#he's a little carved wooden pipe

[johnpriceslamb]

hey! i really love ur writing! are your requests open?? if they are would you maybe write another arthur x reader fic? maybe something with arthur introducing his new girlfriend to the gang for the first time? thank uuu!!😊

𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓯𝓪𝓲𝓻𝔂 ,

❥ ˚₊‧ swishswishswish prattles the pink-tinted brush within your nimble hold. Each delicate tap against the swell of your soft cheeks swell even more with colour, adorning a scent you were far too familiar with— cherry-kissed by love herself. ˚₊‧

𝓑𝓔𝓕𝓞𝓡𝓔 𝓨𝓞𝓤 𝓟𝓡𝓞𝓒𝓔𝓔𝓓 ! ꒰ ❥ hyper-feminine ! reader ❥ female ! reader ❥ reader is mentioned to be physically shorter than characters mentioned below ❥ lovesick Arthur Morgan ❥ super-shy reader ❥ rugged cowboy bf x mini baker gf ❥ fluff ❥ Age gap implied ❥ 7k words ꒱

❥ arthur morgan x female! reader

꒰🍰꒱ “SWEET GATEAU” Written in all bold, the colour pink, carved in cursive. The board swings heavily amidst the top of the pole that sticks out to show off the demure place.

That was the name of your workplace. Located in the most populated city in the state of Lemoyne, Saint Denis. It was an obvious spot for cakes and pastries, considering that the literal meaning of ‘Gateau’ was cake in French. It stands out from most buildings surrounding it as do the connected shops beside it- large windows to display the sweet delicacies of riches on little shelves for those to glance at when passing by.

More-so.. advertising then teasing, you'd say.

The comforting, delicious fragrance of vanilla extract fills the air. You have yet to work on other requests commissioned by customers, though you focus solely on this particular order. Mainly because it was the easiest and much quicker to prepare.

A simple sponge plain cake with vanilla icing. Couldn’t be too hard.

You’re quite tempted to take a little swipe of the wet cream and taste it yourself- fortunately your temptations resist yet again because of repetition and practice. tiktiktik does the whisk in your hand go as it constantly scrapes against the bowl, the mixture hardens and becomes more of a fluffy-like texture rather than a wet clump of nice smelling liquid.

The comforting sound of the fire crackles with faint embers floating amongst the brick-encased oven. Inside the oven lay two lovely little flat cakes. Just exactly twenty minutes ago you’ve bestowed them upon a wooden flat board to dish out near the heat to harden up.

“Ten more minutes..” You mumble to yourself. Enough time to finish whisking the vanilla icing and pour into a pipe-bag.

You admire the prettiness of the sweet-tasting icing which was coated inside the surface of the bowl, before glancing at the paper-filled request again to make sure that you’ve been following the guide correctly. Thankfully enough, the woman who requested the small two layered cake wrote it on a piece of paper rather than verbally out loud. Her hand-writing was lovely, and so was she. At the end of the piece of paper, her signature was written out—

‘Mary-Beth. :-). Please do not forget the cherry on top !!!!’

You can’t help but giggle softly at the absurd amount of exclamation marks she wrote down. She was quite bubbly, and that lady was- very excited. From the looks of her- you were just at least a year or so younger than her. You remember she adorned a long skirt, dark pink in colour.. with her hair in a half down half updo. Freckles prettily placed on her skin. You recall stating to come pick up her order at around 8 in the morning tomorrow. The clock strikes 6 A.M. Two more hours until she can pick up her cake!

Long, dewy lashes tinker at the sound of the bells at the door jingling as a person enters. You were quick on your feet, miniature ribbon-tipped slippers softly tapping on the ceramic floor of this building, curiously peeking your dainty head from the corner. Another rich man seemed to peer around curiously at all the pastries and such inside, pondering if he should buy a few sweets. You weren’t one to really socialise, neither was he- from the looks of it. You could only offer the sweetest smile you could etch onto your face and shyly nod as he turned to you to acknowledge you, before returning back to the kitchen hidden from customers to work on the cake.

He could just ring the bell on the front counter to get your attention.

It was common for people to enter the little bakery, though at around 10-2 is when chatter becomes louder and you become more frantic.

And with that- ten minutes has passed. You clumsily get the cakes out of the oven and place it on the kitchenette's bench. Hot and rough-looking around the edges.. You could probably cover it up with the icing.

Before you do, you cover the first layer with the fluffy icing, before plopping the second layers on. This job was very therapeutic, you considered.

Droop does the vanilla sweetening go as you drown the plain cake with the sweet icing. Delicate swipes of a butter knife allowing it to smoothen amongst the hardened surface of the spongy delicacy. Plop! One little swirl of icing on top. And another.. and another.. Until it surrounds the whole edge of the cake. Oh, don’t forget! One big swirl in the middle of the cake, where the cherry shall be placed upon.

You can’t help but decorate the sides with little frosted hearts, the piping bag in your hand ever so sturdy as it squeezes most of the remaining out and onto the lovely decorated cake.

Was the decoration necessary? No, not really. But did it make you feel bubbly? Yes.

Ding!

You hear the sound of the silver bell reverberating against the metal itself just a few times from outside the kitchenette. You blink a few times, before toddling out and back at the counter. Seemed like the man from earlier had already decided on what to buy.

The sound of your meek, tiny voice can be heard echoing about and bouncing back to you. It was rather empty, considering that it was 6 in the morning-

“Welcome to Sweet Gateau! Where all your tastebuds experience sweet wonder and satisfaction. How may I help you?” Recitation of the same line allows you to memorise the whole thing completely. Sometimes you do change it up a bit just to have a bit of fun.

The man blinks at you.

He looks around before narrowing his eyes at you, sizing you up- albeit.. confused.

You want to ask what's wrong, did he perhaps get the shops wrong?

Perhaps it was his old eyes, or the way he perceived people by appearance. Maybe the tuft of pink on your uniform, or maybe the way you style your hair with ribbons and such. But looking at you, you looked as if you were just a..

“...Does this business support child labour?”

You stammer.

꒰🍰꒱ You are not one to argue with customers. Or argue at all.

But you’ve had to greatly convince the man that this place does not in fact, recruit people under the age of fourteen to work. He stumbles over his words as he realises that you were not actually in early adolescence, and to affirm his apology, he tips you a dollar. The wooden door which was pulled back allows the sweet little bells hung on top to jingle gently yet again as you see his retreating form with the paper bag of biscuits and sugary delicacies.

You smile happily. Another customer satisfied! though.. confused.

The clock strikes 7. One more hour until the lady can pick up her cake.

With a hum that sounded more like a serenade, you pack the cake into a small frilly-looking box, a sort of see-through material shaped in an oval which was built inside the frail box to allow the person to see the decorated cakes. Your beady eyes shimmer at the leftover frosting inside the piping bag.. maybe you could just have a little..

Your temptations are yet again disrupted by a flood of customers coming in. It was a Saturday, of course people were shopping at early dawn. The small crowd amidst the bakery mainly consisted of young ladies in friend groups admiring the pretty delicacies around, rich elderly retrospectively adorning the sweets from their childhood.

A squeak and a babble of incoherence once many line up, you're quick on your tippy toes to heat a tea-pot up with water near the brick-encased oven and organise many distributions of loose tea leaves.

Sometimes, you wonder if people did genuinely acknowledge their health since eating cakes and biscuits and other sweet stuff in the early morning wasn't really considered the healthiest breakfasts. Though, at least you earned a fair paycheck at the end.

A pretty smile feigned on your face until your apple-blossomed cheeks strained, as you recited the line over and over again to many customers who pointed at the delicacies they wanted to buy and eat. The fragrance of chocolate, vanilla, red velvet, it swirls into one and becomes a potent scent which drives more and more to eat up. You can’t help the giddy smile and the apple-blossom swelling with colour on your cheeks as you shyly peer at everyone who eats the pastry with delight. You’ve baked a few of the treats that linger in the bakery, and the soft moan at the end of the bite which signifies great pleasure in eating your own baked sweets allows your tummy to flutter with butterflies.

The tip jar starts to slowly fill every ten minutes. Quarters shine and tinker within the glass container, bidding every donation with a pleased 'thank you!' and a little wink. 

It’s been an hour or so. Mary-Beth has yet to pick up her cake. 

As if on cue, the bells attached on-top of the door chimes, producing the same little melodic drag. You look up to see the lady you were thinking about! Mary-Beth, if you recall correctly. You wave at her with a happy smile, and she reciprocates with a big grin obviously excited to see the order. From behind her slightly taller figure in comparison to you was followed by three more ladies, admiring the shop with a soft coo and a gasp.

“I told y'all this bakery was cute!” Said-woman falls with a bemused smile on her face.

“Twenty-five cents for a whole brownie! What a catch,” One nudges another.

“It has caramel in it!! C’mon Abigail, we oughta!” The lady with blonde hair almost whines, “It’ll be a good surprise for lil’ Jack!”

“Mh, I don’t know Karen..”

Mary-Beth eagerly comes to the counter, her dark rosetta coloured skirt swishing around as she does. “Hello, miss [name]!”

You smile in return, wiping your powered-up hands on your frilly light-pink apron, “Hi, Miss Gaskill. Your vanilla glazed cake is done. Are you here to eat in or to take out?” As nimble as you were, you can’t help but be comforted by the lady’s presence. A sunshine amongst a field of closed sun-flowers.

She almost seemed surprised at your words. Perhaps the usual shops that she went in did not offer such things. She ponders, before calling out to the three women who still stare at all the sweets on display, arguing with each other whether or not they should buy a few sweets, “Would you all mind quieting down!?” 

You can’t help but softly giggle under your breath.

You patiently wait for Mary’s answer, that small grin still plastered on your face.

“Hm..” She hums, “Do you perhaps have spare plates and serviettes..?” She meekly asks.

“Of course!” You nod sweetly, “Give me a moment to prepare a table would you?” “Oh! Okay,” She beams. 

As you pass by, all of the girl’s bid you a “hi!”, “lovely place!”  “hello!” You respond to them with a wave and a smile.

“She’s very pretty,” The black-haired girl whispers to Mary-Beth. She nods immediately at her response.

“She really is,” She agrees, “So lovely too! I think she's got to be the nicest girl I've ever met in Saint Denis.”

As the chatter in the bakery by other folks becomes a tad bit louder, you're too busy preparing four serviette-adorned plates. You nod to the lady waiting, she bickers with the others and allows them to toddle on over and take a seat. The legs of the chair scrape at the floorings below, some are mindful about the fact and instead of dragging it, they slightly elevate it to eliminate the scratchings.

“Oh! Right, would you like me to cut the cake?” You graciously ask.

She smiles and politely nods, “Yes please!” 

Their prattling drowns out in silence as you waddle away back in the kitchenette to cut the cake.

Mary-Beth smiles at the other girls.

“So? How do y’all like it here?”

“It’s real fancy in here,” Abigail responds calmly, “Real pretty, though.”

“Mhm. Anywho.. How much did you pay for the cake?” Her blonde haired friend asks. She fiddles with the napkin on the plate, before placing it beside the food holder. She inhales the scent of the bakery, sighing sweetly.

She sheepishly grins, “Err.. five dollar.”

“I— Mary-Beth! My goodness..”

“Tilly, I promise you. It’s gon’ be real good!” She nudges the girl in the yellow dress.

"I better see miracles happening once I take a bite out of the cake," Karen- the blonde haired woman scoffs, allowing herself to get comfortable in the chairs. The two women beside her softly giggle at her bluntness.

The bold, sweet odour of the sugary vanilla glacé hits their nose, arriving with a slight wiggle inside the box as you carefully place it in the middle. Mary-Beth was the first to gently take the lid off, she gasped at the small decorations at the side. Little piped hearts.. "My, oh my.."

"Now, ain’t that just the cutest little thing i’ve ever seen?" Tilly coos.

You do a little curtsey, tipped with a sugary smile and doll your wispy lashes. "Enjoy, ladies!"

"Ah ah, wait a moment now- hold on!" Mary-Beth frantically stammers and tries to get your attention with a squeak once your small back is turned to them. It does, fortunately.

You turn back around, curious. Your head is slightly tilted to embody your confusion, beady eyes staring at the ladies whom seem to also want to keep you back here.

"I've seen you runnin' all about and uhm.. Do you ever take breaks, miss?" She curiously asks.

You blink. Was she offering..?

"I do," You respond truthfully, albeit shyly.

She sheepishly smiles, "Would you perhaps.. Like to enjoy this with us?"

You stammer, "I-I uhm, I'm not sure about that-"

The woman in blonde cuts you off, "Awh, c'mooon! C'mere and sit, girl. You need a damn break."

You hesitate again. "No, really-"

"Ahh, give us a break- c'mere now!" She cuts you off easily. The one whom insisted on you sitting down with them grabs a chair from an empty table, before easily plopping you down.

"What's yer name, lil' lady?" She asks with a smile.

You grin with a docile muse, saying hi to the other girls, "It's [name]."

"Ooh! Purdy name for an even purdier girl." She cheekily pats your pixie-like shoulder. Your cheeks pop with colour at her low-toned flirting

"I'm Karen, that's Tilly, Abigail, and of course, Mary-Beth. A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, little miss [name].”

Another girl pipes up, “Do you work here all alone, [name]?” Tilly— the one with the pretty yellow sundress asks with interest. She admires the interior of the building, how the edges of the roof had little floral pastry designs, on-going around the whole building and to the hidden kitchenette behind.

“Mhm!” You nod. Abigail raises her brows up, leaning slightly on the table. She has the mother-like aura which makes you feel ever-so giddy. She’s hushed in her tone, worried that she might make a scene if she spoke too loud, “Excuse me for intrudin’ but.. Ain't you a little… too young to be running this store all by yourself?”

“Ah!” Your cheeks become darker in hue. “I’m of legal age to work, miss. It’s just the frills ‘n the bows.”

Tilly was the first to serve herself a slice. She takes a small bite from the sweet delicacy, icing oozing out inside as she lets out a delightful hum. She finishes chewing it, before her eyes twinkle and she turns to you, “My goodness! And you baked this all by yourself?”

“Uhuh, I’m so glad you like it.” You clasp your hands together happily. Mary-Beth is eager to get a slice, then Abigail, then Karen.

“Okay, maybe the dollar was kind of worth it for this cake..” Karen mumbles quietly, poking her fork at the sweet cake.

Mary-Beth cheekily nudges Tilly’s shoulder, “Seeee? I knew you’d like it.”

You look around, noting yourself that you should give them something to drink to drown that sucrose-filled treat. You excused yourself from the table, the little frills etched on the back of your small skirt bobbling about like a tiny princess toddling about. You’re quick to bringing a teapot over, with a few porcelain-like cups stacked on top as you gently place it on the table.

“Wait- er.. Does the tea cost extra?” Mary-Beth asks, raising a finger before lowering it down as it catches your attention.

You raise a brow, “It’s free.”

“I could quite literally kiss you right now,” She beams, allowing you to pour the hot tea in the cups which were given out to the women around.

The overall vibe amongst the interior was pleasant. The small, gossamer-bunched bonnet on your head tilts a bit as you lean down to tip the fragile teapot.

As you carefully pour the hot liquid, you hear them conversing with each other as usual. Though you tend to take a blind eye- or ear in this case, you can’t help but be a tad bit curious to their little gossip.

“D’you reckon we should’ve invited Molly over?” Abigail asks.

“Oh- Maybe. I feel like she'll like it here, but I also have this feeling she’ll just fan herself away and give us nasty looks the whole time.” Tilly mumbles, delicately cooing out a 'thank you' as you poured a cup of tea for her. The tea swishes and sloshes against the cup as she drinks from it with her pinkie out.

Karen snorts, "You're so right. Just one touch from Dutch, and she's ready to take over the world. Miss primp and polish she is till' mister Dutchie doesn't give her a lick of affection."

Mary-Beth gasps softly, "Karen!" She calls her name as if to scold her, only for a small chuckle to follow after.

Your curiosity is visible, but you don't say anything. You're one to entertain gossip, but you aren't one to prod- considering that you've only met these lovely ladies.

They finished the small cake in another hour. Currently, you were situated behind the mini counter serving a few customers amongst the treats they wanted to buy.

"Ah, that was real good." Abigail wipes her mouth with the napkin provided, in a more rushed sense- an underlying feeling that she wasn’t so used to these kinds of etiquette.

"Maybe we should buy sumthing! We ain't gonna visit 'Denis for a while unless if we like- beg Arthur or sumn' to come wit', so I reckon we should give ourselves a little treat after all the things we've been through."

"We should buy them caramel brownies.."

"C'mon, c'mon! Lets get it then," Karen ushers Tilly and Abigail out of their seats once they've finished up, Mary-Beth following after with a giggle.

"[name]! These brownies cost twenty-five cents a bar don't they?" Mary-Beth calls out, pointing at the display at the front. Oozing with caramel delight, encased with a delicious chocolate coating which makes her swoon at the beautiful sight.

"It does, yes." You nod with a shy smile.

"Goodness, [name]. These prices are kinda high.. Reckon' you can give us a lil'.. discount? Y'know! Since we're friends!" Karen winks.

You shyly ponder, "Mhh.. Alright, why not?" As said before, you weren't really one to argue. Besides, they were sweet girls.

"Woo-hoo!" They cheer with a giggle, before eagerly grabbing the little tong at the side to grab a slice.

"A bar of brownie.. 20 cents." You bargain.

Karen shrugs, "Good enough." And she hands you the coins.

You hear them all bidding you a good-bye, and a cheeky "Expect to see me here again!!"

The door closes, and you're left with the constant conversations on-going. You stare at the shining coins placed in your hands, and can’t help the pleasurable feeling of gentle-tipped joy flood your tummy.

꒰🍰꒱ Morning dawn comes.

Another day at the bakery.

You rise slowly from your beauty sleep. The silky gossamer curtains flow slightly from the wind, as the sun shines pink and yellow lights from the half open windows of your room. The wood creeks beneath your light footsteps as you grumble on to get ready for the morning.

Lazy pats of coloured light pink powder is gently flushed against your cheeks, the small ribbon-tipped brush rattles because of the amount of use it's been through. Your hair is done prettily, silky bows attached to the side which matches the coloured powder you put on your dewy face. It takes you a tad longer to arrange your morning routine into a real situation, until you're out of the door and walking on the path to the bakery.

Pushing past the entrance, you hear those bells chime a little ballad that was always memorable and will never be forgotten.

Though it may be a nuisance to look at the same things constantly, you are always reminded that this place was a safe-zone for anyone or anything. Mainly because at the entrance hangs a low sign on the door handle that entrees prohibit the use of weapons and must take it off before entering the store.

Suddenly, your thoughts are interrupted as the entrance opens to the same women from yesterday. Though, two older men are accompanying them from behind, albeit.. begrudgingly.

"-I don't think this store is the right thing f' me.." He grumbles, you can see from behind the counter that Abigail was holding his hand, perhaps her lover. She glares and hisses at him, pinching his arm. "Quiet, you."

"Y'sure this place sells them biscuits I like?" The one in dirty blonde seemed low-key embarrassed to be in here, scratching at his head as he looks around. His hat is tilted to obscure his eye-sight. Your curious eyes widen a bit as his own stares at yours. You quickly avert your eyes with a soft blush etched on your cheeks.

"They sell all kinds of sweets 'n' delicates," Tilly pipes up, slightly hitching her long skirt up with her thumb and index finger. Shoes clack gently against the floral-designed tiles, eyes wandering around the familiar place. "I'm sure you'll find those dumb biscuits you keep talkin' about!"

"[name]!!" Mary-Beth was the first to run to the counter with a giddy smile, "Told ya I'd be coming back."

You have a small smile on your face, "Welcome back, miss Gaskill!" You do a tiny curtsey with your frill-bunched apron and skirt.

She giggles, "Goodness, [name]. You are too cute for your own good."

She perks up, "Ah! We brought a few friends over. This here's John," She points to the man who grumbled a 'hi', crossing his arms. He clearly does not want to be here. The woman who clings onto his arms scolds him quietly for being so ‘impolite’. You hide your lips behind your hand to stifle your soft giggle.

“That’s Arthur.” Mary-Beth points to the man who looks at the biscuits section. Topped with a black shirt and a vest which had a unique design, he seemed.. very determined to find those biscuits he mentioned earlier when entering the bakery. He looks around curiously, the little flower-y paint-job is something he expected for a small little bakery like this one here.

He’s holding onto his belt whilst striding to the counter lazily, before curiously looking at you. Cold, dark eyes peer at you like a lone wolf about to catch it’s prey for lunch. You meekly shrink just a bit as you feel him size you up with his daring gaze.

“Howdy, miss.” He greets casually.

You slowly nod, very shy with your greeting. Your quiet voice echoes loudly in his ears. He unconsciously has to lean just a bit to even hear you. “Hello, welcome to sweet Gateau..” A smile forms on your face as you see his brows relaxing slightly at your harmless form. Suddenly, he’s as bashful as a kid being told off for causing a ruckus. He looks around with a narrowed gaze, before looking back at you. A soft grunt escapes his lips.

“..Do ya’ll make uh.. Osborne biscuits?” He asks in a low tone.

You brighten up.

“Oh! Yes we do. Would you like a bag?” You ask with that same pixie-like smile which makes him soften up even more. Something.. catches his eye. He’s not sure what though.

“Ah, um.. Yes please, miss.” He tilts his head to obscure his eyes from your view.

You mumble a little ‘excuse me,’ to push yourself off your shoes to retrieve his request. He watches the way your fluffy-frilled skirt bobbles up and down.

Very.. cute.

A tap to his shoulder, and a soft snicker catches his attention. He turns around.

“Whuh.. What?” Arthur blinks at the three ladies who stare at him with a big grin. He was stunned at the abnormal behaviour they were currently showing off.

“Yer cheeks are real red.” Mary-Beth comments. Tilly has to hide her soft chuckle with her hand the corner of her eyes becoming alike of a crows feet to acknowledge her amusement.

“They are?” He quirks a brow, crossing his arms. Though imposing, he’s as docile as a lamb when it comes to the ladies, “Yer jokin’ with me.”

“Are not!” Karen laughs, “Don’t tell me you like her already. Ya’ll only just met!”

Arthur looks defensive, he narrows his eyes at the women in-front of him. “The hell you talkin’ bout?” He rests on the soles of his feet, nervously looking around. Anywhere but in their eyes.

“It’s as plain as daylight, cowpoke. No shame in hidin’ it, she’s real cute.”

Unaware of their conversations lingering in the background, you come back with the bag of Osborne biscuits. located within a transparent plastic bag and secured with a ribbon. A sticker in the middle with the bakery's emblem on it It rests delicately in your palm as you blithely toddle up front. The chatting suddenly ceases when you return.

“Apologies for taking a while,” You apologise sweetly, placing the biscuits on the counter. He brightens up entirely at the cute packaging of the biscuits he was craving for for so long.

“Don’t sweat it,” He opens the satchel hanging over his shoulder, “How much?”

“Fifty cents for a bag.” You watch him throw a few coins onto the counter. You smile sweetly, counting the coins before placing them inside the cash register. The swelling of your cheeks become just a tad bit more prominent as his fingers linger on yours to grab the bag out of your hand once you push it lightly in his direction.

You do a tiny curtsy. So much alike of a princess who expresses their gratitude to a king. “Thank you for ordering!”

He could only nod, scratching at his stubble as he awkwardly looked away. “Yeah. Uh.. No problem.”

“Do we really needa be feedin’ Jack all this? He’s gon’ be diabetic once he grows up if we keep feeding him this stuff..” John and Abigail bicker in the background which catches both of your attention. You can’t help the amused smile on your face at his comment. Though he was trying to be quiet, these walls echoed right back at you.

“Are.. They always like this?” You can’t help but question the sweet- or.. something couple from the back. It was cute in your eyes. Arthur can’t help the grin forming on his face.

“Their way of showing love I guess,” He leans on the counter with the biscuits in his hand. Then, he slowly turns his head to you, “Er.. What’s yer name?”

“[name],” You squeak in response to the handsome man.

He blinks. Without hesitation, he says with a soft hum— “Purdy name.”

Your cheeks become the same pigment of powder you apply on your temples. You look down at the ground, your hands behind your back as you can’t help the giddy smile on your face, “Thank you..”

Arthur is curious to learn more. He's fascinated by the personality you portray. With a pixie-like physique and a timid mindset akin to a doe, a stark contrast to his.

“How uh.. How long have you been workin’ here? In sweet..” He pauses awkwardly, trying to think of a way to say the final word in a mumble without looking or sounding ignorant.

“Gateau,” You finish his sentence for him with a light smile. He’s thankful that he didn’t hear a soft giggle at the end. Perhaps you were trying to save him from looking pitiful. Or maybe you were really just a decent-hearted girlie.

You do not notice the way the other ladies looked back at you and Arthur with a cheeky smile.

“Ah, yeah. Sweet Gateau,” He clears his throat with an oafish, low beam.

You can’t really remember the exact date you started working in this petite patisserie, but you give him a rough estimation of when you started. He nods with an interested hum, seemingly curious about your story. He didn’t seem like a man who would indulge in small-chat. But for you, he did.

“We’re leavin’, Arthur! We all got what we wanted!” One of the women calls out to him, causing him to be startled at the abrupt calling.

He clears his throat shyly again. “Ah.. Um.. I should get goin’. Only came here to see if ya’ll had ‘em in stock. Glad you guys did.” His words were nothing but gentle- waving even. As if Arthur didn’t want to leave just yet. You nod kindly, letting a tiny blossom of adoration to slowly develop inside your tummy. 

“Come back next time,” You faintly add, shyly waving at him with a sweet beam. 

He has a low smile, “Oh, I will.”

Your heart stammers a bit.

The door closes. The sound of multiple footsteps creaking amongst wooden floorboards is heard.

John’s looks at the cowpoke who strides next to him. He’s careful not linger near the dirt-path, noting to himself to not get his boots so dirty. A nudge to his arm is what gets Arthur away from his thoughts.

“What the hell was that?”

Arthur glowers. “What’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb, cowpoke. Saw how you looked at ‘er.”

“I don’t know what yer’ talkin’ about.”

The conversation ends there. Either John was becoming frustrated with his ignorance his words were stuck in his throat, or he gave up entirely to persuade the man’s attraction to the girl behind those doors.

꒰🍰꒱ To your utmost surprise, Arthur Morgan slowly yet surely becomes a common face within Sweet Gateau.

It’s not to say he was unwelcome in the premises, rather more.. how should you say this, amusing to say the least.

A man who stands firm and tall at a whopping 6’4 in height, who carries a gun at his side with a rifle almost as big as you- with a sharp gaze that could pierce your heart as quick as a glance in your direction, stands in a small bakery with light pink fairy-like cakes and floral themed walls. Perched up on a table with his little snack whilst scribbling down things on that journal he always took. You wonder what he writes about.

With his constant visits, it’s clear that you’ve down packed his order to your brain.

Osborne biscuits with a small cup of coffee.

You wonder if that man likes to torture himself with such blandness. No sugar, no milk, just coffee. It’s as bitter as it can be- if you can smell that bittersweet scent from just a few centimetres away.

Sometimes he would come up to you for a small chat to probably make you feel less lonely as you sweep away at a dusty corner for a few minutes straight. Other times he would just mind his own business, munching away on those plain biscuits he always orders.

It’s been a few weeks since seeing the other girls. Sometimes you ask Arthur to say hi to them for you, and he always comes back with a lazy grin saying that they miss you and hope you’re doing well despite only knowing each other for a few days.

The bell rings up front.

You know it’s him from the way he slowly strides to the counter, a quiet grunt escaping his lips as a faint jingle of spurs become evident the more he walks closely.

You truly cannot help the blossoming smile which etches on your face.

“Good afternoon, Mister Morgan. Welcome to sweet Gateau,” You welcome him with a slight lean on the counter. You can’t help that cheeky expression, “The usual?”

“Y’know me.” He nods at your words, “The usual, please.” Baritone and deep, his voice was. It almost sends a shiver down your spine.

You watch him turn his back to go sit at one of the more secluded spots in the bakery, deep into a corner. A diary in hand, with a pencil busily being worn down on the papers. The sounds of led scratching at the fibres of the white expansion of pages is heard easily from afar. It’s calming to say the least.

You’re quick with the order, almost giddy as you place the plate of those plain biscuits on his table with his bitter coffee. He gives you a small ‘thank ya’ kindly.’ before returning back to his sketching on something.

In just under twenty minutes will the bakery close. It’s quiet, with only a few people including Arthur relaxing in the wooden chairs placed within the interior.

You’re busy within the kitchenette, allowing the brick-encased oven to be put out completely. Washing up all the equipment you’ve used to make and create such food, soapy bubbles floating everywhere. The sounds of the door opening and closing is heard, many of the customers served leaving with a small tip inside that jar of yours up front.

Slowly yet surely, you wipe down the benches of the kitchenette before putting the rag back down. You walk up to the counter with a soft yawn from the tiring day.

A soft clearing of a throat catches your attention. You blink a few times and see Arthur.

“Oh! I thought you would’ve left a while ago,” You smile. Though you’re not very keen on customers staying five minutes before closing time, you’ll be very glad to make an exception for Arthur.

“Sorry, uh..” He awkwardly scratches at the back of his head, “Reckoned It’d be better to give this to you in private.”

You tilt your head sweetly, almost puppy-like. His heart squeezes at the simple yet innocent gesture. What was he giving you?

With that, he hands you a piece of paper, folded in half just once with a small heart at the corner. Your eyes light up immediately, as you shyly take the piece of paper- one which was from his diary he probably torn off, considering that one edge of the paper was bumpy and rough.

You mumble out a shy ‘thank you’, very curious and opening it with one simple hand gesture.

You feel like the luckiest girl alive.

A pretty led-based sketch of you. You were drawn with your usual frilly outfit on, the bakery drawn in the background. He drew every single detail on your face so accurately, it sort of amazes you. The small beauty mark was in the correct spot, with your eyes big and sparkly.

You softly gasp, putting a small hand over your mouth to not look like a dummy in front of him, “Arthur..”

“It ain’t the best but..” He averts his gaze, “I couldn’t help but draw ya. You just looked..” Pretty. Beautiful. Adorable. Cute. “—..Lovely.”

“Ain’t the best?” You scoff. “This is so beautiful, Arthur. Y—You got the bow, too! And the outfit, and the background..” You beam sweetly.

“Thank you so much,” You keep the drawing close to your chest. You note to yourself mentally to buy a picture frame, “This is so beautiful, Arthur. I love it!”

He holds his gaze low, cheeks slowly burning from the praise you squeaked out. He awkwardly shifts, before bidding you a goodbye.

You open the piece of paper one last time, flipping it over to see a message written in cursive which read:

‘Kinda weird to write this but I heard you were free tomorrow. Would you like to walk around the park nearby with me? I’ll probably be around there at 8 in the morning, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. —A.M ◡̈’

For a man like him, you’d never thought his handwriting was alike of a fairy tale novel.

꒰🍰꒱ swishswishswish prattles the pink-tinted brush within your nimble hold. Each delicate tap against the swell of your soft cheeks swell even more with colour, adorning a scent you were far too familiar with— cherry-kissed by love herself.

You are very adamant in looking like a right pixie for today.

Last night you could not get much sleep because of the excitement your heart held. You were dying to meet Arthur again without being in the same frilly uniform you always wore, a face coated with powder not from your beauty products but from pastries you make and serve.

You adorn a floral patterned dress, with a pretty pearl necklace. The hat you wore was similar to a southern belle darling sun-hat, but less brim and less flowers, a simple laced bow tied around the rim instead. And of course, your signature laced bows clipped in your hair.

As pretty as a porcelain doll you were.

Your ballerina-like flats click gently on the cemented pavement down towards the park. The scent of steam and machine slowly transition to more of a petrichor-like smell as you near the park.

There he was, standing around the entrance, admiring the flowers from beyond. You can’t help the soft giggle escaping your lips as he looked behind him and went immediately silent at the sight of your beauty. It was almost coincidental on how the flowers around gently wavered by and shined more brighter once you passed by with a shy smile.

“Hi,” You greet him softly- almost too gentle for his liking. Your hands are positioned behind your back, with the soles of your feet resting on the ground as you tilt your head to maintain eye contact with him. You notice his hair was slicked back a bit, and his attire was more cleaner than usual.

“Hey,” He replies back. He lends out an arm for you to hold, and you do so happily. He looks everywhere but your direction.

He clears his throat with a bit of hesitancy. “Thought you weren’t comin’. Hell, I thought you didn’t even see the message I wrote on the back.”

“Why wouldn’t I go?” You smile eagerly, “It’s nice to be somewhere else for a change. Being cooped up in that bakery can sometimes make me feel dizzy.” That was the longest sentence he’s ever heard you mutter.

“I reckon smelling the same sweets over ‘n’ over again would make ya go crazy” He replies cheekily. His eyes size you up again. Slowly yet surely. A little fairy you were, with beauty no other. He opens his mouth to say something, anything- but he slowly shuts it.

And suddenly, he builds up enough courage to say something.

“You look.. Real pretty.” He quietly mutters. Lovely doe-like eyes stare up at him again- and how quick did his knees almost buckle was a good comparison to his latest duel.

“..You think I look pretty?”

He slowly nods, scratching at the stubble on his chiselled jaw with his other hand, “The prettiest.”

He’s not sure if the glittering pink powder on your cheeks becomes more prominent as seconds pass by. He watches you slowly become sheepish and giddy under his sharp gaze. You fight the curled corner of your lips to turn downwards, but alas you give up immediately as you quite literally melt under his touch.

You shyly stutter out a small “Thank you.” The grip on his arm becomes just a tad bit tighter.

The silence was nothing but comfortable despite it being a bit awkward at the start. After his compliment, you can’t help that fluttering feeling of love bursting inside, up in the skies lays an imaginary cherubim whom shoots those heart-shaped arrows quickly into your heart as you glance at him another time.

And it seemed that the cherubim shot his arrow in his heart, too.

“I loved that drawing you made f’ me yesterday,” You mutter. High-pitched yet so soothing in tone- was your voice. Almost mellifluous, like a serenade similar to those soft jingles heard in the entrance of the bakery, “I never knew you could draw.”

He chuckles lightly, “Yeah, figured. I don’t really look like the type to draw, do I?”

“No, not really.” You softly giggle, “But it’s.. it’s cute.” The way your tone changes pitch at the end makes him conclude of how your intentions were supposed to be.

He quirks a brow. A slow smirk curling on his face.

You catch on immediately. Your cheeks become the same pigment of blush you used, “I-I didn’t mean it like that—”

His soft laugh interrupts you. “No, no. I get ya, I get ya.”

You can’t help but look away from embarrassment. Just a few minutes in and he’s unconsciously teasing you.

“Hey.. Look at me.” He narrows his eyes at your little show.

You don’t.

“C’mooon, it ain’t such a big deal..” He’s about to grab your chin to make you look his way. Though his hand backs away when he sees those beady eyes of yours slowly coming back to maintain eye contact.

He smiles unconsciously at your sweetness. “Yeah. Good girl.”

He unconsciously brushes your cheek with his thumb. You puff your cheeks out immediately, heart hammering in your chest at the title. You cross your arms in-front of your chest, hand resting on your fore-arm. He quietly notes to himself how pretty your hand would be if a ring was seen on your ring finger.

Suddenly, you feel your heart drop. You want to say something, anything.

“Arthur?” Your hand suddenly goes to his sleeve, tugging it softly to get his attention.

“Mhm?” He responds, tilting his head down to meet your gaze.

Suddenly, you feel like your tongues all tied up inside your mouth. Your mind is in shambles and you’ve suddenly forgotten every word in the English dictionary as his pretty eyes stare at you as if you were an ethereal being.

“I.. er,” You fiddle with the small frills of the end of your dress, “N—nevermind.”

“Hey, now.” He comes a bit closer with that boyish charm smile. The faint scent of hair pomade and wood makes you swoon just a bit more, “You can’t just back off like that, c’mon.. tell me.”

“I..” You hesitantly start off. “What.. What are we, Arthur?”

He seemed to be a bit caught off guard with the abrupt question. You catch onto his quietness, and immediately you shrink out of embarrassment. You feel ashamed, flustered for even asking that!

You dare try to look at him in the eyes once more, “I- I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t apologise.”

You slowly blink when he cuts you off.

He’s a bit difficult to read at this moment as he processes his words. He looks at you a few times, gosh did his heart beat fast.

Then, he slowly opens his mouth. “I.. I ain’t so sure myself. But I just..” He takes a deep breath, “I like you, a lot. Yer a real lovely girl, a good girl. But you shouldn’t be with a man like me, miss.”

You feel yourself falter, “Wh— What? Why?”

He shakes his head. He’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to answer, but for your sake he does.

“I.. ain’t a good man, [name].” He tries to explain to you. “Never was in the start. ‘N I don’t want you gettin’ into trouble just cuz people seen you with me.”

You narrow your eyes, allowing him to continue on and elaborate. You feel like the happiest woman alive, but the saddest.

“I’m..” He looks around to see if anyone was listening, and he leans in just a bit, “I’m an outlaw, sweetheart.”

“…And?”

He’s taken aback once again. The garden amongst you quietens as soon as you uttered out that single word. You feel awfully thankful because of the fact that no one was around you.

You feel like this’ll be the most stupidest decision in your life. Your heart and brain yearns for the man that stands in front of you, who holds you like a porcelain doll and who treats you like the prettiest princess alive.

“I— I don’t care if.. if yer an outlaw.” You stutter out, “You’ve made me feel things I’ve never felt before and I..”

Both his hands come to yours, fingers coming to intertwine with yours. The bold contrast between your skin and size told you everything. Calloused filled, scar-stricken hairy hands paired with hands that were always smoothened, delicately cared with little to no blemishes. He squeezes your hands firmly.

“Darlin’..” He sighs, “I don’t want you to get hurt ‘cuz of me, ‘s all I’m saying.”

“Please, Arthur.” You plead silently. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for at this moment. You want him, and he wants you. He looks so conflicted, his demeanour falls as soon as you use those puppy eyes you were blessed with. Long lashes slowly fall down, which rises and shows those glistening pearls of coloured irises.

“..Damn.” He kisses his teeth out of pure irritation over the situation. Not because of you, never. But because of the decisions which ultimately resulted in the worst. He looks at you one more time.

“You’re real needy thing y’know that?” He grunts lowly before leaning in slowly to press his lips on your forehead. Immediately do you melt in his arms, you cling onto him like the princess you were.

He holds you closely. Your face meets his chest, and his arms are wrapped around your waist, “You really wanna get with me huh?”

“Yes,” You reply, out of breath at the touch. “More than anything.” You continue on with a sweet whimper which makes his desires go crazy in his mind.

“You’re gon’ be in for a real long ride, sweetheart.” He mutters softly in your ear.

You don’t hesitate to answer back. “I don’t mind.”

“You really sure?” He asks one more time, “Y’can’t back out once yer with me. You’re mine from then on, y’hear?”

“All yours.” You nod once again.

꒰🍰꒱ “I’ve been thinking.”

The brush in your hand is slow in movement, before placed down gently on the table below. A brow is quirked at the sound of your beau’s voice which rattled in your head.

It’s been over few months or so since you’ve gotten together. When he couldn’t visit, he’d send letters with the sweetest words. You’ve kept them all in a small box which cheekily peaked out in the corner of your room, right on top of your mahogany wardrobe.

“You oughta meet m’ family.” He bluntly states.

“Your family?” You tilt your head.

He nods, scratching at the stubble on his angular jaw. Your eyes catch the slight tremble his hand had when it was coming to his jaw, and you can’t help but be even more curious.

“Lemme rephrase that.. Reckon you should come meet my gang. They’re my family, in a way.”

You hesitate at the word ‘gang’. Obviously, by that word alone it insinuated meanings which you were taught to be aware.

“Don’t you worry, they’re all nice people,” He brings up a hand to place on-top of yours, “You don’t have meet ‘em if you don’t feel ready yet, ‘m just saying.”

You shyly smile up at him.

“I’ll meet them.”

His crinkled eyes widen in surprise, “You will?”

“Mhm,” You nod, “Oh- Just give me some time to prepare, will you?”

“Right, right. You go do your little princess activities which’ll span for over a whole five hours.” He teases. He earns a glare from your puppy face, something he’s all too familiar with.

“Quiet, you.”

“The hell are you even doing in there? Does it really have to take you a whole two hours to pick an outfi— Ouch.” A sock clumsily hits his face.

Surprisingly, it didn’t take you a whole five hours to get ready. Before you could grab the necklace on your desk, Arthur reaches from behind to grab those dainty pearls of yours before clasping it behind your neck himself. He slowly leans in to delicately place a soft kiss on your sensitive neck before standing up to dust himself.

“Y’ready, sweetheart?” He asks with a low drawl.

“Mhm!” You smile happily, clinging to his arm.

Outside from the building you lived in has a small horse post outside to hitch said animals. He leads you to a horse far more taller than him, quite literally towering over you. With the least of efforts, he picks you up from the waist to plop you on the saddle, before he himself hitches on the magnificent mare.

It took over an hour to travel to some sort of densely packed trail. You can’t help but tilt your head at the location, tilting your head up to question the man who lazily rode the horse behind you. His chest was quite a good alternative for a pillow.

“..You live here?”

He snorts, “Er.. Kinda. You’ll see.”

Not long do you see a large campsite, you feel yourself shrink at the sound of.. new people.

Sure you worked at a job where you had to talk to people. But you weren’t the best at keeping up a conversation with.. criminals, you could say.

“Arthur’s back, Arthur’s back!” A little boy’s voice rings through your ears, you can’t help but curiously peak from his shoulder to see whom it was. A young boy with brown hair- blue coat and a tooth missing. He eagerly points to the man as he enters in the vicinity.

“Ooh, ‘n he’s brought a girl..” The young boy ushers a woman far too familiar to come over.

“He what now?” The sound of a few footsteps were heard- oh gosh did you feel as nervous as a doe trying to not stumble on its legs.

“A girl?”

“Don’t tell me we’ve got another mouth to feed.”

“She’s real purdy.”

“She seems fancy..”

“[name]?”

You jump at the sound of your name being called- you look behind to see.. Mary-Beth!

“Oh!” Arthur hops down, picking you up from the horse to settle you onto the ground. You eagerly smile at the woman you knew well.

“What are you doing here?!” The book-worm asks with a squeal, rushing to you for a hug.

“I— I could ask you the same thing!” You stammer as you feel yourself getting lifted up a bit from the ground, hugging her tightly back.

Arthur coughs to interrupt the soft chattering, “I’d like you all to meet m’ girl. No touching, ‘cept for the girls ‘n Jack.”

“Ha! Knew you had a thing for her—” You hear a raspy voice from afar, near the little boy you presumed was named Jack. You’ve seen him before, and if you could recall.. His name was John. A flick to the forehead is what you see between your beloved and him.

“Tilly ‘n the others are here somewhere finishing chores up,” Mary-Beth beckons a few of the girls to come over. Karen was the first to bid you a ‘hello!!!’

“Y’got any cake for us?” She jokingly asks. Her eyes widen when she realises she’s spoken too soon when she sees the few boxes of treats which were stacked and tied with a pink bow neatly on top of Arthur’s horse.

“[name], I think ‘m gonna kiss you.” Karen walks away to grab one box for herself. You let out a giggle as you go and greet the other girls.

Fortunately for you, everyone was welcoming and homey well um, except for one. But you’ve heard from most that he’s always like that.

“It’s quite a surprise for Arthur to bring a woman back to camp,” An old man to which you’ve became comfortable talking with for a while sits next to you. Hosea was his name, for some reason does he remind you of your grandfather.

“Oh? How so?” You shyly question. His warm eyes stare at your figure endearingly.

“Well for starters, he usually scares them off.”

“Hosea.” Your love comes to your side, embarrassed at his words.

“It’s quite true! Here, let me tell her about the story of when you…”

For the rest of the day, you were treated carefully and lovingly. You weren’t sure what you’d expect from a gang filled with criminals and thieves, but you could surely say that they were a sweet group of people.

You’ll be expecting a large sum of visitors on the following days, and perhaps a small ring soon enough.

#fem! reader #rdr2 x you #arthur morgan x you #afab! reader #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x fem! you #rdr2 #arthur morgan x fem! reader #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x fem!reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan fic #arthur x reader #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption fanfic #rdr2 fanfic #rdr x reader #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr

[thebestbobaflavour]

Their Little Lynx

Halsin x Astarion ((talking about) x GN!Tav)

NOTES:

- tav is a druid (whose main wild shape is a lynx)

- hurt/comfort/angst (astarion needs a hug)

warnings: sex mentioned, swearing, english is not my first so there'll be a shit ton of mistakes, self indulgent but i hope someone else finds it fitting to their tav/otherwise enjoys this

honestly this is just a silly drabble please don't even read it okay idk why i am sharing it

__________________

Astarion jumped a bit as a tall figure casted a shadow over him. He was met with the smell of pines and smoke, as Halsin sat onto the log next to him. The wood elf didn’t leave a gap too wide between the two, his arm brushing against Astarion’s shoulder. It was foreign to him, after all he had been through - all the nights he had shared with all the different people - that this small, innocent touch made him so nervous.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked the druid, trying to channel his charm and confidence. Somehow, like all things artificial, it didn't affect Halsin.

“Haven't really tried, to be honest”, he muttered. In his hands he held a knife and a piece of wood that had started to take the shape of a feline.

“A lynx. Curious.”

“Is it really?” he asked, carving out a small piece to define the shape of the beast’s ear.

“No”, the high elf scoffed, rewarding him with a small, hollow laugh.

“It seems that our little kitten has inspired both of us quite a deal-” the former arch druid stated, glancing aside at Astarion. His crimson gaze studied the soft, flowing shapes of the animal, its neck reaching out, heavily tufted ears perked up high – not in alarm but in tranquil curiosity.

“Indeed they have, haven't they?” he replied, taking his sweet time doing so. Halsin gave his surroundings a scanning look, then handed his handiwork over to the smaller elf. Astarion held it up, tracing the still rough edges with his fingers.

“I must say, you have captured them well – not that I have the eye for their… animalistic tendencies like you do.”

“Don't belittle yourself. You cannot separate the wild shape from them. It is a part of them.”

Astarion let his thumb travel the lynx’s flank.

“Isn’t that so true”, he said with half a chuckle. “I always thought I was a man with a taste for civilised, defined art. Yet I can't help but be somehow intrigued by them.” Astarion laughed again, and Halsin sensed his nervous demeanour, but did not say anything.

“Hells. They bring pieces of moss inside their tent… collect feathers and pebbles. Cherishes the living shit out of things I don't even see… That and they’d be able to claw my throat out if they wanted.”

Halsin hummed to himself, trailing the edge of the short blade of the whittling knife with his finger.

“And yet they let you bite theirs-”

“And what does that make me, I wonder.”

“A special someone, I’d say.” Halsin took back the wooden lynx, starting to whittle again.

“A monster. Worse than any beast. They look at me, trusting, like an innocent fawn, bending their sweet neck for me just because I told them that it would make me strong.”

“What did you think they did it for, then?” Halsin asked after a little pause. Astarion exhaled heavily.

“Because they wanted intimacy? Because they have a thing for being bitten? Let me tell you, there are a bunch of people with that sort of kinks.”

“Yet they didn’t want anything for themself.” Halsin finished for him., blowing wood chips off his hand.

Astarion piped up. “Isn’t that just so fucked up?”

“They did a selfless thing”, Halsin admitted, but didn’t really seem unfazed. “It is also in their nature. They are kind.”

Astarion pointed a finger to him.

“It is not kindness, it is madness. I could have killed them.”

Halsin met his gaze, placing a reassuring hand on his knee.

“You love them. Blaming them for it is the only madness I see.”

Astarion shut his mouth, flinching at the touch but remaining stubborn.

“Who else can I blame!” he hissed, his voice cracking with emotion.

Halsin’s hand didn’t move as he sighed.

“How about not blaming anyone, but thanking yourself? Thanking them. Thanking the Gods if that suits you. Loving is a gift.”

“It is a curse- maybe I should have sucked them dry-” he growled, gesturing angrily with his hand and getting on his feet. Halsin grabbed his hand with an unexpected speed.

“Astarion...”, he said softly. “You have to stop running, and start living.”

“Don't tell me what to do, druid. You don't know what my life has been like, I am not like you! Like either of you.”

Halsin’s grip was firm. “And you think that is a bad thing?”

“Look at me. Look at you. After all this is over, who do you think can offer them the life that’ll make them happy?”

There was a flash of new emotion in Halsin’s eyes and he stood up as well, not letting go of the high elf, who seemed agitated and lost, his grand gesture even more grand.

“They don’t need us to offer her anything. They can build their own life, and then it is up to us if we build ours beside them.”

“Stop riddling, Halsin. I am not some… forest dweller - You know that. I can't pretend to be excited over a damn caterpillar, I can't live among the foxes, I can't even... sate them, not yet anyway. Not while I am like this. I can only drain them and leave them bloodless. While you -” he patted Halsin’s chest, tears prickling in his eyes.

“- you can fuck them senseless on a stupid grassy field underneath the glistening stars – and come the morning you might as well build a damn nest for homeless birds or something equally... disgustingly sweet-”

He tried to laugh, swallowed, turning his head and inhaling sharply before meeting the druid’s gaze with his chin held high.

“I am not like that. I never will be.”

“And you think they love me more because of what you said? That I’ll somehow …take them from you?”

“No. I will give them to you before that can happen. Because what you said is true. I do love them. And they might think they love me, but what they deserve… is you.”

“They are a person, they can neither be taken nor given.”

“Ah yes, by all means get stuck on the unimportant! Knowing damn well who is on the winning side.”

Halsin’s shoulders dropped, and carefully he cupped Astarion's cheek.

“It is okay to be afraid, little star”, he said softly.

Something in the pale elf’s eyes shattered. No one had ever called him that with such utter affection, with not a hint of condescendence.

“I... I just thought I would be free. After they convinced me I can be. After I saw what life can offer. Now I know only fear, because I don't know if I can be happy without them, no matter how free I am.”

Halsin pulled him closer, embracing him in his arms as the high elf melted into the touch, his breath grew ragged and shallow as he fought the tears.

“That fear is love, and to get to love so tenderly as you do is the true freedom.”

Astarion shuddered, chuckling hollowly.

The druid’s voice rumbled in his chest. “We will figure it all out. Together. After all, I would not have asked to share in their heart if I did not care for you, too.”

“So you genuinely never once thought about pushing me aside?”

Halsin ran his hand through his silver curls.

“I don't even believe in pushing anyone aside. But you have also been brave enough to speak your fears. Should you decide you merely agreed out of fear of what would happen if you didn't, and don't want me to be in this arrangement any longer, I will respect that.”

Astarion inhaled his earthy scent, shaking his head a bit before pulling slightly away and looking up at the taller man. “No. I suppose I always knew your intentions were as pure as your good self. I want you to stay. For them… and for me.”

To Astarion's shock, Halsin planted a gentle kiss on his forehead before smiling down at him.

“There's nothing I'd like more.”

#baldurs gate 3 #oc x canon #astarion #astarion ancunin #halsin #halsin silverbough #astarion x halsin #astarion x tav #halsin x tav #fanfiction #bg3 #i am so insecure abt my writing but i wanted to share this bc fkgjkfjf i love them

[laurfilijames]

Gilded In Gold

Pairing: Fili x female reader

Words: 1,327

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Post-sex body worship of the crown prince. Nudity. Slight masturbation (M), touching ones-self. Brief oral (M receiving)

Summary: In the blissful moments following your love-making, you admire your One as he relaxes in the early morning sun.

A/N: A little The Belly and chest fur worship because how can you not? @deanobingo

---

Fili sauntered almost lazily over to the bed, allowing you a long look at the body that had just finished pleasuring you beyond the point of exhaustion, your head resting heavily on a pillow that shielded you from the cold, stone floor while your eyes followed him effortlessly from where you lay. 

His chest still heaved as he worked to catch his breath, and you smiled to yourself in appreciation of his vigorousness in the sport of love-making. 

The toned muscles in his back flexed wildly when he lifted a bulging arm up to run his fingers through his hair that stuck to his face from sweat saturating the edges, turning the wheat-coloured tresses a deeper hue than normal. He sighed as he collapsed against the mattress, the wooden headboard supporting his upper half while his legs were cradled by the furs beneath them. One bent to rest at an angle, the other remaining against the bed; the full spread of his legs displaying his manhood in too-enticing of a way. 

His torso contracted when he twisted toward the side table to retrieve his pipe, the purse of his lips something to be admired as he placed the intricately carved piece between them and worked at igniting the pipeweed. His brows knitted together when he inhaled deeply, all of his features relaxing upon his exhale, and when the plume of smoke faded away, it revealed his icy gaze at you from across the room. 

You propped yourself up on an elbow, desperate to get a better look at the glory of your One who sprawled upon your bed as though he was an ornament amongst the furs. 

His skin was tinted pink, his chest and cheeks flushed with heat and reminders of where your hands had been, and a thin sheen of sweat made him glow in the growing morning light. The soft orange beams highlighted him like the treasure he was, making the amber curls that covered his skin look as though they were plated in gold; suiting him like gleaming armor.

Taking another drag from his pipe, he rested the hand that held it on top of his raised knee, tilting his head curiously to the side as he continued to peer at you through heavy lids adorned with long, flaxen lashes. 

You couldn't help but let your eyes follow his movements, traveling down from his eyes to his hand that had held you against him firmly mere moments ago, and then further to where his flaccid cock leaned heavily against his vast inner thigh. The coarser hairs that decorated his member appeared darker; sodden and untidy from a combination of sweat, spend and slick, making your core clench in knowing he was sticky and smelling of you. 

You swallowed thickly, returning your gaze up to meet his, and like he knew what was on your mind and seeing how your body was already responding to wanting him again, Fili hooked an eyebrow high on his head. 

Licking your lips, you shifted where you lay, purposefully adjusting in order to better display yourself to him; the art of seduction quickly flourishing into a subtle competition between you. 

His belly jumped slightly as he let out a noise that was somewhere between a hum and a chuckle, giving a faint shake of his head in amusement, his wild hair gleaming like gold as the sunlight shined on it. The day-old braids were now almost unrecognizable and completely unruly from how much your fingers had torn through them, the quickly approaching day revealing how many hours of the night were dedicated to ruining his previously-neat strands. 

Dust danced in the light that beamed in through the window, spreading a warmth across his relaxed form that accentuated the dense spans of curls on his chest, and in wanting to card your hands through it, you mimicked the action on your own skin, rubbing your breasts in slow, languid strokes. 

The heat of the intense morning sun set you aflame as much as Fili's stare did, feeling his hungry eyes cast upon you, watching you like a beast about to devour their prey. 

Trying to hold his look but failing, your eyes flitted down to the apex of his spread legs, the flex of his hardening cock distracting you and making your hands grope yourself more desperately. 

Your eyelids fell closed as you proceeded to roam your body in hopes of it being him, only to cease when he spoke with a quiet surety that seemed to echo through your chambers. 

"Are you going to leave me sitting here all alone, Amrâlimê?" he asked, his voice as sultry as the look he gave you when your eyes flashed open again, a hint of mischief playing at the corners of his mouth while a blush rose up on his cheeks that matched the rise of his shaft. 

"My apologies," you purred, sitting upright. "I was simply trying to spare you from my wandering hands and salacious ideas. It seems I cannot control myself when you look the way you do right now."

His chest and belly shook with a hearty laugh, his dimples appearing in his cheeks and the lines around his eyes spreading a warmth through you that mirrored the fiery heat showing in his blue irises. 

Rising from the piles of blankets and pillows arranged in front of the hearth that had been your make-shift bed for the night, you walked slowly over to the bed, smiling when Fili nodded his head to the vacant space beside him and patted the furs to coax you more. 

You knelt on the bed, one knee at a time, your arms slowly alternating with the movement of your legs as you crawled toward him; the hunger held in his eyes as he watched you approach making you shiver with anticipation. 

Fili parted his legs further, his offering making your mouth water, and taking himself in a firm hold, he stroked up and down on his length a few times as he waited for you to settle up to him. 

You stopped just at his legs, letting a hand trail up the back of his thigh of the one that was bent, your lips gingerly kissing the top of his knee. Fili let go of his shaft, sighing as your fingers wandered down to his center and tickled near his taught sack, his head leaning back against the headboard, belly quivering to your touch. You cupped his ballocks in your palm, gently massaging them until he growled with approval, tugging on them ever so slightly until his chest rose and fell sharply. Lowering your head, you captured his cock that wagged from his squirming motions in your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip, earning a sharp hiss from between his gritted teeth as he bucked up slightly off the bed. 

Releasing him and hovering over his impatient member, you grinned at him, flashing a devious look through your lashes. 

Before you could make any further acts of provocation, Fili grabbed onto your arms and hauled you against his front, and in one fluid motion, flipped you onto your back where you were pinned under his weight.

"It's unfair to tease me like that," he muttered, his lips ghosting on yours while his hands carded through your hair, pulling on it so you tipped your head back and exposed your neck to him. 

"Is it?" you spoke nervously, but sanguinely, anxious to see what power he would unleash on you. 

"Mhmm," he purred, licking a path up your throat before burying his face to rub his beard on your delicate skin. 

The fur on his chest brushed your sensitive nipples in the most alluring way, making you arch up off the bed to press yourself more against the silky curls, his belly laying heavily on your middle to push you back down into the furs. 

"You're in a world of trouble, Ghivashel."

---

Taglist:

Everything: 

@guardianofrivendell @midearthwritings @cassiabaggins @lilith15000 @trishthedishofreis @linasofia @unbeatablecurlgirl @the-poldarkian @lathalea @enchantzz @blairsanne @legolaslovely @middleearthpixie @i-did-not-mean-to @sketch-and-write-lover @jotink78 @medusas-hairband @feeweeeee @missihart23 @fortheloveofdurin @i-am-still-bb @roobear68 @ichoosechoasandbeingqueer @legolasbadass @spngingerbread21

#deanobingo2023 #deano bingo #fili #fili smut #fili x female reader #the hobbit #dean o'gorman #fili durin #The Belly™️

[fizzyxcustard]

Bringing Christmas Home.

Fandom: The Hobbit

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None.

Summary: From the imagine, "Imagine that you tell Thorin all about your Christmas traditions. As a surprise, he attempts to re-create them in Erebor."

Comments: Requested by @sydmarchsstuff Thank you! As always, reblogs and comments are appreciated very much. If you would like to be added or removed to my tag list, let me know.

Thorin kept the image of you in his mind as he worked alongside a group of volunteers to re-create your beloved festive holiday of Christmas. As he helped make ornaments for the tree, with Dwalin by his side, he smiled to himself. You were to be his queen, to be treasured and honoured more so than any other woman in his life. You were his One, his life companion. It was Thorin’s duty to make sure you were happy, and this would hopefully be one more way to solidify that happiness in the mountain kingdom of Erebor, as you were not a child of Middle-earth. 

During their first break, Dwalin and Thorin both sat side by side, drinking a mug of tea that had been freshly made. The peppermint scent hit Thorin between the eyes as he tipped the mug forward to take a sip. 

“Everything is coming on so much better than I’d hoped for,” Thorin said. He sighed in relief, knowing that all the jobs were almost complete. “I even have her personal gifts prepared.” 

“Gifts?” Dwalin asked, raising an eyebrow. “Have you not done enough with all of this?” 

Thorin shrugged. “It is in her kind’s tradition and custom to exchange gifts. They decorate their homes, celebrate with food and drink, among other things. I cannot quite remember all of them, but I made sure to remember most.” 

Dwalin put his hand on Thorin’s shoulder. He had never seen his longest friend, his King, so happy and content. There was no longer a gigantic weight on Thorin’s shoulders, a need to prove himself. For once, he could be exactly who he was meant to be. And you helped that shine through in him. 

***

You wrapped the gifts which you had got for Thorin. You knew that Christmas was not a tradition held in this world, but you wanted to give him signs of your love all the same. These gifts were not wrapped in brightly coloured paper, but instead, you wrapped them in gold and silver fabrics. The library had become your little hideaway, and it was here you had brought the items, which consisted of: a new, midnight blue tunic, a new pipe, and a silver ring with both of your initials engraved. Thorin would no doubt be in your chambers signing documents after council, so it was best you remained scarce. 

However, when you returned to your bed chamber, you opened the door to find it dark inside. Candlelight shone through the murk, beckoning you further inside. Were you seeing things? Maybe the darkness was causing you to see shadows. Was that a tree? 

“My love,” Thorin’s voice came, drifting through the dark from your left. The door closed behind you, and then you felt his hand in yours. “Come and sit.” 

At the end of your four poster bed, you could see a table had been laid out with food. Your eyes were now beginning to grow more accustomed to the gloom. A large cooked turkey and roasted vegetables were laid out. 

Your fire was roaring in the corner, creating a comfortable heat. And just to the left of your fire was a tree. It was covered in wooden ornaments, carved into shapes of animals, stars, flowers. Beneath the tree were wrapped gifts, all topped with red bows of silk. 

“You did all this?” you gasped. “Why?” 

“I wanted to bring Christmas home for you. You have told me many times how you love the festivities, and how could I not try and replicate them here for you?” 

“I…I….don’t know what to say,” you whispered. You turned your body toward him, and placed your hands on his chest. “Thank you.” 

Thorin wound his arms around you tight and kissed your head. “Anything for you.” 

After your meal and the two of you sat in front of the open fire, large mugs of cocoa in hand, and opened your gifts. 

“I had no idea you were going to do all of this, but I wanted to get you something anyway,” you said, watching as Thorin opened the fabric to find his new pipe. 

“I thought you wanted me to smoke less?” Thorin chuckled. 

“I only ever said that I didn’t like the taste of it when we kiss. I didn’t ask you stop,” you corrected him, smiling. “Do you like it?” 

Thorin shifted across to you and wound his arm around your waist. “I do. Thank you, my love.” 

A short while later and the two of you were idly tangled together on the rug in front of the fire, having just made love. Thorin had his arm over you, and his fingers rubbed circles at the base of your back. 

You leaned in and kissed him gently. “There’s only one thing that could make this night even better.” 

“And what is that?” 

“Get your boots on, and call for Dwalin. We’re going to have a snowball fight.” 

***

Follow Forever tag list: @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @knittastically @middleearthpixie @linasofia @luna-xial @xxbyimm @meganlpie @asgardianhobbit98 @rachel1959 @msjava1972 @guardianofrivendell @tschrist1 @eunoiaastralwings @sunflwrnsunnieshine @quiall321 @missihart23 @enchantzz @lemond57

Thorin Oakenshield tag list: @braidedheart

#Thorin Oakenshield #Fanfiction #The Hobbit #Request #Imagine #Thorin x You #Thorin x Fem!Reader #Thorin Oakenshield x You #Thorin Oakenshield x Reader #Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Reader

[not-wholly-unheroic]

A Comparative Analysis of Hook’s Ship and Cabin in Popular Media Portrayals

Part 5: Peter Pan & Wendy (2023)

For the final part in this series, I want to take a look at Disney’s most recent live-action retelling of Peter Pan. While the film itself isn’t perfect, I will say that at least in terms of its external appearance, this is one of my favorite representations of the Jolly Roger because of the intricate details included. They’re subtle—blink and you’ll miss them entirely—but they tell an interesting story.

First, let’s take a look at that figurehead, shall we? Unlike so many other versions of Hook’s ship, this time, it isn’t a menacing skull or claw but a lady. While this wouldn’t be an uncommon sight on a ship, this particular lady is not a saucy mermaid or proud goddess… Instead, she appears to be in mourning, her left arm raised to cover her eyes while her right is extended longingly toward the side of the ship. Zoom in and you’ll see why. Carved into the wood is a row of children. We can see the wooden children again in a brief close-up near the end when the ship is flying and nearly runs into the cliffs. This figurehead is a mother weeping for her lost little ones. And if that doesn’t break your heart and make you seriously think on what this version of Hook’s mindset must be like, I don’t know what will.

There are even children’s faces—or rather, a specific child’s face—carved into the railings on the ship. We can see it in a few scenes but this is one of the clearer images I could find. Does this look eerily like Molony’s Peter to you? Because I think it does. But maybe that’s just me.

Then we get to the outside of Hook’s cabin—which unfortunately is never really clearly shown in the film. However, we DO have some behind-the-scenes images of it and OH MAN…. This part of the ship very clearly depicts Peter chained to a tree while four mermaids reach out to him, attempting to offer comfort and aid.

If you’ve ever seen the original cover art for the novel, this seems to be a nod to it. On it, Peter sits on a rock playing his pipes while a mermaid approaches on either side and the crocodile lays curled up beneath, Hook’s claw poking out of its mouth.

That Hook would have such artwork blatantly referencing his time on the island as a part of his ship tells us a great deal about how effected he was by his time there. This ship seems to be one that Law’s Hook himself designed very intentionally. Despite all his hatred for Pan, he keeps his long-lost friend close at all times and openly bears his grief over the loss of his mother and Peter through the artwork that surrounds him.

In contrast to the ornate decorations on the outside of the ship, the inside of this Hook’s cabin is surprisingly sparse and practical. It is probably more realistic than any other version we have seen thus far, but it feels strangely empty and dark for a Hook’s residence. The bed is—much like in Disney’s animated film—a simple cubby built into the wall with only a thin curtain to separate it off from the rest of the room. There are a few books on the shelves to the right of the bed and some bags of what I assume may be rations stacked to the left.

What’s really interesting, though, is what we see in the brief close-up shots we get of the shelves near the doorway. There are all kinds of things in jars, preserved presumably in alcohol. One jar noticeably contains what looks like an octopus (or part of one)…possibly in passing reference to Hook’s animal antagonist in Disney animated sequel…while at least two others contain human hands. Right hands, to be specific. One of the hands is actually even labeled with a name—Stubby Bartholomew (?). According to an interview, Law seemed to indicate that his Hook was looking to see if he might somehow replace his own missing hand. Regardless, though, I want to know the stories behind these hands. Who were the men they were attached to? Why was Law’s Hook fighting them? Did they know he was going to save their hands, once severed? Did he just take the hand of the person or did he kill them and remove the hand after death as a kind of sick trophy? This is definitely one of the creepier things that we have seen with any Hook.

Speaking of creepy…on another wall, we see a dried fairy corpse pinned up like a butterfly. We don’t often see Hooks being completely ruthless on-screen, but this one definitely gives off a threatening vibe from all the dead things he has collected within his cabin walls.

There’s even a dead crocodile… Not THE crocodile, of course, but there IS a large skull which we can see he keeps underneath his desk. It shows up again later more noticeably and in a comic fashion in the finale when the ship is being turned upside down and the skull becomes stuck on his head…but it’s there even in the first shot we see of his desk. There’s also an hour-glass… Not a clock, of course, but the time theme is still present.

And then there is the gramophone, which once again, clashes with everything else about this Hook (clothing, a more classic wooden ship, etc.), which otherwise suggests someone from the earlier part of the Age of Sail. Unlike the ones in Hoffman Hook’s cabin, though, this gramophone is pretty obvious because Law’s Hook is actively listening to something on it when the kids first enter his cabin. A friend did a great write-up on the significance of exactly what he is listening to that you can read about here. Suffice to say for our purposes here, though, that the opera he is listening to wasn’t written until 1853, and gramophones themselves were not around until even later in the 1800s. Law’s Hook does mention that his mother is long gone by the time he leaves Neverland and goes looking for her, though, so perhaps his ship and belongings are reflective both of the time period of his youth and a later time period when he returned to the “real world.”

Then again, Smee is said to have pulled Hook out of the water as a child, and Smee seems intimately familiar with the older wooden style ship as opposed to steam ships, which would have been becoming pretty common by the mid to late 1800s, so it’s hard to say for sure. (Bonus content not entirely related but just because it’s cool… In a few shots of Mr. Smee, we can see there is a very small tattoo on his right hand. It’s a teapot. Which is just…such a perfectly Mr. Smee thing to have a tattoo of, and I love it.)

While Law’s Hook was disappointing for some fans of the more classic elegant, over-the-top versions of the character, he’s undoubtedly intriguing, particularly when we examine his Roger. This Hook is unlike any other. He wears his heart on his sleeve—or rather, his ship—and surrounds himself with reminders of Death and Time, as if he knows his own symbolic significance as a manifestation of the doomed Old Man going up against Youth. And yet…in this version, he is not quite so doomed, returning in the end, to make peace with Peter and accepting that one can be “old” while maintaining a spirit of youth.

#captain hook #peter pan #disney peter pan and wendy #peter pan and wendy #peter pan & wendy #david lowery #jude law #jude law hook #James hook #captain james hook

[xx-lemon-drop-xx]

𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓜𝓮 𝓝𝓸𝓽 ↬𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖜𝖔

"Souls tend to come back to people who feel like home," He told her. "I am powerless without you by my side."

1,431 words.

┗━•❃°•°❀°•°❃•━┛

"I'm back, Lilia."

Walking through the door of Diasomnia's dining area, (Y/n) saw everyone was there, eating breakfast. Lilia perked up at hearing his name being called, peering back at her.

"My, you're here earlier that I assumed."

He said, though his fangy smile was nothing less but friendly. (Y/n) rubbed her arms slightly, though it wasn't cold. she shied away, and despite all the eyes on her, it was only because of one pair.

Such a beautiful shade of green.

"Yeah.. It um... opened again." A few students looked at each other, confused before Lilia stood up, a bit more quickly this time and nodded. "I see, well come, follow me little one. Let's get you in clean bandages."

This didn't fail to catch Malleus' attention, and he watched (Y/n) follow after Lilia, before standing up himself too follow after, lagging a bit. Malleus came into the door while Lilia was cleaning the cuts, "What happened?" He asked, in a silent demand.

"She just got hurt is all."

Lilia said, seemingly being able to just wave him off. (Y/n) looked towards the dragon fae as he walked closer to the bed, twitching away when the sting of the disinfectant. Noticing this, Lilia leaned down, blowing on the gash. "I used to do this for Silver all the time." He stated, seemingly reminiscing.

Though, (Y/n's) eyes never left Malleus. Finally, she breathed out a soft question, taking the fae's by surprise.

"What.. Are you?" Her eyes widened in realization, 'That must have sounded rude.' A flush warmed her cheeks, "I- It wasn't supposed to sound rude.. Where I come from we don't exactly have magic or.. Uh people with horns and fangs walking around. Sorry."

A deep chuckle rumbled from Malleus' chest. "Not at all. Allow me to feed your curiosity, child of man." He stated, with a slight smile that showed off his teeth. "I am fae, one belonging to the Dragon Fae species." He stated, watching her mouth fall open.

He would have mistaken it as fear, had Lilia not move out of the way, a bit startled as (Y/n) suddenly sat up.

"Really?"

She asked, almost excited in a way. "Yes." Malleus answered.

"Do you have wings or a tail? Can you breathe fire?" Malleus watched the female gasp suddenly,his eyebrows raised in slight surprise. "Can you turn into a dragon!?"

Her question came off as more of a excited bark, and Malleus chuckled, watching her face flush again as she dropped back down on the bed. "My my, excited are we?" Lilia piped up.

"Yeah.. I used to love dragons when I was a kid. Obviously I haven't lost my love of them." She answered, flustered by her outburst before hand. "Everything had to be about dragons." (Y/n) laughed. "Birthday cakes, toys, movies, posters, antiques. It was all about dragons. This one time my dad.."

Lilia looked up as she cut herself off from her little ramble, her face twisted with the pain of grief.

"You miss them, don't you?" Lilia said, watching as (Y/n) snapped out of her little haze. She smiled, "Yeah. A lot. My dad was really good at wood carving. He used to make me these little wooden trinkets that were supposed to be dragons and wyverns and all sorts of things."

"My, he sounds quite good at that."

"He was."

She smiled up at them, eyes twinkling in refreshment as Lilia finally finished taping on the gauze.

"He really was."

-

"Come here, I have something to show you." (Y/n) was hoisted up onto her father's hip still holding onto the doll she had gotten from her Aunt Marcy earlier that day.

She smiled eagerly, and her father smiled back, walking them out to the old shack he used to do wood carving. She saw his tools as they walked past but couldn't remember any of their names. Just her father's warnings about them.

"Make sure you never ever touch them, okay (Y/n)?"

He would warn her, "They're very sharp. They could cut your nose right off." He reached out pinching and wiggling her nose with a soft smile, making her giggle.

His expression turned serious, and he stepped back, letting go of her nose. "I'm serious. It can cut off your nose. Okay?"

"Okay, papa." She looked up at her father, and he smiled, picking her off the ground. "Now let's go, I wouldn't want it to steal your nose!" His smile was back, and so was hers.

"So, what do you think?" He held out his newest creation towards her small hands, making her drop  her toy doll she liked to call Bella on the wood chip covered floor, grabbing onto the wooden dragon.

The dragon had a pink painted on belly with light red wings, and she hugged it to her chest, squealing. "I love it Daddy!"

He would smile, off into space for a moment before kneeling down and placing a hand on her unruly hair.

"And I love you. Happy birthday, (Y/n)."

-

Someone snapped their fingers in her face a few times, calling out her name. (Y/n) jumped, startled out of her trance and looked over to see Riddle, looking over at her, a both annoyed and worried look on his face. They were in history class now, her last period before lunch break.

"Sorry. I zoned out, didn't I?"

Riddle sighed, looking back at the board to see if he needed to take any notes. "You did." He said, finally. "Has everything been okay? You've been spacing out a lot more often lately."

(Y/n) smiled over at him, nodding her head. "I'm fine."

"Gotta say, I haveta agree with Riddle on this one." Epel spoke up from the other side of her, setting down his pencil as professor Trein continued his lecture in the front of class.

"Ya been actin' weirdly lately. N'yesturday ya passed out in Proffessor Crewels class. Ya sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." She repeated, "I've just been thinking of home a lot more lately."

Admitting this, as the bell rang Riddle stood up, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"I can't assure Crowley can find you a way home, though just know if you ever need anything, Heartslabyul is open to lend you an ear."

A smile brightened her face, and (Y/n) nodded. "Thanks, Riddle. That means a lot more than you probably think it does."

He gave a small smile and nodded, heading out the door. Gathering up the rest of her materials, she walked out to her locker and shoved them away, before heading to the cafeteria to eat. They were serving some interesting dishes today, though she'd settled on a chicken sandwich with a side of corn and a yogurt cup.

Peering throug the drinks, (Y/n) picked up a drink and walked over to the lunch table where Ace, Deuce, and Grim where already waiting. Grim was already almost done with his food and Deuce smiled as (Y/n) sat down and eagerly bit into her sandwich.

"Hungry today?"

"Yeah. I skipped breakfast."

(Y/n) said, with a full mouth, continuing to eat with a happy look on her face. Ace and Deuce shared a look as she swatted away Grim's paw that was outstretching towards her plate.

"Sorry, not today, Grim."

(Y/n) half-heartedly mumbled, opening the lid to her drink and taking a sip of it to wash down the sandwich she'd eaten.

"Soooo... (N/n), you said your dads name was Drerek, right?"

Ace started off, making her look up at him in slight confusion, half paused at taking a bite of her chicken sandwich. She pulled back, setting her sandwich down an smacking Grims hand when it tried to grab it without blinking.

"Yes, why?"

She inquired, in slight confusion.

"So then... Why is Derek (L/n) in the history textbook in the 1900's section?"

Ace and Deuce shared a look with each other again as (Y/n) started at them, in bewilderment. Her jaw tightened, and she pursed her lips. "If this is your attempt at a sick joke then-"

"We're not joking." They cut her off at the same time, and Deuce fished out a textbook from his bag. "You remember the page number?" Ace asked, peeking over his shoulder. "Yeah. it's 671." Deuce responded, flipping through it until he came to a page with an underlined name.

He pushed the textbook towards (Y/n), and she looked down at it, heart jumping in shock.

"What..?"

#twisted wonderland #x reader #fem!reader #twist malleus #malleus x reader #twisted wonderland malleus #malleus draconia #twisted wonderland lilia #lilia vanrouge

[miyuti]

“Tea..! Fresh tea!” the Tea Master calls out from his stand, a warm smile on his face as he serves the warm, magical tasting beverage from his ceramic teapot. The sound of the pouring liquid into the wooden, hand-carved cups made from a weeping willow coming over the little girl in front of the stall, waiting impatiently to get her taste of this magical tea. “Here you go, little one. Careful now.. it’s piping hot.” The Tea Master warns, but the girl does not heed his words, gripping onto the cup and hurrying off to her mother. The Tea Master laughs, looking down at his ceramic teapot, he ponders.. What would it be like to have a child of his own?

“Welcome to the world, little one..”

Awakening with a shock, you sit up with a teapot mysteriously placed on your lap, you can’t help but feel familiar with the feel of it. Looking around, you have been placed in the middle of an overgrown plot of land with a simple, yet mysterious wooden mailbox next to you. You stand up and realize.. this is the new life you’ve been given, and you must make the best of it.

Hello friends! Thank you for stopping by! Underneath the cut will be my very first Legacy challenge on this blog! It's a Tea Inspired Legacy! I hope you enjoy!

I apologize in advance, this post will be long, but I hope it'll be worth it for you! Or I will disappoint you as much as EA's new packs do-

Before we begin, I'd like to clarify some things and give some general notes that might be good to keep in mind for this challenge! As well as tag some creators that were a HUGE help with this challenge! Thank you so much to @magpietrait @nicatnite88 @vibratingbed @forbiddenwhims and @pluto-sims for the help with this challenge!! They were all a big help with giving me motivation, inspiration and feedback! Kisses for all of u gimme ur autograph pls ty ♡ Dividers by @/cafekitsune here on tumblr!

❥ 1. Please do not feel pressured to conform to every single rule I've set in this Legacy Challenge! If you feel it is stressing you out, CHANGE IT! Nobody will get mad at you, not me, not anybody. Focus on having fun instead of feeling like it's a chore.

❥ 2. Please tag me in your stories, edits and sim screenshots for this legacy!! I want to see what you guys do with this. Of course it's no requirement, but it'd make me a very happy little dude!

❥ 3. If you are having struggles with choosing a name for each Tea Generation, feel free to use the actual generation name instead! Though, there's a lot of tea out there, so I don't think that will be an issue.

❥ 4. Keep in mind that you're allowed to mix and match the traits and aspirations I've chosen for each generation! And if those traits don't work out for your story, feel free to pick your own!

❥ 5. Don't feel like you have to make your sim a specific style, if you have an idea for your Generation Heir/Founder, go nuts!! I encourage creativity on this blog! i love seeing ppls sim ocs fr pls go nuts im begging u

❥ 6. You may mix and match with the generation order! If you feel that something would be more fun to complete now, go right ahead! Or if you feel a specific Tea Name would better suit the sim you're working on right now, feel free to shuffle the names around!

❥ 7. You can play on whatever lifespan you want, no rule for that. Whatever you feel is the optimal for you! Normal, Custom or Long, doesnt matter!

Now for the General Rule Set! These will be your Foundation for your legacy challenge, and these are the ones I highly recommend you do not change, as they're what sets the groundwork for your stories! At least I'd like to think that--

❥ 1. The most important rule of them all, there must be a teapot somewhere in each Generation house. See it as an heirloom from the Tea Master! Why it's in the spot it is, what attachment your sim has to it and why they decide to keep it is completely up to you! It can be any sort of teapot, CC, Functional or purely a Decoration, doesn't matter as long as it looks like a teapot!

❥ 2. You start out with 1800 Simoleons and choose a bigger plot of land. You may not move from this plot of land until the last generation is finished.

❥ 3. For every world outside of the one your sims live in you must pay a Bus Ticket Fee of 50 Simoleons. If you own the High School Years pack, going to school or prom will not require you to pay the fee, as school buses exist. You also do not need to pay when traveling to different neighbourhoods in the same world as your home, as you can walk to the block down the street but cant walk from Los Angeles to New York City.

❥ 4. You must start off the Legacy as a Teenager! You are not allowed to have part-time jobs during your time as a teenager, you need to live off of the land.

❥ 5. You may add as many gameplay mods as you want, however you may not use cheats to increase skill gain, funds or needs, you may not use cheats to boost your career, delete moodlets or add moodlets to your sims. Only some exceptions that will be stated in the rules when they come up.

❥ 6. You have to name your sims after the tea type stated in their generation! So for example, Generation 1 could be named Earl Gray as a first name and Tea as a last name! (The last name is required.)

❥ 7. Your lot must have the 'Simple Living' Lot Challenge. For an extra challenge you may add the 'Off-the-Grid' Lot Challenge too.

♡ Generation One - Black Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choices:

Successful Lineage or

Big Happy Family

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Gloomy

Self-Assured

Ambitious

Family-Oriented

Jealous

❥ Career Choices:

Unemployed! (Srry abt that)

❥ Life Goals:

If you are getting a spouse, marry them after becoming Good Friends.

Have at least two children.

Plan Birthday Events for every single sim in your household (outside of pets and farm animals)

Have two or more of your Children fall in the range of a Positive Extra Trait. (Such as Mediator, Good Manners, etc.)

Max the Parenting skill.

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Two - Green Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Angling Ace or

The Curator

❥ Trait Choices (Choose Only 3!):

Green Fiend

Recycle Disciple

Lazy

Loves Outdoors

Genius

❥ Career Choices:

Culinary or

Conservationist

❥ Life Goals:

Complete the Fish Collection and/or

Complete the Mineral Collection

Max your Career!

(If you want one) Find your Spouse in Granite Falls or Henford-on-Bagley

Make your Neighbourhood Eco Footprint Green!

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Three - White Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Master Chef or

Master Mixologist

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Foodie

Slob

Clumsy

Neat

Lactose Intolerant

❥ Career Choices:

Culinary (any branch)

❥ Life Goals:

Max Cooking Skill and/or

Max Mixologist Skill

Max Gourmet Cooking Skill

Purchase the 'Forever Full' Reward Trait

(Optional) Start your own Restaurant!

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Four - Pu Ehr Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Extreme Sports Enthusiast or

Archaeology Scholar

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Active

Adventurous

Loves Outdoors

Squeamish

Self-Absorbed

❥ Career Choices:

Military or

Athlete

❥ Life Goals:

Propose at the top of Mt. Komorebi and/or

Explore the Jungle at least 3 times in your lifetime

Have a child complete an Active aspiration

Max out Archaeology Skill and/or

Max out Rock Climbing Skill

Buy the Reward Trait 'Brave'

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Five - Yellow Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Academic or

Computer Whiz

❥ Optional Challenges:

Complete the teenage aspiration Live Fast or Goal-Oriented

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Overachiever

Socially Awkward

Mean

Creative

Outgoing

Party Animal

❥ Career Choices:

Free Space! You may choose this one.

❥ Life Goals:

Graduate from University with an A or higher as your final GPA

Meet your soulmate at University!

Raise a child with the traits Top-Notch Infant & Top Notch Toddler as well as have that child complete a childhood aspiration.

Purchase the 'Mentor' Reward Trait

Complete the Fossil collection

Complete the Elements collection

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Six - Oolong Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

World-Famous Celebrity or

Master Actor/Actress

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Kleptomaniac

Self-Absorbed

High Maintenance

Music Lover

Good

Outgoing

❥ Career Choices:

Actor/Actress

❥ Life Goals:

Become a Proper Celebrity before the Adult Life Stage

Have either a Great or Awful Reputation before the Adult Life Stage

Become Enemies with 2 or more sims

Max out your Career

Win 3 Awards

Max out your Singing Skill

Max out your Dancing Skill

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Seven - Herbal Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Freelance Botanist or

Outdoor Enthusiast

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Loves Outdoors

Freegan

Squeamish

Loyal

Maker

Genius

❥ Career Choices:

Gardener or

Civil Designer

❥ Life Goals:

Max out the Gardening Skill

Max out the Herbalism Skill

Purchase the 'Super Green Thumb' Reward Trait

Make one of each Herbal Remedy

Complete the Insect Collection

Max out your Career

Complete your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Eight - Floral Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

The Curator or

Country Caretaker

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Foodie

Art Lover

Animal Enthusiast

Hot Headed

Adventurous

Clumsy

❥ Career Choices:

Gardener (the career path you didnt choose this time) or

Unemployed

❥ Life Goals:

Max out the Flower Arranging Skill

Save a sim from the Grim Reaper with a Death Flower

Purchase the 'Forever Fresh' Reward Trait

Be Good Friends with at least 5 of your Farm Animals

Max out Knitting skill

Knit 10 articles of clothing for your sims and/or animals

Max out your Aspiration!

♡ Generation Nine - Rooibos Tea ♡

❥ Aspiration Choice:

Nerd Brain or

Master Maker

❥ Trait Choices (Choose only 3!):

Maker

Green Fiend

Materialistic

Geek

Romantic

Unflirty

❥ Career Choice:

Engineer

❥ Life Goals:

Max out Robotics Skill

Max out Fabrication Skill

Build a Servo Bot

Finish the Metals Collection

Max out our Career

Complete your aspiration!

Thank you so much for taking the time with reading this post! I hope you enjoy the challenge, even if its just for the storytelling part! This is my first time making any challenge so I'm sorry if the challenges are underwhelming, but I hope that it won't be too easy! I'm not sure if this is actually doable because I am garbage at actually doing legacy challenges- Have a great day friends~

#ts4 challenge #the sims 4 legacy challenge #legacy challenge #long post #Tea Legacy Challenge #ugh this was so stressful but so fun at the same time #Tea Legacy Challenge Info Post

[smurphyse]

Portrait of Trauma

Series Masterlist | Smurph's Masterlist

Part 5 of Mutual Irritation

Warnings: arguments, mentions of abusee

Summary: Spencer spends a day watching you work and it frustrates the hell out of him. When JJ and Emily call later, it only pisses him off more.

Spencer couldn't figure her out. 

As she interacted with customers, bright and cheery and clomping around in those ridiculous shoes of hers, she showed no sign of the fear of someone being stalked like prey. She laughed with regulars as he sat behind the counter with a book he couldn't read because he had to observe her amidst the crowd. 

When they were alone she was reserved, pieces of herself held back and protected behind layers of steel. Now, it seemed she was further behind them and the first line of defense was to pretend that she was the happiest girl in the world.

He couldn't tell if she was just in her element, or if this was a carefully constructed facade for the world around her. Maybe the facade was only around when she was alone with him. 

Spencer tried not to let his gaze linger on her curls bouncing out of that claw clip, or admire the gentle curve of her neck. She was beautiful, like delicately carved marble…and that fact that she was still wearing his cardigan didn't help. It fluttered halfway down her thighs as she helped pull books off of shelves and rang people up at the register, and more than once he caught her pulling the collar up to her nose to breathe in his scent. 

He wondered if she liked it, but a part of him hoped she didn't. 

After a long day of sitting and watching, bored out of his skull and desperate for a shower, she finally walked the last customer out and locked the door behind them. On an instinct that made him feel better about her ability to protect herself, she shielded his view from the keypad as she typed in the alarm code. 

She turned and flashed him an awkward smile. The facade was gone, or maybe it was back. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat."

He said nothing, and she gave a small huff before making her way up the stairs. Her boots clunked with each stomp, as if she were trying to wake the dead. The alarm blared upstairs as they stepped inside, and Spencer groaned in annoyance. The steady thump of a forming headache only increased at the sound. 

He stood uncomfortably in the doorway as she turned it off, then went about what seemed to be her normal routine; take off shoes, bring them back into the shoe room, then head into her closet. 

He followed, clearing the rooms with a peek around the corners until he was satisfied. Her little closet hallway was filled to the brim with clothes, obviously more expensive for his taste but he was sure they looked good on her. Everything seemed to. 

"The shower sticks sometimes," she said absentmindedly as she dug through the closet, pulling out a crushed yellow velvet duster that she used as a robe. "You just need to jiggle the handle and it'll go."

Spencer lingered in the doorway as you pulled out the smallest pair of cotton shorts he'd seen in his life and waved it at him. He flinched back, and she gave him a reassuring smile, "You said you like to shower before bed, right?"

Spencer's cheeks flushed with heat, "Uh, yeah. I'll go… do that."

She squinted at him as he turned away, but he pretended not to notice. He gathered some checkered pajama pants and a sweater and made his way to the bathroom. It was small, with a clawfoot tub and a wrap-around shower curtain. The floor was checkered with small black and white tiles.

She had eucalyptus hanging from the showerhead, bottles of vanilla and cinnamon washes and shampoos alike sitting on a wooden shelf built into the wall. Spencer spotted butters and creams, as well as something called sugar scrub that he wasn’t sure what the use could be. 

Sure enough, the shower stuck. Spencer grunted in frustration as he jiggled the handle, and finally water came through the old pipes. Spencer closed the curtain and sat on the lid of the toilet, putting his head in his hands and sighing. 

He already hated it here. Even though he enjoyed the books and the atmosphere, watching her pretend all day like she wasn't being hunted down like a dog bothered him. Had she spent the last eleven years like this? Or had it taken time to learn, time to be beaten down until only the mask remained?

The shrill ringing on his phone startled him, and he let out a small gasp as it buzzed in his pocket. He dug his hand in, grumbling to himself, pulled it out and read the screen. Rolling his eyes, he swiped it and held the phone up to his ear.

“Yeah, JJ?” 

“Hey, how’s it going?” her voice came through the line. “Did everything go okay?”

“It’s fine. I’m about to take a shower,” he mumbled, frowning down at his shoes. He eyed them critically, they weren’t nearly as nice as a single pair Emily’s mistake owned. “She has one hundred and eighty three pairs of shoes in her closet.”

"Jesus," Luke muttered, making Spencer furrow his brow. 

“Courtesy of Finn Doyle,” Emily’s voice rang in the background. “He bought her a lot and she started buying them for herself.”

Spencer groaned, “Am I on the Round Table Room phone?”

“Gang’s all here!” Rossi called. “Tell us all about it, kid.”

"She just helped customers all day. Nobody suspicious." Spencer glared down at his shoes again, not looking forward to having to replace those heels of hers he helped break. "She's good at pretending she's not terrified."

"Is she still wearing your cardigan?" JJ asked, and Spencer could see the mischievous grin plastered on her face. 

"No," he lied, but he wasn't sure why. He just didn't want to talk about it right now. "Look, it's been a long day and I haven't slept in over twenty four hours. I gotta go."

"Reid, wait," Emily's voice came again, and he heard the distinct click of the line disconnecting from the conference room phone. After a few moments of rustling, she spoke, "How is she really?"

"I don't know her well enough to give you a good answer. She seems fine, though she doesn't like me much."

"If you read her file-."

"No," Spencer snapped, cutting her off. He rubbed his face roughly with his free hand and sighed, "I can tell enough without reading it. She's fucking traumatized and cut herself off from the world as much as she could. You can't even tell it's daylight in the store and she spent all day with a smile on her face like nothing was wrong. 

"She's an abuse victim. I don't need a file to tell me what he did to her," he muttered into the phone. "How she acts tells me enough."

"She's a good kid, Spencer. She's just been through a lot."

"She's not a kid, Emily. She's thirty one years old."

"I know, I know," she said quickly, but it seemed more like she was trying to convince herself. "She used to smile for real, you know?"

"I'm sure," was all he said back. 

"I think if you let yourself you might like it there," Emily said quietly, musing to herself. "With all those books and the restoration she does, maybe you'll… I don't know, maybe you'll ease up a little."

"Emily…" he groaned, happy the sound of the shower was muffling his voice. "I just want to get this over with and come home."

"Do you?" she asked seriously and it made him roll his eyes. "You haven't been you in a long time. Maybe it'll be good for you, to get away and just focus on this."

"Emily, I gotta go."

Spencer didn't wait for her reply, just ended the call and set his phone on the sink ledge. The screen lit up immediately with Emily’s photo calling him back, but he ignored it and stepped into the shower. 

He let the water wash over him, annoyed that he had to bend down to get under the stream. Clawfoot tub showers were meant for people much shorter than him, and he could see over the top of the curtain if he stood up straight. 

When he dried off and got dressed he stepped out into the living room to find the lights still on but her door closed. He grumbled to himself and stomped over, knocking on the hardwood. 

There was no answer, so he slowly turned the handle and opened it. She was lounging on her stomach, reading a book and eating cookies from a sleeve of Chips Ahoy. 

"What?" she asked through a mouthful.

Spencer sighed angrily at the little shorts she had on, really trying not to notice the outline of her ass under the thin cotton. "You have to keep the door open."

"But I'm going to bed," she replied, scrunching up her face, that little button nose only making him more frustrated. 

"I don't care." 

"Fine, leave it open then," she growled. She snapped the book shut and got to her knees to glare at him with her hands on her hips. 

Spencer took a moment to take in her bedroom. She seemed to prefer fairy lights, and they dripped from each corner, lined with faux vines. Painted canvases covered the walls, mostly of the bookshop downstairs. Others were of locations he couldn't place, but his gaze landed on one of Emily, of her undercover as Lauren Reynolds.

Sitting in a bed of violet flowers and dressed in cream linen, Lauren basked in soft amber light. It highlighted Emily's high cheekbones and strong jaw, gleaming off the pendant necklace he remembered Ian Doyle had given her. 

She noticed his gawking at the painting and waved a dismissive hand at it, "I painted that a long time ago."

"I thought you hated Emily," he said quietly. She'd obviously painted it with care. From the way Emily's hair was highlighted with delicate brush strokes to the detail in the clothing and background, she'd put a lot of work into it. 

"I didn't hate Lauren," she whispered, almost to herself. She looked to the piece with a strange longing, so heavy with memory that Spencer had to shift his gaze away. 

"Goodnight," he said instead, turning and making his way back toward the couch. 

She didn't say anything back, but after a moment he heard the click of the light switch. A pile of blankets and pillows already laid on the couch cushions, and Spencer was far too tired to pull the whole bed from the unit, so he unfurled them and laid down. 

Looking up at the ceiling, Spencer scoffed. She'd painted it, some remake of Michaelangelo's Sistine Chapel but in her own distinct style. It still held the emotion and detail of the Chapel, but her brush work and anatomy was a bit more accurate and detailed with more pastels and gold foil. 

She was talented, that much could be said. He'd never read her books, but if she put as much into them as she did her art and restoration of old volumes, they were surely good, even if they were porn with plot novels. 

With his eyes, Spencer followed each curve and line of the art, letting it lull his beating chest into a dull thump. Soon enough it pulled him under, and he gave way to blessed sleep. 

-----------------

"What you wanna do? I got that old thing back…"

Spencer groaned as he peeled open his eyes, glaring up at the painted ceiling as the booming music woke him up. He sat up slowly on the tiny couch, his aging back screaming at him for laying with his feet slung over the armrest all night. 

He realized the music was coming behind him, and when he looked to where yesterday two bookshelves had rested against the wall, he found them split apart to reveal a bright room. 

“The fuck?” he muttered, thinking it was a dream. It was early, the sun just beginning to poke through the curtains and wash him in amber light. 

"Old thing back

Like B I double G I E, with some R U L E

Notorious know to bust in your E Y E, baby baby

Bitches know they love and hate me."

The music didn’t seem like something he’d dream about, although he’d heard the song because of Morgan and Blake. It was a remix of one of The Notorious B.I.G.'s songs and someone else who’s name he hadn’t bothered to learn. Cautiously, Spencer rose from the couch and made his way to the opening in the wall, wondering if he should grab his gun from under the dresser in the closet.

An array of canvases on easels were perched around the room, painted with landscapes and portraits and scenes. They were all oil-based with a lot of detail and colors, and Spencer eyed each of them as he made his way further inside. 

There were no windows, instead bright covered lights were mounted into the ceiling to simulate daylight. He rounded a table full of art supplies and finally spotted Emily's Mistake perched on a wooden stool in front of a canvas. 

She looked like a painting herself, a stunning piece of artwork with that crushed velvet robe flowing out behind her. Her bare feet rested on the bottom rung of the easel, legs toned from years of walking in high heels. A bright white scar stood out on her left thigh, shredded and marring her otherwise unmarked legs. 

He spotted a bruise on the bottom of one of her thighs, probably from falling the day before in the doorway, and guilt tore its way into his chest at the sight. He ripped his gaze from it to land on her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her tank top, then cleared his throat. 

She didn't hear him over the music, instead swaying in time with the beat and mouthing the lyrics to herself. Her curls were no longer held up in the clip, but flowed in ringlets down her back. 

It infuriated him. She looked too good, and he hadn't slept with anyone in so long his stupid dick wanted to take control of his mind. The way she leaned in close, holding a pallet in one hand and a thin brush in the other and lost in her work, she was more beautiful than he'd like to admit. 

He slowly stepped closer to peek at what she was painting, his breath catching in his throat. 

On a gray painted canvas, she was detailing a picture of Spencer. Leaning over the old copy of War and Peace, he saw a half finished image of himself, smiling so much softer than he could remember having done so in years. 

The light caught his brushed out curls in a way that made him look ethereal, bouncing off his cheekbone in the profile of his face. She'd drawn in the small wrinkles in the corner of his eye, the gentle curve of his smile, a shine on his bottom lip from him licking them. 

He looked happy, immersed in watching the book, the dim lighting of the restricted area glittering off his eye. She'd even put the small scar on his cheekbone and the one on his neck from getting shot a few years back. 

Spencer didn't recognize himself. 

Each time he looked in the mirror he saw only the broken shell of his former self. A little heavier and a lot more tired, the dark circles under his eyes that had once been an afterthought were now one of the more prominent of his features. Here he was vibrant, not as youthful as he hoped he looked but he seemed…happy, content. 

Was this how she saw him? Or how she chose to paint him?

She turned her head and noticed him, jumping and dropping the paintbrush on the ground, and he took a step back as she let out a startled yelp. 

"Jesus Christ!" she gasped, clutching her chest with her free hand as the brush clattered to the tile floor.  

"Sorry," he called over the music. She reached over to a table and grabbed a remote, turning it off and leaving them in pained silence. 

"I didn't know this room was here," he said, and her cheeks turned bright red. "I told you I need to know all points of entry and I need to enter a room before you do."

She glowered at him as she leaned down to pick up the brush. She wiped it off on her leg, leaving a streak of orangey brown oils on her thigh, "The only way in here is through the bookcases."

"Okay, but I didn't come in here before you, did I?"

Spencer tried to contain his annoyance as she rolled her eyes, "Maybe I wanted one thing to keep to myself…"

"You can keep your life if you manage to just listen to me, Y/N."

"Fuck you," she snapped, turning back to the canvas. She definitely didn't see him the way the picture looked, then. 

Spencer stepped forward to inspect her work, impressed with the level of detail. He must have only been in that position for a few moments, and she hadn't taken a picture of him, and yet it looked as though it was drawn from one. 

He eyed the paintings around him, thinking of the one of Lauren Reynolds in her bedroom. 

"Do you have an eidetic memory?" he found himself asking. 

She squinted up at him, then looked back at the picture. It was half finished, only his face and hair painted in, everything else left in a sketch on the gray canvas. 

"Uh, no, just a good one." She frowned and looked sheepishly back up at him, "Is this weird? I just started drawing this morning and this is what came out."

Spencer's eyes widened a little, her small embarrassed smile lighting something within him. He didn't want to make her feel awkward, so he shook his head, "No. You're…very talented."

"I know. I had very little to work with," she chuckled. When he glared down at her she shrugged, "That was an attempt at a joke. You never smile, do you, Spencer?"

"There's not much to smile about," he muttered, but instantly regretted it. 

Her shoulders deflated, and she stood quickly from the stool and began putting away her supplies. He shoved his hands in his pockets and said in what he hoped was a reassuring voice, "You don't want to finish?"

She shrugged with her back to him, "The inspiration is gone."

Spencer groaned internally. He couldn't seem to say the right thing around this woman so he decided to take a look around instead. A rack of finished canvases rested in the corner of the room, and he found himself walking toward it. 

"What are you doing?" she asked sharply as he walked past her. 

Spencer pointed at the racks, feeling caught, "Do you mind if I take a look?"

She eyed him warily, chewing on her cheek as she thought. Finally, she waved a hand, "Go ahead. Those are… old ones."

Spencer made his way over, the weight of her gaze settling heavily between his shoulders. Rows of finished works lived inside the racks, leaning against one another and piled high in any spot she could fit them. 

There were portraits of people he didn't know, landscapes of places he did. One was of Paris, one of an old bar in Williamsburg. 

He tugged on the corner of a large one and pulled it out, recognizing the home instantly. It was Ian Doyle's mansion in Italy, an exact match for the photos he'd seen when investigating the man. 

After Emily faked her death, Spencer studied the files inside and out to learn more about the man who had killed his friend. He thought time and time again about finding his old dealer and buying dilaudid, almost always when he was searching through those damned files for the monster who had taken Emily from him. 

It was dated four years ago, long after Emily's Mistake left Italy and fled from Finn Doyle and his abuse. It wasn't painted in the bright light of the Italian countryside, instead clouded by shadows and red lights. 

Had he not known better, he would have thought it was just a depiction of it at night, but he knew enough. 

This had been her cage. 

This house was as much a monster to her as her abuser was, the literal embodiment of her abuse and torture at the hands of her ex boyfriend. 

Spencer's eye caught on a picture of the man himself, standing tall and imposing in a cacophony of grays and blacks. He'd seen a picture of Finn years ago when they first heard about Ian, and he seemed like just another IRA grunt, but here…

His sharp jaw and piercing eyes jumped from the canvas. His light blue eyes were the only part of it in color, and even though the hue was cool, somehow his irises raged violently toward the viewer. He was beautiful, stunningly so, oddly mesmerizing for one Spencer knew to be a cruel and awful man. 

"He wasn't always scary," she said behind him, making him turn to face her. She shrugged and waved a paintbrush at him, "I mean, he was always a criminal, but… he didn't used to be cruel."

"Not to you, but probably to others," Spencer replied. 

She nodded and looked down at her stained hands, "That's fair. I guess I let myself be naive to what he was really like."

Spencer set the canvas back in the rack and made his way over to her. Standing on the side of the table opposite to her, he shoved his hand in his pocket and rubbed the back of his neck with the other. 

"You were just a kid. He was a lot older than you. How were you supposed to know?"

She caught his eye, watching him with a queer gleam and a furrowed brow, as if he were trying to trick her. She set down the brush and leaned on her hands on the table, and Spencer desperately tried to avoid looking down her shirt. 

"Have you read my file?" she asked quietly. Her small jaw was set tightly, working over as she obviously tried to quell her anxiety at his answer. 

"No," he said back, just as quiet. "I don't want to know what he did to you."

She cocked her head, "Why? Isn't that your job?"

Spencer shook his head and let out a long sigh, "My job is to keep you safe until Emily finds him."

"And what did you do that made her decide to give you the shit babysitting detail?"

There was something mischievous about the way she asked it, as if she wanted one more reason to prove that Emily didn't care or way or another about what happened to her. It made Spencer defensive, especially of Emily, who he knew to have a lion's heart and a steadfast loyalty to those she cared for. 

"She trusts me to do what needs to be done," Spencer told her seriously, leaning on the table himself to hammer his point in. "She was terrified for your safety when she found out Doyle was back in the States."

"She didn't do anything last time he came here, when he found me in Dallas," she growled, her face taking a dangerous turn as she glared at him. "She left me to fend for myself."

"Well, you're not alone anymore, are you?" Spencer snapped. He'd had enough, and he didn't want to hear any more about Dallas or how it was probably connected to that scar on her thigh. 

She flinched back, but her lip curled into a snarl. 

"I wish I was."

"Too bad," he grunted, glaring right back. "You're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you."

She scoffed, a bitter chuckle falling from her lips that only infuriated Spencer further. "You're an asshole, you know that?"

Spencer stood straight and crossed his arms over his chest, "You're not much fun to be around either, sweetheart."

"Fuck you," she snapped. 

"Fuck you," he snapped back. 

She said nothing else, just turned on her heel and walked out of the room. 

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

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Notes: Please let me know what you think! Feedback and comments are what fuel the fire for this story! <3

CM Forever Tag:

@thedancingcostumeyoungadult @muffin-cup @simplyparker @spencerreidsmommy @hotchandspencearedilfs @gspenc @kbakery @nomajdetective @givemeth @hoshihiime @halloween-is-my-nationality @reidselle @thisiscalmanditsdoctorreid @dreatine @thebloomingeagle @fortheloveofwonderland @theforgottenwinter @parkerreidnorth @reidselle @randomhoex @scargarcia-magshotchner @stitchwrites @pygmygoat-bicyclehelmet @cle13 @aysixdy @elhotchner @directioner5life @elhotchner @loveeee2134 @preciousbabypeter @la-stuffs @stories-you-wont-hear @hotchlover @fortheloveofwonderland @lokiandhisdagger @bellanutellababyyy @dark-night-sky-99 @straightforbuckybutgayfornatasha @maltamurdock @charelletjee @kansas-reid @zephyrmonkey @spencer-reid-wonderland @spencersprettyslut 

#spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #criminal minds #smurphyse #criminal minds fanfic #spencer x oc #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #cm fandom #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid/you #spencer reid/reader #criminalminds #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid x reader #spencer x reader #criminal minds smut #spencer reid smut #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid/y/n #smurph writes

[monstersandmaw]

HouseMates - Chpt One - m. vampire x m. werewolf (sfw)

I shared on our Patreon Discord that I was working on an idea, and I've now got enough together to share a WIP Chapter One for you.

The theme is 'enemy species to friends to lovers' rather than 'enemies to lovers', and features a very out of touch vampire and a werewolf who's trying to rebuild his life after having been driven out of his pack and left alone in the world.

Content warning: very brief mention of a werewolf attack (not by the mc) and the resulting trauma; familial rejection; risk of homelessness; antagonistic species

Wordcount: 4838

_

Extract:

At 6.28pm the following Wednesday, he walked up to the front door of a converted Victorian mansion, set back off a broad, leafy street and surrounded by simple but manicured gardens, and pressed the buzzer for apartment number four with a trembling finger, praying to the moon that this would work out.

He caught the faintest scent of something supernatural, something beyond the normal, everyday scents he was constantly and subconsciously filtering out, and he frowned, but before he could figure out what the wafting smell had been, the intercom buzzed and a clipped, male voice answered. “Yes?”

“Uh, it’s Adam Selhurst? Here to see about sharing the apartment?”

He hated the way it came out like a question; like his confidence was at rock bottom; like this was his last hope before moving out onto the street; because it was. All of it.

“Oh, yes…” After a pause during which Adam heard a little puff of breath that sounded anxious, that quietly-lilting voice added, “Of course. Come on up then.”

The lock clicked open and Adam pushed the sturdy, black front door open and wiped his boots on the coconut matting in the foyer.

An inviting miasma of cooking aromas wafted out from a ground floor apartment as he made his way inside and let the door close quietly behind him. His stomach growled and his mouth flooded with saliva at the thought of rich, hot, homemade food. He’d grabbed some rather stale, greasy tacos from a truck on his way back from work, but now he smelled celery and carrots, spices and minced beef in a rich stock, with the lighter, floury scent of pasta and béchamel sauce and a tang of cheese. Someone was making lasagna. His stomach rumbled again.

Ignoring it as best he could, he set his worn-out, steel toe-capped boot to the first tread of the stairs and made his way up the sweeping staircase to the second floor of the huge old house. All around him, the place creaked and seemed to breathe as the wood of the floors expanded as people turned up their heating at the end of the day, and pipes ticked and groaned contentedly. The place had character; soul.

“Don’t get too attached,” he told himself to try and ward against too much hope. “The guy might be a freak.” But heck, even if he was an axe murderer, Adam was tempted to take a room in his apartment anyway. He was six foot tall and as broad at the shoulder as a rugby flanker, and he was a werewolf. He could take on an axe murderer if it meant a roof over his head. Probably.

Fuck.

Once again though, behind the scent of furniture polish and floor wax and the enticing lasagna still drifting up from two floors below, he caught the scent of something… other. It made him think of the cool calm of a chapel crypt or the simple peace of a sepulchre, interwoven with the distant spice of incense and the faint tang of old blood. He’d smelled it before and knew what it meant. A vampire had been there.

Glancing around to check for anyone who might happen to see him behaving oddly in the hallway, he lowered his nose cautiously to the carved, wooden banister and inhaled again. Yes, a vampire had definitely touched it, and fairly recently for the smell to linger. The undead don’t leave a trace for long.

A floorboard creaked somewhere on the second floor and he jumped, straightening up and straining his hearing, but he heard no footsteps or heartbeats, and forced himself to relax. Just a shifting old house.

With a frown, he continued up the last few stairs and emerged onto the second floor of the old mansion. He passed by apartment three’s front door and turned right on the landing towards apartment four, which sat on the north side of the building and overlooked the grounds at the back.

The trace of vampire scent got steadily stronger, but there was no smell of spilled blood and he heard no signs of a struggle or distress. The scent was simply… there.

Adam knocked on the door and it opened a few seconds later.

At first, Adam was too struck by the beauty of the young man standing there to react at all.

Perhaps five foot ten or eleven, slender, and smartly dressed, his features were sharp, his expression stern and a little standoffish, with a pale rosebud mouth and glacially white cheeks. High cheekbones gave an almost gaunt look to his cut-glass jaw though, and his dark eyebrows pinched together at the sight of Adam standing there.

The man’s thick, glossy black hair was swept back off his face in an artfully dishevelled way, and it was the kind of hair that made Adam’s fingers ache to tug and scrunch his grip just hard enough to draw a moan. He looked like he was not long back from work, with his white shirt cuffed up to the elbows to reveal pale, lean forearms, and unbuttoned at the throat to show the delicate architecture of his collar bones. They made Adam’s wolf want to lick and bite, and he cut off that line of thought before it went anywhere further.

The man’s lip curled, his aloof expression turning suddenly hostile, and he let his black eyes rake up and down Adam’s body. “This isn’t going to work,” he said in that erudite, haughty baritone, and he made to shut the door in Adam’s face.

Read the whole thing over on my Patreon right now, and gain access to a huge back catalogue of Patreon-exclusive stories, and this month's story with a minotaur who's got himself in trouble with the law simply for trying to do the right thing...

#mlm exophilia #male vampire #male werewolf #male vampire x male werewolf #vampire x werewolf #werewolf x vampire #exophilia #vampire boyfriend #werewolf boyfriend

[professor-amaryllis]

[Pelliper mail....? Oh! That's a Delibird in there! And it has a present! Delliper mail!(?)

Inside the hefty package is various items, a mix of cool finds and handmade curios! You have received:

A utility Held Item clip! Helps pokemon who don't have hands make use of held items! And look- already has a poison barb slotted into it! The clip end is also clipped onto a dragon fang!

A long... Tube of fabric? After closer inspection, it's two sweater arms stitched to eachother, with elastic cuffs at either end... Oh! It's a makeshift sweater for Slinky! ... How would Slinky even use this without just slithering out of it..?

A bag of cat pokemon toys, labeled with some sneasel stickers.

An elastic, handmade bead bracelet! Threaded onto it is a dulled poison barb, possibly letting Amy match one of his team members (without stabbing himself if he moves the wrong way).

A set of plant safe nursery paints, meant for decorating or labeling plants in plant nurseries, but it's useful for plant pokemon too!

Some carved pokeball shells, one depicting the face markings of cooper, and the other depicting Slinky's hood markings.

A galvantula sized pokemon sweater. Clearly wasn't originally meant for galvantula before the sides were cut up. Now it fits perfectly!

A little desktop zen garden kit, complete with little Oddish figures! The kit was clearly tampered with, as the sand bag was replaced with a shimmering pouch of stardust, and a small wooden figure of a dustox was added.

A modified purple hoodie. The hood has fluffy pipe cleaner antennae popping out of them, the front has little dustox leg designs, and the back has dustox wing patterns painted onto them.

.... A framed doodle of a Weedle sitting in a hot dog bun. Huh.

And last but not least: a handwritten note! After a bit of deciphering, it says:

"Hey there, Wild Guy. Hope the holidays are treating you well. Gathered 'n made some stuff that made me think of you. Can't believe the year is already over, it's been crazy. At least we know the next won't get any worse, hah. I'm honored to be able to call you a friend, and I'm looking forward for many more years. Don't age too quickly now. - Skrub, Cham-Chams, & the rest."]

Skrub my friend! What a delightful surprise to receive such a thoughtful gift- or series of gifts as it were! I apologize for the delay in my response, but I may have gotten a bit... distracted. I do love these though- I'll be headed to an expert as soon as I am able to transfer Slinky and Cooper's pokeball shells for these new ones, they're beautiful! Oh, and Slinky absolutely loved the sweater, Thank you again :)

#pokemon irl #pokeblogging #pkmn irl #ask #skrubbing bubbles #slinky the arbok #//aaa i typed this out and never sent it im so sorry #//also i know it said it was sweater sleeves and wouldnt be big enough for how massive slinky is but also its too cute so its stretchy lmao

[stories-from-peter]

Classic Corvette

True Stories - Classic Corvette

I used to know a young man named Todd. Todd had two great loves in his life - his girlfriend Terri and his classic 1961 Corvette. Terri didn't need much improvement since she worked as a model but the old Corvette had a few parts that needed some attention.

Todd bought the car from a man whose wife had given him an ultimatum - either she or the car had to go. Todd spent much of his spare time patching bodywork, replacing worn parts and carving new wood panels for the interior. A few months into the project the old classic was starting to look pretty good.

All the while Todd was fixing up his classic car there were other events happening that would all tie in together. Todd moved in with his friend John who worked at the stable where Terri kept her horse. It was through the horsey connection that my wife and I came to know Terri and Todd.

My wife Barb worked at a place where one of the other employees was suspected of stealing some horse related equipment. One day when we were at the barn the girl showed up to have a look around. Barb warned everyone to make sure their saddles and other valuables were safely locked away. Terri had a very expensive saddle trimmed in silver that was worth about as much as my car. She put that in the little house that Todd shared with John along with her modeling paraphernalia.

John was working with a young horse one day. The yearling was spooked by something and trapped John against the side of the stall. John climbed up the wall to get away but fell and broke his leg on the concrete floor. After coming back from the hospital John was left wearing a pair of jeans with one leg ripped to fit the cast inside and only one shoe. He managed to hobble around and help with whatever work he could manage.

A week after the broken leg incident a few horses got loose from a corral. Everyone ran to herd them back inside, including John on his crutches. John's little house had an oil burning stove for heat and as John hobbled out the door he neglected to close it. The wind was blowing fairly hard and started the oil stove burning extra hot. It got hot enough to turn the chimney pipe red hot and set the roof on fire.

Being out in the country there was no regular fire department. The local volunteer fire fighters managed to show up in time to water down the ashes of the little house. Of course, John's other shoe and the rest of his clothes were in the house along with Terri's saddle, makeup for modeling and Todd's hand carved wooden panels. That was one very expensive pile of ashes.

Todd started a new set of wood panels and continued patching and fixing the other parts until the old car was ready for painting. While the car was in the paint shop Todd arranged to go in and do some work on the brakes. He left a note that the brakes didn't work but the guys in the paint shop forgot about it when they rolled the car out of the drying room. They managed to push the car into a concrete wall. The front was caved in and had to have all new fiberglass fenders made for it. That meant Todd was without his car for another couple of weeks.

Once the old Corvette was patched up for the second time Todd took it home and bought a new set of very expensive tires. As he was driving back from the tire shop one of the tires blew out and sent the car spinning into the oncoming lane of traffic. Todd was only shaken up by the jackknifed semi that slid into him but the car was bashed up once again.

The insurance company would not replace the hand carved wood panels so Todd set to work making a third set while he waited for the car to come back from the body shop.

Todd got the car back before the wood panels were finished. He decided to complete them outside while he parked the car on a friend's front lawn. The car had been sitting on the lawn for a few hours while Todd was getting ready to install the last wood panel. The car's engine compartment began to emit some smoke and very soon the car was in flames. They managed to extinguish the fire but not before several of the wood panels had burned.

Todd was becoming an expert at hand carving wood panels for his Corvette and was very popular with the owners of the body shop too. The body shop now had a complete set of fiberglass molds for a '61 Corvette.

The work of fixing the burned car took longer than making new body panels so Todd was ready when the car was finished. He installed the body panels at the body shop where they had lots of good firefighting equipment. He headed home for what he hoped would finally be an uneventful journey.

Todd noticed he was low on gas and stopped at the first gas station he saw. This was in the days before self-serve gas was common. The attendant looked a bit inexperienced so Todd cautioned him not to spill any fuel on the car since it had recently been painted. Todd got out of the car to watch the gas jockey and make sure he made no mistakes. The lad was quite interested in the classic car and kept asking questions while Todd kept telling him to watch the filler hose. As the boy pulled the hose out of the filler tube some excess fuel spilled out of the hose and down the side of the car. Todd yelled at the kid to wipe it up. The boy grabbed a rag that had fallen to the ground and rubbed it on the new paint.

Todd lost it and punched the poor kid square on the nose. The boy ran into the office and phoned the police. Todd wasn't about to leave before somebody paid for his scratched paint so he was still there when the police arrived. After Todd explained all the events of the previous year. The police told the gas jockey not to bother them again.

#Corvette #classic car #accidents

[venusdebotticelli]

I have been screaming internally about Ed and his little wedding toppers since I saw the teaser, so here's the obligatory Ed In A Wedding Dress fic! Also obsessed with the makeover he gave the little auxiliary wardrobe figurine, which isn't something I've seen anyone else discussing yet, so obviously I had to include that too 🔥🙌🔥 {AO3}

He's got a little carved wooden skull somewhere, in his box of shit he brought over from the Queen Anne's, when he decided his unnervingly empty quarters needed more knives. He's also got plenty of scraps of black leather, with the revamping of the crew's gear they've been doing, and plenty of black paint to go around.

His hands hurt from stabbing wood, fucking up the empty shelves, gouging at the table. Must be nighttime, no light filtering through the papered-over windows, only a fat candle burning low. Creeped up on him, it did, deep as he was into his continued redecoration. His hands hurt, but they won't stay still.

The little skull shows up in the little ornate box where he keeps his stash of weed, for some reason. Happy coincidence, that. He packs his pipe as he grabs it, along with the paint and the least fucked-up brush he can find, with the bristles only a bit wonky and not shedding too much from previous abuse. He lights his pipe, and a couple of extra candles for light.

He stabs an iron nail into the underside of the skull so he can hold it without messing up the paint, and goes about turning it pitch black, really getting into all the little details in the carving with a brush that's really too big for it. Not like it matters much, when the goal is to make it all one solid colour. He tries to make the finish as smooth as he can anyway, despite the wrong tool.

He sets it aside to dry, but his hands still hurt, still won't stay still.

He lifts the crate on the too-empty shelf, the one that hides one of the few remaining things that no one can see. (That Ed can't stand to see.) Peeling the little jacket and waistcoat away is easy enough. He grabs one of his thinner knives, more of a scalpel really, that's seen a skinning or two in the past. He digs the tip into every little stitch that holds the tiny clothing together, pulls its pieces apart without damaging them. He traces every pannel onto his leather scraps, cuts them all to shape.

Hands still hurt, won't stay still, so he gets to sewing.

The fat candle burns out, he replaces it with a new one, refills his pipe. The tiny outfit comes together, all black. He hammers in a few of the teeny-tiniest studs in his collection to achieve the right vibe.

The paint on the skull's dry enough to the touch now, so he stabs the other end of the nail into the neck of the mannequin, and dresses him up in his new little outfit. Looks like a right vampire clown now, he does, all tough and scary-looking muppet, perfect fit for Blackbeard's crew. He grabs the crate that hid him and drops all the fabric cuttings and shit into it, kicks it all under the table.

His hands still hurt, still won't fucking stay still. The grey light of dawn is making an attempt to filter in through the windows now.

He grabs his rum and crawls onto the bed nook, ends up passing out still in his leathers, kohl caked on his face.

Izzy looks at the little shelf guy next time he's in the room, jaw doing that angry clenchy thing it always fucking does, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut about it.

(Ed never pulls the lever.)

~✯~

She's all creamy white porcelain skin, bright red curls, pristine dress. His hands itch to crush her in a tight fist, her and her rosy pink bellend both. (The pink bellend's not so pink anymore, kohl rubbed off all over his side where Ed's thumb wouldn't stay still.)

He's not got a brush that's fine enough for this, to get all the little details just right. He grabs a pinchful of strands of his own hair and cuts off about an inch from the ends, secures them to the tip of a thin wooden stick with some glue and string.

He grabs his black paint, some weed for his pipe, lights some extra candles for light.

He waters down the paint for the skin, makes a thin wash that should look brown once dried. It ends up just looking like a kinda dirty wash over porcelain white skin, so he draws his tattoos over it to hide it a bit, snake on his arm, hawk on his chest, beard on her face. He darkens her hair, mixes some chalk into the paint to make a muddy grey for highlights. He adds some shading to the cleavage.

Some of the skin-wash run off to stain the skirts around the hand area, but aside from that spot the dress still looks too fucking bright, too blue, too nice and proper.

With the thick undiluted paint, he lines the folds of the dress, shadows under some ruffles, follows some of the seams. He darkens the flowers and lace around the collars, on one of the sleeves. He draws asymmetric black shapes on some areas, makes it look cool and intentional, like the asymmetry of his jacket.

She looks as right as he can make her. He still wants to crush her in his fist, hurt his hand with the porcelain shards. Her and the bellend both.

He buries them both in the crate under some leather scraps, kicks them back under the table.

(Ed brings them out some nights, when his hands hurt and won't stay still, when his eyes won't close no matter how much they ache, run dry.)

~✯~

Ed sees the dress during a raid, inside a trunk in the quarters of one of the posh passengers on this ship. It's mostly sky blue, with accents of lavender, all soft pastels and delicate lace, opulent silk. It conjures up memories of a painted little figurine, probably long lost in the mess and confusion of everything that's happened since.

He asks for Fang's help to carry it back to the ship and hide it where Stede won't see.

He doesn't do all the work in one night, hoping to numb his restless hands. Instead, over the course of a few weeks, Ed enlists the help of Frenchie, Fang and Wee John, with occasional contributions from Jim, the Swede or Pete, and they work only until their hands tire with the satisfying ache of a job well done, in stolen moments that won't make Stede suspect a thing and ruin the surprise. He doesn't smoke while they work, this time, not wanting the smell to soak up into the fabric, but they do come together for a smoke and a laugh afterwards, once they're done with their secret project for the day.

They add a studded harness of black leather around the bodice that gives some visual interest and does some real favours to his cleavage. They cut off the right sleeve, a ruffle of black, purple and silver lace draped over the shoulder in its place, matching the one they use on the cuff of the left sleeve, finishing off just under his elbow. They add a layer of sheer black lace over the skirts, still showing the shimmer of the blue silk underneath.

They've properly tailored it to his body, too, and when Ed finally sees himself in the mirror with it, it hugs his shape just right. A perfect fit.

It looks even better on the day, with flowers and ribbons threaded through his curls, his short beard neatly combed and trimmed. In the bright light coming in through the clear windows, he uses the detail brush he made with his own hair to cleanly line his eyes with a sharp wing of kohl, adds a hint of rouge to his lips.

The purple cravat Stede gifted him is tied around his neck, the tails framing his hawk tattoo, with his favourite pearl necklace layered on top. He has to marvel once again at just how fucking good his tits look in this dress, a hint of chest-hair peeking enticingly over the lacy neckline. His eyes water a bit, but he holds back the tears, not wanting to ruin his eyeliner just yet.

Stede doesn't bother containing his tears when he finally sees Ed, an awed gasp that turns into the brightest smile Ed's ever seen, even with the waterworks. He looks gorgeous and glowing in a new suit of red silk, with golden accents and a matching golden waistcoat that really bring out the shine of his perfectly tousled curls. The crew's smiling faces surround him as he makes his way to Stede, where he stands before Oluwande. There are some more teary eyes among the crew too, but Ed wills himself not to cry yet.

Ed stops to face Stede, as his hands come up to hold Ed's.

His hands finally still, held steady, safe in their cradle, no longer hurting. His eyes spill over, tears running freely into his smile.

#ofmd s2 spoilers #ofmd fic #Our Flag Means Death #edward teach #gentlebeard #Krakhouse #Born On A Beach #Coolification writes #fanfiction #Gender Vibes #cw smoking #Bridebeard #Ed In A Dress

[theelderhazelnut]

Rise of the Villains: Darker than Black

Pairing: none

Warning: none.

Characters: Raiden and Falkus (oc)

Word Count: 681

Summary: Raiden has a bad dream about an old friend.

Author’s Note: Day 23 of @writersmonth !(word: storm) I was running out of time for this prompt, so this is not proof read.

Taglist: @neonneurons @roofgeese @vivilovespink @scentedcandleibex @darialovesstuff @confidentandgood @spacestephh @takiisieju-moved @sstewyhosseini @maddenedroses @inafieldofdaisies @jillvalentinesday @shegetsburned @bloody-arty-myths @zoetheneko @inc0rrectmyths @hi-thisiszira @admin-pipes @mitsuko-saito @malewifefirestar @krysta-cross @huepazu

Raiden put down his hat on the wooden desk. His tired fingers found their ways to his white robe, and a second later, it was neatly placed in his wardrobe. He carefully undone the buttons of the leather garment covering his skull, and allowed the waterfall of his long, white hair to freely pour down his waist.

He looked out the window into the pitch black of the night sky. Unlike him, it was peaceful. The silent noises racing in his head would be lost in it in the blink of an eye. Oh, how much he desired to be the lost one.

Raiden shook his head the instance his thoughts went a little too far. He blew off the white candles before he lied down on his bed. His scalp ached with relief as it touched the sheet. The pain went all the way down his spine and to his feet, leaving him in a relaxed position for the first time in the past two weeks.

Gradually, his eyelids became heavy, begging to be shut down, but instead, he stared at the dark ceiling with his eyes wide open. Was that the feeling of sleepiness his mortals talked about? He had never experienced it before, and he wasn’t supposed to. Had he failed in accomplishing his duties somewhere? Was that some kind of a punishment?

Raiden reviewed everything he had done in the past year in an insane speed, but everything had been done flawlessly, or at least he thought so.

His mind drowned in utter silence as he drifted to sleep. Veins of darkness embraced his blurry sight.

A few moments later, he came out of the void. Humongous skyscrapers grew before his eyes and reached to the farthest zenith in the dark sky. The shiny river of the lights emitting from the street formed a noisy current beneath his feet. The raging storm ran through his hair, shooting it to the air.

It was Metalrealm. Raiden was grateful for having his consciousness retrieved to him.

“Gods don’t abandon gods to the history.” A familiar hoarse voice spoke.

Raiden saw precisely what he expected. Gray sking which blended to the background, white, short hair, and milky glowing orbs like his. The friction running in his veins rushed to his heart.

Lord Falkus leaned on the iron fence, a sly smile rising his chalk white mustache.

“We did not leave you behind, Falkus. You failed at persuading your paramount goal.” Raiden’s weak voice shocked him. He focused his gaze on his eyes, begging him to tell the sweet truth that this was all a bitter misunderstanding.

“Coming all this way back was exhausting actually. I do not intend to waste this golden minutes by talking about your old ways.” Falkus spent an unnecessary amount of time to pronounce every other word. “The apacolypse is inevitble. You are only running to it, thinking that you are, in fact, avoiding it.”

Falkus continued. “You were already successful at losing one of your precious defenders,” With a slight movement of his fingers, a small amount of mercury appeared out of thin air on which a female portrait was carved roughly.

Ombra.

“Who happens to be quiet a weapon both for me and herself.”

Raiden had ignored the claws of suspense around his neck all this time, but now he saw it, clearly. Falkus had actually done something behind the curtains.

Raiden tried to reach for the fence, but he was paralyzed. His body was faded into nothingness. And the metal god’s sly grin was the last image that was shattered to ashes.

The heaviness was no longer weighing on his chest as he gasped for air. Meanwhile, a deafening thunder striked the clouds. Raiden sat up. His hair curtained his sweaty, doomed face as he buried his face in his palms. He wished that he could wash this misery away by just saying “it was just a dream” like mortals did. Raiden wished that Falkus was all a bitter dream. And the sentence “Even gods could betray gods.” was nothing but a lie.

#rise of the villains: darker than black #raiden #mk raiden #mk falkus #mk oc #mortal kombat oc #writersmonth2023

[piratesgiftexchange]

A Moment for Music

by beemovieerotica, for @depressedvillainobsession

PROMPT: “ Davy Jones teaches Maccus how to play the pipe organ (Can just be him learning a few basic things or have skips overtime where he meets with the captain and progresses)”

WORD COUNT: 3,868

Lightning carved up the sky like fingers tearing through parchment.  The distant, churning storm clouds filled the horizon at their bow, igniting violet with every strike. 

The crew of the Flying Dutchman dragged themselves about the deck beneath an unabiding sun, specters without purpose.  Their eyes—those that remained—were empty and haunted.

It had been fifty years since the betrayal that tore the goddess from her throne, and no soul lost at sea had been ferried to the afterlife since.  Not a day passed in which the ferryman considered the duty he had been bound to perform, the precarious balancing of the scale between life and death for which he had been granted immortal life.  They would leave the dead to fester and the living to grieve.  The seas were ill, and so were they.

It was the first mate Maccus, his face stretched into the grim aspect of a blood-seeking shark, who sought the captain at the bow.  He drew his tongue across razor teeth, pausing for a breath.

“Orders, captain?” he asked.

Davy Jones, his humanity long since wrenched from him, both invisibly and not, did not turn to face the other man.  His cold blue eyes remained on the maelstrom ahead, in them flashing the spectacle of the sea’s unrelenting violence.  Here was the man who could not die, circling a great dark nothing.

“Stay the course,” Jones murmured.

Maccus nodded, and his gaze flickered over the man’s tattered coat.  Upon him writhed the arms and claws of a hundred hungry creatures—claiming him, like a sunken whale, but long before he fell.

The first mate retreated to the helm and waited for the storm to take them.

——

“Do your hands still hurt?”

Maccus and Jones sat side-by-side upon the bench before the great musical organ.  The beast of an instrument, its gleaming brass almost golden in the light coming in through the clear cabin windows, let out a low, reverberating hum as Jones laid a single finger upon the keys.

The weather was clear, the Dutchman cutting through steady waters, her bright sails mingling with the clouds above.

The question had come from Maccus, who watched his captain’s tense left hand keep the steady note.  Jones’ lip curled up in a smirk, and he removed his finger to scratch an itch beside the little braids in his long beard.

“Still is an interesting suggestion,” Jones said.  He rested his hand on the sheet music shelf, and his last three digits began to curl in tightly of their own accord.  He struggled, visibly, the knuckles turning white.  The two watched his hand, the air between them still, until Jones finally relented.  “It is a progressive affliction, and it will always be so,” he finished, letting his hand go tight.

Maccus nodded slowly, his chest tense.  He never knew what to say of such things.  But Jones carried on.

“I am not so blessed with a body that obeys me,” the captain said.  “Perhaps I might be…in another life.”

Jones’ detached wooden leg lay against the base of the organ, his cane propped up beside it.  Maccus managed a slow, sympathetic smile—no matter injury and illness, the captain kept any lamentations on these facts close to his chest.

“But I can teach you, yet,” Jones said. 

The captain reached out and took Maccus’s hand from where it was folded in his lap, and he brought it to the keys with a careful intention.  The first mate’s breath slowed in his throat.  Jones placed his hand down, his fingers lingering beneath Maccus’s wrist, in a way he couldn’t quite be sure was the illness or not. 

“You don’t have to teach me,” Maccus said, forcing a laugh through the uncomfortable tension of it all.

“You are doing this for me,” Jones replied sternly.  And then, a ripple of hopeless, dark amusement went through him.  “The Lord knows I have only a few years of playing left, and I’ll be damned before I allow this beauty to pass into an eternal sleep, with nary a tender touch to wake her.”

Maccus snorted in reply, and his gaze wandered up the colossal instrument.  She was nearly as tall as the ceiling itself.  “You’ve got to be the only captain on the nine seas to drag something like this on board just for the sheer pleasure of it all,” he said.

“Come now, we couldn’t very well let her rust away in that poor Englishman’s manor, could we?”

The two let out bellowing laughs, their voices filling the bright cabin.  Maccus’s body grew warm—it was the height of the Caribbean summer, he reasoned—and Jones finally turned his attention back to Maccus’s hand upon the keys.  “Begin, then, just as we practiced.”

Maccus settled and cleared his throat, narrowing his brows in concentration.  His other hand lay balled in a fist upon his lap, and he resisted the urge to bring it up to scratch at his wild beard.  He had been growing it out long—like Jones—but it was not so compliant to tender care.

His right hand played slowly across the keys, and he heard a deep sigh come from the captain. 

He had wondered often where Jones came from.  Where this man, versed in classical languages and poetry, gifted with a musical ear, and possessing the most intractable desire to sail the seas and escape the bonds of land, had first come into this world.  The captain never spoke freely of such things.  The crew had only the vaguest allusions to his origin, filling in the gaps with wild-minded fantasy.

On some nights, when his imagination took him, Maccus liked to imagine the captain as the lord of his own kingdom, who gave it all up for an impossible love.

Maccus brought his other hand up to accompany the first, his eyes never leaving his own fingers lest he fumble.  But he could imagine—no, he knew—that the captain had closed his eyes.

Another long sigh, carrying all the worries and burdens of the fate-filled life of a pirate, escaped Jones’ lips.  Maccus could feel the man’s body sink into the seat beside him, his shoulders shifting, a great and unknowable tension leaving him.

Maccus’s heart suddenly gave a tremor, and his fingers slipped upon an errant key.  But Jones did not stir, did not move at all, his good leg remaining on the seat an inch from Maccus’s own.  Maccus drew a deep breath. 

The kindness and trust it took to bring this nobody of a sailor onto his ship, into his cabin, into his life, to make a paltry imitation of the melodic chords that had flown from the captain’s once-capable fingers, sent a pang of shame through Maccus’s body.

“Sorry,” Maccus murmured as he continued on.

It was Jones who caught Maccus’s hand upon the keys and stilled it there, and so too did Maccus’s breath stop in his chest.  He could feel the captain’s fingers struggling to remain loosened and gentle, against the inescapable pull of his hand inward, the instinct to curl them tightly like the vice of a claw.  He wished the captain knew he didn’t have to hide it—didn’t have to be so delicate with him.

“Don’t apologize,” Jones said softly.  He brought his other quivering hand over to hold Maccus’s steady, one thumb tracing the rough pads of Maccus’s fingers.  “We’ll keep going.”

——

Maccus felt the world slip out from beneath his feet.  He was pitched forward as the Dutchman descended over the top of a towering wave, and plunged like a falling diver across the deck through empty space.  His hands flung out on instinct, to grasp, to reach, to save himself.  Of course, he couldn’t die—but the pain of hitting icy cold waters, his neck crunching at an unfathomable angle, was a memory far too fresh. 

His hands caught rope on the way down, and he latched on like a small bird clinging to its nest.

The rain, the winds, and the tumultuous rocking of the ship through the endless hurricane wrenched his body to and fro.  His fingers gripped tight, burning and searing as he clung to the line, but his cursed gray skin was too hardened now to ever bleed from such a thing.  His muscles ached beneath the deluge, the water washing over him, cleansing him, stripping him bare of any thought save his own survival in this moment—his allegiance to the ship—his need, sworn and promised, to stay with her captain.

He looked to the bow, squinting through the whirling, inhospitable darkness, and saw the captain framed in a flash of lighting.  Jones had bound himself to the railing at the bow, his body lashed tight, facing the storm ahead with the devilish bowsprit of the grim reaper like the steed upon which he rode.  Maccus could not see the captain’s expression—could not perceive what he thought.

But he knew.  This was the only thing that made the captain feel alive.

——

The crew of the Dutchman stumbled around the deck after the battering from the storm, their bodies aching and cold.  Strips of seaweed and rotting boards littered the ship in the misty gray air, the whole vessel like a great leviathan shedding its skin.  The crew picked their way among the refuse, sweeping the pieces over the edge into the sea and leaving the scarred, monstrous ship to heal for herself—she always would.

Maccus flexed his stinging hands and looked down at his palms, pausing in the shadow of the fluttering mainsail.  He was fortunate, he believed, for still maintaining so much of his dexterity.  Where some men had lost entire arms—their limbs melding into iron blades or forking splinters, no more than walking weapons as their memories faded to naught—he still had all ten digits. 

He turned his hands over, and in his exhaustion and the emptying of his brain, his fingers began to move slowly, creakingly, along to some old memory.  His heart stopped.  The tune he had learned upon the pipe organ.  

His left hand was encased in a hardened crab shell, and the segments clicked inhumanly as they moved, but they were still, gratefully, his.  After all these years…

He stopped abruptly, aware of the strangeness of it all, and he brought his fists to his side.  Penrod and Koleniko had come up beside him and were peering at him in curiosity, the latter’s prickled face puffed out.

“You have to wonder how much more of this anyone can take before we throw ourselves into the sea,” Koleniko said.

Maccus shook his head and gave a great sigh.  “Two storms more, and I think even old Wyvern will pry himself loose and step off into the waves,” he said.

Penrod let out a low chuckle, and then a flash of knowing mischief crossed his crustacean face.  “Unless,” he began, and he raised a brow, and one of his antennae followed along, “you were to speak with the captain.”

A hot flush went through Maccus’s body: dread and nerves all in one.  He endeavored to remain as impassive as possible as the other men studied his face.  “Why me?” Maccus snapped.It was Koleniko’s turn to tilt his head, now with an expression of cutting pity.  He let out a tut-tut from his spiny lips.  “Need it be said?”

It was not the weather that had made his skin grow heated beside Jones, he knew that now.  Nor some unknowable machination within his monstrous gut.  He had learned, through the decades, through the organ lessons, and through the countless other lessons in Jones’ cabin before the mortal fell for the goddess, that his was a love not meant to be shared.  Not to be returned, fully.  Not beyond the fleeting moments in which Jones had acquiesced to knowing his first mate more than any other man had. 

His sharp teeth bit his tongue within his own mouth.

And despite it all—the decades of knowing—Jones was not his.  He was no one’s.  And yet they belonged, jointly, to the endless service that was ferrying the souls of the dead, from here until the end of time.  He would forever be bound to Jones.  Their souls entwined as one.  Whether Jones realized it or not.

No secrets survived among the crew, and any reminder of what he and Jones were—once were—brought a searing resentment to his cold heart.  “Clean up this mess,” Maccus hissed, and the claws upon his spine crackled in a warning.  Koleniko let out an unimpressed huff and the two left to tend to the ship.

Maccus cast his gaze over the other men gathered on deck, and he found that they were all looking to him in expectation.  Each man’s cursed face, no matter how changed, was still visibly, deeply mired in a persistent sorrow.  For all Maccus’s bluster and gruff posturing to maintain that wedge between himself and the rest of the crew, they relied on him beyond his station of first mate.  They turned to him as an ally when the senseless whims of the captain grew too much to weather.

It had to be done.

Maccus sniffed and walked toward the main cabin, his left hand prickling at his side.

How different it all was now.  Maccus stepped inside after a quick knock and closed the door quietly behind him.  The towering glass windows, once clear and radiant, were coated in a perpetual fog—like the eyes of a dying whale before its soul departed for good.  The brass pipes of that colossal musical instrument had been subsumed by curving coral, the boundary between ship and beast, living and unliving perpetually blurred aboard the Dutchman.  And there in the cold and dripping dark sat Jones before the organ, his back to Maccus and the door.

“Captain, a word,” Maccus began.

Jones did not immediately stir.  He often slept sitting upright like that, hunched over the keys after wringing his soul free of every echo of a feeling that remained, even with his heart buried under distant sands.  Maccus knew—he’d watched through the fogged windows on difficult nights, when he couldn’t sleep, when the sounds of the thrumming organ came down through the deck into the gallery like a muffled memory.  Jones had never seen him, as Maccus brought his eyes to the glass and let the music wash over him. 

Maccus cleared his throat and spoke louder.  “The crew asked me to speak with you—”

He was interrupted by Jones’ head whipping around to cast his piercing gaze over his shoulder.  Like a wounded wolf, cornered, dangerous.  “And you took it upon yourself to enter my quarters, unbeckoned?” he snapped.

Maccus did not reply for a moment as his throat seized up.  His mouth twisted in a frown, and he spoke more softly now.  “Come now, Jones…”

“Captain.”

That singular word struck him like a blow, and he flinched, taking a sharp inhale.  The stupid, miserable man.  With a hopeless snort, Maccus shook his head, Jones’ glowering face not moving. 

“Captain,” Maccus repeated, his teeth showing.

“Why are you here?”

“To speak for the crew.”

Jones let out an amused huff.  “I have not petitioned you for their insight nor opinion on any matter aboard this ship, so there is no reason for you to speak on their behalf, and therefore no reason for you to be here.  You may leave.”

Maccus blinked hard.  His fingers twitched at his side, and he felt his blood beginning to rise.

“What do you hope to gain by this, hm?” Maccus said, tempering the frustration in his tone.  “This…pretended insistence on formality—on some imaginary unfamiliarity between us?”

Jones remained still as the ship rocked slowly back and forth, the long strands of seaweed on the walls swaying like dark curtains.  Maccus licked his lips and went on.

“Pretending as if we never—”

“Maccus.”

“—as if I never walked unbidden to your room where you welcomed me, years ago,” he said.  He had gone too far to come back now.  “Why insist that I remain on this ship at all—is it for your amusement?  My punishment?  Why not end my service and be rid of me if you are now so deeply repulsed by my presence—”

“Maccus!”

Jones stood abruptly, the bench scraping back against the floor as he wheeled around to face Maccus.  His chest was heaving, his horrible beard writhing in an indignant fury.

“I have never,” Jones began, his voice like a serpent’s hiss, “ever regarded you that way.”

Maccus scoffed, the weight in his chest unbearable.  “Right.  Never regarded me as anything more than a diversion.  A poor, illiterate bloke—just something to pass the time before someone truly magnificent came along.  I understand that very clearly now—”

“I have never been repelled by you,” Jones spat the correction.

His tone was still nothing less than deeply furious.  Maccus paused, opening his mouth to speak, reconsidered, and fell quiet.  A gut-wrenching silence passed before Jones spoke again.

“Do not cast me as some unfeeling, high-born man who scorned you for who you were.”

“You cut out your bloody heart!”  The words flew from Maccus’s mouth, unchecked.  “You are nothing but unfeeling at this very time!”

With his hard crab leg, Jones kicked out against the bench to send it sliding to the side, clearing a path for him to Maccus.  He strode across the space—no cane in hand now, moving like a predator through cold waters, to arrive with his eyes inches from the other man’s, a terrible icy rage within them.

Maccus could not be cowed, and he stared back, baring his teeth.  “Your stupidity is costing you the loyalty of the crew,” Maccus snarled, the words like steel.  “They are purposeless, slipping away from this world—every day their minds grow weaker.  They’re becoming empty, useless husks of who they once were.  Half can barely remember how to tie down a fucking line!”

The words echoed around the dim cabin.  Jones did not move, his eyes fixed upon Maccus’s, but neither did he speak.  He was listening.

“The storms batter them, beat them senseless, and their minds unravel more and more each day,” Maccus said.  “They’re still sailors, they’re still people—people needing something more to do with their hands than cling to the walls in horror every time you want to sail through a hurricane!”  He threw up his clawed hand in a hopeless gesture. “You chase these tempests, and for what?  A brush with divinity, the memory of her blessing—but it’s not her, and it will never be her, because you made it so.”

In a fit of confidence, or brashness, Maccus pointed the tip of his finger to Jones’ chest. 

Jones did not look down, his gaze still upon Maccus’s one good eye, and the frightful rage in his demeanor had suddenly stilled.

“Give them purpose,” Maccus urged.  His voice caught in his throat, and his eyes darted away toward the foggy windows.  “Give me purpose,” he mumbled.

Neither spoke for a very long time.  Maccus’s finger slowly lowered back to his side, and he flexed his clawed hand uncomfortably.  The sounds clicked out through the quiet cabin like a creature scuttling across the floor. 

Jones had been leaning toward him, willing the immensity of his sheer presence to be enough to humble Maccus into silence.  Too long had passed since he had ever been capable of that.  Jones drew back, his eyes lowering to the floor.

“I apologize,” Jones mumbled.

Maccus reeled his head back, his eyes going wide.  “What?”

“I said, I apologize,” Jones hissed.  There it was.

Before Maccus could pursue this once-in-a-century admission, Jones turned back around and walked slowly to the organ.  His claw leg thumped heavily against the floor, all posturing and bluster gone, and only a deep, unabiding weariness remained.  Maccus carefully crossed the floor after him, a good few paces behind, and watched as Jones sat back down at the instrument’s keys.

“I will give the men work,” he muttered.

He did not bring his hands up to the keys, and instead, the tendrils of his beard descended to rest lightly on the surface.  No note yet played, and with a sudden, apparent realization, he cleared his throat and spoke to Maccus.

“I have…adapted, in spite of all this,” Jones said quietly.  His right and left hands lay in his lap, both without purpose, but in a way he had never anticipated.  The appendages of his beard curled over the borders between the keys.  “It is…unsightly,” he murmured.

He had never seen Maccus watching him.  For all he knew, Maccus had not witnessed the new way in which Jones had, against his will, by the goddess’s spite, overcome the very thing for which he had first invited Maccus into his cabin.  A gift and a curse, bound as one.  He would never know how much Maccus knew.

“We hear it down in the gallery,” Maccus said, and he now leaned against the side of the instrument, looking across the keys and Jones’ still face.  “It’s a good sound.”

He waited.  But Jones did not play. 

Here was a man who had gone beyond simply being healed and had been granted all dexterity in the world.  Mastery of the instrument, to play whatever tune he pleased, with the ability of three virtuosos seated side-by-side.  Jones stared at the keys, his eyes empty, and then slowly, they wandered up to Maccus.

After an unbearable moment in which Maccus felt his heart begin to pound, Jones’ beard withdrew from the keys.  He sat back, shifted slightly, and his eyes flicked down to Maccus’s hands.

“Do you remember…the one?” he asked.

A smile alighted on Maccus’s face, and he flashed his sharp teeth before tempering his mood.  “I do,” he replied simply.

Jones looked to the keys, then to Maccus, as if the words would manifest on their own.

Maccus curled in his lips.  “Does it pain you to ask me?”

Jones let out a low hm and jerked his tentacled chin toward the keys.  “I would like to hear it,” he said.That would be as close to any ‘please’ the man might ever muster.

“Make room for me, then,” Maccus said.

The two men settled in beside each other, slipping back into the past, to the place before it had all come undone.  Maccus’s hands poised to play—changed though they were, and a grin of satisfaction crossed his face.  Still got all ten. 

And as his fingers came down to grace the room once again with that old, familiar song, he paused to look out the foggy windows, to the gray light, where he had lingered in waiting.  And when he finally played, he felt Jones unravel beside him: worries and miseries dissipated like fine mist in the close space between them. 

Jones sank into the bench, his eyes closed to the slow, halting notes of a tune decades out of practice, letting it envelop him like the most beautiful chords he might ever hear again.

#pirates of the caribbean #potc #fanfiction #round 5 #davy jones #maccus

[twofoursixohjuan]

Ingvar

WOOOOO AN ASK!

Sexuality: bi, and somewhere on the grey-ace scale. thought he was gay for a very long time and had known Lydia for at least three years before going Oh. Wait. Huh.

Family: sooooo many siblings, of which he is the eldest by a reasonable margin (he was a tricky birth and his parents were wary of trying again for a fair while until his mum put her foot down and said I want more fucking kids, goddammit). father was a lumberjack until a serious work injury and is now a toymaker. mother is a seamstress and fisherman.

Associated Garment: a nice thick woolly scarf.

Associated Weather: early autumn, just on the turn when it's getting a little nippy and time for hot chocolate.

OTP: I was meh on Lydia/Ingvar at first but have rather come round to it (do wish there had been more buildup). ships I like to toss up and contemplate occasionally include Ingvar/Nina and Ingvar/Jesper.

NOTP: look. you're going to curse my name for this. Hal/Ingvar just doesn't do it for me.

Animal Symbolism: a draught horse! big and stolid and gentle and overlookable until you remember that 1) it's smarter than it looks and 2) it can fuck you up.

Random Headcanon: his father taught him to carve little wooden recorder-style pipes and he plays them quite well.

Sketch: down below so as not to fuck with formatting. for the next Herons DnD AU comic! (the skip-salvaged iPad has given up the ghost, alas)

Random AU: can anybody say Fashion Designer Ingvar? his designing skills get spotted at a scholarship event and he's chosen to put together a collection. the rest of the Herons are runway models but despite the preponderance of pretty people wandering about Ingvar finds himself more interested in the lighting tech (Lydia).

Underrated Friendship: I would love to see something done regarding Ingvar and Rollond! they could bond over mutual admiration of Lydia and Hal.

Associated Colour: warm golden orange.

I'll have you know that I had to stick my sketchbook up against the wall to take that photo, and in doing so I knocked over the tub of homemade wood stain that I had FINALLY worked out how to get dark red. alas. my floor looks like a children's hospital.

please keep them coming! love doing these! doesn't have to be Brotherband either — if you've seen me mention it there's a good chance I have an Opinion

#brotherband #brotherband chronicles #ingvar #ingvar starbreaker #ask game

[tendertenebrosity]

Not sure if any of you have read Ocean's Echo, but this is fanfic for it! Surit is a cinnamon roll and I wouldn't have him any other way, but this is an 'assholes-slowly-learning-not-to-be-assholes' blog, so.

I wouldn't get attached to these guys in their current incarnation because this is likely to become original fiction and then all of this will become noncanon, but it might as well go here in the meantime.

“It will feel like a key in a lock,” the pilot in the instructional video had said. “Or like one of those telescoping rods - I don’t know, it could feel like something totally different to you. But you’ll feel it click. Might be difficult if the reader has strong walls - sometimes it’s hard for them to drop them, but they have drugs for if that happens.”

“All right,” the medical technician said, pushing the scanner wand on its articulated arm aside. She managed to look bored; how many of these did she oversee? “When you’re ready, sir.”

Davi moved in as if he was going to write the person in front of him, but - all of him? He tried to encompass too much of the mind at once, was pushed back by slippery walls and lost his grip.

“Could you try to drop your defences, please?” he asked, distantly, all of his attention focused internally. Anxiety and insecurity gnawed at him. He wasn’t doing it properly. It should be done by now. It hadn’t sounded like a difficult procedure in the instructional vid.

The reader - Davi’s reader, as soon as he managed to actually do the procedure - took a deep breath that hitched in the middle. He looked small, even now that the guard had left; shorter than Davi, hair cropped close, the featureless prison scrubs loose and faded in stark contrast to Davi’s smart uniform. The ID cuff on his left wrist had a wooden gender token on it, plainer and somehow even less like jewellery than Davi’s button.

“I don’t…. Do I have defences up?”

Davi gave him a suspicious look, but the reader looked honestly bewildered behind his neat little glasses. No formal training, huh.

“Yes, you do,” Davi told him. They wouldn’t have stopped a determined probe, but this wasn’t a normal probe and they made things just slippery enough that he couldn’t get purchase. “If you can relax and be open, this will be a lot easier.”

“I’ll - I’ll try.”

And he did, Davi could feel it, the walls softening and thinning and the mind turning its face up to him and -

It wasn’t a click, but he could see why you’d describe it like that. Like the threads of a screw-top jar engaging. Like one of those intricately carved puzzle boxes that needed to be moved in a very specific way before they opened up. More than anything, the sense that two things that were supposed to fit together in a whole had finally found the orientation in which they did. Davi reached out and pushed those pieces together firmly.

And suddenly there was a presence, filling the tiny interview room, warm and alive and close enough that Davi felt like he was crammed up against the walls moving with its breathing. Breathing with it.

The reader’s knees buckled. Davi was somehow there as soon as it happened, to catch the slight frame in his arms and stop him tumbling to the hard metal floor. He’d known that was going to happen because the body was his, in some weird way. Part of him.

The technician spun in her chair, pressed a few buttons. “Successful sync,” she said. “All vitals looking good.”

No, Davi wanted to say. Wait. They can’t all be good. If they’re good why does this feel…

What did it feel like?

He still felt like Davi. He was just Davi with… something else stapled into the middle of his senses. It was difficult to talk around it, difficult to think around it.

The reader’s fingers moved against the chest of his uniform shirt. Stiff coarse fabric, the line of piping hard underneath his thumb - wait, what?

The fingers closed up as if to grasp him, but then flattened to push him away. Sensation, emotion, something poured out of the unfamiliar presence in Davi’s head. He struggled to name it but it was… bad. Like fighting against a torrent of dark water.

You’re in control of this, he told himself. You’re the architect. This is under your control. Get a grip.

He set his mental shoulders against the deluge, tried to rise above it. He made himself push the reader’s body away from his - not you, that is not you, keep all of that to yourself - prop the reader back up, set him on his feet. The reader was looking around the room, blinking, looking as stunned as Davi probably was.

What have you done? What have you DONE?

The thought arrived in his head, not so much in words but more the impression, but still crystal clear and foreign. Blank horror.

“You should probably head back to your quarters and rest,” the technician told him. “It’ll take a while for you both to settle into it.” She retrieved something from one of the cupboards in the med-bay - a rectangular packet of cloth. She slapped a packet of medication tabs on top of it and held it out to Davi. “Standard issue equipment for Agent Thirty-two; you shouldn’t need these, but just in case. Come back here tomorrow, or sooner if there are any issues. Do you need help getting him to your quarters?”

Davi didn’t question why she was giving the pack of uniforms to him and not to the reader, swaying and wavering in the middle of the room. Even if the other man hadn’t been on the brink of falling over or throwing up, he was Davi’s responsibility now.

He would always be Davi’s responsibility.

Oh Guidance lights what have I done…

Davi shook off the thought, exerted what he hoped was firm but gentle pressure on the alien presence in his head until it receded a little. He stepped forward and took the packet.

“No, that will be fine,” he said. “Our quarters aren’t far, and we can walk without assistance. Thank you.”

The technician gave him an odd look as he tucked it under his arm.

“Need a tissue, sir?”

“What?” Davi put a hand up to his face. To his complete surprise, his eyes were streaming with tears. He hadn’t even noticed.

The reader - Agent Thirty-two - Saelin Cor - made another small noise from behind Davi, a pained inhale. He was lifting one hand up to his temple, fingers pushing through his hair, and Davi was suddenly convinced that it was supposed to be much longer than it was, that having it short and prickly was strange and unfamiliar still.

Davi hadn’t needed to see him to know any of that.

“I’m fine,” he said roughly. Panic fluttered at the edges of his mind - what have I done what have we done what is this - and if not all of it receded when he shoved it away, well, it would improve. Nobody was expecting them to be out there at the bridge tomorrow. There was time to figure this out.

He blotted one side of his face with the heel of his hand, and turned away. “We’re fine. Come on - Agent Thirty-two. Let’s go home.”

Continued here.

#whump writing #fanfiction #Ocean's Echo fanfic #not my world #my OCs #incidentally Ocean's Echo is good and you should read it #mind-link #telepathic whumpee #Oppressed telepath #involuntary telepathy #non-consensual mind-link #Saelin and Davi