#blending hackle

[pigeonsparty]

Lavender Fields - you would not BELIEVE how soft this is

#crafts #handspun #spinning #wool #yarn #fibre arts #blending fibre #blending hackle #hand dyed

[mostly-mundane-atla]

I know i made a post like this before but my ability to produce yarn at a marketable rate and with professional uniformity inches ever closer. So I ask again, as a sort of market research for a future small business:

Would you guys be interested in Avatar-inspired yarn? If so, would you rather that inspiration come from the show's color palette, fibers with real world association to cultural influences on the worldbuilding, or both?

#note: i'll have an e-spinner before i have a comb and hackle set #so blends might take a bit to be feasible with replicable results

[phoenixyfriend]

Whenever an existing faux product is described as "vegan product" my hackles raise.

It's not vegan leather, it's pleather.

It's not vegan butter, it's margarine.

It's not vegan cashmere, it's acrylic.

It's not vegan fur, it's faux fur. Also probably an acrylic or rayon blend.

It's not vegan silk, it's polyester.

We haven't gotten to calling vegetable shortening "vegan lard" yet, but given the butter situation...

Call a spade a spade and stop greenwashing! Just admit it's plastic! Just admit you've prioritized one kind of animal life over the other! Stop calling it vegan when it's just plastic, you're driving people to destroy the planet with the "more moral" option when it's NOT.

You can enjoy margarine, that's fine, just be up front about it being in the dish so people know what they're eating by a familiar name.

#if you want to be vegan then just don't get leather or fur #don't get the plastic substitute either. just avoid the style #commit or don't but just stop trying to hide your synthetics consumption #plastic #greenwashing #Phoenix Talks #vent post

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

I dont know if you done this already, but what about you logan x fem reader fic, where reader is the little sister of Charles xavier or Eric, and they keep their relationship secret, but then everyone finds out and readers brother gets really protective of her and has a talk with logan trying to scare him off but it doesn't work

.⋆｡Worst Possible Decision｡⋆.

Logan x plus size reader

How could Logan be stupid enough to fall for the little sister of an overprotective metal controlling mutant? As it turns out, very easily.

Warnings: angst, gunshots, burns/fire, fluff, protective!erik, descriptions of pain, reader is german but there’s no further description than vague references WC: 2.7k

A/N: This went a little off of the request but I hope you still like it and I’m sorry for how long it took!

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

She was too much like her brother in a lot of ways, but at the same time, they couldn’t be more different. Where Erik could command any room he walked into, she blended, finding a home in the shadows where she could be hidden. He exuded confidence and a suave attitude that could charm anyone. She was meek, shy but with a power bubbling under the surface that felt like an even bigger threat than any her brother could come up with.

Erik shot first and asked questions later, Y/N wouldn’t ask, she would get all the answers she needed with a single look and then dispose of the trash without so much as a flick of her wrist. While Erik controlled metal, Y/N controlled pain.

Logan met the brother and sister duo long before the mutants were fractured. He noted how beautiful she was, even when he only glanced at her through his peripheral vision. She was curvy, with a belly and plump thighs. He told them to go fuck themselves.

The next time she saw him, she was alone. She seemed lopsided without her brother beside her, incomplete. Logan saw the way her hackles raised when Charles screamed at him to leave, calling him a liar. He saw how she flinched when Erik was mentioned. 

Wolverine knew what happened between them, the rift that hadn’t ever been healed, even after her death in the far future. He was stunned by her beauty then, finally seeing her in the flesh after so many years, alive and well. Logan pulled her to the side as soon as they were alone, embracing her. Y/N tried to push him off but when she felt his pain, the raw burning like his nerves were on fire, she wrapped her soft arms around him, easing him.

“Stay alive.” He told her. “Do whatever you have to, you have to live.” He pleaded before he was pulled back to the future but not without kissing her like it was the last time. He stole her breath away as he poured every ounce of love as he could into her lips. 

When Logan strolled into the Manor many years after that kiss, Y/N stayed away from him. He was so much younger, so much more whole. She could see now the pieces of him that would break away over the years and it hurt her. She knew what was going to happen to him, what had happened to him. But he cornered her eventually.

“You seem to already know who I am.” She shivered when she heard his voice call out to her from the infirmary door. 

“You made a very big impression on the school.” Her accent had long since disappeared, snuffed out by the need to be hidden, to be safe. She didn’t look at him, instead concentrating on cataloguing the new medical supplies that had been delivered the day before.

The mutant huffed, clearly not content with her answer. “You avoid me like the plague while everyone else is indifferent.” Her eyes flicked up to him briefly.

“Maybe I have decided that I already don’t like you. You did threaten to abandon a young mutant on the side of the road.” He scoffed at the mention of Rogue.

“She had it comin’.” He shrugged. “So what is it exactly that you do?” His large body lounged against the one hospital bed in the room. She couldn’t help but glance up at him. He was physically older, slight grey in his sideburns, more lines on his face but his eyes weren’t as sad, the deep brown swirling with emotions he was trying desperately to tamp down but hadn’t learned how yet. 

He was still incredibly handsome though. He walked with a confidence that came from youth, that blind faith in himself and his strength that made him cocky and untouchable. Y/N turned away. “I’m the school’s nurse, I thought that was pretty obvious, given I’m in the infirmary.”

Logan grunted, crossing his thick arms over his chest, holding a beer bottle between two of his fingers. “I was talkin about yer power, bub.” That made her smile, the corner of her lips turning up. She wouldn’t admit it out loud but she missed his attitude. 

“I control pain. It’s useful.” She shrugs off the question with a half answer. She picked up the last of the supplies on the infirmary bed, making a note on her clipboard before putting them away. 

She heard him huff and a silence settled over the room but it was not awkward or uncomfortable, it was just… silence. The beer in his bottle swished as he gulped down the last of the brew. The supply closet’s door swung shut with a creak and she chanced another look at the man.

She couldn’t ignore the way his muscles bulged so she forced herself to turn away. It would do her no good to get involved with him in any capacity, even if her heart screamed for him. Logan took the hint, leaving the infirmary with a grumble and a glance back at her.

It was impossible to completely avoid someone like Logan, even in a school as large as the academy. He seemed to appear in moments when her guard was down, lurking in the corner of her vision like a ghost. His blue eyes locked onto her whenever they would be in the same room, both undressing her and observing her with some morbid fascination.

But no matter how hard she tried, her lips still ached from that kiss all those years ago and her heart burned to know what would become of them in the future.

——————

“You seem awfully close with the professor.” The manor was silent, a much needed reprieve after the long day of classes in Logan’s case and lots of skinned knees in Y/N’s. An ancient record player crooned in the corner of the huge sitting room, bathing its two occupants in pleasant song which was quickly becoming more of a lullaby. The older mutant sat on one end of the couch with his companion lying across the rest, a thick book propped up on her chest and her sock-clad feet dangerously close to his lap.

She let the statement sink in for a moment as Logan took another sip from his glass of bourbon he had pilfered from Charles’s not-so-well hidden stash. “Are you asking me something or just talking out loud?” He rolled his eyes.

“What do you think darlin’?” He snapped but his usual condescending tone was replaced with a sarcastic tilt to his voice. Her lips quirked up and she shut her book, letting it rest on her sternum as she met his gaze.

“Yes, Charles and I are very close. I’m the same way with Hank and Alex, we’ve all been here since the beginning.” She knew her answer was one that was far more simple than he would’ve liked but she wouldn’t give him the full story unless he asked. 

Logan dropped his left hand from where it had been resting upon his chest onto his meaty thigh, the edge of his palm now just grazing the tip of her fuzzy socks. “Are you fucking him?” The question was so unexpected that Y/N choked on her own spit. She shot up as she coughed, tucking her legs beneath her. Too caught up in catching her breath, she missed the way his eyes dulled at the loss of her closeness.

“Scheiße.” The German naturally slipped from her lips and she thumped her chest with a closed fist. “God no! Having a telepath as a friend is bad enough, I could never imagine dating one.” He smirked, letting out a pleased chuff. 

“So…” He prompted. Y/N leaned back into the couch. They now sat side-by-side and Logan was able to study her profile as she eased the drink from his hand, finishing it off in one gulp.

Her face was solemn, haunted by something he couldn’t quite place, even in his many decades of life. She looked as if she were in mourning. “I traded one overprotective brother for another.” 

——————

Logan’s legs ached as he ran, the smoke from the fires that raged around him singed his senses. Flames licked up the sides of the manor as gunshots still echoed across the fields, even if the fighting had already stopped. They had come in the dead of night, guns and torches lighting their way. 

The school had always been a risk, especially being so close to town. But young mutants needed a place to go. It was inevitable that those who hated them would try to run them out, they all thought they had more time.

It was her voice that pulled Logan from his retreat. Laced with tears, she was comforting one of the older students as he nursed a severe burn to his arm. They were laid out in the grass which was still damp from the early morning dew. Y/N cupped his face with glowing hands and Logan could clearly see the pain that rippled through her.

More students gathered around them, each with an injury of their own, each begging for some kind of relief. Exhaustion painted her face as her body wound tight with agony. The ground shook as Logan dropped to his knees next to her. 

“Give me their pain.” She was withering away right before his eyes, driven only by a need to protect, to give the children comfort in the only way she knew how. She shook her head and instead moved to a girl who was no older than 13. A flesh wound cut across her leg, the edges of the wound burned with residual gunpowder. 

A sob escaped Y/N’s lips as she took the girl’s pain and Logan watched as the woman began to wither away. She was killing herself. 

“Give me their fucking pain.” He yanked her hands away from the girl and laid them on his broad chest. She thrashed in his hold in an attempt to pull away but he wouldn’t budge.

Her eyes met his and she froze. This was the moment that he had warned her about so many years before, a premonition that he would never remember. But to give her pain, her gift, to someone else, she couldn’t even fathom it. “Please.” He begged, squeezing her hands in his own. She was weakening, she doubted she could stop him even if she tried.

Logan felt like he was burning alive as gunshots ripped through his arms and legs. And yet he smiled at her and in that moment, something shifted between them. “That’s it doll face.” Heat rushed to her cheeks and it wasn’t because of the fire that still blazed behind them. 

——————

The sounds of power tools and hammers were almost constant nowadays as the mutants worked together to rebuild the crumbling school. Y/N strolled happily through the halls, the walls still blackened from the fire. The students were gone, taken home by their families or sent to safe houses around the country, leaving only a few teachers who wanted to lend a hand. 

“They’re working quite quickly.” Charles noted from his place where the greenhouse used to sit. A handful of people, including Logan, Hank, Alex and Rogue among others were steadily building a large room across the way- a brand new library.

Y/N chuckled as she handed him a cup of lemonade. “They have a goal to achieve. This school is important to all of us.” He grinned slyly at his long time friend. 

“I’m sure one of them has another motivation for working so hard.” His blue eyes flicked to the love bite that peaked from her collar. 

“Shut up.” She muttered with a kick to his wheelchair, Charles laughed under his breath as she walked away to the man responsible for her tender steps and slight limp. As much as Charles loved to tease, he loved even more that she was smiling again and the pain that always seemed to radiate from her mind was now a dull ache that was easily chased away by the touch of her lover. 

As soon as she was near enough, Logan abandoned his work, his full attention turned to her. Her laugh carried through the summer breeze like a bird song as he wrapped her up in his arms, lathering her face in kisses. The others rolled their eyes and continued their work as the couple embraced.

“I see my absence was not missed.” Erik’s cool tone froze Charles’s blood. 

Rage rolled off the mutant in waves as he glared at the man who was all over his precious sister. His knuckles turned pale and Charles could almost hear the way his muscles tensed. “Erik, what a surprise. I thought you were still on the run.” He looked up at his old friend though he almost didn’t recognise him. His eyes were so much older, his soul so much darker but yet, it was still him. 

Y/N had yet to notice her brother, too wrapped up in the arms of her lover but as she pressed another kiss to his cheek, Erik’s anger mounted. He knew what Logan was, knew exactly what pain he was capable of inflicting. “How long?” He growled.

“A couple months though I suspect that Logan had been pining for her since the moment he met her.” Perhaps it was optimistic of Charles to divulge details of their relationship to Erik, but he was a romantic at heart. “Logan saved her life, Erik.” 

Her laughter did nothing to ease the furrow in his brow but the way that Logan grabbed at her ample backside absolutely did something. 

“Logan?” Y/N asked curiously as the man in her arms suddenly froze and his eyes widened almost comically. “Are you ok?” She cupped his cheek and pain unlike anything she had ever imagined rocketed through her veins. Her bones felt like they were twisting in upon themselves, severing nerves and destroying her body from the inside out. She could feel Logan’s flesh move unnaturally as she pulled him closer to her.

“Logan!” Her hands pressed harder into his jaw in an attempt to steal the violent sensation from him but still, his chest echoed with his suffering.

“Erik enough!” Her head whipped around, as did the attentions of all the other mutants gathered around. The fury in his eyes was like nothing she had seen before, as if he was looking at a roach he had crushed under his boot. His knuckles paled with the force of his power. 

A howl of pain escaped Logan’s lips, finally breaking Y/N from her trance. “Release him or I’ll fucking break you.” She snarled and for just a moment, Erik faltered. 

His hold wavered briefly but it was enough for Charles to grab his wrist and completely break his focus. “This is beyond childish.” He scolded as Y/N pulled her partner behind her but her deadly glare remained firmly on her brother. Erik didn’t bother to respond, instead his shoulders dropped in surrender and Logan collapsed, the pain finally dissipating.

There was a flurry of movement as she fell to her knees and the others rushed to make sure they were alright. “She’s happy, she’s safe. Leave it alone.” But Erik ignored his friend. His Y/N was gone and perhaps she had been for years. This woman that threatened him when he hurt a boy, as he had done dozens of times in the past with no fight from her, was not the girl he grew up with.

She stood up straight all on her own. She didn’t need Erik to balance her nor Logan to push her up, perhaps that’s why her brother slipped out in the dead of night, leaving behind the one thing that kept him tethered to his humanity. Y/N would awaken the next morning in the protective hold of the man she loved and find a single coin, rusted with age and stained with dried blood on her nightstand. She knew that she would not hear from him again, Erik was dead, only Magneto remained.

The worst decision indeed.

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[when-pigsfly]

WITCHING HOUR, CH. 1/3 — [18+]

(18+) - MARKED FOR EVENTUAL SMUT, MINORS DNI!

fem!reader x arthur morgan

summary: most people in the area had issues with coyotes. yours wore a cowboy hat, but you let him in anyways. tags: marked 18+ for smut in later chapters, reader has a backstory kinda (but also not kinda), referred to as lady/ma’am/etc, arthur doesn’t know how chickens work, i really don’t know my farm lore

word count: 5.5k

a/n: setting this pre-chapter 2 ish and post chapter 1, except it’s winter for realsies, Because I Can. and please no questions about chicken logistics or I Will Cry.

you can find a link to the playlist here!

The fictitious “stranger,” by all accounts, was possessed. 

Possessed by an air so overwhelming, so sure, that it incited perversity in even the most upright.

He was an outlaw, by the cut of the whispers. The story went that he’d rolled in like a heavy fog, altogether quiet and unassuming, though still carrying the foreboding quality that preceded the raising of hackles. Mothers kept watchful eyes over their daughters, and more notably, the fathers brandished their guns. 

And yet—that maddening yet—the mothers seemed to care little for their own warnings, and even the fathers were envious of a man dripping with exploits they didn’t have the luxury of entertaining.

Luxuries and lack thereof aside, the fickleness of those who spoke of him had not gone entirely unnoticed; it lent no plausibility, no substance to the dream-like tales they’d crafted in their drunken stupors. The most substance you’d seen had been spewed into the shadowy corners of Valentine, pissed into not-quite pristine patches of snow, foul stench leaking out onto already foul streets before it followed you back to the farm.

It stunk. 

It stunk, and it loitered, and it’d been stealing from you.

Which is exactly why—when he shows up on your rickety porch just as winter has begun to bleed out into spring—you take up the mantle of digging your loaded barrel right into his sternum. 

—

The front door tremors behind you.

The stranger shifts on his feet. 

You shift with him, and gloved hands inch toward the stars in surrender not long after. 

Amorphous mass comes to your mind first, rather than man. You can only discern the more essential points of his appearance: the gloves, the satchel, the rifle slung over his back. Knives are stashed somewhere you can’t see—if he’s worth his salt—but everything else blends into the dark line of trees behind him. You swallow a rather painful yawn.

His hat, evidently beaten to hell and back several times over, sits low enough on his forehead to cast shadows over his features—though not low enough to completely obscure the faint outline of a face from your view. The rest of him only falls into place once you crane your head to find his eyes. 

As is customary in situations concerning your immediate safety, your throat constricts, and the second yawn you feel crawling up your throat nearly succeeds in asphyxiating you. 

Petty crimes would have granted him a slighter frame, but no petty crime you can think of could have afforded him the sturdy chest, the buckling of the air around him, the crooked line of his nose, clearly less cared for than his battered clothing. He’s still a little blurred—largely from a lack of sleep on your end, and the protection of his hat on his. Even so, the hard set of his gaze offers nothing other than the tale of cruelty lived and the promise of cruelty to come. 

There was no doubt. This had to be him.

(You might think him handsome, if not for the fact that it’s a quarter past three in the morning.)

The first breach in his stony composure that you catch is paper thin. Fleeting. And he’s quick to recover; any indication of surprise is sequestered with a blink. The second is an awkward shifting of his stubble-shrouded jaw, and you note with a squint that his bandana still hangs feebly off the jut of his chin. 

He admits defeat after a few clumsy seconds. Cracks a wicked smile, bright as the moon peeking out from behind the crown of his hat. But it falls away quickly. Somewhere in the distance a tree branch creaks, tiny shards of ice scattering to the ground and tinkling like bells.

He was calm. Entirely too calm, considering where he stood. His hands haven’t budged, and nothing in his stance hints at an intent to attack. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he looks more annoyed by your presence than you are by his. 

You try not to think about his eyes. There’s something else in there, too. Apart from the agitation that radiates from them, that is. It lurks deep beneath the blue and wades through the slight dilation of his pupils; it urges him closer—or, is it you?—like the distance between the two of you isn’t sustained by the twitchy arms of a jittery woman holding a rifle.

But there’s an abrupt wind that fiddles with the cotton threads of your chemise, and you’re suddenly struck with the realization that no, your hunting rifle isn’t loaded, and in your haste to confront him you’d forgotten your boots and shawl. 

The nighttime chill, ever the tyrant, lodges itself where the wooden boards scratch eagerly at your bare feet. You were cold, so cold that it ached, and you were tired. But it’d do you no good to show your hand this early. So like the hiss of a rattlesnake, you keep your voice low, and you keep it lethal. 

The stranger is named by the venom falling from your tongue.

“You’ve got ten seconds to convince me not to unload this lead into your chest, Morgan.” You track the added prod of the gun to ground yourself, eyelids still heavy with sleep.

It doesn’t do much, as far as threats go. Morgan’s ever steady breathing still accents the now stagnant winter wind, a stark contrast to the throb of your heart striking your ribs. But a small scar, carved into the flesh of his right cheek, has made an almost imperceptible shift. The rest of his features take far more liberties with their movement—

—and he’s scowling.

Your heart strikes louder.

God, the shit you would shovel to be able to read minds. Animals have always been more your speed; people were a hassle—far too unpredictable, and they tended to reap fewer rewards. 

In your mind's eye, Arthur lies silently amongst the fallen snow, red unfurling behind him like wings. You’d hate to have to kill him, you really would. But there was nothing more dangerous than indecisiveness: it killed, and often relentlessly.

Only, you’ve been staring too long. It’s long enough to rouse Morgan from whatever state he’d been in before you’d spoken. He’s smart enough to keep his palms facing you, and he dips his head with the same mildness that one might use to soothe a startled mare. The scowl is tamped down, smile returning to him like water running through a scraggly creek. 

“Evenin’, Miss.” He drawls.

And it works. You hate that it works. There’s a dull heat that seizes your lungs at the low timbre of his voice, something akin to fire. 

No. No, nothing like it. It was more like the cheap whiskey you’d downed that first night working as a farmhand, all those months ago. It’d numbed your tongue, tumbled down your throat like sun-warmed stone, and simmered in your stomach. You hadn’t dared take another swig after that. Too dangerous. But it’s easy enough, passing your shudder off as a trick of the cold and cocking your head incredulously. 

“Showing up uninvited, and you can’t do me the courtesy of knowing my name?” One push of the rifle sends him back with surprising ease—away from the cabin, and away from that damned moonlight. “Ma’am will do you just fine,” you spit.

His smile fractures. Not enough to truly frighten, but enough to make your fingers clench. “You talk to all your guests like that, Ma’am?” 

You steel yourself. “Only the sneaks.”

At this, Morgan stills. Shuts his eyes. 

Did he really think you wouldn’t notice?

The farm had more issues with coyotes than crooks; that’s what you’d been hired to take care of, more or less. Your employers—the Campbells—were getting on in their years, and were in desperate need of someone to help keep watch during the nights. So imagine the surprise when you’d found not a coyote, but a wanted man sliding through the shadows. 

It’d angered you, that first time he’d gotten away. You’d only recognized him long after he’d left. But after that night, you’d made a show of firing off rounds into the nearby woods and roaming the perimeter of the grounds under the guise of a late-night hunt. 

From what you knew, he hadn’t come back to steal, but you knew you’d seen him lingering. Felt him watching. Waiting for something—but you’d made sure that every pop of your rifle drove him further and further from whatever it was that he’d been aiming for. And now Arthur Morgan is here.

He furrows his eyebrows, purses his lips, and they disappear for a moment when he goes to wet them before he speaks again, a little less amused. “Now you know I mean no offense—”

“No offense? Well, I’d kill to see what you and your ilk consider offensive.” 

The wind slams the front door shut. 

“My ilk?”

You wonder if it’d been your goal all along, trying to rile him up like this. Accusations slide out of your mouth and into the night air far too easily for it not to be. But the thought of anything other than catching him red-handed occupying your head unnerves you, sending you another two steps forward and into the powdery snow.

“Jesus, woman! Alright, alright.” Morgan’s eyes finally leave you, darting between where your feet dig into the cold ground and the muzzle of the gun pressed to his chest. He slumps his shoulders and looks up to the sky, still an ugly grey-black from the thin dusting of snow the night before. 

“Look,” he starts, hands fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I don’t mean no harm. I swear it. I’m—just give me a minute to explain, will you? One minute, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

There’s a please somewhere in there, left unsaid yet still ever so loud. You think it might have left him in the puff of breath that still hangs above your heads; hot and heavy in his mouth, but turned to nothing but vapors once it misses its chance to solidify.

You eye him warily. This could be over and done with in a matter of seconds, and you might be able to knock that godawful mustache clean off of Sheriff Malloy’s face. You kill him—or turn him in so long as he didn’t bleed out, whichever came first—and get whatever bounty was nailed to his head. Use the money to get out. Get your freedom. Stop biding your time, and get revenge. 

And yet.

And yet.

“…You lying to me, Morgan?”

His shoulders straighten out, suddenly very tense. “‘Course not. You think me the lyin’ sort?”

Your voice flattens. “I figured that much was obvious.”

“Ouch, lady. Not willing to pull your punches for little old me?”

“You’d rather the lady use the gun?”

“Neither, thank you. And, speaking of which–” His chest deflates a bit, putting space between the two of you without having to step back. “—quit swingin’ that thing around. You’ll take someone’s eye out.”

Exhaustion mounting, you lower your rifle slowly. You keep your eyes trained on a pebble that’s escaped the snowfall relatively unscathed, not trusting yourself to look anywhere else. Conceding with a sniff, you toss your head toward the front door. It’s quiet, now. 

“Get in, before I change my mind—and no funny business, neither. Guns, knives, whatever else you’re hiding, drop ‘em. Right here.”

Too groggy to note the stalling of movement, you wait for the clinking of metal to stop. His boots retreat from your peripheral far more reluctantly than you expect. There’s a telltale groaning of wood, and you turn to find Morgan gazing down at you with an outstretched hand from where he’s hopped onto the porch. He murmurs with a reverence that you’re sure is misplaced, so quiet that you have to watch his lips to catch even a smidgen of what he says. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

This was a game to him. You knew games. And so when you go to place your hand in his it’s to eye him down, back him into whatever corner would hold him and keep him there till you knew why he’d spent the last month haunting your lodgings like a ghost.

Calloused fingers wrap around your hand like a vice, and when he’s guiding you and your icy feet up the stairs it strikes you that maybe—just maybe—your assessment of your situation had been far too impetuous. Arthur’s touch is surprisingly clinical, but even through the leather of his gloves, it was warm. Too warm. 

Ghosts weren’t warm. Or, at least you didn’t think they were. And Morgan, looking like the very paragon of the West, all bright eyes and honeyed words, had given you a glimpse of something far too beguiling not to investigate. It’s when he presses the back of his free hand to your wind-bitten cheeks that you wonder what your father might think.

“Chilled, right to the bone.” It isn’t so much a mutter as it is a rumble, reverberating somewhere deep in his throat and traveling up to where the two of you have made contact. You’re avoiding his eyes again, but you’re close enough now to be able to see his muscles working his neck. 

His smell overtakes you much like the cold has. The freshness of the pine needles still stuck to his coat makes up most of what you’re able to distinguish. A little bit of horse, too—he’d ridden here. Where exactly he’d hitched his horse was a mystery. But with the proximity of his sleeve to your nose, you can make out the faintest hints of a potent musk. It’s everywhere: in your nose, your mouth, under your skin. Every inhale turns your muscles into piteous liquid. There’s no hiding your shudder, this time.

Morgan suddenly yanks his hand back as if scorched, and schools whatever expression he’d been wearing prior into one of indifference. He hums. Frowns. 

“Let’s…uh, get you inside.”

You offer a tight nod and turn away, but Morgan is quick to the draw; he whispers a quick “pardon me,” and goes to retrieve the weapons he’d dropped in your stead. 

Oh. You’d forgotten. It seems he’d forgotten too, brushing the mixture of dirt and snow away and mumbling something about keeping his guns warm. You’re left standing dazed on the porch, skin still blistering from where his fingers had met your skin.

Morgan has the decency to look at least a little troubled when he returns. He places what he’s collected into your arms before opening the front door, and gestures for you to enter. You offer one last look to the moon before following him inside.

__

Your judgment on Morgan—Arthur, now—was still up for debate. But your punishment for rushing to catch him had been doled out almost immediately. 

For your feet, a numbness that the fireplace had been bullied into chipping away at. Your hands are still tight from the cold, and they sit tucked underneath your thighs with the added protection of a few blankets that’d been placed over your shoulders. Your eyes flick over from the fire to Arthur, and your chest tightens. 

He’s found his seat across from you: coat and satchel on the back of a chair he’s pulled from the dining table, big hands tapping away absentmindedly at his knees. With the coat set aside, there’s nothing to hide the first few buttons of his shirt that hang open, pitch black and rolled up to his forearms to account for the warmth of the fireplace. His hat remains, hair still tucked away and settled at the nape of his neck.

You’d both been sitting in silence for the last half hour, despite Arthur’s insistence on “one minute,” letting the cold of the outdoors thaw out before saying anything that might get the rifle pulled again. You did gain a bit of satisfaction at the slight tinge of red in Arthur’s ears; it seemed the cold had gotten to him, too.

You watch as his eyes wander over the furnishings of your cabin. Thankfully, the door to your bedroom is only slightly ajar, and the knot in your chest lessens. It wasn’t often (or ever) that you had visitors over, which meant that most of your things were tucked haphazardly into corners or set on kitchen counters.

The Campbells—generous as they already were—had insisted you take up residence in a cabin on their property that once belonged to a daughter of theirs. She’d long since moved out, but the light in their eyes at the thought of it being occupied again was undeniable. It wasn’t much, but it was yours. And Arthur was seeing all of it.  

“Don’t get too comfy.” You frown. “…Arthur.” He beams, and suddenly there’s something incredibly interesting lingering right by your foot. 

His name still feels foreign when it leaves you. At first, you’d taken it as a show of good faith; he’d sworn to keep his mud-caked boots off of your rug in exchange for keeping his feet from becoming bullet-ridden by the time the sun came up. Arthur, feeling like he’d gotten the shitty end of the stick, had joked that you may as well call him by his first name. The last person with the guts to threaten him with a shotgun had, so what was one more?

It was a weak threat, if one at all. You knew, and he knew, that you were just about the only person this side of the Grizzlies who was vaguely aware of who he was. You’d seen it in his face when you’d called him by name. It’d be an insult to call it fear; an expectation of an inconvenience would be more accurate.

Luckily for him, you didn’t care. Not right now, at least. Imposing as he was, you refused to be cowed into going along with whatever it was that he'd planned. 

Your heel messes with the leg of your chair. “Don’t you go forgetting why I brought you here in the first place.”

“Not quite sure if I’d use that wording—“

“Can it, Morgan.”

His jaw clicks shut this time, but he’s still got that goofy grin smeared onto his face when you chance a peek at him. You’ll let it slide, for now. You’ve stalled long enough.

“So. My eggs. You gonna tell me, or do I need to start pulling teeth?”

“No need,” Arthur assures, “shouldn’t be stickin’ your pretty little fingers in just anybody’s mouth, Ma’am.”

An outlaw and a flirt, to boot. Wonderful. You’re wondering how long it might take to chuck the nearest inanimate object at him when he pipes up again.

“You piss in somebody’s cigarette box, lady?”

“Did I piss—Morgan, quit it!”

This seems to reign him in a bit, and his smile dips.

“I’ll be frank, since you asked so kindly.” Arthur leans back in his chair, flexes his palms. “You had people tailin’ you.” 

You quirk a brow. Ah, that’s right. He didn’t know, couldn’t have. But just as you attempt to explain, Arthur holds out a hand to stop you and shakes his head.

“Killers.”

The hand fussing with the material of your blanket falters.

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Hired guns, Ma’am. Out for you. You’re real…fortunate, I’d been passing by when I was.” A rueful look clouds his face. “Not much to hire once I was through with ‘em, though.”

The quiet that follows isn’t entirely unfamiliar. He’s an outlaw, you muse. Things like this are to be expected. But it doesn’t occur to you to ask who they were, what they looked like, what they wanted. Because Arthur didn’t know, didn’t need to know, and you aren’t sure if you want him here when you wrap your mind around the sobering fact that your long-held suspicions now bear fruit. So, you settle for the obvious.

“You kill ‘em?”

His jaw twitches. “Nothin’ gets past you, Ma’am.”

“...‘Suppose I should be thanking you, then.”

“Got my thanks when I checked their pockets.”

“But—”

Arthur gives a grunt of protest. 

Jackass.

Though your concerns about theft were long gone, it doesn’t seem like he wants to talk about this any more than you do, so you do your best to set the conversation back on track.

“Well, uh…the eggs, then?”

The tension in his jaw lessens. Arthur unfurls a long leg, digs the heel of his boot out in front of him, and rocks his foot back and forth.

“You know these winters. I can tell you do—despite all the…” he trails off, nods the brim of his hat toward your newly cultivated relationship with the fireplace, and you flush. “So, I uh, started out sneaking a few off, along with some other things for my people back at camp. Snagged some extra rations. Kept an eye on you. Two birds, one stone.” 

“So it wasn’t just the eggs you’d been stealing, then?”

“It’d behoove me to tell the truth and shame the devil, Ma’am. Not that he and I are unacquainted.”

So that was a yes. 

The part about “keeping an eye” on you is tacked on rather reluctantly, but at the mention of camp, your brows raise. It was true, then. The tales you’d heard during your trips to Valentine, the new faces you’d noticed in corners and back alleys, they were all real.

There was a time when you thought you might be able to find your place sleeping under the stars, free to do as you wished and go where you pleased, so long as the law kept their greasy mitts to themselves. But circumstances had seen to it that your dream went unfulfilled. 

You muster up what you hope is a sympathetic smile, and Arthur takes it stiffly.

Even so, something else with his phrasing catches your attention.

“Hold on now, you said ‘started.’ There something else you’re not telling me?”

A hand, previously settled on his knee, finds its way to the back of his neck and rubs. 

“Uh, y’see,” he starts, looking damn near ready to wring his own neck, and you have to laugh, because what on God’s green earth could have Arthur Morgan this bothered? But instead of finishing his sentence, he turns his gaze toward the small sliver of moonlight coming in through the curtains and poses a question:

“You know anything about chickens?”

You blink.

“Arthur Morgan,” your eyes shut, and your mouth hangs open. “I work on a farm.“

“That you do.”

“And you’re asking me if I know about chickens?”

“That I am.”

He’s looking mighty sheepish; his hands return to their places on his knees and begin to tap again, with the added scrunch of a nose. You stifle a snort and oblige him.

“Yes, I’m well versed in chickens. Now tell me what the hell is up.”

And tell he did. Turns out, one of the eggs he’d snatched had somehow been fertilized, and hatched. Arthur, of all people, had been far too mortified to go and ask one of his own for help, so he’d spent the last two months slinking around to find out if his luck might earn him another to keep the one he already had some company. 

He’d named it and everything, so eating it (Marlene, he corrects gruffly) was completely off the table. By the time he’s finished his story, you’ve spent an exorbitant amount of energy fighting off several fits of laughter, and you’re fighting off your ninth when Arthur interrupts.

He leans forward, as if to confirm something, then settles himself back into his chair once he finds what he’s looking for. “You ain’t from around here, are you.” It’s a statement when it leaves Arthur’s mouth, not a question.

Observant. Observant, and deflective.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you pocket the uneasy feeling in your chest for later.

“Long story,” you offer. And a difficult one, at that. It wasn’t one you liked to revisit.

Arthur replies almost instantly. “Shoot.” For a moment his face pinches, like he’s dropped his last cent down a splinter-ridden nook he can’t reach. He deliberates, for a bit. But the money is long gone now. “Got a full audience right here,” he continues, a tad slower. “I’ve got…time. Why the hell not?”

There’s no smile, but there’s a genuine curiosity that creeps into his voice. It wafts over the crackling of the fire, blows fresh wind underneath wings long forgotten. 

This wasn’t good. Not one bit.

You cast a skeptical glance toward the bottle of whiskey on the table. It’d been set out on instinct when you’d let him in, a habit formed from a time long gone. Would Arthur want some, maybe? He seemed like the type. And you weren’t too pissed about the eggs now, anyways. So you wrap a blanket around yourself, stand, and turn to the cupboards to find a glass. But something stops you from making it over, and you instead choose to wrap a hand around the bottle and offer it to him.

If Arthur is as confused as you are, he doesn’t show it. He mutters a word of thanks as he takes the proffered bottle. But you don’t miss the way his eyes rake over your bare legs like hot coals. Or the slight twitch of his fingers—now free of their gloves—at the light brushing of your hand over his as you pass the bottle to him. 

You follow the bobbing of his throat for what feels like a lifetime as he takes down gulp after gulp. Amber liquid slips from the corner of his mouth; it catches the firelight on its trek down, and steals your air along with it when Arthur moves to wipe it away with the back of his hand.

It startles you, how quickly you’ve become accustomed to cataloging his movements. You’ve met him before, you’re almost certain of it now. If not in the fields here, then maybe somewhere in Valentine, or the woods. But somewhere. He felt too familiar to be new, too invigorating. A part of you wants to pinch yourself for giving in so easily. Maybe…maybe the folks in town had been right? Maybe Arthur Morgan was possessed? It was either that, or you were an idiot. You sincerely hoped it was the former.

The sound of the glass bottle hitting the table is what snaps you out of your trance. Blinking rapidly, you chance a peek at his eyes again, only to find them peeking right back. You do your best not to turn away. That thing you’d seen lurking out on the front porch is still there, submerged in the depths of his pupils. Still waiting.

You pull the top off of the bottle, take a quick swig, and return to your chair with an inhale and newfound resolve in tow.

Blabbering seems to come unfortunately easy with Arthur. He sits, silent and attentive throughout the entire retelling—save for the occasional grunt of approval, disapproval, whichever was appropriate. You tell him of your mother, young and hungry, and how she’d made herself available to the highest bidder—your father. Some wealthy businessman from God knows where. Twenty years your mother’s senior, it’d been no secret what exactly he’d gotten out of their short-lived union: a wild young thing to look after his progeny and keep his bed warm.

He was nice enough, for a time. Or at least nice enough for your mother to be able to tolerate. But something had sent her fleeing from that big, big house. She’d kept you in her arms and her heart till you’d found somewhat of a safe haven in the Grizzly Mountains.

“Safe” had been a bit of a stretch, though. Anyone with half a brain knew exactly what the Grizzlies were like. Arthur agreed. But your mother had been raised there, just as you would be, if only for a little while. You’re only able to remember a short split of time—just before your mother passed, and before your father had come to take you away from her. 

By then your mother had already taught you most of what you’d needed to survive: reading, writing, hunting, flattery, the works. The only thing she’d left out was how to survive without her. 

Your father had come to find you only a few days after, bearing news of his intentions to turn you into a “proper lady.” He made no mention of your mother or where she’d been buried. 

Polite society hadn’t taken too kindly to a daughter hailing from unsavory origins, and it was safe to say that you hadn’t taken too kindly to polite society either. So, you’d spent the last decade or so making your father’s life a living hell and warding off any potential suitors.

But it became clear stunt after outrageous stunt that he had no intention of cutting ties. Rather than cutting you off, he’d settled for the next best thing: manual labor. Your father was old friends (though “friends” was a bit dubious) with the Campbells, and deemed it an appropriate enough punishment for your wrongdoings. He’d relied on your aptitude for hunting to pawn you off on them, and with the help of some expertly feigned resistance, you’d gotten him to plant you exactly where you’d wanted to be. 

Away, and alone.

“Threw a wrench in my plans, but…life here has been peaceful, I reckon.” You pick at the beds of your fingernails, head bowed. 

Peaceful. 

Peaceful and quiet, save for the occasional moo. 

Though, now that you thought about it, you’d have to tally it up to several wrenches if you counted the hitmen. But you could open that barrel of horse shit later.

The creaking of wood alerts you to a shift in Arthur’s positioning, and his voice barrels down at you from the ceiling; he must be looking up. 

“You don’t seem all too ‘at peace,’ if you ask me.”

“I ain’t ask you.”

“Tuh.”

The two of you fall into yet another bubble of silence. It’s comfortable enough, though still laced with the slightest bit of awkwardness. 

You couldn’t get a read on Arthur. Just about every decision he’d made tonight—or told you he’d made—had been a contradiction. It didn’t make a lick of sense. But now that you’ve had more time to ruminate, it didn’t seem like it made much sense to him, either. His body language divulges as much. 

The quiet agitates you, now. Itches. You need to know more. Understand more. But you can’t do that without retracting your fangs and reigning in your apprehension. Finger beds picked raw, you test the waters.

“Not at peace, hm?” You mutter. “…How you figure?”

You hear him shrug. “Dunno.”

Silence.

You wait for him to continue, but it’s not until you look up at him that you realize he’s been waiting for you to look back. Arthur’s voice cuts through the silence once you can meet his eyes without squirming.

“Met enough people to know who’s livin’, and who ain’t.” He crosses an ankle over his knee, and gives an exhale when he puts his hands behind his head. “I’m in no place to be dealing out life advice, but you seem awfully dead, Miss.” 

“Ma’am,” you correct. 

Arthur makes a face, and you bark out a laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. Some stranger he was, telling you off like this.

Your eyes crinkle, smile working its way from the inside out. “Takes one to know one, I assume?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah. Yeah, somethin’ like that, I suppose.”

More silence. 

“Do you think—”

“I ought to be heading out, now.” The dream is cut short. Arthur is standing suddenly, intercepting before you have the chance to say something incredibly, incredibly stupid. He tugs on his coat, fingers closing the buttons with frightening efficiency before he gathers up his gun and whatever else he’s brought with him and heads for the door.  

You're scrambling up out of your chair before your brain has a chance to process.“Arthur,” you say, half to him and half to the floor, “Arthur, wait a damn minute!” 

The spurs on his boots cease in their clinking. He’s got one hand wrapped around the doorknob, squeaky and now half-turned.

“…Got business to take care of.”

“At three in the morning?”

He glances at the small pocket watch you’d left open on the table. “Half past four, actually.”

“Didn’t realize you could tell time.”

He hums.

And Arthur stares at you for a moment, unabashedly. It’s unreadable at first. But then scars are shifting, and he’s leveling you with a look so bitter that it nearly has you reaching for your rifle again.

“Goodbye, Ma’am.” Arthur waves a noncommittal hand at your feet as he turns the knob. “And…go and see about those feet of yours, will you?”

He sweeps out the door.

He’s left it open.

It’s only after the faint sound of hoofbeats is nothing more than a whisper that you realize he isn’t in the cabin anymore. But somewhere between the shutting of the door and the hanging of your rifle, the faint impression of his parting words is pressed into your palm.

You look down, a bright sting and the sight of red specks on the floorboards making themselves known rather insistently. 

“Oh.”

—

next chapter >>

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #ao3 #archive of our own #fanfiction #I literally put off two essays to write this #plz be kind this wasn’t supposed to be this long #witching hour

[arealphrooblem]

A Good Roommate Is Hard To Find Part 2

I was blown away by the response to something I banged out without much thought.! I've received several asks about continuing this so here is part two! Thank you everyone!

Synopsis: Civilian has harbored a secret crush on his roommate for a long time, only to find out that said roommate is the newest villain on the scene during a robbery at his job.

Part one here

CW: named characters (juggling two unnamed male characters pronoun wise was just a huge headache)

“Salt?”

Ben stared at his roommate from across their tiny kitchen table. Two bowls of soup lay before each of them, accompanied by folded napkins and spoons and glasses of water. The formality instantly raised his hackles. Whatever happened to eating on the couch while they watched stupid youtube prank videos?

Fear and anger twisted and blended into each other until he didn’t know what was responsible for the maelstrom in his chest that the hot shower did nothing to calm down.

“How long?” he said instead.

It was the question that plagued him the most. Did this start before they met? Had Ben lived with a stranger in a mask this whole time? Or did it start later? Did something horrible happen to make Adam desperate enough to try villainy and could Ben have prevented it?

“How long has salt been around?” Adam asked blithely. “I don’t know. Probably at least a thousand years or more. Did the Romans use salt? You’re the history nerd, not me.”

“Don’t mock me,” Ben snapped. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Do you really want to know?”

What fucking kind of question was that? But Adam tilted his head to the side, the look in his eyes deadly serious.

“Because if I tell you,” he continued, “that could implicate you. Once you know, you can’t un-know. And Heroes have ways of making you talk. There’s no way they’d believe you didn’t help me all this time.”

So consumed with the fear of Adam himself, Ben never thought to be concerned with anyone else. Now a new fear dug its roots into him.

“There’s no way they’d believe it now,” he said, heart thudding again.

“They would if you were genuinely clueless.”

Or if I turned you in Ben thought. That was the other thought that had plagued him the last few days.

Now that he knew, what was he supposed to do about it?

“But I don’t intend on you talking to anyone about this,” Adam added.

Again, Ben’s hackles raised at the certainty in Adam’s voice. He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry.

“How would you stop me?”

He didn’t mean it as a taunt. He knew Adam was dangerous, but not how. Did Adam have powers or weapons? What plans did he have for Ben?

“You don’t want the answer to that question either,” Adam replied softly. “But know that I would, if I had to. I’m capable of anything when I know it’s my best option.”

The lump was back in Ben’s throat, making it hard to swallow. He could stomach the lying, even understand it a little. How do you tell your roommate that you’re the one behind all the recent robberies and arson?

 And Ben could handle the crimes, for the most part. This city ate people alive and anyone not obscenely wealthy had one bad accident standing between themselves and homelessness.  So far Adam’s crew had only targeted places  with large payouts. They took hostages when necessary but had no casualties so far.

But the threats? The knife at his throat? The lack of hesitation before launching to dark promises of violence hurt Ben the most. Even without his stupid crush, they had become friends the last three years. Their lives had become enmeshed with each other’s in a domestic intimacy that went beyond two people who simply shared a space.

 Adam knew his allergies and what restaurants to avoid because of it. He knew Ben’s parents and siblings. He knew Ben’s failed dreams and useless history degree. They shared shampoo and lonely holiday dinners and a Netflix account.

Ben thought he knew Adam the same way. But now all that had unraveled, and though he never harbored the hope that Adam could return his affections, seeing how easily Adam could threaten his life as if Ben never meant anything to him . . .

The knife would hurt less.

“What . . .” Ben swallowed again, his voice coming out choked. “What do you want me to do? I can move out. Leave the city.”

Adam’s eyebrows shot up. “Leave? You can’t leave!”

 Hope rose ever so slightly without Ben’s permission. But when had it ever listened in the first place?

“I can’t afford this apartment without you.”

And there it went, dashed on the rocks.

“Haven’t you been . . .earning extra income,” Ben asked hesitantly.

“Not enough to cover your portion of everything for more than a month or two. Besides . . .I only get a small percentage of the cut. I need you.”

Boy, would Ben have loved to hear that in literally any other circumstance.

“But I’m a liability now,” he protested.

“Are you?”

Adam got a certain look in his eye anytime they played strategy games. It didn’t matter what kind — Among Us, Monopoly, chess, Street Fighter. His mind always worked five steps ahead, thinking of contingency plans for contingency plans, and Ben knew when that glint showed up in Adam’s eye, he was about to lose. That he had lost long before he even realized it.

“Here’s the way I see it.” Adam leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. “You hate living with your parents and you don’t want to leave the city. I can’t leave because I’m . . .in the middle of things. If either of us were to move out, we’d both have to find another roommate and the odds of us finding people that work as well with us as we do with each other is impossible. We would both be miserable.”

“You think I would be more miserable with a person who didn’t threaten me with a knife?” Ben asked.

And the answer to that question was yes, but Adam didn’t have to know that.

“What if they never turn the light on when they piss at night and get it all over the toilet?” Adam countered. “What if they eat the last of all your snacks or move their obnoxious girlfriend in or never empty the dishwasher before sticking their dirty dishes in?”

Objectively speaking, Ben would rather have a knife to his throat one time than deal with any of those on a constant basis.

“We know how to live with each other. We’ve developed a routine that has worked for years. This doesn’t have to change anything. It’s not like I haven’t been doing this for months while you had no clue anyway.”

“You will never trust me not to snitch,” said Ben.

“If I’m in jail, then how are you going to still live here with any kind of sanity? Better yet — if I’m thrown in prison because you ran your mouth, how are you going to be safe from retaliation from my boss or crew members? How are you going to avoid your own prison sentence for being an accessory? Is it worth your life to put me away?”

That last question hit him hard. He knew it was cowardly and stupid beyond measure, but he couldn’t bear the thought of blowing up the little life he’d carved for himself here. It didn’t amount to much, especially to his parents, but he loved it all the same.

“No,” he told Adam softly. “It’s not worth it.”

He loved his life and he loved Adam and he loved his life because of Adam and it all fed into each other like one writhing ouroboros.

Adam leaned back again, looking devastatingly smug. “I didn’t think so.”

“So . . .what now?” Ben bit at his lower lip, the nervous tell that always gave him away in poker.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Eat your soup for starters.” Adam nodded at the bowl in front of Ben. “And then give me your phone.”

“My phone? What do you want with my phone?”

Adam leveled a flat look over the table. A look he shot at Ben frequently over the years when Ben made a particularly bad pun. He used to love making Adam give him that look. Now it felt tainted with an undercurrent of a threat.

“Eat your soup, Ben.”

Ben ate his soup. It came out great, almost as if they had just ordered it from the restaurant that inspired it. Adam didn’t cook often, but when it did it outshone Ben’s rudimentary skills. And when they both finished, Ben cleared the table, almost on autopilot, because the person who didn’t cook did the dishes. It was one of the first routines they established.

Usually Ben hated washing dishes which was why he volunteered to make dinner so often. Tonight however it offered a soothing distraction, much more effective than the shower Adam insisted he take. Right up until he felt Adam’s hands on his thighs, sliding up to the edge of his front pocket.

“What are you doing?” he yelped, dropping the spoon with a clatter.

“Looking for your phone.” Adam’s voice pressed right against the shell of Ben’s ear.

His fingers wriggled their way into the pocket, tight in old jeans Ben should have thrown out when he graduated. His breath stuttered in his chest at the intrusion, which lasted only a few seconds, and at the triumphant snort against his ear when Adam slipped the phone out.

He swallowed thickly, throat tight for a very different reason than before. Adam stepped back, the heat of him gone just as suddenly as it appeared. A glance over his shoulder showed Adam leaning against the stove, brow furrowed as he typed in Ben’s password. Because of course Ben had given it to him, thoughtlessly, for vague future emergencies.

“What are you doing to it?” he asked, nerves fluttering in the pit of  his stomach. What if he didn’t get it back?

“Precautionary measures,” Adam replied distractedly. “I’ll give it back in the morning.”

“The morning?”

He spun around, soap dripping from his hands. Adam leveled another flat look at him.

“Do you want this to work or should I get another knife?” he said.

The blood drained from Ben’s face. His eyes darted over to the knife block, sitting just inches away from Adam’s hip. There was no way he could reach it in time — not that it would matter if he could. Clumsy and inexperienced, he’d only hurt himself and save Adam the trouble.

“I just . . .want to know what’s happening,” he said, eyes prickling for the second time that night, goddamn it. “You don’t have to keep threatening me.”

The cognitive dissonance of having Adam so carelessly threaten him, pulling a knife on him — Adam, his best friend that he lived with for years — felt like it could split his head apart. Life was starting to not feel real anymore, like he was in a video game instead. Or a nightmare.

Adam’s expression flickered, looking almost stricken, before Ben turned away. He rinsed what was left of the suds from his hands and then turned the water off.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, even though it was barely dark. “Keep the phone.”

Then he walked straight down the back hall to his bedroom. Adam called his name, almost too softly to hear, but Ben ignored him and shut the door.

He locked it too, for good measure. Not that it mattered. Sleep did not accompany him much that night.

Part Three

#villain x civilian #hero x villain #m x m #my writing #friends to enemies to lovers #writeblr #named characters #a good roommate is hard to find

[tastesoftamriel]

I hate hot food. For many reasons. I know a lot of Argonian meals are served cool/cold, but do the other races have meals intended to be the same way?

While not particularly common in some Provinces, chilled dishes can be found across Tamriel and are the perfect refreshment when hot food feels a little too weighty.

Altmer

Probably the Tamrielic masters of cold dishes, the High Elves are probably best known for their cold raw seafood dishes. Fresh fish, prawns, squid, octopus, sea urchin, and much more are sliced with a deft hand and served with wasabi and saltrice sauce. Sometimes, the seafood is placed atop rice and wrapped with a thin slice of nori to hold it together. While the idea of eating cold raw fish may not appeal to many, it's one of my favourite foods in Tamriel.

Argonians

Keeping clay or metal vessels submerged in water is an age-old Argonian technique of keeping their food cool, which is an absolute must in the hot and muggy climate of Black Marsh. Cold swamp jelly and seafood salad topped with grilled prawns and chilled marinated snails is a customary dish offered to visitors, and it's delightfully refreshing! The swamp jelly doesn't taste of much, but its soft, jelly-like texture complements the crunch of the seaweed.

Bosmer

Cold food isn't much of a thing for the Wood Elves, but one exception jumps to mind: the humble cottage cheese dip. Cottage cheese made from timber mammoth milk is aged in caves for two days, seasoned, and kept chilled. The dip is served cold with dried cured meats to dip with. It's not terribly exciting, but there's nothing quite as satisfying as eating meat and cheese in one bite!

Bretons

Chilled soufflés are all the rage in High Rock, and require lots of patience (and swearing) to master. Both sweet and savoury soufflés are served in this manner, from orange liqueur to parmesan and rosemary. My personal favourite is the chilled chili chocolate soufflé from the Rosy Lion in Daggerfall, part of their seasonal menu. The combination of rich dark cocoa with a touch of Alik'r spices is out of Nirn!

Dunmer

Chilled foods aren't an integral part of Dunmeri gastronomic culture, but certain Houses, namely the Telvanni, Hlaalu, and Redorans, do enjoy them. A Telvanni specialty is a cold chicken salad, where the chicken is marinated overnight in a blend of matcha, fire fern, saltrice sauce, and secret spices. It grilled and shredded, and served cold with hackle-lo leaves and gold kanet seeds atop steamed saltrice. However, don't let appearances fool you; any Telvanni with cold chicken salad leftovers can probably be found gobbling it at midnight straight from the cold cellar.

Imperials

The Gold Coast is famous for its chilled seafood soup, made with a creamy tomato and fish stock base, and loaded with all manner of fish and shellfish. While the hot variant from Bruma is more popular in colder climes, the cold seafood soup is a delightfully refreshing meal when beating the summer heat, especially when served with a mojito on the side.

Khajiit

If there's an excuse to make a food cold, the Khajiit will find it, and for good reason: the Deadlands-like heat of Elsweyr. Cold vegetable curries are a notable mention. Three or four small bowls of different curries, from mild okra to spicy potato, are served with moon sugar, saffron rice or tandoor flatbreads, and are meant to be eaten with your hands. I must say, though, that there's a rather jarring contrast between the cold curry and the searing heat you get from biting into a bird's eye chili.

Nords

Unlike the Khajiit, Nords look for any excuse to make food hot, with a couple of exceptions. Cold smoked salmon, mudcrab, or trout with dark rye bread is one of them. This rustic lunch dish is served with chilled horseradish cream, goat cheese, and fish roe topping, and is the perfect meal for when you want something filling that won't send you straight to sleep.

Orcs

Glass noodle salad is an Orcish delicacy said to have originated in Wrothgar in the early Second Era. The noodles, made from sweet potato starch, are thick and chewy, and are served chilled. To turn it into a salad, simply throw in some cold shredded daikon radish and carrots, sweet frost mirriam vinegar, peas, cold rare beef tongue slices, and fried chorizo. Easy and delicious, while packing lots of flavour!

Redguards

Cold foods are a welcome treat in Hammerfell, where the searing heat can be just as unbearable as Elsweyr's. Cold, pulled goat in a chilled tomato and harissa-based stew is eaten as a soup, and is a filling meal when mixed with bulgur or cous-cous. While it may sound and look a little like last night's disappointing leftovers, one bite of this on a Midyear day in the Alik'r will have you moaning with delight.

#Asks #Food #Cold #Chilled #cold food #Tes #The Elder Scrolls #Worldbuilding #world building #Cooking

[see-arcane]

Alright having listened to TMP 1 and 2 now, current impressions:

-Samama is coming off like a blend of Sasha, Jon, and Martin circa season 1. Sasha's drive to investigate, Jon's role as the person placed in a New Position Under Scrutiny, and Martin's early friendliness/attempt to people please.

-Alice is my best friend. And possibly a spiritual cousin to Tim Stoker.

-Gwendolyn has a cross of Sasha (organized) and Basira (terse) in her clear ability to keep to the job's system*** and is understandably a bit hackle-raised between her asshole boss and the new guy seemingly poking holes in her methods. Surname obviously dangles the possibility of relation to Elias Bouchard--but whether this world's Elias is himself or not, or even alive, is up in the air.

-Oh, Lena. I don't care if she's eldritch or not, I am throwing the heaviest clunker computer in the building at her head. Other than that, there's the possibility that she's A) Got Jonah Magnus' eyes in her skull, B) This world's Web's Plan B should the Magnus Institute fall through, another backup avatar in case Jonah Magnus failed to stop Gertrude, or C) Somehow none of the above.***

-Colin sir, I cannot wait to see whatever secret brew you're working on. Show me the conspiracy's bones. I'm ready.

-CHESTER AND NORRIS. A) Jon and Martin are pulling a reverse Uno card and trying to use their familiar voices to wall off the Web's influence somehow, B) These are Jon and Martin's stolen voices that the Web is using to their own ends, or C) ...Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood are alive and well and non-avatared in this world and just so happened to get jobs recording spooky shit. Georgie hooked them up.

-***SO. About the """system""" involved with this lovely horrifying data entry position. These guys are recording statements. It's clear that avatars are still running around here doing their scary business. But what's getting to me is the fact that while these things are recorded and technically filed away, the system of organization, even with Gwendolyn's comparatively sharper intuition of the whats and wheres, the statements are seemingly purposefully dumped in "order" based on...you know. Vibes. Nothing concrete, nothing precise, and with the people working there going out of their way to insist nobody thinks about the work or the statements, period.

Which feels like a setup that falls very short of what the Eye or the Web would want. If there's a defined and understandable system that used to be there, whose rules of labeling were forgotten--perhaps erased?--that seems like someone's purposeful intention of putting at least a tiny wrench into the works. At least once that someone realized what that tidy organization was accidentally aiding. Who that might be, I can't guess yet.

But.

Because hope springs eternal, I do have an idea of where the Office of Incident Assessment and Response--replete with that very, very interesting classical logo--came from in the first place. If not Jonah Magnus, then someone else who's aware of the Fears. Maybe someone who was touched by the Eye and was appalled? Enough to want to do something about this horror, however small. Say, someone taken notice of around the same time as Jonah Magnus?

Jonathan Fanshawe, sir.

Was this you?

#many thoughts head splitting #the magnus protocol #the magnus archives

[pigeonwit]

There’s a booming clang of keys that jolts Jack right out of his painted fury – a long streak of red cuts through the canvas, burning through the purple-dappled sky. Jack grits his teeth and turns, hackles raised, to where Davey’s sitting innocently at his piano, staring at the keys as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. Jack rolls his eyes – fucking Davey – and is about to make another stroke when a loud dun-DUN! booms right through him, his brush stabbing two clumsy red splotches into the canvas, one after the other.

“Oh, for-!” He whips around again – Davey’s fussing over his sheet music with exaggerated scrutiny, his brows furrowed deep and his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as if he were a newspaper cartoon, and Jack damn near stabs his brush into something again, just for the hell of it.

“D’you mind?” He snaps. Davey turns to him, blue eyes impossibly wide, his lips parted in a way that makes Jack’s stomach broil.

“Me?” He asks sweetly, as if butter wouldn’t melt in his damnably pink mouth. “I’ve no idea what you mean, Mister Kelly – I’m just rehearsing.”

Jack purses his lips and huffs through his nose, static burning in his arms with nowhere to go. Rehearsing. Like Davey needs to fucking rehearse, like Davey isn’t already perfect without ever having to try.

“Can you do it quietly?” He seethes through gritted teeth, because he’ll be damned if he proves stupid Davey right. Davey quirks an eyebrow at him, a smile toying at his lip, and humiliation burns thick in Jack’s stomach.

“Well, it’s music,” he drawls, slow, like Jack’s stupid, “so no.”

“Oh, right,” Jack scoffs. “Yeah, what was I thinkin’?”

“You think?” Davey fires right back at him without missing a beat, his head cocked in exaggerated surprise – the motion sends a mop of curls trembling over his brow, enough to make Jack twirl his wrist without him even noticing he’s doing it, leaving a perfect copy of the shape on his canvas, a soft curl written in a blend of blue and red into dappled purple-pink. Davey blinks, peering at the unfinished backdrop with that scrutinizing gaze, and Jack hurriedly smears his brush over that little violet curl, crushing it into a gouge of red paint.

“Is that for the show?”

“Nope, it’s for the mayor.” Jack sneers. “Whadda you think?”

Davey’s smile curdles – his brow knits together, making a tiny crease that Jack’s fingers itch to smooth away.

“I was just asking.”

“You stick to your shit, I’ll stick to mine.” Jack mutters.

#davey is trying SO HARD to flirt and he has no idea if hes doing it right #he just needs jack to know hes capable or he will DIE #meanwhile jack is just. Seething. #'dear diary. davey said my painting was good today. im going to kiss him. KILL HIM. FUCK.' #newsies #uksies #davey jacobs #jack kelly #david jacobs #javid #javey #pigeon scribbles #pianist davey fic #(ion said one nice thing about this au and i dived into my pile of wip scraps like 'LOOK GUYS LOOK AT THIS ONE')

[starlitangels]

I struggle with making requests, but I'm going to share some fun words with you anyway!!

-Gargantuan

-Flutter

-Indomitable

-Erinaceous

I love the fun words! I'm going to give you a little gen Wolf Boys with a tiny sprinkling of Milo/Sweetheart! 💜💚

Flutter, Gargantuan, and Indomitable

—

Your mate's watching, Asher teases playfully. Do you feel the pressure of impressing them weighing down on your shoulders?

Milo huffs out of his snout, shaking his head. Not a chance, he retorts confidently. I don't need to impress my mate against you.

Ohhhhh—to be so skilled, Asher taunts, a smile in his voice. But you're not practicing against me.

Wait, what?

Shaking out pitch-black fur, David's huge wolf form emerges from the shadows. Milo hadn't even—how had he not noticed—

Downwind. David was downwind and his pelt was so dark he'd blended right into the shadows.

A pit squeezed in Milo's stomach. It had been years since he actually faced David one-on-one. They'd been... God, they'd been teenagers. David had mopped the floor with Milo. He could still remember his Ma's lecture when they both shifted back to human form bloody and bruised ringing in his ears. He didn't even have to strain to bring the memory up.

It took all of Milo's considerable self-confidence not to flatten his ears and drop his tail, yielding immediately. No, he thinks to himself, keeping it off the mental link. No. I can do this. He'll beat me, but I'll take it with dignity—and no way in hell am I makin' it easy on him.

He bares his teeth and raises his hackles in challenge. Cool and confident. Maybe even a little cocky.

David says nothing. Just braces his front paws into the dirt and bends to lunge.

Milo's ears twitch backward as he hears your whistle and clapping. "You got this, Milo!"

Your voice warms the blood in his veins, making his chest swell.

Milo copies David's pose.

They both take a moment to glance at their mates. Milo's grey eyes in his rust-colored pelt meet your gaze. You can't help but smile, trying to make it encouraging and loving at the same time. Just that gaze, no matter if it's in a wolf's face or the man's you love, makes your heart flutter.

He huffs out his nose again.

He and David nod at each other—

And leap.

They crash together in a tangle of teeth, claws, limbs, and tails. Asher's mate gasps quietly beside you, their hand reaching for your arm. You set your other hand on top of their reassuringly.

Milo and David hit the ground.

David recovers first, shoving to his feet.

Milo doesn't scramble back up onto all fours. No. He stands in one fluid movement. Directly between you and his alpha.

Compared to Milo—who is already big in wolf form—David is absolutely gargantuan. Bearing down on Milo with the confidence of a fight already won when it's only just begun.

But anyone could say what they would about Milo—he's not a quitter. You've never known him to back down from a challenge.

You can even see he's smiling. Well, the wolf-snout equivalent, anyway.

David's also "smiling."

"It's all good fun," you reassure Asher's mate as Milo lunges at David. "They've done this before."

"But I've never seen Milo against David."

You haven't either. David rarely sparred against anyone other than Asher or Tank. They were nearly his size and he tried his best to make sparring matches fair.

Not that something so silly would ever stop Milo.

You smirk. "Don't worry about Milo," you decide.

He's currently in the process of attempting to wrangle David onto the ground. Toppling an alpha his size is a nigh impossible task when it comes to weight difference alone, but Milo's densely muscled, despite his size.

Not bad, Asher says, sounding impressed, from the sidelines where he's acting as referee.

Shut up, Milo and David both gripe at the same time. Milo can hear the strain in David's thoughts as he withstands the weight of Milo's attacks dragging him toward the ground.

Havin' a hard time, big guy? Milo asks.

Not a chance, David replies.

Milo growls in satisfaction. Always the best kind of play-fight. David would never dream of going easy on Milo—and he likes it that way. Milo figures the rest of the pack can mock his size as much as they wanted, they will never be able to say his will is anything less than indomitable. He's proved that over and over, and he'll never stop.

Even as David's shoulder slams into his gut and knocks him several yards away from the power behind the swing.

Milo digs his claws into the ground to stop sliding and huffs.

Ready for the fun to begin, big guy?

I thought it had already started, David deadpans. But there's excitement hidden in that tone. Milo knows what to listen for.

Hope you're ready. He lowers his head and charges forward.

#romi sweetheart #Star does Micro Fics #Redacted ASMR #Redacted Audio #Redacted Asher #Redacted Milo #Redacted Sweetheart #Redacted David #Asher Talbot #David Shaw #Milo Greer

[milkweedman]

I bought a drop spindle at an SCA garage sale a while ago, and today found a bunch of blue/green roving at a thrift shop (8 ounces!!) and decided to try spinning it up. I found your intro post and it says batts are better for beginners than roving. Can I turn one into another? Is it worth it to try?

That's awesome !

And yes, you most certainly can turn a roving into a batt (using a blending board) and also a batt into a roving (using a hackle). Blending boards are niche tools though, and for the cost of buying one blending board, you could buy several batts.

You can make blending boards, though.

If you get carding cloth--70 or 90 TPI (teeth per inch) are good all-arounders--and staple it to a wooden board of slightly larger dimensions, then you've got yourself a blending board for usually about 1/4 - 1/2 the price of just buying a new one. (My blending board was about $100 USD, to give you an idea of the general price. They're one of the more affordable fiber processing tools)

You can also just do away with the carding cloth entirely, and make something which is similar to a blending board, with the key differences being that's its both quite a bit worse and free (or very cheap). Either drive a bunch of finishing nails through a wooden board (you want about 1/2 inch or a centimeter of the nail tip exposed on the other side, in an ideal world) as close together as you can, or else tape several pieces of robust cardboard together and drive the nails through that. That's what I did (the cardboard version specifically--actually, found some pictures !) early on in my spinning career when I wanted to blend colors. Disclaimer: I didn't ever actually attempt to pull the fiber off as batts; this was like a 2x4 inch surface and they would have been pitifully small. But I did pull them off as rolags which spun up just fine, and which are also a better beginner fiber prep than roving is.

As to whether or not its worth bothering with any of that... no, not really. To be extremely honest, I'm not positive that 'beginners first rolag made on makeshift nail board' would actually be easier to spin than roving in any capacity (fiber processing and preparation is as much of a skill as spinning is, and like I said the nail board is notably worse at what it is attempting to do than a blending board is, although it does still do it), so.... if you want my firm advice: buy a batt. if you can't buy a batt, give the roving a try as is. if the roving isn't going well, really only then is it worth attempting the stuff I just described.

#important to note that just because i think roving is a bad prep for beginners doesnt mean you cant learn on it ! #because like. most modern spinners did learn on roving. it was probably just a lot harder than it needed to be #spinning #fiber prep #if you did a carding cloth one then you would have an actual blending board and then it might be worth it ! #hard to say. the overwhelming majority of people these days who do both spinning and fiber prep #start with spinning and then learn to prepare their own fiber because theyre interested in it #but they know what to look for and if nothing else can tell that theyve m #*messed up their prep because its not spinning up well. whereas if you are also spinning for the first time #you will not know if youve messed up your prep or your spinning and fixing either will be a lot harder #in the past kids were taught fiber prep in a lot of cultures because it doesnt require much fine motor skills #so you could start them on it before theyd be able to learn to spin #but that worked because they were being taught by an experienced fiber prepper #anyway good luck and whatever you end up doing i hope it goes well and is very enjoyable !

[pigeonsparty]

My latest yarn - Multicolour Sprint inspired by the popular kids show Your Tiny Horsie!

#crafts #handspun #spinning #wool #yarn #fibre arts #blending fibre #blending hackle #rainbow

[marslovesdaisies]

Look what you made me do || P.S.H

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Minors do not interact.

WC: 2.6k

Pairing: Mafia! Seonghwa x Mafia!OC

Warnings: Death, murder, violence, gaslighting, manipulation, mafia themes, weapons, angst, gore, eventual smut.

A/N: The question isn't am I late or am I late. It's what are you gonna do about it?

Chapter 3

2 years ago:

I had blood on my hands.

I could vaguely feel its stickiness gently running down my fingertips, like some sort of forgotten, korean version of lady macbeth. Though I didn't know who hated it more, me or her. A small voice inside me said it had to be her, she most likely did not know just how heavy the price of a life is. As if I did, I mused. I had thought I had. I had paid it regardless.

I numbly walked out of the hotel room and brought myself to find the bathroom ensuite. Purely mechanical movements got the water running. I washed the pigment off, rubbing my skin till it was redder than the blood. I registered feet shuffling outside the door and a knock. "Boss, should we clear out? The work here is done." I let a second pass. "Yes." "As you wish." With that, he walked off and muffled orders were now audible, no doubt to the others outside. The words as you wish kept playing in my head like a broken record, an irony that refused to leave me alone. As you wish. It really was as I wished it in this city, wasn't it? I had always loved to play god. I got off on the thrill of infallibility it brought me. Of course, my fall was long. And if matters were any indication, I was yet to hit the ground. I hardly tried to stop the shudder that went through me at the thought. Images of crashed skulls and swollen bones kept flashing through my mind, but the face wasn't mine. I retracted my hands, the automatic tap turning off. I dried them and opened the door.

The room was empty save for the smell of disinfectant. I walked to the entrance, my uncle's men all waiting for me to exit. None of them spoke a word to each other as I marched on and out of the suite, them following some distance behind. "Jihun." I called out his name without looking back. "Keep this under the covers. Exclude it out of your report to my uncle or father. If he asks, I was out moping." "Whatever you say." And there it was again. Words that usually stroked my fragile ego into contentment had the opposite effect today. They made my hackles rise, if anything. "Leave the twins behind with me." Jihun, the man this group of people answered to grunted his acknowledgement. We parted ways at the main foyer of the hotel, Jihun's group heading to the parking lot and my steps turning towards the main entrance, the twins following.

I threaded through the throng silently, the buzzing nightlife of the city greeting me and the two men accompanying behind. The twins, Daesung and Daewon tailed me often, so my asking for them to stay wouldn't increase my father's already uncountable worries. They were both lithe, dressed casually to blend in.

"Get two cars. I'm driving myself back later." I got along well with the twins. They were battle hardened, years of military service and habit of discipline obvious. Both specialized in close range combat, but were decent marksmen too. Physically, they were in their late twenties but death had aged their mind. They moved silently, didn't ask questions and had no issue omitting things I asked from their reports to my family. Unlike Jihun, who I was sure would last a week before his sense of loyalty made him confess everything he previously hadn't once shit hit the roof. The twins moved as a unit, and anyone hardly ever used their individual names. They were simply the twins.

Two minutes later, I heard heard two cars coming towards me. I got into the first without looking. It was Daesung. He kept his eyes on the road, the radio connected to his younger brother's car 2 metres behind. "Where to?" Daewon asked, the red blink of the radio coming to life. I thought the question over. Where did I want to be now? Definitely not home. Not in my penthouse either. Currently silence scared me more than my mother did. "Wherever there's life." I sighed.

Twenty minutes later, I was standing in front of a party. Some daddy's princess was having her 21st birthday bash, and the noise was almost deafening. I knew this bar and I knew the girl, though only barely. I had no intentions of gatecrashing, so I entered the gates without attaching my tab to her bill. I didn't drink either way.

The lone chairs were scarce, and lone tables nonexistent. The twins followed suit, getting to keep their weapons after a hushed discussion with the security and pointing a finger at me. Understanding the situation, he let them in.

The bar, Perles D'argent was a rare french investment on this road otherwise lined up with buildings owned by various Korean families from the underworld. The investors and owners both had formal relations with all of us, which made it a neutral venue. Both Daesung and Daewon took their places in the crowd, seemingly deciding to enjoy their nights because I sure as hell wasn't in the mood. They immediately turned heads in their direction as they went, their height and build drawing attention to them. I gave Daewon a knowing look, and he just shrugged with a half smile. I shook my head in return. My mother had always liked the twins, especially the younger one. She had once tried to set us up. Daewon had been horrified, not used to my mother's matchmaking endeavors. He had avoided me for a week later. I hardly felt sorry for him though.

In reality, I had asked the twins to follow only because I knew that would buy me more time till Jihun ran his mouth. He trusted his two subordinates and probably thought I was sleeping with one of the brothers. It usually played into my favor as people didn't enquire further when I asked for the twins, and both of them knew it.

I snagged an empty stool from a leaving patron and dumped myself unceremoniously on it. My mind had stopped registering my surroundings hours ago, the static of numbness the only sound I heard. My head was pounding. A lone shake of my head had the bartender look elsewhere. The day had been tough and my body ached without actually feeling pain. I was completely content with silently shutting every thought out and ignoring everything going wrong in my life, when I took a fleeting glance at the bar's occupants.

I saw him then.

Lee Jong In, sitting at a corner table, surrounded by two blondes and a brunette with his head resting in the blonde's lap. Completely oblivious to what was taking place in our city. There must have been a world record for the speed with which one could see red, and it must have had my name on it.

I was off the stool and walking in his direction without second thought. A hand grabbed me from nowhere and my temper soared, already having slipped twice in eight hours. It was one of the twins, who had followed my gaze and figured out where I was going.

"Leave me." I seethed at Daewon. His grip only tightened in response, dragging me out of the noise and into a less crowded place. " Let me go, soldier. You do not call the shots here." The younger twin didn't even blink.

"Iseul. You're far from in your right mind. Don't do something you'll regret in a week." A laugh escaped my throat at that, cruel and mirthless. "We're 72 hours too late for that, don't you agree?" His jaw tightened and he let go of my hand.

"Will it make you feel better?"

"Absolutely."

His expression said he knew I was lying, but he didn't say it. Instead, a snap of his fingers and Daesung was with us, looking at his brother and then at me, then back to his brother and finally towards the man that had started this conversation, now lapping at the brunette's shoulder. It clearly disgusted Daesung as well, because his expression soured instantly.

"What do you want to do?" "I want him to suffer," I looked at my hand, ghosts of the blood I had washed off still making it feel warm. "And I want him gone."

"That is hardly a call in your paygrade, Iseul." "Gone." I repeated with finality. The twins sighed in exasperation, Daewon running a hand through his dark hair. Daesung pulled his brother aside, clearing a path for me. "You know we have your back, right?" I nodded my head. What people didn't know was that I was friends with these two. Their loyalty was primarily with me, and my uncle or father second.

"We'll clean up after you. Just don't dig a bigger hole than you already have, Lin." He didn't need to remind me just how big a mess I had orchestrated, I wasn't forgetting it anytime soon. Still, with that warning echoing between the three of us, I made my way towards the shitty excuse of a man and a shittier father whose innocent son's blood I could still feel on my hands even hours later. And it was all his fault.

My mess could be dealt with tomorrow.

4 hours later:

I unlocked my car and got in. The party had long since finished, and I was far from the city. Lee Jong In was gone, a wet, soggy bed he had made for himself. The twins were gearing up to leave, their shared car behind mine.

A screen lighting up had me reaching inside the cup holder, my phone showing a power low reminder. I hadn't checked it for more than a day, I realized. I unlocked it, simply because I had nothing else to do. I had a series of texts that I ignored, but the latest two names were the only ones that actually mattered.

Wooyoung: Iseul call me back. [today, 2:02pm]

Wooyoung: WHAT THE HELL LIN [today, 1:32pm]

Wooyoung: Lin this better be a fucking joke [today, 1:29pm]

Few from San, minutes prior to his friend's texts.

San: You're. fucking. dead. [today, 1:23pm]

San: SHOW YOUR FACE. I DARE YOU. [today, 1:23pm]

San: Iseul, I am going to ask once. Where is she. [today, 1:17pm]

San: You're sick in the head. Fucking sick. You and your fucking need to control everything like the self-absorbed shit you act like [yesterday, 11:30pm]

Wooyoung: WHAT KIND OF A SHITTY PERSON ARE YOU??!!? [yesterday, 3:45pm]

Wooyoung: YOU BURIED HER??? [yesterday, 3:44pm]

Wooyoung: You have 23 missed call(s) from this user [received yesterday, 12:24pm]

San: You have 87 missed call(s) from this user [received today, 9:40 pm]

Wooyoung: Last call(s)- today, 6:14pm

San: Last call(s)-today, 9:00am

Every text was more desperate than the last, and my heart ached some more with every word I read. I didn't know if she would have forgiven me. The one person I had done all of this for. Someone whose secret I would die protecting, especially from Choi San. And someone she had now left behind, someone I would love enough for both of us.

Distractedly, I scrolled up some more. The older messages didn't even make sense, gibberish strung together by no doubt shaking hands. I closed the chat midway, not wanting to read further. It was no use anyway. Choi San may have loved my best friend, but this was my call to make. I switched the device off and threw it back in the cup holder. The gates of the cemetery outside glinted like a sharp knife, and I was tempted to get out of my car to see if it actually did draw blood. I deserved that pain at least. It would serve as a good reminder of my mortality.

My head leaned against the steering wheel, eyes closing for some time. The thought of the incident which had started these three days of absolute horror refusing to now stay suppressed in my head. My hands had started shaking on the sides of the steering wheel and I could feel the salty tears lining my eyelids as I opened them again, now freely flowing which I had held in for a long time.

Mirah was my gentle half. My closest friend. My confidante. The only one who kept me in line, my everything. And now she was gone.

I had buried my now dead best friend less than 24 hours ago.

Present:

"Then why don't we start by you telling us what exactly happened between you and Lee Jong In's son two years ago?"

Seonghwa's question echoed through the room as he himself lounged on the chair, relaxed and looking totally in control.

"Why do you care?"

"Answer the question, Lin. I am not a patient man."

I gritted my teeth. Who did he think he was? "Listen, Park. I don't know what you want. I don't want to know what you want. I don't know what Lee Jong In wanted when he sent me that invitation. I have no idea what happened to his son," I took a look at everyone in the room. "And I am not going to speak a single word or answer any further questions before I get out of this chair. So spare me this stupid display of power. I want no part in whatever game you are trying to start."

He stared me dead in the eye for what felt like an eternity. "Twenty minutes. I will give you twenty minutes to gather your bearings before my man escorts you."

"The way I see it, you want information that only I can provide. So, Mr. Park," I leaned forward, tone completely serious. "I would be far more accommodating to me than you are currently being. "

He didn't even dignify my outburst with a response, he gracefully got up from his chair like it was some throne, buttoned his suit and left the room without a glance in long strides. I watched him go with hooded eyes, massaging my wrists and running my hands through my hair in an effort to civilize them. Yunho and Mingi left next, the latter saying something in a hushed voice.

I got up on shaky legs, steadying myself against the chair as I buttoned my shirt, the hints of a tattoo on my torso that Seonghwa had been staring at vanishing underneath as I finished dressing. San's furious expression had turned into unreadable, Wooyoung nudging him to move with his own jaw clenched. Kang's face was closed off as usual as he averted his eyes to give me privacy. I scoffed internally. He had my phone casually in his pocket while he offered slivers of mercy to me, acting like some Victorian gentleman.

"Iseul."

Kim Hongjoong was still inside, his expression one of contemplation. I raised my brow at him.

"Have you met Seonghwa before?" Huh. I met his question with silence as I started to walk out. His extended hand stopped me, but his expression was what made me want to find out more. "I know who he is." I said to him after a pause, not understanding what he meant by his question. He nodded, making way for me to leave.

Hongjoong fell into some silent discussion with Yeosang, and I took the opportunity to get out of the room. The guard near the door immediately fell into step ahead of me.

With a forlorn sigh and resignation in my bones, I followed the man to whatever grave I had dug for myself with this man.

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

A/N: This is shorter than I would have liked, but I didn't want to end it on some lame note. Happy reading!

#ateez #ateez fanfic #mafia ateez #ateez smut #ateez x reader #choi san #park seonghwa #song mingi #kim hongjoong #jung wooyoung #jeong yunho #kang yeosang #seonghwa ateez #seonghwa x reader #hongjoong #seonghwa #yoesang #wooyoung #choi jongho #jongho #mingi #san #yunho #mafia seonghwa smut #kpop #fanfic #fanfiction #seonghwa x oc #ateez imagines

[dirtyoldmanhole]

real dweeby navel gazing time

i think one of the reasons i am having genuinely, so much fun with this gunter slowburn fanfic despite sitting at a literal 53k words rn and with it probably being close to 90k all said and done, is it's ... writing the ship i see myself in the most by far on both sides.

like, ever.

this shit is the rawest most honest shit i've ever written.

i've talked a little bit about how corrin's memory wipe stuff is literally a 1:1 to my anesthesia/childhood surgery/physical therapy conga line of bullshit. even aside from the helpful textual 'here's how this works from a medical event standpoint' there's the 'here's the emotional scars that it will leave because yes it is a bodily/mind violation of a sense, over and over, and jesus all of this of this stuff goes so well thematically to the straight up fantasy bullshit of nohr with the underpinning of being hyper-aware to the themes of "power" "use" "what it takes to survive by emotionally dragging yourself through a minefield" etc. stuff i've been ruminating over since being conscious lol.

then my body's so whack from a physical joint perspective that there's also almost word for word conversations from gunter's side that i've had with my gf about how to navigate certian shit from a kink perspective but also like... how to maintain dignity when your body's kinda physically crapping out on you due to the march of time.... without loosing the sexytimes u know?

the concept of dignity in the face of being broken is a huge theme in this fic that gets echoed. very poignant for reasons you fates players know.

amusingly there's a scene near the end where corrin's helping him to shave after his stroke. (in one of fate's "clearly having a giggle at my expense" coincidences i've been in contact lately irl with somebody who's also gone through a stroke and man is it not easy) and it's this kind of perfect blend of she's helping him, technically, with something that could just be... god awful self loathing brainspace wise for him but it turns into this amazingly hot kink scene with some serious sizzling power exchange.

the dream, man!

there is a real thin line between being able to laugh at yourself *while* keeping that dignity to pointedly.... having to not look in the mirror some days. desire and shame being some real fucked up entangled wires too, in that sense.

the tumblr uwu approved discussions re: tricky medical/'my body is crapping out on me man and i can't hide it'/kink shit and having to be ~valid~ all the time gives me the hiiiiiveeeees man (and i'm not knocking it for other people, i know why it exists, but it sends my hackles up u feel).

and yet this fic still feels like, hot, in the fun sense.

there's enough fun whacko fantasy taboo elements in it that it doesn't feel .... oh no this ain't sexy this is Too Real, you feel, or too much like a trauma fic(tm)

there's the sexy yandere villain ossan (lol), corrin herself has one hell of a sex drive (and honestly that's yet another huge focus, that wish fufillment fantasy of this 'pure fragile princess chick that's fought over like a prize by everyone else' who gets to choose 'no i actually want the hot villain kthx'. she actually rants to him several times about being fought over and having everyone else from nohr/hoshido project all the shit on her.

(and him being all, I got you, I get it.)

he actually does!!!! that's the funniest darkest most ironic thing!! he's got that weird blend of being aware enough from a kink perspective and just 'went through enough shit' life perspective of why sometimes the most sacred, profound thing you can do for somebody is to break them when they ask for it. sometimes in the dark u just want the brain wires to go bzzt.

there is a weird as hell comraderie in the sense of facing very specific demons that only they have (which, again, hilariously, goes so well with the themes of revelation! invisible enemies/demons that only you two know about.)

and then i have like yet another essay in me about how literally every character i've RP'ed is a suspiciously similar to his whole... archetype.... like all of my RP partners have gravitated to playing the chicks in the het relationships and i've always RP'd the snarky older guy going through life snarking at shit and being a closet misanthrope (there's probably some presentation/gender-aligned stuff going there but this is already navel gazey as hell lol)

anyway

tl;dr i haz feelz

#bla la la la ~ #the dad jokes in the fic make it worth it too #idek this came about when i caught myself genuinely finding it easier to write gunter's POV scenes. though i dig corrin's a lot too. #motto of writing this fic (said in the voice of the classic ms. frizzle): make it weirderrrrr

[w0lp3rtinger]

Perfect Enough, Perfect to Me

Shadow hates the word perfect. Amy knows this. 

That’s why even as Amy holds in a sigh, her impatience getting to her, the moment is still kinda funny. She’s got to stand here and suffer through waiting for another gram of brown sugar. Just a gram. Amy’s pretty sure she could just scoop about that much out with her hand but, no. Shadow had to bring out the kitchen scale. Now, he’s hunched over it, and she’s watching as he meticulously adds sugar to the bowl a spoon at a time. Each spoonful is scooped, leveled, poured in portions. The numbers on the scale’s little screen creep upwards by fractions of a decimal, slower than molasses in the dead of winter. 

“Shadow, it’s fine.” 

He shakes his head, eyes trained on the scale. 

“It won’t kill the crust to have a little extra sugar.” 

She can see Shadow’s eye twitch, his hand jumping just enough to cause a little extra to fall from the spoon he is holding. The scale tips over a gram by less than the weight of a flower petal and she can see his hackles rise in an instant. 

“Oh chaos, Shadow-” with a huff, Amy licks a finger, reaching over to dab it in the sugar. The scale reads out a perfect gram, and with her free hand, she forces him to look at her, “Done, see? Done. It’s fine. We’re good.” 

She licks the sugar off her finger as she takes the bowl from the scale, dumping it in with the rest of the dry ingredients. “Can you handle getting me the two eggs we need, or are you going to measure them as well?” 

He doesn’t move. Amy’s brow furrows, working the whisk furiously as she tries not to look up, but there’s only so much a person can do to pretend to mix flour and sugar long after they’ve been blended together. With a sigh, she lets the whisk fall from her hands, and it clatters loudly against the bowl in the silence. 

“Please don’t think I’m mad at you. I’m not- I just-” 

“You can do that?” 

She looks up, the shock momentarily rendering her unable to keep her incredulity in check, “Yes? What do you mean- What kind of-?”

Shadow holds up his hands, “I didn’t know.” 

“You didn’t know if I could get mad at you?” 

At that, he turns to gesture towards the bag on the counter with a huff. 

Amy blinks. It was when he asked questions like this she swore she could feel her brain trip and stumble. “What about it?” 

“You can just eat it?” 

“Did… did you think you couldn’t?” 

Shadow tosses his hands upwards. No, evidently he didn’t know. Amy bites her lip to keep herself from laughing. 

“Why did you think you couldn’t eat it?” 

“You told me before I couldn’t eat the eggs-” 

“They were raw!” 

“And the butter!” 

“Because why would you just eat a lump of butter!” 

“Why not?” 

“It- it’s butter! You don’t eat butter by itself! You put it in things, or on things!” 

“You can put apples in things or on things and still eat an apple!” 

“Oh sweetheart, nooo.” Amy runs her hands down her face, the laughter she was trying to hide shaking her shoulders, “There are just some things you can’t eat or you’ll get sick.”  

She outright cackles when she heard him growl. 

“I don’t get sick.” 

“Okay, fine, horrifically uncomfortable. How about that?” 

There is a huff. Wiping her eyes with a sigh, she looks up to see Shadow with his arms crossed tightly across his chest. He’s scowling at the bag of sugar, his fingers drumming on his upper arm as he starts biting the inside of his lip. 

She knows that face.  

Amy opens a drawer with a chuckle and takes out a small spoon, handing it to him. When he doesn’t notice, she bops him on the top of the nose with the handle. 

“You can have a little, if you want.” Amy says, “Not too much though.” 

Shadow takes the spoon in both hands. Amy let her elbows settle on the counter, face cupped in her hands as she waited for him to sort out whatever thoughts were going on. 

Over time, she had learned that when he wore such a face as he did now, the best thing to do was wait. The results were usually better if she did. 

Slowly, Shadow reaches for the bag, dipping the spoon in to take out just enough sugar to cover the tip. When he holds it up, he cups his free hand underneath with fingers tensed as if the whole thing might spring to life and run off. Amy watches him inspect it, holding her breath as she waits, waits, until, finally, he puts it in his mouth. 

The reaction is instant. He breathes in, his eyes close, he sighs, and the only word Amy can think to describe him as she watches is he seems to melt, just a little. The shoulders came forward in a graceful bow, the head lolls just a little. He reminds her just a little bit of a square of chocolate melting in the sun, and she can’t help but smile. 

Shadow hates the word perfection. Amy knows this. Still, in this moment, with the two of them standing there in her kitchen, Amy can’t help but think to herself that this is pretty close to what perfect is. 

---

SHADAMY WEEK 2022 IS HERE! Today's prompt was Magical Girl AU/Baking. I went with Baking. Amy's already a Magical Girl in my mind XD

I've always loved the sort of duality that can come out of people when they bake/cook. Like, you have people who just throw things in a pot and it's fine, and then you have people who are overly meticulous about everything.

Amy canonically is a very good baker. I think- I may be wrong- but I'm pretty sure in Sonic X one of her goals was to open a bakery or cafe of some sort. I figured between the two of them, and also knowing her personality, she'd be the more free-spirited sort of baker. Shadow... not so much. (I also wanted to just play with the fact that he's NOT a normal person, he DOESN'T know normal limitations, and he HAS NOT been taught some very generic (but non-lethal) things. Like, do you honestly think Rouge ever stopped him from eating a raw egg? Hell no. She probably thought it was funny as fuck, and you know what? She's right.)

Again, I am challenging myself to try and do these prompts within the day and not edit too much. This one is significantly shorter than the rest, but still XD. Keep up with my little personal challenge for this week

#shadamy week 2022 #shadamy #library #baking #sth #sonic #sega #shadow the hedgehog #amy rose

[grub-s]

my wool combs arrived ! i got the petlyn mini hand set and an 8 inch hackle for blending/dizzing larger amounts if i feel the need

#i am going to wash all the fleece i have over the next few weeks and then i’ll have so much to work with !!