316 notes · View notes

yeyinde · 10 months

Text

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." "Why?" You asked, blinking at her. "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore.

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach.

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap.

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement.

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it.

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him.

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home.

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear.

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz.

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores.

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches.

Gaz was unique, different.

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community.

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood.

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright.

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it.

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant.

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him.

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear.

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head.

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon.

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten.

You think about him often.

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name.

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play.

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull.

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere."

You leave, and you don't look back.

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed.

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat.

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead.

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to.

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you.

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses.

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed.

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing.

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her.

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror.

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away.

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay.

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea.

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet.

It's a dangerous place to get caught in.

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock.

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen.

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst.

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil.

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head.

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock.

All is quiet—except the sea.

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea.

Another step. Another.

For a moment, you're free.

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality.

It's peaceful.

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back.

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing.

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine.

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue.

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love."

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself.

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw.

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic.

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue.

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?"

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face.

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet."

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time.

You blink. Blink again.

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before.

They didn't say anyone new moved to town.

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?"

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him.

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar.

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard.

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway."

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty.

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins.

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay.

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do.

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm.

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north.

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company.

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think.

You wonder if he was expecting you.

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question.

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts.

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water."

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big.

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick.

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body.

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders.

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory.

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly.

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice.

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh.

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath.

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you.

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush.

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud.

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you.

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire.

You should.

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer.

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own.

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest.

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words.

"So I did."

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil.

"Got some time tonight?"

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read.

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love."

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?"

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead.

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of."

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes.

And so, you kiss him.

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips.

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you.

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest.

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw.

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm.

You never want to let go.

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left.

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth.

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking."

Price shudders.

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips.

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you?

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls.

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver.

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no.

It can't happen. It can't.

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together.

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out.

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor.

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag.

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more.

"Waiting for a ride?"

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears.

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead.

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat.

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision.

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe.

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark.

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you.

Like he knows.

And maybe, he does.

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell.

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard.

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom.

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror.

You can't remember if it's you.

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic.

Stupid.

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths.

The door rattles. Clicks.

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke.

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror.

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him.

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared.

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders.

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price."

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so.

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out.

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter.

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear.

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees.

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner.

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does.

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much.

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern.

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend.

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know.

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers.

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter.

The woods are dangerous.

You don't want to go.

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together.

"You want to, don't you?"

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway."

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering.

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea.

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion.

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato.

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision.

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry.

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase.

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head.

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it.

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge.

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge.

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed.

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave.

One slip, you think. Just one.

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince.

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him.

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest.

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go.

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces.

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to.

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet.

Two more. Two more.

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go.

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside.

You don't know why you're here.

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body.

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead.

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived.

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic.

You are—

"Foolish."

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug.

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb.

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear.

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped.

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves.

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure.

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?"

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw.

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love."

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all.

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears.

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know.

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep.

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers.

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine.

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?"

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams.

"Did you ever give me a choice?"

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head.

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine.

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin.

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you.

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair.

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance.

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood.

When he speaks, the world falls silent.

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go.

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins.

You don't know what you're doing.

The whispers in your head go silent.

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go.

You think of him, and you know.

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there.

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems.

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go.

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee.

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly?

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul.

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever.

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm.

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home.

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting.

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow.

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver.

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow.

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin.

"Welcome home."

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her.

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name.

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse.

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me?

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

688 notes · View notes

jalluzas-ferney · 6 months

Text

Sooo remeember my Ninjago movie au design for Geo?? I was feeling a little down today and I had free time so I decided to make some Geode Fanart!! Aka Geo x Cole cuz they’re pretty cute and I felt like I could make a much better and clean drawing of him. So why not draw him with his awesome man, Cole?

261 notes · View notes

scarad · 2 years

Text

link to part one:

tw: mentions of death, swearing, gore

I SAW A REQUEST OR TWO FOR A SECOND PART SO HERE IT IS

the shimmers of gold surrounded your limp body, the thunder crackling in the waters near. kujou felt her heart stop — all this time, you were the supreme god, yet she dared question you. she dared harm you.

she glanced backwards, to her subordinates who seemed equally mortified. "tell the shogun that their grace may have passed." she muttered in horror, shooing them off as she summoned her raven wings.

[more utc]

she jumped off the edge, following your earlier example, however she used her wings to soften her landing.

a crowd of hillichurls and slimes from the coast had started making their way to your remains, but she just blocked them out with an electric force-field as she checked on you.

surely such a divine being couldn't be killed from mere heights, right?

however, as her fingers slithered their way to your neck, she could only gasp in pain at the numbing cold. you truly were gone, and it was all her fault.

silence creeped over the archons, who sat upon their divine thrones.

"their grace is..?" barbatos muttered, cloud fogging up his once joyful eyes as he glanced at baal. the electro archon merely nodded, choosing to purse her lips.

murata banged their fists unto the table the archons were seated around. "why didn't you call your subordinate off, baal?!"

baal shook her head, glaring at the pyro archon. "kujou is not to blame. according to the witnesses, it was a self-inflicted death."

"so, you're saying that the chosen one has committed a suicide?" the archon ruling fontaine quirked a brow, lifting their gaze to their fellow gods. baal could only nod, somber tears brimming her eyes.

morax cleared his throat, causing the attention of his fellow archons to drift to himself. his gaze pointed to lesser lord kusanali, who looked eager to share something.

"is there a reason you're so blissful on their holiness' death day?" the tsaritsa glared at the young archon, who chose to simply ignore the queen of snezhnaya.

she stared at murata, "calm down. there... there may be a way to summon them. a ritual, to put it simply. it won't be easy but—"

barbatos practically jumped out of his seat. "no matter how hard, we have to try! " he exclaimed, wings unfurling in his excitement.

choosing to ignore how the anemo archon was acting, she nodded. "very well, i'll begin the preparations. baal, inform guuji yae that the narukami shrine will be the place to oversee their summoning."

baal nodded, disappearing with a thunderous clap.

"i'll return shortly, with a list of all we must collect." kusanali mumbled, vanishing within a flurry of vines and leaves, leaving the other five archons to sit in silence.

"shall we prepare search teams?" morax asked, speaking up for the first time since the meeting began. "the sooner we collect whatever we must, the sooner we can bring the almighty ruler back." he glanced around the table, seeing a few archons purse their lips.

"currently, fontaine is short on vision holders. most of them are unavailable." the hydro archon huffed. "it would be stupid to allow non-vision wielders to participate, so as of now, i can't send anyone."

murata sighed, "i believe i have one, but iansan's just a child. it may be dangerous to send her." they pursed their lips, glancing off to the side.

"i'll send a few harbingers," the tsaritsa nodded.

chiming in, barbatos glanced at morax. "i'll go and fetch a few vision wielders." a strong gust of wind surrounded his body, and in a flurry, he faded.

morax nodded at his fellow archon's words. "i, too, shall take my leave." geodes surrounded his body, and where they came from, the other archons didn't know. in a mere few seconds, morax had appeared back into liyue, his white robe adorning his body.

teyvat would soon be under your righteous rule, and morax would make sure of it.

taglist: @beel-me-belphie @genshin-impacts-me @scarlettnanami

part three up soon + making a masterlist for easier navigation <33

#sagau #self aware genshin #genshin morax #genshin archon #archons #kujou sara #genshin impact #self aware genshin impact #self aware genshin au #genshin impact sagau #sagau angst #genshin sagau #sagau brainrot #genshin angst #genshin x reader #genshin x you

2K notes · View notes

delopsia · 4 months

Text

Silver & Gold | Bob x Reader x Rhett

Word Count: 7,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, Bob's in deep internal debate, mentions of wedding planning, setting up a Christmas tree (no religious themes included, we're doing it for the ✨vibes✨), domestic fluff, protective Rhett if you squint, usage of a ribbon for light bondage purposes, cunnilingus, hand jobs, and thigh fucking. Brief Summary: Bob's having a crisis over whether he wants a silver or gold wedding ring. All you and Rhett want to do is set up the new Christmas tree. Shenanigans on the couch involving a ribbon ensue.

There goes that damn snowman again. Moving across the screen in all of its vintage, stop-motion glory, strumming his banjo, singing that infuriating song about silver and gold. Like it's so simple. Like you just get to up and have both. All willy-nilly, fully embracing the concept of childish indecision, ignoring the constraints of society, and normalization of picking only one.

...or maybe Bobby has simply fallen into the curse of overthinking.

It shouldn't be that hard. Silver or gold? It's simple until he's once again struck with the fact that he will wear this ring for the rest of his life. He had such an easy time picking metals for you and Rhett; he knew your favorites inside and out.

So why can't he make a decision for himself, the person he should arguably know the best?

"You're lookin' at that phone awful hard," Rhett grumbles from his left. Snug against the naked mattress, jeans clinging to his hips, tattered cowboy hat resting atop his belly. An offhandedly placed thing that both adds to his rugged, cowboy glory and conceals the softness he's acquired, hard muscle a little squishier now. Thicker.

Healthier.

"Like you haven't had your nose in that notebook all month," there's a pop in Bob's neck as he tilts his head, muscle, and bone protesting movement after being still for so long. "What are you working on, anyhow?"

Rhett's mouth closes, teeth audibly clattering together. Soft blue eyes darting up to the ceiling, "It's nothin'."

Those furrowed eyebrows suggest otherwise, but in the back of his mind, Bobby supposes he'll leave it there. Rhett'll talk about it when he's ready. It doesn't alleviate the genuine curiosity that has been brewing ever since that notebook appeared last month, but alas.

Door hinges squeal. Bare feet padding across the floor, a bundle of sheets concealing the face of the third person in the room. But he recognizes those arms as well as he does the ring on that dainty little finger—perfection, in your favorite metal and all.

"I thought one of you was gonna fix the door?" You chirp, dropping the sheets onto the bed in an unceremonious heap. Pillow cases and a stowaway face cloth spilling out, still warm from the dryer.

Rhett's eyes dart to meet with Bob's. Who's plan was that, anyway?

"I'll take a look at it in a minute," Bob's thumb blindly feels its way to the power button of his phone. Turning the screen off before he can be caught staring at rings for the umpteenth time this week.

But even though he's no longer staring mindlessly at his phone, those little rings sit in the forefront of his mind. Burned into his eyes, as he helps pull the sheets onto the bed. Silver and gold, and a make-believe third option, rose gold. All of them menacing with their ridiculously high numbers; within a reasonable price range, but still strange to think about. That much money for a uniquely shaped hunk of metal.

"Bobby."

Whatever happened to simpler traditions? A fancy rock would do him much nicer. Free of their metal confines and special in their own natural way, unhindered by the standards of man and artificially constructed value. Blue lace agate would quite suit him, or a nice geode, picked out with the vague guide of what felt right, then split into three.

"Bob?"

What ever happened to simplicity? Marriage sounded awfully simple as a child. Why couldn't it have stayed that way? Who can even settle on just one flavor for cake, and who the hell decided that more than two flavors were too many? Why can't there be multiple small cakes that each suit them, rather than fighting to even out clashing styles? Why must there only be one big cake?

"Robert Benjamin Floyd!"

"What?" Lifting his head, not quite expecting to find you and Rhett staring back at him. Rhett's hand is still outstretched, offering up a corner of the comforter. "Oh."

"Thought we'd really lost ya this time," Rhett's chuckling, a softened tease that he's uttered three times today. A newly formed habit, triggered every time Bob's mind slips down the slippery slope of what-ifs.

Your eyes narrow a little suspiciously; always have been the one to catch on to his internal stresses before Rhett does, or anyone else, really. The voice in the back of his head openly wonders what triggers the alarm bells, if it's the spacing out in thought or some minute shift in his expression.

For a couple of hours, he's able to forget about the concept of wedding rings entirely. Preoccupied with tackling the task of fixing the squeaky doors that were supposed to have been repaired before the house was sold to the three of you. Jumping from that and straight to dinner, bustling about the kitchen, gingerly guiding Rhett's wary hands in a feeble attempt to teach him how to knead dough.

Then there are the dishes to be cleaned, flour that needs to be ruffled out of a cowboy's hair, and the movie you three agreed to watch under the assumption that someone else had one picked out. As it panned out, nobody had a single title lined up, and it fell back on Rhett's number one Christmas default.

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

In fact, Bobby doesn't catch himself thinking about the rings for the entire night. Until two tiny rings clank against the bedside table as you and Rhett remove them for the night.

Will his ring sit on that table, too?

"You're thinking again," he doesn't remember when you got into bed, but you're right here next to him. Pawing at your nose with the side of your hand after an itch that seems to have been bugging you all afternoon.

The pains of getting dusty Christmas decor out.

"I'm always thinking," he murmurs, blindly reaching out to curl a hand around your cheek. A daunting task without his glasses. Can see just enough of your face to know where all of your important features lie, but the finer details have gone blurry. Left with no choice but to move based on the terrain of your body, roaming up the soft skin of your cheekbone and up the hill of your nose.

There's movement from behind his back. The weight of a cowboy settling down, throwing a heavy arm around Bobby's waist, as he squirms closer. "Ain't we s'posed to be always thinkin'?"

Your eyes roll so hard that Bob worries they'll get stuck in the back of your head. "Something like that."

Rhett hums, the soft whiskers of unshaven scruff tickling Bob's shoulder, his head perfectly snug in the cap between shoulder and neck. In the very place he will stay for the rest of the night until Bob inevitably pries himself free come morning.

For now, though, he's not going anywhere. Making it so, so easy for you to snuggle in, your legs tangling with his and Rhett's, just close enough to steal some of their body heat but not enough to melt. A comfort that has taken you months to perfect and only works when Bob's body is there to block Rhett's burning velcro hands.

But you do take the liberty of blindly stroking your cowboy's arm beneath the covers, soft ups and downs that trace an exposed vein until you're certain he's smiling.

Sleep comes early, but then again, it always does when all three of you are here. Free of life responsibilities and the incessant call of the Navy, determined to take your favorite backseater away. Dreams burn a little sweeter when the three of you are crammed up against each other, even with all the space granted by this oversized Alaskan king mattress.

You're caught between the edges of sleep when you feel Bobby's hand against your cheek. Gingerly stroking something free of your skin, an eyelash, you suppose. A movement that sealed with a soft kiss, like it'll keep anything else from disturbing you.

Rhett whines. Bob shifts. Audibly giving him a kiss, too. Always keeping things equal.

It feels like your eyes are only closed for a couple of seconds. One moment, Bob is sliding his arm over your waist, and the next, you're snug as a bug in his arms, squinting against a bright beam of light. Aren't quite sure what woke you, but you're more than content to sleep a little bit longer. Squirming closer, readjusting your head against the pillow.

Thump thump thump.

One eye opens.

Thump thump thump.

Is someone at the door?

You don't have a clue who it could be. Nobody mentioned coming over for a visit, and you're more than certain nobody would invite themselves over without asking first. Not after you've made it clear that this weekend is reserved for setting up the—

shit.

The Christmas tree is here.

Your feet hit the ground before you can even comprehend what you're doing. Stepping into the pajama shorts you left on the floor as you scurry out of the bedroom. A slow-motion race that you're hardly awake for, darting down the stairs, through the living room, and past the kitchen.

The front door opens so quickly that the delivery driver jumps. Caught halfway off of your porch, ready to head back to his truck and mark it to redeliver another day.

You can feel his eyes raking across your body as you sign the little box on his tablet, but you're quite frankly not awake enough to find the words to do something about it. Sleepily resting against the door frame as he begins to head back to his truck, chirping that he'll even carry the box into the house for you.

His smile drops before he's finished turning around.

Rhett.

Forearms crossed over his chest, a protective, looming shadow that settles up behind you. His palm bracing against the frame next to your head, scruff tickling as he leans in to press his lips to your cheek.

"I'm glad you heard 'em," he grumbles, voice still at that deliciously low tone, rough with sleep and unspoken perfection, "'cause I sure didn't."

"That's because you could sleep through the rapture," you're speaking through a yawn, halfway into leaning against him when the driver comes back around the corner, oversized tree box in tow.

He leaves it right on the doorstep.

Evidently, carrying boxes into the house is a courtesy reserved for the single-folk. Yet, you can't complain too much because now you get to watch Rhett's biceps bulge as he lifts the box. A sight that could damn near make you drool this early in the morning. It's almost unfortunate that he doesn't have to carry it further. Is it too late to request to move the tree upstairs?

The box hits the ground gently, right by Rhett's feet; you wonder if he's realized that he only has one sock on.

Based on how he's hardly got his eyes open, you're beginning to wonder if he's even awake. His jaw pops as he opens his mouth, "'Y reckon we should wake up Robby?"

"He'll wake up soon enough," though you're the only one speaking, you're fairly certain that both of you are sharing the same thought.

Bob's always been quiet, keeping to himself on most occasions, but the silence that's overtaken him as of late isn't the kind you've come to know and love. His eyes going unfocused when he thinks you're not paying attention, wandering off into his own sort of world. There are no rules defining when it may happen: in the grocery store, in the middle of a movie, hell, he's done it in the middle of a conversation.

Just like he did it last night, with making the bed.

Surely, it can't be second thoughts about this whole wedding thing. No, that wouldn't make sense; he's the one who proposed.

You'll have to worry about it some other time; him, his thoughts, and Rhett's curious notebook be damned, there's a Christmas tree that needs to be set up, fluffed, and decorated.

A very big tree. Ten feet sounds a lot smaller on the screen.

"We either get one too big," Rhett's eyes flick over to the tiny tree sitting on your left. Scrawny, hardly two and a half feet tall, and happens to be last year's lesson about reading the dimensions, "or too small."

Your head tilts up. Straining to get a look at the top, still crooked from its time spent crammed in the box. "Do we still have them ornaments in the garage?"

Rhett's sigh echoes. "We're 'bout to find out."

Locating the ornaments is the easiest part; they're still sitting in a neat stack on a shelf, stacks, and stacks of unopened bulbs and a box of garland—silver, gold, fake popcorn,, all tangled with the neverending red ribbon and faux pine that decorated the banister last year. It's a lot, but it felt like so much more when it was just a memory.

"Where did the silver come from?" You don't remember those making their way onto the list of ornament colors, but unless your eyes are playing tricks on you, those on the bottom right are certainly silver.

In an instant, Rhett's face drops. "Was I not s'posed to buy silver?"

"We were only doing red, pink and gold, remember?" The color list Bobby wrote out last year is still taped to the box of ornaments you're holding. A long ranking of colors, all crossed out until it left you with three. Silver never even made it onto the list.

Rhett's eyes dart away, suddenly too embarrassed to look down at the offending color of bulbs he's collected in his arms. "Oh."

"Did you..." you're still connecting the dots as you speak, eyes flickering between Rhett's fading smile and the plastic decorations, "want silver?"

Wordless, he nods.

Okay. Silver it is. But as you go to put your armload of gold decor back, his frown only deepens, like that's not what he was expecting in the slightest.

"Why can't we do both?" He asks, brows furrowing.

You don't get what he's on about. "Silver and gold?"

His head tilts to the side, and you can almost see the puppy ears flopping with the movement. All big blue eyes and pure confusion. "Ain't they s'posed to go together?"

"What makes you think that?" Maybe it's the sleep still clouding your mind that's making it so difficult to understand what he's on about.

"They got that song," he's nodding in the direction of the living room, like that'll help him explain, "in that Rudolph movie."

So it's a Burl Ives song that gets a fourth color added to the tree—red, pink, silver, and gold.

Two dozen bulbs were perfect for the strangled excuse of a Christmas tree that you had last year. But with every bulb that you take from Rhett's hands, curling its brand-new hook into an artificial branch, you begin to wonder if there are even enough. The boxes of red disappear quicker than planned. Then come the pink, and now you're grabbing for the silver and soon the gold.

And it's still not enough. This tree is so large that it swallows up every ornament you hang from its branches. The massive gaps between bulbs are impossible to ignore, even from across the room.

"Y' think puttin' the garlands on will make it a little less...?" Rhett doesn't need to finish his sentence. You already get the picture.

"It can't hurt?" What's the worst that can happen, you make the tree look a little less baren?

Though it's easier said than done.

The bottom half of the tree is relatively simple: passing the garland back and forth, trying your best to keep previously placed bulbs from dropping to the floor. They fall regardless. One after the other, clanking across the floor and rolling every which way.

Then comes the middle portion, and suddenly, you're standing on the tips of your toes. Have long since given up on caring about what being knocked off, the muscles in the back of your neck straining to keep looking at what you're doing. Then comes the top of the tree, and neither of you can be bugged to even begin to try that without a second ladder. Instead reaching for the silver garland, beginning to wrap it in the opposite direction of the gold.

"Getting festive without me, huh?"

That isn't Rhett's voice.

And it certainly wasn't yours.

"G' mornin'," Rhett's smiling at the half-awake figure standing in the threshold.

Bobby's eyes aren't even halfway open, leaning his weight up against the wall. His sleepy grin doing nothing to distract from the short hair sticking in every direction, cheek still imprinted from a fold in the sheets.

He's heard Rhett. You know he has because his eyes dart right to him. But he doesn't react. Staring aimlessly at the shimmering tinsel in Rhett's hands, eyes seeming to conceal every thought in the world and nothing at all.

Right as you're about to call his name, his mouth opens.

"What if we got rings in both metals?"

Your hands freeze. "I'm sorry?"

"I mean—" His eyelashes are fluttering, pale pink tongue darting out to lick his chapped lips. "Rings in silver and gold."

"You fixin' to put another ring on us, Robby?" Rhett's quicker to catch on than you are, thin lips twisted into a wild grin. Slowly spreading across his cheeks until his eyes curl with it.

Your attention darts back to the tinsel in your hands, silver overlapping gold, then to the thin golden band clinging to Rhett's ring finger. Your own is still bare, the ring sitting safely in its dish on the bedside table. Forgotten again.

Nobody ever talks about how hard it is to work up the habit of keeping a piece of jewelry on.

Bob doesn't realize it, but his thumb is idly stroking his empty ring finger. Not yet brandished with jewelry like you and Rhett because he hasn't even answered your question about what metal he prefers for his ring—

"Is that what you've been thinking all this time?" You blurt, hardly able to fight the urge to spring to your feet.

He doesn't need to even open his mouth. You know you've gotten your answer the moment his face turns a brilliant shade of ruby. Socked foot kicking at the floor, suddenly unable to look at you or Rhett any longer.

"I didn't..." his face only seeming to grow redder by the second, as he shakes his head back and forth, "you..."

You're so fortunate that this isn't your first speechless rodeo with Bobby. Have seen him fight to translate thoughts into words so many times that you have already put together what he's trying to say.

And you've only got a half second to realize that Rhett is bolting across the room before your ears are being met with an earth-shattering thunk. The house rattles as Rhett all but tackles Bobby to the floor, with no regard for the fragile decor sprinkled about around them.

Bob's feet are scrambling for purchase on the hardwood, socks giving him nothing but a smooth glide as he squirms beneath Rhett, squealing something you can't interpret. His big hands clutching Rhett's biceps, knuckles whitening as he tries to shove him off. But Rhett's got the upper hand, downright smothering with his weight.

"That's what you've been on about?" Rhett's shout is broken apart by his own giggles, knees thumping against the floor as he tries to straddle the wriggling hips below him. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Bobby's still kicking up a fight, hips bucking up hard enough to lift Rhett with it, if only for a second. "Like you ain't been secretive with that notebook, Abbott."

"It ain't secretive. It's a surprise!" Rhett's arms cross in front of his chest, frowning.

Did you miss the memo that you were supposed to have a secret project to be working on, too?

"Baby," Bobby begs, reaching aimlessly in your direction as if he has any hope of reaching you from a few feet away. "Help me."

But you're not entirely sure if you can do that. As you scoot closer, Rhett's attention darts to you, excited eyes daring you to try him. He's figured out how to win recently, and it's only a matter of time before he has you pinned on the floor, too.

You can't be bugged to even try fighting him for Bob's honor. Not only because you would lose horribly but because you're already preoccupied with leaning down and pressing your lips to the side of his cheek. Feeling the warmth of his flushed skin, the way his face wrinkles with that content smile.

"'s this what we're doing?" Rhett's asking as if he's not already leaning in, too. Audibly pressing kisses to the soft underside of Bob's jaw, where he's garnered the slightest bit of stubble overnight. "Kisses?"

And this room is far too quiet for Bobby's soft inhale to go unnoticed, his uneasy hand gliding up your arm. Always has to be holding on to something. In the corner of your eye, you can already see his other hand making a grab for Rhett's bicep, greedily squishing the thick muscle between his fingers.

Rhett's blindly reaching off to the side, mouth only briefly leaving Bob's flushed skin as he produces a thick, red ribbon. The silky soft one that had been hiding in the box of garland.

"Huh?" Bob's nose wrinkles, unable to do anything but watch as Rhett collects his wrists together, wrapping them in that smooth material. Only begins to squirm when it's too late. Rhett's already cinching the knot closed, forcing those pale arms back together as he finishes it off with an obnoxiously fancy bow. Perfectly pinned over his head.

"There we go," Rhett's grinning, leaning back in to nip at Bob's jaw, "first present of the year."

Bobby's eyes roll so hard that you briefly lose sight of those pale blue irises. Arms flexing as he tests the strength of Rhett's handiwork, frowning when he finds no give at all.

Not a word spoken, you flip to the same page that Rhett is on. Resuming your peppering kisses, tongue poking out to lick down Bob's pretty neck, working your way down to his collar. Nibbling where he's most sensitive, relishing in that surprised grunt. There's hardly any room for Rhett to fit, but he's squeezing in any way. Shoulder bumping into yours as he torments the opposite side, peering at you through the corner of his eye.

"In the middle of the floor?" There's no way Bob could have seen that look, but he's already understood what you two are up to. Wasting no time, with the way your unruly hands dip beneath his shirt, roaming over the soft expanse of his belly. Not quite as defined as Rhett, but equally loveable and squishy.

Rhett's beating you to it, shoving Bob's shirt up without a single shred of grace. "Y' got a problem with that, flyboy?" Thin lips wrapping around a soft pink nipple, yanking a gasp out of him.

"My back does," Bob's words are more of a mumble than anything else. An uneasy confession of the one thing he's guaranteed to suffer with in his career.

There are a number of solutions to this. Migrating upstairs to the comfort of the bed, grabbing a couple of the many decorative pillows off the couch and propping them beneath Bob's back, or even standing up and backing him up against the wall, perfectly cornered while you and Rhett have your way with him.

That list of solutions did not involve you sitting on the edge of the couch, with Bobby kneeling between your legs and Rhett sidling up behind him like the minx that he is. Wasting no time with peeling that thin t-shirt from Bob's pale body, exposing miles upon miles of lightly freckled shoulders and pale skin. And all Bob can seem to think about is getting his mouth on your inner thighs, daring to start right where the fabric of your shorts ends.

"'s this better?" Rhett downright purrs with those half-lidded eyes.

He doesn't get much of an answer. Just a weak 'uhuh' that's muffled by your inner thigh.

Idle, your hand combs through Bob's short hair. Has had enough time to grow past the rigid constraints of Navy regulations, the perfect length to curl around your fingers, tugging gently. Drawing his eager mouth closer, hot tongue trailing along your skin. Sending superheated bolts of lightning rippling up your nerves. Familiar warmth blooming between your legs, head beginning to spin the slightest bit.

That soft mouth of his is the definition of heaven. Sucking gently, adding his handiwork over top of Rhett's extensive assault from a few days ago, so dark that they've hardly faded at all. A mottling of patches that only worsen the further he works, all too eager to mark you up.

But it's a far cry from Rhett's vigor, working away at the crevice of Bob's neck. Loud. Reckless as he sucks a darkened mark into the thin skin stretched over his collarbone. Crafting a sinful trail leading down his back, a soft mark over every little knob in his spine.

Fingers curl into your waistband. Wordlessly urging you to lift your hips to let them slide past the soft curve of your ass, yanking the fabric down your legs and tossing them off to the side, underwear and all.

But Rhett's hands are on Bobby's hips, and they're certainly not yours. Which can only mean...

You're cut off before you can even begin to speak. Bob's flat tongue stroking between your folds, peering up at you from beneath his lashes. Dark, hardened gaze daring you to call him out on his antics.

He's slow. His hands dropping onto his lap, quietly concealing his newly found freedom, working with his mouth alone. Leaning in until his glasses fog with his own breath, lazily lapping at your sex, roaming feather-light over your clit, a ghost of what he could be giving you.

"Bobby," you gasp, and though your thighs are squishing his cheeks, it's impossible to miss the way his lip upturns into a grin.

Rhett bumps into him from behind, and that's all it takes to have the tip of his tongue pressing directly into that rapidly swelling button. A sudden pressure that damn near makes you squeal, yanking a hand out of his hair to muzzle yourself with. That darkened gaze hardens into a glare. Craves the sound of you whimpering his name, but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. Not if he doesn't want Rhett to see his untied hands.

He's pushing harder now. Aggressive strokes, swiping invisible x-shapes with this audibly wet noise that threatens to make your head float right off your shoulders. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that's a lot all at once.

Rhett's hand bumps into yours as he tangles his fingers in Bob's hair. Gently yanking him back with this absurdly loud pop, chin already glistening as he's hauled back to lean against Rhett's chest.

But it's not to torment Bobby or for Rhett to steal his fair share of attention. No, he's shoving Bob's pajama pants down his hips. Half-hard cock bouncing the moment it's free of its confines, a sight so distracting that you can't bring yourself to look away.

Until you realize that Rhett has long since lost his pants, that is. Your thighs squeezing together from the sight of them alone.

Rhett's brows knit together, suddenly perplexed with a realization you've already made. "When did y' get your hands—"

The end of that sentence never comes. Cut short by Bob's sudden burst of energy, blindly reaching behind himself to grab a handful of Rhett's dark hair. And it's like the fight immediately dissolves from Rhett's bones. Face softening as he's held in place until Bob can get behind him. Nothing but an unruly puppy that got put back in his place.

"Thought you knew better than to tie a sailor with a basic knot," Bob's chuckling into the shell of Rhett's ear, reaching forward to wrap Rhett's pliant arms in the ribbon. Not as decorative as before, opting for an intricacy that has you tilting your head, unable to keep up with what his nimble hands are doing.

You should have seen it coming. But quite frankly, you can only think about one thing right now, and it's certainly not the intricacies involved with tying a ribbon. Speechless as Rhett's pretty head is pushed between your legs. The scruff of his jaw scraping your mottled inner thigh, peppering it with a kiss.

"Sweetheart, can you look under that pillow for me?" Bob's pointing toward the decorative throw in question, the small square one that used to sit in his apartment, "Think we left the lube under there last time."

Blindly, your hand reaches behind it, patting against fabric and cushion until your fingers graze the cool plastic of the bottle.

But then Rhett's tongue darts to lap at your clit, suddenly too hungry to wait anymore, and you're fumbling with it. Nearly dropping it onto his back before Bob can even reach out to take it from you.

"Jesus, Rhett," you breathe, falling back to rest against the couch cushion, gazing down at the new, messy sight you've gained. The too-eager cowboy who doesn't have the strength to string you out like Bob does, so content that his eyes seem to smile as he gently sucks on your clit.

"'m sorry," he grumbles directly into your pussy, unable to draw himself away for even a second, "couldn't help it."

He's everywhere. Laving your clit with all the attention he can give and then dipping down to nudge his tongue against your neglected entrance. Shallowly working his tongue in and out, downright drooling into you, short little jabs that make you flutter around him. Only for him to break away the moment he's found a rhythm. Licking his way back up and over your clit once more. Collecting every bit of you, and yet he's still not satisfied.

Your hand settles against the back of his head, tangling your fingers in those long locks, pulling until you can guide him right where you want him, holding him in place. "Right there," you murmur with a shiver, "right there."

Though your grip is strong, it's not enough to stop him from jumping at the sudden appearance of Bob's lube-slicked hand dipping between his thighs. Carefully spreading the cool substance against the thin skin there, working his way up to his balls and the underside of his cock.

"What..." the rumbling of Rhett's voice sends sparks racing up your spine. Sends you involuntarily jolting up into his mouth, "are y' doin'?"

Your eyes are just open enough to catch the way Bob grins. "You'll see," is all he provides. Kneeling down to place his hands on the sides of Rhett's thighs, pushing them together so quickly that Rhett squeaks.

The first pass of Bob's cock between Rhett's thighs is a thing that surprises all of you. Rhett at the sudden appearance, you with the obscene sight, and Bob's muttering something about those pretty thighs being so fucking soft. His dick just long enough to brush against Rhett's heavy balls, gives him the slightest amount of attention.

And oh, does it have him whimpering into you. "Keep doin' that," he stutters, pushing impossibly closer into your cunt. Working you in earnest now, swirling his tongue around that swollen bud, punctuated with a soft suction that has your heart jumping in your chest. His body rocking with Bob's deep thrusts, bound arms helplessly pinned against the couch.

It's so much. Oh, it's so much. Your hips are beginning to squirm, legs clamping down around his shoulders, squeezing impossibly tight. Yanking on his hair, pulling him closer, only to try dragging him away. Don't know if you want more or less or exactly what he's doing right now, or, or—

"Untie me," Rhett's babbling all of a sudden. Sounds as far gone as you feel. "Please. Want, want...wanna hold..."

His biceps flex, straining against the thin ribbon with everything he can muster, the threads of the fabric audibly ripping as it's stretched beyond its limit. And it's all Bob can do to lean down and yank on the knot. Undoing it before it can be torn in two; technique doesn't always outweigh pure strength.

Rhett's arms are around your hips in an instant. Hugging you close like a man starved, and it's all you can do not to fall apart right here and now. Frantically pawing at his biceps, pushing at his head, unable to stop his hungry mewl from vibrating up your core. Impossible to avoid the pleased smile that plasters across his face, lightly sucking on your clit like it's his favorite candy.

"Rhett," you're whining, squirming helplessly as he downright eats you alive, tongue so sloppy that it's loud, has a sickly wet noise ringing in your ears,"Rhett I...I'm—"

"Cum on my face," pleading in that hopelessly deep voice of his, "Please, please, please."

You hardly feel it hit you. All you know is that your head is falling back against the couch cushion, and you're cumming on his burning tongue with a strangled whimper. Legs damn near locking around his scruffy face as your back arches up, fingers pulling so hard on his hair that it has to hurt. And yet he licks you through every jolted spasm, hot breath fanning out against you, humming in tune with your noises.

Bobby's pulling him away right as you grow oversensitive, pulling on those soft brown locks of hair, but you hardly expect him to haul Rhett up onto his feet. Blindly pushing him forward onto the empty space next to you, his back flat against the cushion, head falling haphazardly into your lap. Unshaven jaw glistening with you as he pries his eyes open, gazing up at you with that far-gone emptiness you've seen so many times.

Doesn't react as Bob squeezes into the little bit of space available, pushing Rhett's thighs up and together, guiding his cock through the small gap in them. Pretty pink cock head bumping right where Rhett's weeping length begins.

And Rhett's whimper sounds like your name. Big hand pawing around until he can get ahold of yours, squeezing it gently.

"Ain't you two a sight," Bob's grunting. Has only just begun to find his pace, but he's already begun to shake. Too close. Too fast.

It's enough to get Rhett's eyes fluttering, hips jolting upward, "Y' like my thighs too much." And he's going to be so sensitive once Bobby's done with him, thighs red and tender from the abuse, but fuck is all of that worth this. The sight of his trembling legs being held together, flushed cock leaking against his belly as his thighs are fucked for all he's worth.

On its own, your free hand lifts, traveling down to wrap around his neglected length. Letting the weight of Bob's thrusts push him in and out of your grasp. A shallow, lazy motion that makes his mouth fall open.

"You like that, cowboy?" You're teasing, voice a touch hoarse. Thumb finding its way beneath his plush head, swiping back and forth at the precum-covered underside.

"T-tighter," his hand squeezing yours a little harder as if to demonstrate what he's craving. And as soon as you follow his instruction, his back is arching off the couch. "jus' like that, jus' like—fuck."

But that's not enough. No, no, he's opening his mouth again. "Harder," he begs, pale feet defiantly kicking where Bob's got them held in the air, "Robby, fuck me harder."

"You're purty demandin' for a pillow princess," you don't know what's made Bob's accent slip out so suddenly, but it damn near makes your head spin. And though he's complaining, he wastes no time hardening his pace. Balls smacking against Rhett's flushed skin as his thrusts become heavier. Rough, just how Rhett likes it.

Knocks the rest of Rhett's words right out of his mouth, silences him right and proper. Dissolving into nothing but pitchy whimpers and hitched breaths. Noises growing higher and higher, until he's beginning to twitch in your grasp, your only sign that he's close.

"Cum for us," Bob's egging him on, pulling those shivering legs up to his chest, drawing him back into every thrust, "c'mon, be a good boy 'n cum."

Rhett's head lolls backward, eyes rolling, gazing up at you and nowhere at all. Eyelashes beginning to flutter and fall closed, cumming with a feather-light gasp that ought to knock you off your feet. Ropes of white paint his spasming belly and your hand, coating his spasming length.

And Bob's still fucking him, rhythmic pace dissolving into something sporadic, rubbing right against Rhett's oversensitive balls with every push and pull. Rhett's whines rising into hopeless cries, squirming, fighting to escape the way Bob's still railing into him.

Only takes a few shaky jerks of his hips for him to stall, too, staining Rhett's thighs and cock with rope after rope of cum. Glasses obscuring the way his eyes roll, head tilting back to show the new mottling of marks on his collar.

Everything is still. Quiet, except for two labored breaths, intertwining like the tinsel on the tree. Bob's shaky hand dips down, collecting some of the mess he's made of Rhett's thighs, lifting his cum-covered fingers to Rhett's swollen, parted lips. And all your cowboy can do is open his mouth and lick it off, too far gone to fuss.

Two pairs of exhausted eyes peer up at you as if to check that you're on the same page as them.

"What 'bout Floytt?" Rhett's blurting, all of a sudden, evidently unable to keep the silence for too long.

Bobby's eyebrows furrow, tilting his head down. "Pardon?"

For a moment, Rhett flounders. Mouth opening and closing. Seems to have completely forgotten how to conjure up the words he needs to speak. "Remember, the uh..." he tries, "las' name thing?"

You can't help but giggle. "You two are horrible at bringing up your ideas." Because what are the chances that you'd wind up with not one but two fiances who can't seem to give context to save their lives. Wildly blurting what's on their minds, under the assumption that you'll know what they're talking about.

"I take it that's what the notebook was for?" Bob's question is more of an observation than anything. To which he receives a nod and a faint 'uhuh' from Rhett. Can't be brought to provide a proper 'yes.'

It's not the solution you'd expected when it came to this last-name debacle. Debating on whose last name to take, the three of you are too passive to insist that your name be taken out of fear of hurting feelings. But the concept of picking an entirely new one didn't feel so personal. There's no special weight to the names you've found online.

"Floytt." It feels strange in your mouth and yet oddly familiar, as if it's been present from the moment you all met. Lifts your tongue like it does for the beginning of Floyd, still carries the short and sweet ring of the Abbott family name.

"Floytt." Bob's parroting you, pausing if only for a moment to think, and then opens his mouth once more, "I like it."

For a three-month-old debate, it sure did end abruptly. You can see it now: a pretty new name engraved on a plaque hanging below the mailbox. An obnoxious, cursive sign in the kitchen, as if you and your families can possibly forget something like a last name. Bills and new dog tags with the name stamped in pretty letters.

"Now we just have to plan the actual wedding," your smile wavers; you've got a little over seven months to figure out a theme, outfits, finalize who is being invited, and, worse of all, figure out the cake situation.

How is anyone supposed to layer Bob's beloved lemon on top of Rhett's affectionately chosen bananas foster? And then still have space for yours as well? Who gets to be the biggest layer? Who draws the unlucky straw to have the smallest? And how do you even begin narrowing down three icings to one? And themes. How the hell do you get a cowboy and a pilot theme to look good together on the same damn canvas?

You wonder if they'll object to three separate cakes.

"And finish the tree." Bob's nodding his head toward the half-finished decor; you've got to make another ornament run if you want to get anywhere close to having it done.

Rhett's resounding "ugh" resonates to your core. "C'n we take a nap first?" He grumbles, punctuated with a big, whining yawn. Batting those long lashes of his up at the two of you like it'll earn him some favors.

It does.

You're snuggled up with him in an instant. Squeezing in on one side while Bob takes the other, barely fitting onto these wide couch cushions. Your arm splayed out across the soft fat of Rhett's belly, squishy until he intentionally flexes the thick muscle there. Has rounded out in all the right places, in the chest, cheeks, ass, and cum-covered thighs.

A clean-up should have come before the nap, but you can't be bugged to get back up. And by the looks of it, neither can Bob.

"You're really gettin' us more rings?" Rhett's asking, half-lidded eyes flicking between the two of you as if he can possibly garner an answer from your expressions.

Bob's shoulders rise and fall with a shrug. "Why not?"

And it's only now that you tune into the soulless drone of the television. A familiar, festive song chiming to life as a stop-motion snowman twists across the screen, mindlessly strumming his banjo, singing about silver and gold.

Quietly, Bob begins to hum along to it. A soft rumbling that draws a heaviness into your eyelids until you can no longer lift them. Drifting off to the tune of an old song and the deep rumblings of a Navy pilot who reaches over to stroke an eyelash from your cheek. Your wonderful little unconventional trio, with your extra partner, two colors of rings, and three separate wedding cakes.

Something pops. Hitting the ground with a shrill clatter; ornaments bouncing across the floor, twinkling lights flicking off within an instant.

One eye opens, peeking at your newly fallen Christmas tree.

It closes.

Rhett's elbow finds its way to nudge Bob's chest, "you're settin' it up this time."

"I wouldn't have to if you two woulda woke me up," you knew Bob would hit you two with that eventually. Always does, at some point.

"We were tryin' to let you have yer beauty sleep, flyboy," Rhett's chirping, in that taunting sort of fashion that can only mean one thing. You don't need to open your eyes to feel the playful glares being fired back at one another.

And then comes Bob's too-calm warning. "Don't start that."

"Well, I'm startin'!" And there they go, tumbling off the couch in an instant. Ornaments knocking around as they tussle about on the living room floor. Fighting to see who's stronger, as if this outcome will be any different, swearing between giggles as they twist and turn.

You don't get to take that nap.

#bob floyd #rhett abbott #robert bob floyd #bob floyd x reader x rhett abbott #oneshot #x reader #afab reader #hawthorn au

95 notes · View notes

complexcritterscave · 2 months

Text

I love cooking. Sorry if this isn’t as high quality as the rest! I forgot to save it earlier and it deleted like 7 paragraphs and dialogue so I had to rewrite some of it AND I was struggling to think of how I wanted to continue it. Also it gets kinda funky at the end so uhm yeah if you’ve got any questions about that part feel free to ask ily guys remember to be silly

Split would open her eyes, finding herself in an empty white void. This was definitely a dream, or a nightmare, she hasn’t figured it out yet. Hopefully it wasn’t the latter..

She sat up, looking around before trekking through the blank space, curiosity fuelling each step she took. Something about this place was… ominous. Like she shouldn’t be here.

If that didn’t make it better, she felt as if she were being watched. As if something were documenting her every move while she made her way deeper into the void.

`What if someone is..?`

The thought made her shudder. Someone, or something, was hiding in this blank canvas. Hiding out of sight despite there being no crooks or crevices, nor shelves or walls, to hide in or behind. Whatever this threat was, she did not plan on sticking around for a friendly meet and greet, picking up the pace as her ears lowered.

As she continued on his invisible path, she noticed something in n the far distance. She couldn’t entirely make it out but it seemed… Well she couldn’t really describe it. But seeing as there was nowhere else to go, she made her way towards it.

As the trekked closer she began noticing how the floor was fading from its pristine whiteness to an inky black. If that wasn’t enough, she also noticed how every pawstep she took left a small ripple effect on its surface, as if she were walking on water.

That’s not possible is it? The only times she’s heard of that happening is in religion and that one lizard. Maybe it was oobleck? She knew enough about it, well the basics at least. It was a liquid when there was no force applied and solid when there was.

If so why didn’t it stain her paws? She’s seen it stain people’s hands went dealt with, so why weren’t hers becoming black or at least grey?

She was yanked from her thoughts as she heard the subtle sound of movement behind her, whipping around to meet whoever her friend, or enemy, was. Unfortunately, it was no friend and a deep scowl graced the Fruit-Taur’s face.

"You?! What are you doing here?! How are you even here?! Out of everything, it’d had to be you! I don’t get why DrRETRO doesn’t just use a sledge hammer against you already! No one likes you!"

She snapped at the smiling rock beneath her a quiet yet guttural growl rumbling in her throat as her ears folded back.

"Silence dog creature."

She was taken aback, quite literally, when it spoke, blinking as she stared at it incredulously. Its voice horrifically deep and statical.

"You can talk? You’ve been able to talk this whole time?!"

"Always have been. Now leave."

"Huh-"

"Leave. You’re not supposed to be here. I don’t want you here, your thoughts are too loud and disturbing my work. So shoo shoo, I’m busy."

MR stared up at her, its smiling face unable to show up its obvious glare of disdain and condescending contempt for her.

"You’re still here?"

"You act as if I want to be here."

"Then leave."

"Tell me how!"

"Don’t raise your voice at me, I have divine authority you’d only see on your glass screens."

Split let out a mocking snort.

"You? Divine authority? The most you can do is magic tricks."

The rock, now infuriated, glared at her shoulder, a small flame appearing on her clothing as it did as she let out a yelp and immediately pat it out.

"Apologize and I’ll consider not breaking your limbs. At least not all of them."

"I’m not apologizing to an oversized geode! Especially not one who set me on fire!"

MR was about to set her ablaze entirely, turning her into a blackened banana before a moment of malicious remembrance crossed its mind as it hummed in response. Physical torment lasted long, yes. But anyone could recover from it. Even the most vicious wounds of attacks can be healed, even if they left scars, they still healed.

Emotional and mental torment however... Those were difficult to conquer. Even the strongest of men can crumble at the feet of a weak mind. The detrimental effects that it can leave behind are sickening. The way it can drive people mad and take drastic measures to make it stop. It was too perfect of an idea for the rock to let go. It had used it many times in the past on specific victims, especially its current one.

Besides, it'd be killing two birds with one stone...

"Your friend."

"I have a lot of friends."

"The hairy one."

"I have a lot hairy friends."

"The detective."

"Bive?"

"You two are close, no?"

"Duh! She’s-"

"You care and love her don’t you?"

"Love is such a… strong word? I adore her! But of course I care about her!"

"Interesting. How is it you tell her of your life and she never responds with similar information?"

"She’s probably just had a bad childhood? Wait a minute how do you kno-"

"How do you sympathize with a freak such as her?"

Split’s expression hardened, but before she could jump on the defence, it continued.

"You know she’s a a failure right?

"A mistake."

"She’s not even supposed to exist."

The fruit-taur snarled at it, a spark of fury slowly growing into a bonfire.

"Now listen here you-!"

"What is your goal?"

"What are you talking about?!"

"Is it to be her rock?"

"Is it to be her white knight in glistening armour?"

"To fix her?"

"You’re wasting precious energy on her.. You can’t fix a vase that’s been shattered in to millions of pieces. You can’t fix a broken record. You can’t fix her."

"This isn’t about fixing her! Shut up! You’re just trying to trick me!"

"Au contraire. I’m just trying to enlighten you of your situation. After all we’ve both had someone we care for."

"Well, you still have that someone…"

Despite her fury, a small twinge of confusion nagged her.

Perfect…

"I had someone. I cared for their every need. When they were hungry, I was the first to feed them. When they were thirsty, I always brought them enough water to last them throughout the day. The others? They saw them as an experiment. An analysis. Something to simply studied. Me? I treated them as if they were my own child."

Split felt the anger in her begin dying down as she listened on. For once, she felt… bad for the rock.

“I taught them to walk, to speak. Countless nights I would lay awake for them when they were ill. Whenever it stormed, they were afraid of the thunder, so I would stay by their side to help to rest. To bring them comfort.."

As cruel as the stone was, it sounded like an excellent paternal figure. She never knew it had such loyalty and affection in it. Perhaps something changed it?

"I did everything for them. I would’ve given my life for them. And you know what they did?"

"What?"

"They stabbed me in the back. They left me when I needed them most. I returned to find them gone and my life’s work with them. I loved them and they abandoned me as if I were garbage. Do you know, how painful it is, to care for someone as if they were your successor, your own blood… just to have them turn their back on you..? It’s worse than any physical wound imaginable…"

The fruit-taur couldn’t help but sympathize with it. Clearly it was hurt, hurt beyond imagination. It had gave and gave and gave, only for its affection to never be reciprocated. Whoever did this to MR had turned it into what it was now, a bitter and broken mess. Who could do such an awful thing?!

As if it could read her thoughts, it spoke up.

"You know them too."

"I do..?"

"Yes. You give them the same amount of love and attention as I once did. You treat them with respect and kindness while others turn their back on them, as they rightfully should."

Split stared at it for a moment, surely it didn’t mean..? No! That’s impossible… Right?

"You’re not talking about..?"

"Your little detective friend? Unfortunately, I am…"

She felt her heart drop. No. That couldn’t be true! It had to be lying! Yeah. That’s right! It’s lying. She would never do such a thing. Sure she wasn’t always the most morally correct person, but to do that?! That’s too far. Not even Gnarpy was that cruel, and xe threatened everyone! Even Fleshcousin! But there was still sense of doubt that whispered in her head, its voice quiet yet loud enough to be heard.

`What if it’s not lying..?`

"Hard to believe isn’t it? I assume you have no intent on locating her now do you?"

"What..?"

"She’s here you know?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"… Can I talk to her?"

"I guess so. Continue going forward in the direction you were originally going. You’ll find her eventually."

Spilt looked behind her, tilting her head slightly.

"That’s all? She’s th-"

She turned back towards the stone, a quiet ‘oh’ escaping her mouth as she realized it was gone. How does a rock move that fast? Does it have legs or something? That’s a funny idea- Wait no no! She needed to get answers. No distractions.

She sighed as she continued forward, the questions that whirled in her head made her feel ill.

Is she actually the reason MR was who it was now? Did she actually break its heart? Why didn’t she tell her this earlier? Was she trying to hide her true self? Was she even who she thought she was?

The more Split thought, the more distraught she became. She was starting to believe that everything she knew about Bive, everything she cared for, everything she adored about her was a flat out lie. How stupid could she be? How naive was she?! She thought she finally found someone she could connect with, to spend time with, to love even.

Then the truth came and proved it all to a sick and twisted fantasy.

Eventually, she came across the paranoid detective. She seemed distressed, like usual but it seemed much more intense. Like she was expecting something. Like she was in immense danger. She seemed more jittery than ever.

As Split got closer, Bive soon took notice of her, seeming to calm down a little, a small grin even appearing on her face. However as she saw the hardened expression on the fruit-taur’s face, she tensed up once more, her grin slowly disappearing as she got closer.

"Split..?"

She paused a few feet in front of her, staring down at the detective before sighing. Bive tilted her head as she tried to read her face, why’d she look so upset? Did something happen

"Why?”

"Why what?"

"Why’d you do that to it?"

"Do what to who?"

"You know what I’m talking about!"

"Well, to be honest I really don’t."

Split bit back a harsh retort, forcing herself to remain calm.

"Why’d you just… abandon MR?"

Bive was completely taken aback. Firstly, how’d she even find out about her history with the stone. Secondly, who told her she abandoned her?! She never abandoned anyone! If anything she was abandoned! Well not really but that’s not the point!

"Aha… What?"

"Bive please tell me it’s a lie."

"You don’t believe it right? You don’t actually believe that do you?!"

"The more I think about it, the more believable it sounds!"

"It’s all a lie, I promise! Who even told you this? It’s obvious they’re trying to distract you from the real threat such as the clowns and snow so-"

"ENOUGH WITH YOUR CONSPIRACY THEORIES! STOP TRYING TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT!"

Bive was taken aback. Never had she heard Split so upset, and especially never at her. It hurt. It hurt a lot actually. Did she even know the actual story? Who tricked her like this?!

She tried to stammer out a response before Split just responded with a frustrated growl.

"Please just tell me the truth. Did you leave? Yes or no?!"

"It’s a much more complicated answer than that! That’s not fair!"

"So you do know it?!"

"Well! I didn’t say that!"

"Then what are you saying?!"

"That our connections are more complicated than that!"

"That sounds like you’re trying to tiptoe around the fact that you know MR."

"I- Well-! Just please!"

She watched as the fruit-taur sighed, turning her head to the side as she used her hand to rub the temples above her forehead.

"I may know it just a bit but-"

"But..?"

"I didn’t abandon it! I just left!"

"That does not make it sound any better…"

"Well I just-"

"We just aren’t on the best of terms because of previous events!.."

"I wonder why.."

It was like every answer that came out of her mouth wasn’t the right one. At this point Bive was beginning to panic. Apart from Split she had virtually no one else. Scratch that, she HAD no one else. Everyone else didn’t listen to her, they found her insane, they thought her truths were lies. She couldn’t lose Split, the mere thought of it scared her more than anything else.

"Look I dunno what they told you but it’s not true please! I promise!"

"It’s getting harder to believe you…"

Bive watched as Split took a step back, her panic growing into pure terror as she noticed the stone that had materialized beside her. Of course. Why hadn’t she realize it sooner? That dumb rock was the reason Split didn’t trust her, it was the reason she didn’t believe her. It lied to her and got her on its side. She hated MR, it was lying, cheating, skank that fed off of suffering.

But so far, it seemed as if it was winning this battle..

"Split, please! You can possibly believe it can you?! You-You don’t actually… Right?… RIGHT?!"

Split only stared at her, too upset to think of a response. The agonizing 'reality' had set in that the detective she once loved was a two-faced traitor. It hurt her too much to even think of it as she fought back tears.

The stone looked towards her, despite the permanent smile that graced its face, it seemed express some sort of empathy towards the fruit-taur. As if it knew how she felt, as if it had once been in her place.

It let out a quiet hum, signalling for Split to go of which she did without hesitation. Her paws heavy as she left the two alone…

Bive could only watch as she left, her own feet stuck in place, her mouth too dry to let out a pleading ‘stay’. Before she knew it, she was gone. Where? She had no idea, but she had disappeared past the horizon and could no longer be seen. She turned to the stone, watching as it gave her its sickening and mocking grin. How could something be so cruel? How could something be so vile?! How could something be so… cruel?

A wave of pure hatred and grief washed over her, the stone knew it too. It felt it coursing through her body, and it relished it. It fed off of such negativity, and right now? She was a gold mine…

"You… You stupid-! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!"

The rock didn’t answer, just stared… Just stared as tears streamed down her face, just stared as she trembled with mental agony, just stared as she glowered at it with pure unfiltered hatred.

"WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE?! WHY DO YOU FOLLOW ME?!"

Her breathing was heavy and irregular as the stone answered her with a command.

"Drown… Let your suffering be the waves that kill you…"

The ground beneath her seemed to liquify as she fell straight through it, letting out a yelp as she splashed into the inky 'sea' beneath her. She had tried to swim back to the surface, despite her poor abilities, but it was futile as some sort of thin layer of invisible 'glass' blocked her escape. She held what little breath she had as she pushed at it.

She could see MR staring down at her, staring at her as she tried to break through. It’s mocking grin still gracing its face. It knew it had won but it wouldn’t indulge in its victory until it saw the realization in the detective’s eyes. Until it saw her realize she had lost.

She kicked and punched and clawed and scraped at the layer, fighting to escape as her lungs pleaded for air. Her chest felt as if it were on fire as she continued, her movements becoming weaker

Split would awaken from her sleep before groggily looking around. She was back in reality, back in the maze, back with her… Split looked down at the sleeping detective, a wave of guilty disgust washing over her as she realized she was leaning against her.

Bive felt herself getting tired, her limbs began aching as her actions became weaker and weaker

The fruit-taur nudged her off, not enough to wake her up to prevent an awkward and painful conversation.

The detective’s movements became slower before eventually stopping. Her body tired and aching as her chest continued to burn…

Split let out a sigh, getting up as she gathered her own belongings, despite not being much, and began leaving.

She gave the stone a glance, the sudden realization of defeat hitting her as she began to slowly sink. The 'water' was cold yet oddly comforting in a way, it quelled the fire in her chest. Bive couldn’t help but feel relaxed in its waves..

She avoided thumbtacks and coffee cups as she made her way out of Bive’s corner of the maze. Meeting Fleshy by pure coincidence due to accidentally bumping into it.

Her vision began to blur and her mind began to cloud. Bubbles escaping her mouth as she continued to sink down into the dark abyss.

Fleshy escorted her out of the maze, babbling random nonsense as it usually did while remaining upbeat and optimistic, not picking up her solemn attitude.

For once she felt at peace, no more running, no more fearing, just peace.. It was a nice feeling. The light around her had began to dim as she sank deeper and deeper.

She waved a polite goodbye to the fleshcousin as she made her way back to the elevator, pressing its button as she waited patiently.

She eventually hit the bottom, the light dim as she laid on the sand-like ground. The aching in her body had stopped. The fire in the chest had been quelled. All that was left was for her to close her weary eyes…

She heard the familiar and welcome ding of the elevator, her floppy ears lifting as she stepped into it. Mark and Wallter were there but paid no attention to her as they argued over wood and concrete. She placed a coin in the elevator’s slot and selected Splitsville. She needed some time to herself for now…

WOWOWOWOWOWOW HOPE I DIDNT MAKE YOU CRINGE BECAUSE I CERTAINLY DID WHILE WRITING THIS

Anyway I hope you enjoyed the Four Part Spive Angst series! I did enjoy writing it for the most part and I’m glad you all like it

ALSO SILLY AXOSUN USERS

Plus my #1 Fan (They get their own section because of how COOL and AWESOME and NICE (evil) AND KIND (mean) THEY ARE!!!!!!

I WILL STILL BE WRITING MAYBE FLUFF MAYBE ANGST MAYBE HURT AND COMFORT IDK YET (A different server is demanding Spive fluff from me) SO KEEP ON THE LOOKOUT FOR THAT RAHHHHHHHH

(I was listening to this while writing someone of this fanfic as well you should too)

#regretevator #regretevator bive #regretevator split #split #bive regretevator #bive #split regretevator #bive x split #split x bive #spive angst #angst #fanfic #angst with a sad ending #regretevator spive #spive regretevator #spive #she regret on my evator

41 notes · View notes

jamisafan · 7 months

Text

I WILL STAY SILENT NO LONGER!!!! I NEED TO SPEAK

(Dragons Rising spoilers beneath the cut)

They are EVERYTHING TO ME!!!!!

I'm afraid that I may need to retire from lava shipping.

But also, the more I see from the creators, the more I feel that this could actually be canon.

It's just- it's so-

This was the very last thing I expected and its beautiful and perfect and AAAAAAAAAA

Look at them!!!!

I have a whole thing about the new episodes but I'll save that for next week.

Also, they are both artists. Cole draws, Geo sculpts/builds. It's perfect!

I've felt like I was high after watching the new episodes, I'm constantly just on a freaking serotonin rush when I think about the show. IT'S KILLING ME!!!!

Also, I like the name lostshipping, Geode it also really good too, if it weren't for the fact that bruise used it as an alternative then I'd be down cause it just makes sense.

#ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #dragons rising #dragons rising spoilers #ninjago geo #ninjago cole #lostshipping

116 notes · View notes

piinkyypriincess · 3 months

Text

SOUR CHERRY

Luke Castellan x OC

"Fuck the God's, angel, your mine."

Main Paring ~ Luke Castellan x Daughter of Oizys!OC

Warnings ~ Depressing themes, failure, anger, and anxiety.

Spoilers ~ A Ton‼️

Masterpost ~ Here.

Beta Read/Edited ~ No (No beta lmao)

Word Count ~ 3.9k

Chp Summary ~ The God's were supposed to be all knowing. They knew everything about anything and their glorious army for children. They chose when they claimed their children, when they felt their offspring had deserved their presence. Oizys claimed Nisha since the day she was born, it was just a matter of when Nisha would embrace being the daughter of miseries.

Chp 2 ~ Failure is Success (Nisha's Version)

Nisha breathed in the Hermes son's scent of sour cherry juice and wished for the smell of fruity nectar to return.

Fists formed at his sides as the God's argued, veins of powder blue and seafoam green straining through his tanned skin. Dark geode eyes were throwing daggers of celestial iron at the ignorant God's, his brows scrunched slightly with anger.

Chiron waited for the last two students of thirty selected. One suspiciously glaring at the Gods still present from the council, the other with trained eyes on the angry boy. Chiron didn't seem to notice Luke's odd behavior; the centaur eavesdropped on the gods speaking in his mother tongue.

“How could you not foresee a travesty as great as this?!” Zeus thundered, veins drawing lines in his dark-skinned neck as he tantrums.

All of Mount Olympus shook. Nisha could smell electrifying ozone, balsamic grapefruit, burnt soil, and dark oil. She resisted covering her mouth to stop a gag, only swallowing with a grimace on her face.

The God of all God's smelt absolutely horrible like nothing Nisha had ever encountered. His wounded pride filled her nose and sent her senses to go haywire. Something in her ear whispered for her to absorb his misery, his frustration; to transform it into sadness and watch Olympus crumble at her feet.

Her heart screamed for the smell of organic cherries, attempting to focus on the main smell of the fruit, instead of the sharp tang of underripe sourness.

The Hermes cabin counselor smelt intoxicating like an exotic drug. It was like his smell was addicting, swirling above her head.

Nisha salivated at Lucas Castellan's smell. She ignored the thoughts of darkness that creeped into her mind. The intrusive thoughts were common, as she is her mother's child. Unlike her mother, she refuses to sit and watch as she causes destruction only to pity herself for it later.

She had to try and overcome the dark cloud looming over her head; she had to avoid the storm that was Zeus.

“Watch them fall,” a masculine voice whispers in her ear. The tone promised success; the smell consisted of spicy bergamot, heady alcohol, fresh ginger, and sweet strawberries.

He smelt like home, he smelt like her, he smelt like her damned mother; he smelt like greatness and failure concocted into a mix of destruction, and Nisha wanted more. The tantalizing smell taunted her, reminding her of both the fresh poison of failure and sweet aroma of success.

Nisha knew it was right there at the tip of her tongue. She'd never done it to a God, but she could; she'd absorb all the distress out of Zeus with one touch and leave him wallowing in ignorant self-pity.

She could watch Olympus burn and achieve the smell of candy factory glazed strawberries right there. He let his guard down enough for her to do it. It would be as easy as Hypnos lulling the man to sleep on Hera's orders.

Nisha blinked the temptation out of her eyes, hyacinth purple swirling out of her focused amber-brown irises. The eighteen year old pressed her thick lips into a thin line and tried to focus on sour cherries; it made her mind woozy. At least it didn't make her vision blur like Zeus’ intense stench.

The daughter of miseries and failures tugs at the sleeve of the son of travelers and thieves.

Luke's obsidian rocks for eyes soften into boba pearls as Nisha tugs at the sleeve of his orange camp shirt once more. Confusion creases at his brow, and a frown tugs at his mouth rather than a venomous scowl.

The man smelled tart, he was sad, he was lost.

Brushing the tips of her finger against his bicep, she decided to try and absorb the adrenaline from his soul instead. Feeding on his anger makes lava burn in her veins instead of blood and fire lick at her skin instead of air. Replacing his anger with even more sadness mutes him temporarily.

Thank the God's that anger didn't fuel her like sadness did. His body alone was comprised of so much of the reddening emotion, she was sure he was close to exploding. His darkness, however, was wavering. She didn't dare touch that.

Zeus gave another holler that made the claimed Hermes boy flinch instead of glare. His strong backbone melted into jelly, and only a shell of Luke Castellan was left. Only the boy in him was present.

Nisha's breath got stuck in her throat as she tried to breathe in tart cherry. It made her soul scream for more, but heart ache simultaneously.

The negative emotions surrounding Olympus, home of the mighty God's, was overwhelming every time she went for the Solstice event. Only just then, the miseries in the God's safe haven threaten to suffocate Nisha into a fit of destruction.

Nisha is not her mother, she will not break down in the hall of Olympus. She will not be the one to make Olympus crash because their miserys give her power.

Power was primitive. What power did she really have? Her tongue could taste strawberries, and she almost hated it.

Glory, power, and greatness; it all tasted overwhelmingly sweet when a residue of the flavor swirled around her taste buds. It would disappoint her if she was not her mothers daughter, born with disappointment embedded into her bones.

Her fingers yanked around the older teens shirt, and her fistful practically ripped the counselors sleeve off.

Dragging him with her to the elevator, she couldn't help as he had to bend at the waist to prevent his shirt from ripping. Nisha couldn't help her rough reaction as panic dug into her skin with the lingering smell of molding strawberries and rancid pine sap.

Her black, calf height, combat boots clicked against the pearlescent marble tile of Olympus; Luke's red, converse, sneakers squeaked pitifully as the girl walked him out like she owned him. Nisha made sure to keep him sated on his own sadness and frustration so that he wouldn't tear her a new one.

He may have smiled softly at the campers and lent a helping hand more times than not, but she didn't forget his scowl of anger. She was sure Lucus Castellan would've struck the God's where they stood if he had the power to do so.

“I can't see everything, Father! It doesn't work that way,” screams Apollo in the distance. He stunk of sun-dried mandarins, rotting currant fruits and stamped out sage. The God's frustration morphed into anger and dimmed her bloodlust in the slightest amount.

Zeus’ despair was just right there, though. He was angry, but his pride took a loss, he was frantic.

“Are you alright?” Lucas Castellan's voice rang out raspy. The pair waited for the elevator to come back up next to Chiron.

Chiron smelled like dark oak wood, sizzling brown sugar, dry rotting leather, and literal horse hair. His disappointment, concern, and frustration made Nisha want to squeal out in delighted anger.

She could have taken all their misery right then. She could have made them all drown in it.

Back at camp, where it wasn't enclosed and there wasn't Godly drama running around, she almost never felt such surges of overwhelming temptation.

Nisha craned her neck up to look up at Luke, who stood a foot taller than her humble five foot one inch height.

The boy was practically pressed against her back dumbly. Nisha assumed it was thanks to her abilities temporarily removing his rage, and apparently sense, from his body. The teen boy's hands clenched at his sides nervously, and eyes were glazed over with a mist of tears.

Lucas Castellan was many things. Publicly emotional was not one.

Nisha ripped her hand off the teens' bicep and shirt, realizing her damage. She allowed his true nature of anger to return.

There was still nothing but tart cherries filling the air around them. She'd made him feel misery, and she felt no better than her mother.

The elevator dinged, then clicked open, “Are you?” Nisha questioned back rhetorically after a moment, her voice monotonous and head swimming with guilt.

Regardless, the boy's red-bitten lips dared to open, a rumble cut him off.

“You!” Zeus screeched. The lights around Olympus flickered, and the windows reflected nothing but stormy rain outside.

“Who?” Luke accidentally blurted out, still recovering from the bipolar loss of anger. Nisha pressed her heart-shaped lips into a line and wished for a God to open up a crater in the ground to swallow her whole.

“Shut up,” Nisha hissed, lacking anger. She stepped her foot outside of the opened elevator at the storm God's attention. Chiron smelt of burnt brown sugar, melted plastic, and burning forest fire.

The centaurs' driven concern put Nisha on edge as she looked up at the Lord of the Sky. The God of God's had an expression as dark as a thundercloud etched onto his dark teak skin. His electrifying blue eyes practically glowed with lightning as he stared at the girl and his centaur half-brother down.

Luke's presence was promptly ignored. It was as if he wasn't worth the God's attention.

“The unclaimed child, come forth,” yelled the storm God from the council table. Mount Olympus began to shake again at his bellows, and Nisha could feel anxiety swell inside her brain.

Nisha inhaled the smell of worried molding cherry and rancid nuts, then held her breath. Zeus needed to blame others for his own incompetence; he was faltering with his strength while she festered with blood-lust.

She almost wanted to watch Olympus burn beneath her feet. That taste of success would've been sweet if she did.

“They are so ignorant,” Thinks the girl, blinking slowly. She looked between Hermes' claimed son and Chiron, the Trainer of Heroes who gave side glances at her.

"But nobody knows," She thinks, leaning back in realization at her situation. Both were looking at her to answer.

A flat expression painted her face darkly; worry washed over by the Hermes cabin counselor and the planner of camp activities. Nisha swore she heard something akin to a pitiful whine being coughed from the back of Luke's throat.

Her nose begs for another whiff of cherry. She defies Zeus and takes a step backward to the teen whose brain finally begins to restart. His eyes are wide, and his anger is ever coursing through his veins.

She hoped dead willows were not present in his scent of mainly fruit. His resentment was powerful, intoxicating. His wrath was forceful, festering. He would fail himself going down a path that made him sour.

“Child!” Zeus screeched, and Apollo took a step away from his father. The sun God's ash blonde blonde locs were pushed back from his face with one hand. The handsome God's tan-brown skin started to lose its gold luster at his Father's screams.

Apollo looked straight at Nisha with his diamond blue orbs observing her face. Gleams of gold started to disappear in them as he soaked up her presence.

She did not need to breathe to know that his smell of sandalwood, unripe mandarin oranges, decaying red currants, and burnt moss had returned. It was probably even stronger than before when Zeus' focus was trained on him.

When anger dims, frustration lingers, after frustration passed, sadness was present.

He must've smelt like greatness to her, the daughter of distress and miseries. Failure made her smell sweet; failure made them smell vulnerable, impressionable, and destroyable.

“Watch them fall,” a man chanted in her ear suddenly, his voice distorted and growing louder as she attempted to contain her breaths. Fresh ginger of death, sweet strawberry of success. Her brow furrowed in annoyance. She assumed it was a manifestation of the darkness around them.

“Who could you be talking to, my lord?” Nisha asked with a lith of condescension to her naturally soft spoken tone. Zeus glared at her audacity, blue eyes of electricity clouding over into a blue-gray whirlwind.

His trimmed black beard was salted with streaks of gray. Nisha wondered when he officially stopped aging, if he was old enough for him to lose his wisdom.

“You, unclaimed Demi-God,” the man angrily hissed. His sleek dress shoes stomped against the perfect marble of the council hall as he bounded closer.

Darkness swirled in Nisha's vision, only visible to her amber orbs and invisible to everyone else. Swirling wisps of shimmering starshine black curled against her shadow and grasped her shoulder tightly.

"I'm very much claimed, so I'm confused,” Nisha replied plainly. Doubt circled the room quickly from every corner.

Zeus had a laugh that boomed and bubbled from the back of his throat. It caused thunder to crack past the window. Crows' feet crunched at the corners of his almond-shaped eyes, and a humorless smile slipped on his face dangerously.

Luke took a step closer to Nisha. He was placed right before where darkness lingered; it was behind her back and swept at her spine. His entire broad body shadowed the literal dark shadow behind her.

Zeus took another step closer, ignoring the concern of the centaur and Hermes' child. “I have allowed you to enter through the doors of Olympus during the Winter Solstice as an unclaimed child ever since you were dropped off here,” He sneered. Nisha knew that, and she shrugged dismissively.

Her head tilted boredly as she listened to the angered God. His anger wouldn't tempt her. His smell couldn't as she kept the smell of odd cherry in her lungs.

Zeus’ hands were clasped behind his back, his frame appeared larger as his muscles bulged from beneath his blue pinstripe suit.

The God's were supposed to know everything. They were glorious and powerful. There was no glory in Zeus' smell like there was in his powerful stance. He was just angry.

Nisha couldn't walk out Olympus without burning it to the ground if she was consumed by their misery; she'd make the God's just plain angry instead.

“I have had speculation of why and how you were brought directly here,” He stated strongly. It was as if he wanted to hear her question his integrity for extra pride points.

Nisha swore she could taste sweet strawberry faintly in her mouth. Zeus’ ignorant thoughts and arrogant conundrum was her success, how fitting for a tragedy like her.

When Nisha was born, she was placed at the edge of the Olympus elevator by someone unknown to, even the all-seeing God's. She was swaddled in blankets of various shades of purple and placed in a black baby carriage. She was found by Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt.

A stygian iron and celestial bronze nameplate with a thin imperial gold chain necklace was found at the foot of the baby carriage. It scorched the hand of Zeus when holding it. Nisha saw the scar that looked like a smoothed over lightning strike burn every year, the God's teak skin scarred a stark white.

The brown skinned girl could've sworn the man had it out for her since then. She couldn't have been more than five months old.

Also, her mere existence caused Hera to lash out in anger. “Zeus practically kneeled to her,” Slurred Mr. D when she asked him how the Olympians brought her to Camp Half-Blood. He was inebriated with a wine she bought on a trip to the human realm mixed with crushed berries he refused to tell her about.

Talk about straight priorities.

The girl could smell rich fermented grapes, buttered focaccia bread, cracked cashews, and sweet honey waft from his skin as he told the girl of her own origin story years ago. She could practically taste Dionysus's pride, his satisfaction, at his Fathers intense frustration and rotting ego from the incident that was her existence.

No God wanted to claim a mystery child; the majority of the God's barely wanted to claim their own known children as it was.

The fact that Nisha was left on the God's doorstep and was turned away was all telling of their character and her fate.

Apollo took a hesitant step closer from the thrones in the council hall, pulling at his long blonde locs with a scrunch between his pale blonde brows. His fingers flexed harshly; beneath his gold-brown skin, his veins strained from the force he pulled his hair at.

“Have you come to spite me, child?” Zeus spat rhetorically at her as she didn't answer him previously. He spoke as if he knew the answer. He appeared almost just as smug as angered, but Zeus knew nothing, at least nothing of her.

A God that was full of himself was no God at all, just a man, practically a mortal.

Nisha shook her head softly. Her black tresses were tied up high on her head and braided down neatly to brush over the small of her back.

“No,” She said plainly, linking her fingers in front of her and circling her thumbs against each other. Her gold-brown irises never strayed from Zeus’ stormy gray-blue glare.

Chiron trotted forward on his four horse legs, “Enough, brother, Nisha is but just a child,” He argued with a disappointed look of dower on his face. The man's strong jaw clenched furiously.

Nisha huffed as the Centaurs hand curled against a shoulder that darkness fluttered around. The girl worried for a second that the dark glowing mist would attempt to harm him, but it didn't. It just disbursed from the area he touched.

Leaning into his warm palm slightly, she could feel the older squeezed the brown skin once, conveying a message of silent support.

Luke continued to remain quiet. His rage almost deadly as he practically hovered over her like a second, technically third skin, as shadows tingled her body.

The daughter of Oizys could sense Luke's frustration flowing into his veins even stronger than before, but did not breathe in. She wanted to see how long she could go without the lust to feed from miseries.

The pure warmth from his bubbling wrath, however, felt like a furnace heated by lava against her back. His body was just an inch from being pressed directly against her.

At least Chiron had the decency to back away from her and step in front of them several paces. However, Chiron didn't get his anger absorbed from his body, she supposed.

Luke was definitely lost somewhere inside his brain.

The shadowy mist that attempted to cloud at her skin started to crawl up her fingertips experimentally. It felt like there was a cat's fluffy tail being brushed over her body.

“What am I being accused of?” The supposedly unclaimed child asked, just to hear the immortal man's theory. Pressing her lips into an unimpressed line, she cocked her hip, almost exhausted.

Zeus thundered, “You, Nisha,” He paused for a cheap attempt at a dramatic effect. Apollo actually stiffened in fear as his eyes surveyed the girls' traditionally feminine features. He heaved a gasp in anticipation.

“Are the the lightning thief,” Zeus boomed, making Chiron scrunch his features up in disbelief. Behind her, Luke heaved a sigh that sounded oddly relieved but frustrated.

Both men were silent; one from disbelief and the other from rage. “And why exactly would it be me?” Nisha attempted not to laugh, picking at the plum colored varnish polished on her long nails.

An angry God was still a God, Nisha played into his hand with the intent of not choking someone on their suffering. They'd always come back, but she would be imprisoned for killing a literal Greek God.

“As my unclaimed child, you come to spite me. Only a child of the The Big Three has capabilities of such a task,” He stated with a confident brevity.

Apollo's jaw dropped in exaggerated disbelief.

Chiron scowled with a frown of frustration at his lips.

Luke pulled her a step away from all three of them, uncharacteristically protective for someone who'd never looked at her before.

“Watch them fall,” the gravely voice hissed in her ear again, and Luke flinched slightly next to her; his dark eyes hardened into obsidian once more. It was as if he heard the hissing as well.

The dark mist, the color of night, shimmered against her skin and wrapped against her hands. Nisha did not need to breathe to smell fresh ginger, sweet strawberries, steamed lavender, and dark chocolate.

“Miseries are unavoidable,” her mother whispered in her head, a gentle reminder from a not-so-gentle woman.

Nisha huffed a deep sigh.

Oizys was a primordial goddess that represented all mental harm within every living being. Her mother was anxiety ridden, depressed, and in retrospect, saddly a better parent than most God's.

Oizys knew who she was. She knew what she was, and she knew she was not going to be a good mother.

Oizys may have been the embodiment of misery, and her child too despite others' neutral opinion on her currently, but there was one thing other than miserable she was.

Powerful.

Either way, Nisha played her hand. She was doomed to fail. She knew that, but she still tried. She tried to deny her mother's claim, but failure was unavoidable.

Nisha didn't like public displays of power, personally. She didn't have power systemically in both the mortal and mythical world, but she certainly more power biologically compared to everyone in the room.

Zeus could make her life a living hell; Nisha could watch the world burn like the mysterious temptation was whispering; or she could do the responsible thing for others. The right thing for others.

Make her own life miserable.

Failure, disappointment, frustration, depression; all part's of misery that was undeniable, expected, unavoidable, and bound to last forever for her. Failure for Zeus would be better than falling, it would be temporary. He would eventually find his lightning thief and prosper.

If he fell and Nisha killed him, then returned as he was immortal, it was a definite that others would try and challenge the power in Olympus.

Nisha may have hated most God's, especially pretentious ignorant ones like Zeus, but she didn't want that fallout on her.

Unlike other Gods sectors and specalties; Oizys was quite literally the cause of tears, sadness, and everything miserable with living things. Nisha's failure would last forever in favor for the world, for the Gods, and somewhat for herself.

Failure was her success.

She would never actually taste sweet strawberry that tasted better than fresh fruit if it were in her hands.

Nisha still decided she would not live up to her mother's name that day. She would not cause misery to others. She would only claim misery as her own. Wear failure with a badge of honor as she tried to deny it before.

"How ironic," She thinks, defeated.

Her mother hums from somewhere within the dark mist, and the darkness around her swirls and shimmers. It attempts to cover and drag her into the dark where she belonged.

"I'm claiming you instead of you claiming me, who would've thought?" Nisha rhetorically questioned internally.

Unfortunate feelings of belonging weigh heavy on her heart as she tilts her head slightly; leaning into her mother's control of the dark mist against her cheek.

This time, the teenage girl really couldn't help but giggle.

Disappointment was always sunk deep into her bones, as expected. The shadows of her mother warmed her skin in the winter cold. Miserable but prideful, feelings erupted on her mother end.

Her sweet strawberries, her mothers fresh ginger; the smell she doesn't breathe in, but it pools on her tongue.

Failure is her success. That was both the mother and daughter's fate. It was time for Nisha to own it.

#luke castellan x fem!poc!oc!#kinda dark luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan #luke castellan x oc #percy jackon and the olympians #the lightning thief #percy jackson #zeus #apollo #oizys

32 notes · View notes