#fathers day gift by using notebook pages | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thedeviltohisangel · 29 days

Text

All The Things I Did (Interlude): My Little Bunnies

a/n: happy belated easter to all those who celebrate! i wanted to write john & cass' first easter as parents and it became a 10 page fic with smut/fluff/angst. read on to meet their twins, meet cass' parents, learn more about her family history and so much more. and to the anon who sent an ask about them getting a bloodhound, yes. he is here. this was a real labor of love but it is my gift to you. i hope you all love it and please come let me know your thoughts on this little family. xoxo

warnings: smut

When Cass was quiet, it meant she was thinking. And since they had left the driveway of their beach house, she had been quiet. A notebook in one hand and a pen and leash in the other, John thinks she was attempting to memorize her to-do list for Easter Sunday.

“You know part of the reason I was convinced into coming here this weekend was your insistence on family walks,” he looked down at the two little bundles that were already gazing right back at him, “tell Mama she can relax for one night.”

“I’ll relax after everything goes off without a hitch tomorrow. It’s their first Easter and our first time hosting a holiday and the first time my family is seeing the house and-” She paused as Gale let out a sound of discomfort and started to squirm in the carriage, Cass quickly reaching down and smoothing a finger over his cheek with a coo. He quieted just as quickly at her touch and blinked up at her sleepily. “There, there my sweet boy. I’m right here.” Not for the first time, and not for the last time, John was endlessly amazed by his wife. How she managed to be a mother, a wife and still impress the brass in DC was beyond his comprehension. He hadn’t known it was possible to fall more in love with her and here he was. Falling in love with her more and more everyday.

“We Egan boys get cranky when you aren’t around to dote on us.”

“Is that so? Do you agree with that, Butter?” The bloodhound gave a gentle bark in answer which John took as his agreement. “Well, Miss Penelope does have a habit of looking at every plane in the sky while she waits for you to come home.” He grinned so wide his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“That’s my little lamb,” he said with a gentle tickle to the top of her tummy, her giggles making her parents laugh right along with her. “And what about you? What do you do all day while you wait for me to come home?”

“Oh, I just stare longingly out the window because the thought of you not being around paralyzes me, Lieutenant Colonel Egan.” Cass held her hand to her forehead and feigned hysteria.

“I guess it is kind of beautiful here,” John relented as their walk took them to the beach. The waves were crashing against the sand as the sunset laid a pink backdrop to the view. He lifted his arm and Cass fell into his side with ease.

“I told you so,” she murmured against his chest. Cass had loved growing up on her family’s estate outside of Charleston. She had learned more about life running around that land than she ever had anywhere else. But every summer her mother would take her and siblings for Kiawah Island, where her father would join on occasion, and she would roam free on the sand and in the sun. There were no boys trying to dance with her and her mother didn’t yell at her for being barefoot and she was able to laugh loud and run fast and there were no consequences. “You see that gray house with the white balconies a few hundred yards that way?” She pointed in the general direction and John shaded his eyes to look.

“That’s not a house, Cass, that’s a mansion.”

“That’s my parents house. My dad built it for my mom when I was little,” she said sheepishly. When she had been old enough to truly understand love and relationships, she had thought it was the most romantic thing. Had seen how happy it made her father to provide for her mother. How happy it made her mother that it was hers and only hers and almost a monument to the life they created together. “Since then, I’ve always wanted to raise my own family here.” John watched her caress the cheeks of their sleeping children with a smile.

“All I ever want, Cass, is for you and Gale and Penelope to be happy and safe. Nothing else matters to me.” The white house that was surrounded by trees on one side and the beach on the other had been a dream of Cass’ for a long time. She had told him about it back at Thorpe Abbotts and he had dreamed about it in his bunk on those cold German nights. Dreamed about buying it for her and carrying her over the threshold and filling it with their love and the pitter patter of little feet.

“Lucky for you, that’s all I want, too. And maybe some more kisses.”

“You’re saying I don’t kiss you enough?” he asked with raised eyebrows. She shook her head.

“Not nearly enough.” John had worked overtime for months to set aside enough for the down payment. Had turned down her father’s offer to buy it as a wedding gift. He had wanted to get this for her, for his wife, all on his own. She was the reason he was alive. It was only a drop in the bucket for what he owed her.

“It’s talk like that that got us here in the first place,” he whispered with a nod towards the carriage. “You being a little kiss thief.” Butter whined with displeasure.

“He doesn’t like when you’re snarky to me.” Their chests were pressed together now, his nose bumping hers as he laughed. “You’re the one that spent his whole puppy life telling him he had to be my guard dog,” she added with a gentle poke to his chest. Cass had just sweet talked her way into convincing John that Butter was meant to come home with them, having found him in a horse stall at her family’s place, when he asked if she wanted to take a drive to the beach. She thought he meant somewhere close but as they drove past the turn for Folly she began to get an idea of where he was taking her. She remembers her heart sinking when SOLD was in big red letters on the sign. John had asked if she wanted to take a look around anyways. For old time’s sake.

“Yeah and when he successfully chased that crazy bird away from you last month you were very grateful for it.” He scratched behind the hounds ears for good measure.

“I was. Seagulls scare me, you know that.” Ever since one had snatched her lunch right out of her hands on the very beach they were looking at when she was still in pigtails. Cass had told him that story while they walked around the house. Her hands wistfully touching the floors and her smile at the scent of the water making it hard for John to keep the secret in. She had known back then she was pregnant, hadn’t found the right time to tell John yet and hadn’t known there were two baby Egans on their way, but had told him she hoped this house made a family happy. That they loved it the way she had as a little girl and didn’t change a thing. He had told her to close her eyes and hold out her hand. And she looked confused at the cool metal that he placed in her palm, understanding registering when she opened her eyes and saw it was a key.

What do you say we fill this house with our family, my love?

----

As it was most mornings, her nightgown was bunched around her waist as she gasped into John’s mouth. She was gently rotating her hips while his fingers gripped her hips tighter and tighter and his hips thrusted up into her slowly.

“Fuck, John,” she moaned as he sat up and kissed her roughly.

“You close, baby?” It was always a bit of a race to get there before the twins woke or before a housekeeper or nanny knocked on the door to get the day started. John wished he had all the time in the world every time but wouldn’t trade the moments he had with her for anything, no matter how quickly they went. “Look me in the eyes, my sweet girl.” His thumb found her clit between them and pressed until she threw her head back.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop,” she panted as she knocked her forehead against his. John wouldn’t even dare to think to stop as she came undone around him and his own finish followed instantly. He fell back against the pillow, her lips on his the entire time, and stroked her cheek gently as he tried to regain control of his breathing. “Think they’ve got five more minutes in them so we can-” The sound of one baby crying pierced the tranquility followed in quick succession by the other.

“That’s a no,” he remarked with a smile. “They probably think if they cry loud enough, you won’t make them dress all fancy and go to church.”

“They are always perfectly well behaved at church.” Butter’s barking joined the cacophony and the bubble was fully burst. “If you let him out and start the coffee, I can change diapers and get their clothes out.” He gave her bottom a gentle pat as she begrudgingly let him slip out of her.

“Hey, Spook?” Cass turned from where she was slipping her underwear on. “I love you.” Unable to keep herself from blushing, she pecked him one last time before the craziness of the day settled in.

“Hey, John?” He hummed with delight as his nose rubbed against hers. “I love you, too.”

----

True to her word, the twins behaved like angels at their first Easter mass. Gale had only tried to kick his shoes off for a few minutes and Penelope had only required John to make silly faces through one hymn. Cass had rolled her eyes on their way out the door as her husband produced two stuffed bunnies from behind his back and tucked them between their fingers. She had reminded him they each had a whole basket of stuffed bunnies waiting to be opened by the fireplace and probably many more arriving as gifts later in the day. One more from their dad couldn’t hurt was all he had to say.

The house was near mayhem when they arrived back. Caterers had taken over the kitchen, their house manager Alice was leading a small army in pillow fluffing and men with white gloves were polishing glasses in the dining room. John was once again reminded how differently he and his wife had grown up.

“Mr. and Mrs. Egan, Happy Easter, I hope you had a wonderful morning.” Alice reached for Cass’s purse and gloves, taking them before smiling at the sleeping twins who each had a head on one of their father’s shoulders. “I can have Joan take them off your hands, sir.”

“It’s quite alright, Alice, I think the three of us are going to find a cozy spot on the beach to keep out of my lovely wife’s way.”

“Perhaps someone could find them an umbrella and blanket and chair?” Cass inquired as she began to walk towards the kitchen, handing Alice her hat as well along the way. “How’s the ham looking? It smells wonderful.”

“Yes, ma’am, we’ll get the beach set up for them. And the ham should be ready to carve exactly as we scheduled dinner for.” John side stepped around a group carrying boxes down the hall. “That would be the two options for porcelain Mrs. Cooper sent for your consideration.”

“Porcelain?” John thought it was a simple family dinner. He didn’t think it would be such an affair when Cass broached him with the idea of hosting.

“Yes. And if I pick the wrong one then I will never hear the end of it.” She turned back to Alice. “I’ll need to see a complete place setting of each one.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll have them get right on it.”

“What happened to you not wanting to be reduced to a housewife?” John asked as he walked towards the back door, Cass opening it for him and following him down the back steps and onto the sand.

“I just want everything to be perfect today. I’ll be back to the Spook you know and love as soon as this is over.”

“First, I love all of you, all the time. Second, I heard you talking to Alice and Joan about hiring more staff, that word is honestly beyond my comprehension, when we go back to Virginia.” Cass took Penelope from him and laid her gently on the shaded blanket that had been set up, her hand brushing over her curls and kissing her forehead gently.

“And? You don’t want the help?”

“I thought the two of us were getting by quite well on our own.”

“I can’t put off going back to work any longer and I want someone I know and trust with them during the day. And if Alice or Joan are watching them, then they need someone else to do the things they have been doing.” Sure her and John had figured out a rhythm. But eventually Cass needed to get back to doing the work she loved. Rediscover who she was just as Cass and not just as John’s wife or her children’s mother. “Besides, they aren’t watching them so I can go to tea or try on dresses. I need to get back in there. You know what they’ve been saying about Korea.”

“Is that what you’ve been worried about? It’s a few years from anything active, Cass, if anything at all.” She wasn’t used to the anxiety that coursed through her veins after she had the twins. Wasn’t used to feeling her chest so heavy when she thought about how hard this world was going to make it to protect them.

“Yes, but if I can even do one thing to help prevent them from having to live through a war…” She trailed off and wiped angrily at her eyes, lifting Penelope against her chest and kissing the top of Gale’s head where he still rested against John. “I don’t want them to ever have to experience anything like what we went through.” He gathered her into his side and kissed her temple.

“We went through that so they could live in a better world,” he said softly. “Came out the other side because right here, right now is where we belong.” She looked up with a laugh as she noticed Butter trotting his way over to them, his nose sniffing at Gale and Penelope before he plopped on his side in the shade.

“If it bothers you, I’ll tell them all to go home and never come back. The five of us can figure the rest out.”

“No, they’re fine. It’s just not how we did things in Wisconsin. It’s taking some getting used to.” He had assumed Cass came from money when he met her. The well-manicured nails and silk nightgowns and impeccable table manners cluing him in. He just hadn’t realized he was marrying into a Carolina rice dynasty. It came with multiple homes and polo matches and hunting trips and acres of land and hundreds of employees in the home and around the burgeoning corporation. For so long, Cass had thought marriage and kids were not in the cards for her so the structure of a household was a non-existent problem. But then she had fallen in love with John Egan and married him in London and spent two years dreaming of their future and the comforts of her childhood had found their way in.

“Well, Butter, you keep an eye on these three while I pick out porcelain and tie drapes and whatever the heck else a lady is supposed to do these days.” With one last kiss to the top of her daughter’s head, her son’s head and her husband’s head, Cass was off and pulled into a million directions upon re-entering her home. Whenever she could, she would look out the window at her husband tickling their tummies or helping them put sand in a bucket or carrying them to dip their toes in the water. She knew none of the material things around her mattered. And if it made John more comfortable to get rid of them, she would in a heartbeat. She only needed those three humans and the one furry family member to be happy. To be fulfilled in this life beyond her wildest dreams. Any threats on the horizon be damned.

----

Cass waited anxiously for her parents' new Italian sounding car to pull into the driveway, her siblings, extended family and some of the local friends her and John had found already socializing about the house and grounds. She had taken a sip of her husband’s whiskey she was so nervous.

“Baby, I know for a fact your dad is going to be too focused on the twins and the other grandchildren running around to even care about the way I carve the ham. And who cares if your mother doesn’t like the color of the shutters? I didn’t spend a whole weekend painting them for her.” He had for Cass. She had spent days deciding between two shades of green that John thought were exactly the same but had provided his minimal input when asked.

��I rewarded you handsomely for your efforts, Mr. Egan.” John remembered. They hadn’t left their bed for days after Cass couldn’t stand the sight of him sweaty and with a pencil tucked behind his ear working on their house any longer. She had had her way with him and John had taken on many more projects around the house ever since. And every time, his wife was unable to maintain even a shred of decency.

“I never got that round two you were mentioning this morning, Mrs. Egan,” he mused as he drifted closer and closer until his hands wrapped around the small of her back and her arms draped over his shoulders.

“We have a house full of guests,” she giggled as he nipped gently at her lips.

“Yes but the babies are occupied which means no little angelic interruptions.” She moaned as he pressed a searing kiss to her lips, her toes curling in her new heels.

“Not even on Easter Sunday can you two find a sense of decorum?”

“Shush, Gale, they’re in love,” Marge said with a gentle slap to his arm. If Gale Cleven had a nickel for everytime he had caught the two of them in various stages of passion, he would have been able to use the profits alone to buy a similar house to the one he was standing in.

“Oh, I am so happy you were able to make it!” Cass kissed Gale on the cheeks eagerly and let out a squeal of delight as she wrapped Marge in a hug. “I’ve got you both all set up in the guest room furthest from the nursery so you can hopefully sleep in peace while you’re here.” Before John could even say his own hello, Cass and Marge were off towards the backyard with their heads close together as they whispered.

“Well, we did always say they’d be thick as thieves,” he remarked as he grabbed the suitcase Marge had abandoned by the door. “Up this way.” Gale smiled and nodded politely at all the strangers that were dressed in black and white, bustling in and out of the kitchen and dining room with haste. He could only imagine how it was driving his best friend crazy.

“Who would’ve thought? John Egan having ten people cook his Easter dinner for him,” Gale teased as John set the suitcase down in the guest room and dropped himself into the armchair by the window.

“I hear it’s being served on porcelain,” he mused back. Gale settled in the chair across from him.

“It’s a beautiful house, John. You’ve got to be proud of yourself.” John stared out the window and nodded.

“Yeah, it is. Makes Cass happy to be out here.” It wasn’t that she was unhappy at their home in Virginia but John knew she missed South Carolina. Missed the beach and her family being close by.

“And are you happy?”

“With her and the kids, always. Just learning this new side to her is all.”

“That seems to be what marriage entails. Learning to love something new everyday.” The hum of a car engine broke the comfortable silence between two old friends and Gale peeked out the window with a low whistle. “Is that a Maserati?”

“That it would be, Buck. You want to come distract my mother in law with your good looks for me?” When John and Cass had their more official wedding last year, Buck Cleven had been the hottest commodity. The women of Charleston hadn’t given him a moment to breathe.

“No I think you’ve got the Cooper women under control, Bucky.” Gale clapped him between his shoulder blades. “Now where’s that beautiful baby you named after me?”

Cass was at the bottom of the stairs waiting with a baby on each hip, Gale kissing their sprouting curls on his way to find Marge on the beach, and John forgot all about anything negative he had been feeling that day.

“Say hi Daddy, we were looking for you.” The twins smiled like they always did when they had their parents attention solely on them. The sound of Cass’ voice bringing them a calmness only John could ever begin to relate to.

“Hi, my little bunnies.” John took Penelope onto his own hip, kissing her cheek around the stuffed bunny ear that was between her teeth, Cass reaching to tuck a few of his curls back into place. “I thought you preferred them all messy.”

“I do but-” the door opened and the words died in her throat.

“Cassandra Ann, that dog of yours does have a habit of sticking his nose all over the place.”

“Hi, Mama. Happy Easter to you, too.” John whistled for Butter who came and sat at his side dutifully. “Hi, Daddy.” She pressed a kiss to each of her parents’ cheeks and almost cringed as she saw the line of valets carrying colorful baskets into the backyard. The level of stuffed animals entering her home was reaching a near suffocating level.

“Oh, John, how handsome you look this afternoon.” Cass rolled her eyes as her mother stepped forward to kiss John’s blushing cheeks.

“Thank you, ma’am, you’re looking very lovely yourself. Sir.” He shook her father’s hand firmly, smiling when Penelope reached for her grandfather instantly.

“Cassandra, aren’t you going to show me around? I’m very curious as to which place setting you chose.” She looked at John to say I told you so before guiding her mother down the hall.

“Of course. We can start in the dining room if you’d like.” John felt like a bad father as his son looked at him with wide blue eyes over his mother’s shoulder as they disappeared around the corner but he would make it up to him with something sweet after dinner.

“Can I offer you something to drink, sir?”

“Whiskey, John, thank you.” While John had had to work his charm hard on Mrs. Cooper to convince her he wasn’t a street urchin there to steal her daughter, Mr. Cooper had taken no convincing to know John was the right man for his daughter. Had sat down for one dinner with the two of them and saw how they looked at each other. How he had kept a hand on her protectively the entire time. Had seen the absolute gratitude in Cass’ eyes that John was alive and next to her every time she looked at him.

“I told Cass you’d be more interested in the grandkids than the way I carved the ham later,” he pointed out as Penelope was filled with utter glee at the way her grandfather was tickling her cheeks with her bunny.

“Cassandra has always been my most perceptive child yet, on occasion, forgets that is one of her own most formidable qualities.” John handed him a glass, bringing them together with a clink before taking a sip. “How is my daughter doing?”

“This one and her brother keep her busy and she’s looking forward to getting back to work. But she’s good. She smiles everyday, I’ll always make sure of it.” Penelope’s lower lip began to wobble and John gathered her against his chest just as the first tear rolled down her chubby cheek.

“I can go find the nanny-”

“I’ve got it, sir.” John kissed her forehead gently and she quieted. “She’s just like her mother. Pouts until she gets a kiss then she’s fine.” Now she was focused on the fabric of John’s tie and trying to get it into her mouth. Yes, Mr. Cooper thought, Cass had made the perfect decision to marry this man.

“Son, if I may offer a few pointers on carving the ham.”

----

Hours later, after bellies were full and babies were sleepy, the house was beginning to calm down. Cass had shed her stockings and tied her hair back and accepted Marge’s offer to put the twins to sleep. There were people finishing dishes in the kitchen and packing away porcelain in the dining room. Alice was orchestrating the entire effort for which she was grateful, her fingers wrapping around the neck of a bottle of whiskey and heading towards the small fire that was glowing on the beach.

“You hiding from me?” she teased as she dropped a kiss to the top of his head and sat in the chair next to him.

“Never, baby. Was just having a cigarette before coming in to help with bedtime.” Cass wanted him to quit but was starting with not allowing him to smoke around the kids. She handed him the whiskey and took the cigarette from his fingers, inhaling a few times before putting it out in the sand.

“Marge asked if she could put them to bed for practice. I ran away before she changed her mind,” she giggled. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked around a pull from the bottle.

“Everything.”

“Spook, you know my ego needs specifics.” He opened his arms, summoning her into his lap, and closed his eyes in peace as her head settled under his chin.

“Not letting me chase you away all those years ago. Not divorcing me when I showed up at your bunk bed in Germany. Our babies.”

“I had very little to do with those two but I’ll take it.” She kissed him gently, lovingly. Without a care in the world and in no rush. “Everything to your liking today?”

“Yes. I promise we won’t host anymore holidays for awhile.”

“You pick the right porcelain?”

“Of course not.” John laughed and she joined in, taking her own swig of alcohol. “And I was very impressed by your knife skills at dinner.” John kissed the tip of her nose.

“Your dad told me it was important the man of the house not treat it like carving a ham but like he could use the knives to protect his family.”

“Did he?” she asked with a furrowed brow.

“I think he was trying to convince me to take it more seriously. It worked.”

“It certainly seemed it did.” Cass twisted her finger around the loose curl in the middle of his forehead as he looked out towards the ocean. “I do have one last ask up my sleeve.” Slowly undoing the buttons of her dress, John was more focused than he had been all day. Between her breasts was an Easter egg with hearts painted on it.

“I would’ve joined in on the egg hunt had I known, Cass.”

“Open it.” As soon as he had it in his fingers, her lips were on his jaw and down his neck and he had an inkling what might be inside. He could barely read the words she had written as the blood rushed from his head to between his legs. Round two? His lips were on hers in an instant, John groaning as his hand slid up her thigh and found nothing but bare skin. She made quick work of his belt and zipper, sliding his waistband down just enough to free him.

“Fuck, baby, no time for teasing.” His hands lifted her hips and he sunk into her with a contented sigh, his lips latching onto her collarbone as she found a steady pace. “Want the neighbors to hear how good I make you feel.”

“John,” she whined as his hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed gently. Unable to hold himself back, he laid her onto the blanket and used the new leverage to increase the pace, her legs hooking around his hips and urging him to go harder and faster. “You’re going to make me cum.”

“You look so pretty when you cum, baby,” he cooed into her ear as he felt her clenching around him. “That’s my good girl, taking me so well.” His wife looked so good underneath him. Like she truly was made to be his.

“Fuck, right…there…oh, God,” she arched her back into him as her orgasm washed over her in a waves, John’s hips stuttering as he moaned into her mouth and she took all he had to give her. “I love making you moan.” John was handsome and rugged and all the masculine words that she could think of. But he was also so damn pretty.

“Good thing you’re so good at it,” he said as he nuzzled into the side of her neck. “You’ve worn me out, Mrs. Egan.”

“Can you carry me to bed?” she murmured as her own eyelids were growing heavy.

“Just let me hold you like this for a few more minutes.”

“Hey, John?” He kissed the side of her neck in acknowledgment. “I love you.”

“Hey, Spook?” She smiled in anticipation. “I love you, too.”

And if Gale earned another nickel as he was closing the blinds that night, no one needed to know.

#masters of the air #john egan #callum turner #mota #masters of the air fanfiction #john egan fanfiction #callum turner fanfiction #mota fanfiction #masters of the air fanfic #john egan fanfic #callum turner fanfic #mota fanfic #john egan x reader #john egan x oc #cass and bucky

120 notes · View notes

inafieldofdaisies · 11 months

Text

WIP Sunday | Tagging @adelaidedrubman @thesingularityseries @socially-awkward-skeleton @direwombat @euryalex @strafethesesinners @detectivelokis @nightbloodbix @aceghosts @madparadoxum @g0dspeeed @trench-rot @josephseedismyfather @josephslittledeputy @theelderhazelnut @purplehairsecretlair @jinfromyarikawa @shegetsburned @clicheantagonist @poisonedtruth @vampireninjabunnies-blog @cassietrn @neverthesameneveranother @wrathfulrook @jacobsneed @voidika @harmonyowl @strangefable @schoute and anyone with something to share <3

This weekend we're boarding the angst train, folks. First up, you're getting a snippet from Chapter 11 where John is going through it, followed by a little something from Calahan (from a different chapter), that simply pulled at my heart and I had to share it. <3

When breakfast was finished John retreated to his bedroom, taking a seat at the mahogany desk and opening one of Sabrina's notebooks to the page he'd been on before going downstairs that morning. The night before, sleep had refused to come after his encounter with Sabrina, so he had slipped back into methodically reading through her entries. What started as a routine search for clues that could help the Project evolved into selfish anticipation of finally finding anything written down about himself. He frowned as he flipped back to the first page of the notebook he was holding. Ironically enough, he had almost skipped that one because he had deemed it too outdated based on the year she had scribbled on the front. At the end, curiosity and fear of missing anything crucial about her had gotten the best of him, especially when he was faced by the idea the notebook was going to offer him insight into Sabrina's life when she was around Savannah's age. Upon opening it, a handwritten note had caught his eye and pushed him to do something absolutely impulsive.

July, 2002 Monkey, I know sometimes you feel like your visions are a curse, especially when people refuse to heed our warnings. I promise I will do my hardest to remind you every day that they're far from it, that there's a meaning to your gift, a reason why you're facing so much darkness. When doubt creeps in, think of everyone that we have managed to help so far and the hope you've given them. It's the same hope I felt from the moment I held you in my arms when you were born. A conviction you will make the world a better place by simply existing in it.

John had finally gotten an answer what made the Deputy so set on caring for others to the point she overlooked her own well-being, where her determination and willingness to help came from. He had no doubt who the messy writing on the page belonged to. Her father. Sabrina had called him a good man, and after reading his letter, John could see where she was coming from and how the man's love shone in the words he had written for her. After this discovery his room had felt suffocating, too small. Before he knew what he was doing, he'd jumped into his truck, telling himself he was going for a drive. It would help clear my head. Put some space between us. The moment he found himself on the empty dark roads illuminated only by his headlights, he just couldn't shake the thoughts of Sabrina off. His pesky conscience reminded him of how he had made her wait for him for hours simply because he couldn't trust himself around her. The drive with no direction had ended up with a destination. Her cabin. The home he had forced her and her sister to abandon. As he had pushed open the front door, memories of entering the house not so long ago returned to him, reminding him of his foolish belief that burying himself in work would fix anything. Wordlessly, he had walked through each room until he had found himself in her kitchen, his eyes stopping at the fridge adorned by mementos. Amongst the few polaroids hanging on it, there was one of young Sabrina with what he assumed was her father. His hand had reached on his own accord, removing the picture before shoving it in his jacket. He had left after that, driving back to the ranch, the whole time refusing to read too much into his actions. Just a silent thank you for saving my life. So I don't feel beholden for what she did on the road. That's all.

He blamed his lack of sleep for his nonexistent self-control that morning. The second he had entered the kitchen all his eyes could focus on were her bare shoulder and the way the thin T-shirt clung to her lithe body. He refused to allow himself to think about the butterfly tattoo and smooth skin his lips earned for. Nor about the outline of her- No. Things had only gotten worse after that. The notebook entries were getting to him, revealing things about her when she herself was guarding her secrets. He couldn't help but wonder how she had coped with the visions for so long, especially when from the sounds of it, the only person that believed her was her father. The man's letter combined with the worried look in her eyes as she questioned him about Darcy Harris and the others had caused him to cross a line. To reach out and touch her, offer comfort. Instead of giving the polaroid to her directly and having her question his reasons for doing it, he had decided to tuck it in the notebook prepared for her, hoping Sabrina would find it on her own eventually. At breakfast, he had watched her closely, trying to figure out if she had made that discovery, and judging by her lack of reaction, she hadn't yet.

A knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts before they could drag him down further. "Yes?" John heard a giggle before it opened, then Savannah's head poked into the room with a huge smile aimed his way. "Delivery. Your lunch is here." She entered promptly, carrying a plate in her hands that she set on the desk next to one of the piles of notebooks. "Whatcha doing, John?", she asked, raising on her tiptoes in attempt to glance over his shoulder at the page he was reading. "Work stuff, Savi.", he responed, closing the notebook before she could recognize her sister's handwriting. He turned in his chair to look at her as she leaned against the desk. "Work? Rin-Rin said you're a lawyer?" "Yes, I am." As her face scrunched in contemplation, John imagined her brain trying to select which question to throw at him first, then she eventually asked "Is it boring?" Amusement took over him at her directness before he replied, "No. There's always something new to deal with. What made you think that?" "Oh, Rin-Rin said it is." That made him laugh, "Did she now?" Savannah nodded, "Annnd, do you help bad people?" Depends who you ask, child. When he didn't respond right away, she added, "Rin-Rin always told me it's why she became a detective, because they help people while lawyers sometimes have to defend bad guys." John nodded, "I believe I'm helping people, too, Savi." Savannah smiled at his words. "And your sister-" Sabrina calling out her name cut him off, ruining his chance at finding out more from the one person that was most likely to respond to his questions with nothing but the truth. "Ohh, I have to go, John.", she hurried over to the door, "I'm going outside to play.", suddenly she stopped, turning back as a realization hit her, her voice taking on another note of excitement, "Ah, I can't believe I forgot! When will you show me your plane?" "Soon." "Sav?", Sabrina's voice was now on the second floor, making Savannah utter out, "Bye, John." before closing the door. He could barely make out the two of them talking quietly in the hallway, then silence took over the upstairs area as their voices faded away. John got up from his chair with a tired sigh and made his way over to the set of windows in the bedroom. Just stretching my legs. Letting some fresh air in. The poor excuse seemed enough as he opened the door that led onto the balcony.

On an ordinary day, before Sabrina had turned his world upside down, he would have been in a middle of a Confession by then. Tirelessly working on uncovering the sins of whoever was meant to sit in his chair. Instead, he had lunch waiting on him and was watching Sabrina place down a blanket in a shaded spot on the grass before sitting down. A smile appeared on her face at Savannah running around on the lawn, her sister's laughter carrying inside. He knew what Joseph would tell him if he was brave enough to come clean about what he had done, "They're a distraction, Brother. You can't allow this to continue." John forced his attention back to where it needed to be, spending another hour buried in Sabrina's notes when all he craved was to go outside and join them. To selfishly steal a couple of minutes for himself. When he finally took a break, he decided he could use the time to do make daily call to Deputy Hartley while he had no one around to eavesdrop. He picked up the receiver, "Deputy, are you ready to be free of your sins?" He wasn't surprised by the silence that greeted him. It was the usual reply got from the Sinner, followed by curses and empty threats that made him wonder what potential his brother saw in the man. Still, Joseph finds him worthy and he's never wrong about what the Project needs. "Hudson here is feeling a bit lonely. The sooner you get cleansed, the quicker you'd join her in my Gate." That did it. "Fucker, cut the bullshit, this is getting old. When you finally find the guts to face me, I won't be the one getting cleansed and tortured. Where is Sabrina?" John stared at the receiver, trying to control his anger at Hartley's tone and the way he had said Sabrina's name. The question left his mouth before he could stop it, "Why? What is she to you, Sinner?" A dark laugh came through a few seconds later, "Does little Johnny have a crush? You're not worthy of breathing the same air she does, bastard. What she is to me is none of your DAMN business." In a flash his hands sent all the contents on his desk flying to the ground, the neat stacks of Sabrina's notebooks tipped over while the empty plate shattered against the hardwood floor. He was tired. Tired of suppressing the urges. Tired of his temper reaching a boiling point anytime he dealt with Hartley. Tired of forcing a smile and having to tolerate that Sinner while he did his best at hindering John's efforts at preparing for the Collapse. Tired of not even knowing what Hartley was to Sabrina and why Joseph placed his interest in him to begin with. "I have to love them, Joseph? HE'S NOT WORTHY! He's not.", the words escaped his lips in frustration and he felt relieved he was alone at the ranch, that nobody was witnessing his meltdown. Especially not you, Deputy.

You like me, Angel. Too bad you refuse to admit it. But in a way Calahan was glad about [Mary May] faking disinterest. He told himself it was for the best, that it would be an unwanted complication in the middle of a holy war, that the last thing he needed was to fall for anyone and he was certain with her it would be unavoidable and as natural as breathing. The biggest trouble I can ever get myself into.

29 notes · View notes

spacecadetomoly · 2 years

Text

Matsuno Family Diary! Part 3: Christmas time with Jyushimatsu! (Unofficial English Translation)

The following is an unofficial English translation of an official short story released online for members of the official Osomatsu-san fan club. If you want to read the original Japanese version of the story or enjoy the other things the fan club offers it’s members please consider joining: https://osomatsusan-fc.com/ In the room of the Matsuno family sextuplets there is a notebook hidden away behind a bookshelf. This notebook exists so that the brothers may, should they so choose, express the deep feelings and profound thoughts which weigh upon their hearts and minds so heavily that they can no longer be contained. It seems that today someone’s hand is once again turning the pages…. December 24th 2021, Jyushimatsu

Tomorrow is Christmas! So I decided to become Santa and give everyone gifts! Except, you can't get presents unless you're good. You’re not allowed to be naughty! I’ll try and explain the problem: Osomatsu niisan is not a good boy because he farted in his futon last night (let's be careful!) Karamatsu niisan is not a good boy because he used the money he earned from winning at pachinko to buy tacky clothes (let's reflect on that!) Choromatsu niisan is not a good boy because the other day he kept showing me a DVD of a live idol show (people have different tastes!) Ichimatsu niisan is not a good boy because he didn't go to batting practice with me today (I'll go with him tomorrow!) Totty is not a good boy because when I was pretending to be a dog, he made eye contact with me but still ignored me (Mean! Boeh!)* So...I couldn't give any of my brothers a gift. Next, let’s look at mother and father. Mom is not a good girl because she ate all of the cake the neighbors gave her all by herself (I wish I could have eaten it too!)** Dad is not a good boy because the other night he came into our room and then sighed very loudly when he saw our sleeping faces (maybe he’s tired of seeing NEETs go to bed earlier than him!)*** And so in the end I couldn’t give anyone a gift and no one could give one to me either. Let's all work harder for next year! P.S. I didn't do the erotic book thing.

Translator's notes: *I originally had this line as “Totty is not a good boy because he refused to make eye contact with me when I was playing dog with him (Awful! Woof!)” but I wasn’t sure if that was right so I put out an open call for help with the translation and Cinnanom Roll (https://cinnanom-roll.tumblr.com/) was able to translate the raw Japanese text into this much better line. Thank you so much Cinnanom Roll! And if anyone else wants to help me out in the future and take a look at the original text for a line just DM me the line you want to try retranslating. I really do appreciate any help I can get I seriously have no idea what I’m doing. ** I strongly disagree with Jyushimatsu here. Matsuyo did nothing wrong, she fully deserved to eat every crumb of cake and share nothing with her lazy sons. *** Matsuzo also did nothing wrong. He works full time to support six twenty somethings; He’s allowed to sigh about that every once in a while, he’s earned that right. Welp, looks like Christmas was a bust in the Matsuno household. Maybe things will get for everyone in the new year? Up Next: Todomatsu goes to a party!

#osomatsu san #mr osomatsu #jyushimatsu #matsuno family diary #todomatsu #translations

73 notes · View notes

arts-and-drafts · 1 year

Text

Playdate (Empires SMP/Dream SMP)

(In which Joel is of the opinion that it's healthy for kids to play with other kids. This one is short but fluffy, to try and make up for my last angst fest :) I wrote this before the Rift even appeared on Empires so I guess I was briefly given the gift of prophecy lmao. Enjoy!)

CWs: Kidnapping, I guess?

Today, Joel won the title of the best dad in the world.

It took a lot of work (and a few cashed-in favors) to get everything set up, but finally, after many days of finicking and Lore and rift-meddling, Hermes was going to have his first playdate.

Joel watched proudly over crossed arms as his little one ran in place a few blocks away, barely keeping his excitement at bay among the gaggle of new kids. Joel had been a bit on guard after hearing the rumors about the Dream SMP, but relaxed significantly after actually seeing the kids. They were puny at best, and posed no threat to his boy.

The oldest, (Micheal or Mitchell or--definitely it started with an M. Whatever.) was the first to step forward, and although he looked very scared for some reason he still gave a meek smile. Hermes instantly grabbed the pig-kid's hesitant hand and shook it up and down, his smile brighter than the Stratosphere's gold. Joel watched his little god of message scribble down his greetings in his adorable little notebook from Daddy Sausage, but his smile wavered when the pig-kid looked confused. Hermes turned back to his father, his sweet little face falling.

Oh no, that won't do. Joel put way too much work into this playdate for his Hermes to be sad today.

The undead pig-kid took several steps back as Joel thundered up to them, pressing himself into the arctic fox cub and the other pig-child with a wide eye. Joel ignored the look. He was used to his immense power and height and handsomeness startling mortals. How could he blame them?

"What's wrong, my boy?" Joel asked, kneeling beside Hermes. His son looked up at him and scribbled into his pages, holding the book up. 'I don't think they understand, Thunder Daddy.'

"They can't read?" Joel asked. Hermes thought a moment. 'They may not read god language.'

"Greek, son." Joel gently corrected. "And yeah, I didn't think of that. How about you write in your book and I'll help you talk to them, yeah?"

And there was Hermes' golden smile, right back as if it never left. Joel's son tapped the top of his page and held up his book again for his father to read.

"Ahem--My son says his name is Hermes, and he's delighted to meet you." Joel said in English, looking back at the group of kids. The pig-kid's eye lit up with recognition, something Joel was thankful for. He only really bothered to learn English from the mortal languages, and this would be much harder if the kids didn't know it too.

Joel immediately ate his words when the pig-kid started moving his hands instead of replying. Could he not speak either?!

Joel pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be very hard.

"Child, I don't know what you're doing, I'm sorry." Joel said sincerely, making the pig-kid stop. "Can you write English? That may be the best way."

"I-I-I could h-help." Squeaked the fox kit, trying to hide behind the pig-kid as much as he could. Joel raised his eyebrows. "You can read his hands?"

"Y-yeah--" the kit stammered, looking back and forth from the pig-kid and Joel's faces like he had said something wrong. Joel's beard split into a big grin. "Well, go on then, little fox boy!"

The kit furtively glanced at the pig-children once more before turning to Hermes, the god-child surprisingly patient through this whole thing. "U-u-um--M-Micheal says h-hi too, H-Hermes."

Ha, it was Micheal! Joel was never wrong. He quickly translated to his boy, and Hermes somehow smiled wider, the wings on his shoes fluttering.'What are your names?'

"U-um--I'm Y-Yogurt." The kit mumbled. "A-and th-that's Michelle." He gestured to the other pig-kid, who started signing furiously as soon as Joel looked at her. Yogurt squeaked in panic. "A-are you crazy, I-I'm not gonna tell him that!!"

"Tell me what?" Joel said evenly, staring the kit in the eyes. Yogurt looked like he was about to pass out. "U-u-um--s-she was a-asking when we can go h-home, s-sir."

Joel had a feeling that Yogurt left out a lot of Michelle's words.

"When you're done playing." Joel answered, allowing a slight of force in his cheerful tone as he met eyes with Michelle. "Hermes needs friends. You will be that."

He made sure that his tone indicated his intent. He wasn't going to strong-arm children, goodness sake, but his boy's happiness definitely came before some random mortals' comfort. Plus, how terrible could he be? Telling kids they had to play together? They loved doing that! Joel might as well have been Santa.

"Don't worry, you're very safe here." Joel added, after seeing Yogurt's face pale at his words. "You're in the village of Lore, under Stratos' protection. No harm will come to you here." Joel promised. "Just have fun, you crazy kids."

None of them moved. Joel sighed.

"Ugh, it's like you don't know how to play." Joel muttered. "Hermes, why don't you show them some games, hm?"

Micheal was...enjoying himself. Somehow.

He had no idea where he was or how he got there, and his dads must be worried sick over him, and there was a very scary man that smelled like the sky and rain that wasn't letting them leave--but despite all of that, he was having fun playing a game called 'Tag' with a god-child.

And he was really good at it.

Despite Hermes having winged shoes, Micheal caught up to him every time, and was now evenly matched for points with Yogurt. But, his exhaustion won out over his competitiveness, and he was debating taking a break when he felt a twinge in his chest.

A sensation he swiftly recognized with fear.

Micheal hurriedly waved Yogurt over from his chase and ran up to the god-man, who looked them over with nonchalance. "Yes? Are you not having fun anymore?"

'I need to go home', Micheal signed in a frenzy, Yogurt quickly translating. The god sighed.

"Kids, I told you, Hermes needs--"

'I need my medicine, sir!' Micheal interrupted, his fear of the god dwindling rapidly. The god raised his eyebrows as Yogurt explained further.

"O-oh, that's right--Micheal is undead, he needs his a-anti-zombie meds or h-he'll turn into a zombie again!" The fox realized. "M-Michelle needs them too!"

The god closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh, damn it. Fine, I'll take you sickly mortals back." He muttered, sounding greatly inconvenienced. If Micheal were a tad more like his Bo, he'd be more offended, but right now he was just relieved to go home.

"Hermes, my boy, say your goodbyes." The god-man rumbled, gaining his son's attention from across the field. "These mortals have to go home now."

Hermes' immediately wilted, and Micheal felt a familiar pang in his heart. He knew what it was like to have no friends, before his dads let him leave the house.

'Maybe we'll hang out again sometime,' Micheal signed. He couldn't say he liked being in this strange new world without his consent, but...Hermes was pretty cool. He liked playing with him.

His uncertain message seemed to be enough for the god-child, because he immediately brightened again and pulled Micheal in for a hug before he could do anything. 'I'll write you!' Hermes scribbled.

Micheal wasn't really sure how that would work, but before he could sign anything else, the god stood back up to his full height and snapped his fingers.

And Micheal was back in his room like nothing happened.

His dads were in front of him, and instantly shot up from where they were sitting on Michael's bed to rush towards him.

"MICHEAL!"

Micheal was overwhelmed with questions and shaking hugs and medicine shoved in his face, but finally he had managed to calm his dads down enough to get tucked in. His dads hadn't taken their hands off him since his return, and were now sitting on either side of his bed as Micheal recounted his adventure. His Bo nearly exploded when Micheal told about the giant god-man that was keeping them captive, but Micheal tried his best to assure him that he really was quite helpful and kind of nice.

Micheal was interrupted by the window slamming open with the force of a frosty gale, something that happened during bad enough storms. However, it was completely calm outside.

Micheal's Boo got up to close the window, but paused and reached for something that flew in to land on the sill. He held up an envelope with confusion, and Micheal saw the name 'Hermes' written in gold on the front.

And Micheal couldn't help but smile.

END.

#empires fic #meraki post #dream smp fic #dream smp #empires smp #micheal beloved #idk how to tag this lol #tw kidnapping #TECHNICALLY. i just wanna be safe #can you tell i love writing joel #there's soooo many personal headcannons in here i apologize

33 notes · View notes

choicesmonthlychallengejune2022 · 2 years

Text

Choices Monthly Challenge June 2022 Prompt List

Welcome to the June Monthly Challenge!

Please feel free to use one, two, or three of the daily prompts in your creation. The days are just suggestions, you can send your submission anytime during the month of June.

Enjoy and we can't wait to see what you create!

01: interview | sunset | “Is that a new…”

02: eating | introduction | amusement park

03: practice | finish line | sweater

04: break up | new pet | “I got tickets!”

05: notebook | dying | picnic

06: reunited | new neighbor | ice / ice cream

07: baby | we've moved | “I’ve wanted to do this forever!”

08: closing | vacation | “I’d love to go out with you.”

09: date | rejection | “We won (lost).”

10: old journal | kiss | “Here’s my/Lose my number.”

11: youth | change | protest

12: blank canvass | graduation | fireplace/pit

13: Pride | dancing | “We’re all out of vanilla.”

14: last day of school | contract | beach

15: photographs | making out | sneezing

16: work of art | call back | “I can’t believe it’s over…”

17: forgiveness | new crush | swimsuit

18: texting | funeral | blanket

19: parent/father | Juneteenth | “What? Is this a new rule?”

20: wedding | undress | sunburn

21: return | audition | darkness

22: roots | shopping | “Welcome to your new nightmare…”

23: diagnosis | scrapbook | “You’re hired/fired.”

24: breakfast | midnight snack | “Someone left a gift for you.”

25: resignation | proposal | “I’ve never said this before, but…”

26: cuddles | fight | "You should throw that away."

27: birthday | death | "We’re going to be lifelong friends!”

28: application | let go | “That felt so good!”

29: December | welcome | "I’ve never been here before.”

30: opening | the end | “It was good while it lasted.”

Have fun creating! See guidelines below.

Submitted works will be featured on a weekly masterlist on Sundays* (*depending on event participation)

Every form of creative work can be submitted: fanfiction, drabbles, moodboards, edits, drawings, poems, songs, sketches, and more—all are welcomed.

Work from any book and story from the Choices (and Pixelberry) universe are welcome (new and old alike)!

You can participate as many times as you want during the month

You do not need to participate daily or even weekly.

Clearly list the day/prompt your work is for

You can combine submissions for this event and others

Please use warnings to tag content that may be triggering/disturbing to some users.

If your work is NS*W please label it as such and use appropriate warnings. Adult content should be hidden under the page break.

When possible, use page breaks to limit long posts.

You can get creative with the prompts. It can be a variation of the word and/or concept. It doesn’t have to be exact or literal. If the word inspires a train of thought that led you to something different, put that in the notes and send it in! Have fun with it! Make them work for you! The ultimate goal is just to find joy in creating!

If you want to participate in a day that has already past, that is fine, just note that in your post and I will still reblog it and then edit the masterlist for that day to include our post.

Please tag @choicesmonthlychallenge and feel free to DM your work too because Tumblr, is Tumblr. @jerzwriter)

#choices monthly challenge #choices june challenge #choices monthly challenge june 2022 #prompt list

120 notes · View notes

dicphanous · 4 months

Text

[ camila mendes, cis woman, she/her ] — whoa! lydia sinclair just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for twenty eight years, working as a marine biologist. that can’t be easy, especially at only twenty nine years old. some people say they can be a little bit perfectionistic and prickly, but I know them to be confident and driven. whatever. I guess I’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to manhattan!

BASICS:

Full Name: Lydia Eve Sinclair Nickname: Lydia, Lyds Age: 29 Birthday: July 30th Sexuality: Heterosexual Relationship Status: Single (open to potential ships) Occupation: Marine Biologist at the New York Aquarium Birthplace: Cabo Frio, Brazil Accent: American Height: 5'3" Hair Color: Black Eye Color: Dark Brown

PERSONALITY:

Sign: Leo Alignment: True Neutral Fears: the dark, tight spaces Habits: reading the last page of the book before buying it, fact checking everything, correcting grammar, calling instead of texting, using big dictionary words, getting into arguments with people who disagree with her, talking to sea creatures, tidying every mess she sees, over-shopping Aesthetics: notebooks with doodles of fish in the corners, writing on the wall in red lipstick, minimal wall decorations, broken mirrors, a walk-in closet full of heels, perfect grades, voices in your head, hidden images in every day objects, make up-stained white napkins, pristine apartments with a skyline view, half full glasses of strawberry wine.

THE STORY (tw; natural disaster, death, paranormal activity):

Your last name is Sinclair; the family that works for one of the biggest tech companies in the United States. You grew up in a New York Penthouse with all the precious gifts money could buy, you were the prom queen in high school and a straight A student all the way through college. You wanted for absolutely nothing when it came to material things. But growing up with co-parents was hard. An absent father who was difficult to please and a busy mother whose attention you had to fight for left you feeling unworthy of attention and adoration. Even with the crown on your head, you never really felt like a queen. Your parents were open about the fact that you were adopted from a family in Brazil after a dreadful hurricane took the lives of your birth parents and separated you from the rest of your family. You were only 1 year old when the Coast Guard found you and put you into the foster care system. The Sinclairs say it was meant-to-be that they adopted you so quickly after that. But there is something you can feel in your bones, a feeling you can't shake that maybe there was some kind of divine interference, something that saved you from the hurricane, that placed you in the life you have now. Though you've never met anyone from your birth family, there is a sort of certainty that you were born to a big, devoted family that loved you. There was one stormy night where you swore you saw something lurk in the shadows, perhaps the face of a weeping woman. You could not stop thinking about it, thinking that you were continuing to see it even at the aquarium where you work. In hopes that you were just seeing things, you started listening to paranormal and horror podcasts, landing on Nirvana's show. You doubted that what you were experiencing was an actual poltergeist of your dead birth mother, but the subject matter was enticing enough to want to contact the show's host. Soon enough, you became friends and got invited to become a co. host. After all, Sinclair money could really help boost the show.

Similar Characters: Jane Villanueva (Jane the Virgin), Elsa (Frozen), Leia Organa (Star Wars), Suki (Avatar: The Last Airbender), Moana (Moana), Caroline Forbes (The Vampire Diaries), Emma Gilbert (H2O: Just Add Water)

WC's:

(don't take these as like solid connections, I hope these can mostly be inspo for you and we can go from there!)

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald. Exes, they dated for a long time in either high school or college and were pretty much a legendary couple, but it was either her knit-picky desire, for perfection or some issue with him, that lead to their inevitable split. Little Women by Louisa May Alcott. Lydia is a fierce supporter of fem presenting people. She's been a feminist ahead of her time since middle school. I feel like she'd have a really strong girl group that uplifts each other and she's a safe space for them to vent about whatever struggles are going on in their lives. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. Childhood friends but one of them has always had a crush on her and she's never given him the time of day. It could turn from friends to enemies and then back to friends or it could grow into something. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Plz give me two rich people who are too blinded by each other's pompous-rich-kid persona to see that they are both just sweet humans trying to do right by their legacies. This can be romantic/platonic. I just love this vibe a lot. Emma by Jane Austen. Lydia know she shouldn't meddle in other people's business, but it's really tempting to do so, especially when she thinks she's smart enough to have all the answers. This could either end well or end terribly, whichever one ends up being a juicier plot. Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery. Other rich kids in New York that she doesn't necessarily get along with. Maybe they don't get along with her either, but their families are probably acquainted and they have to make nice, so they just pretend to be friends while stabbing each other behind each other's backs. Other ideas: Lydia is a big bookworm, so she'll probably be found in the libraries most of the time or at cafés reading or doing research, so some easy connections can be made that way too!

#boroughs.intro #muse ; 𝙻𝚢𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛

2 notes · View notes

duskroine · 2 years

Text

O’ HEIRLOOM OF A FORGOTTEN FAMILY.

NOTES. small content warning for mentioned bullying / being conditioned to adopt a harsh view of others ( it’s a paragraph and not elaborated on, but still ) MASTERY. awakened missiletainn WORDS. 815

OPHELIA IS FOURTEEN YEARS OLD when she finds the ragged notebook on the dirt path curling around the castle. It takes only a moment’s glance to recognize the material that lines the book’s spine and cover. The obnoxious, small writing that sinks ink into the parchment inside. It is her father’s— small, scarred hands flip page after page, her gaze too eager to soak in the writing. Or was it the idea that maybe this was a way to peer into the mind of her father. Gain his reach of confidence and ego. The idea that this would be a way to connect with him further, even when months turn into years of visits promised and not committed.

The book is a passage within the mind of a Chosen One. ( CHOSEN TWO, is what he calls you both now. ) Pages littered with names upon names of legendary weapons— those outside of the ones Ophelia is taught within the castle. They are names and titles that she studies well into the night. Running her finger along the lines of ink as she carefully tends to the oil lamp beside her on the floor of her room.

Ophelia is fifteen years old when she first decides to write a name inside the book. Sixteen years old when the notebook is filled with torn out papers inked with new titles and names and excerpts of incantations. Seventeen years old when she pushes herself to search outside her deeprealm for the tome that had been circled in ink and scribbled in improper capitalization.

Unable to contain the feeling of not having yet wanting, she told her classmates of the plan. The route in which she would take to leave the castle and realm. No one followed her— unsurprisingly. Although hatred should have remained in the place of her heart, remembering how often it was one of these teenagers before her that would persist in knocking her off-balance or tear into her practice with riddles and resentment, there was none. A condition formed by teachers and corruption of magic. Ophelia cannot blame them for finding a target in the VICTIM the school’s hierarchy made of her.

This is only remembered when she is seventeen years old, standing before her father outside of the safety within her realm. The disappointment she shames herself with when clarification is placed upon the notebook in her grasp— an idea book. Not one of legendary weapons or unspoken titles. No, it is one of ideas, excerpts of her father’s mind and all of its glory. ( You are not disappointed at this fact, for some reason. It is more shameful to you that you attempted to use a father’s property to add VALUE TO THE NAME HE GAVE YOU. )

But Father cannot stand the look of defeat that darkens Ophelia’s expression. He presents her a tome, discovered from days of exploration— a gift to his only daughter. A heirloom of name and fortune. Alike the very persona she gifted herself as tribute. A tome of thunder and the volume she adds to her voice.

“Missiletainn,” she names it, immediately. ( You do not understand the emotion that appears on Owain’s face. You are not sure you want to. )

The name is followed by a vow of destiny that even now, at nineteen years of age, Ophelia cannot forget. She remembers every factor of that moment. The blood on her hands, the ache in her face from smiling too wide, the print of Missiletainn against her hip. It fit perfectly. As if made for her. Only for her. She knows, now, of Missiletainn’s origin. The blade sheathed against her father’s side. The only real name he’s ever bestowed upon a weapon.

It is an heirloom. Implying that when she builds a family of her own, it will be the name she slips into the life of her children. A mere mention with the hopes that they utilize it at the first given chance. There is no denying the importance this tome has to her but… it will be a reminder of a kingdom she has no memory of. The name of this tome is one formed within the country that has her name to the throne. ( They will not recognize you. Your name is OPHELIA DUSK. You never knew of your father’s real name before this. )

She has conquered battlefields with this tome in her grasp. There are legends of its true origin. All formed by scholars who have yet to meet the person she’s become to this day. As the war grew, she matured. As she matured, Missiletainn remained the item of her confidence.

And today, it still is. Today, she still wields Missiletainn with a shout of memorized incantation and wears the title of Chosen One like a crown. She will never know the difference between a real crown and the one she’s crafted for herself.

OPHELIA DUSK has awakened MISSILETAINN !!

#〳◌ ⁀ « an expedition for the stars » ( WRITING. )#〳◌ ⁀ « awakened missiletainn » ( DRABBLES. )#{{ sprinkles a bit of ophelia lore and scurries away

7 notes · View notes

ilovedainironfoot · 1 year

Text

Father : so, where is the shirt you made for me ?

Me : I tripped and tore the fabric all the way through

Father : oh, too bad. But what about the dagger ?

Me : I wanted to make the handle in resin, after three attempts, a sink destroyed and made three molds, the resin did not dry properly, sealing forever the handle of the dagger in a malformed half-growth on the upper third

Mother and aunt : where is our wonder woman armor ?

Me : After three days of trying, first with sewing, without finding patterns that don't cost three whole meals, I wanted to make with EVA foam, as I already had plenty of it. I forgot the ease values, making it too late and using all my foam, unable to make it again now.

Cousin : where is my portrait of my favorite youtuber?

Me : after thirty-six attempts, I did not succeed in time

Brother : where is my notebook with all the fanart you did on my fanfic?

Me : naively believing that I would have enough time to do it after my exams, I only filled three pages.

I am angry at myself for my procrastination and lack of logic and just my clumsiness in general . I had planned riddles in little envelopes, a little scavenger hunt for them to find their gifts. But there are no more presents now.

1 note · View note

thegoblinwitchqueen · 2 years

Text

Sharper Than A Serpents Tooth

Chapter: 8

Arthur Morgan X OC

18+

Word Count: 4927

TW: Child loss, reference to religious abuse/trauma. Cute bonding

AO3

The oil lamp that was placed in the middle of the wooden table took approximately three separate attempts to light before the weak flame grew enough to see the blank pages of Del’s leather bound notebook. The book was simple and of medium size, perfect for traveling. Dutch had given it to her the first night as a welcome gift to the Van der Linde camp. Del figured that the intention was for her to write her thoughts and memories down to help clear her boggled mind.

Del loved to read, but by god was her hand writing terrible. She did not inherit the ability to write that her mother had apparently been blessed with. Instead, she opted to fill notebooks with drawings of flowers and horses. She did not draw well, but she enjoyed the mindlessness of the activity.

Arthur Morgan sat adjacent to her, and watched the woman stare with intent at the blank page before her. He still would not look her in the eye when she spoke to him.

“So, you draw, huh?” Arthur began, lighting a home rolled cigarette between his lips. Del pursed her own as she imagined the picture that lay dormant behind the blank page. Inspiration was not coming easily.

“Sort of. I’m not trained by any means. I just enjoy it.” Del began sketching a few circles. She had decided to sketch the Duchess from memory. That was easy enough. “I started when I was a child. Granted, I used to draw in my bible then.”

Arthur chuckled as he exhaled the smoke from his lungs. The light of the lantern illuminated the strong features of his nose and jaw, and Del changed her mind on the topic of her drawing. She began to erase the circles.

“Isn’t drawing in a bible considered blasphemous?” Arthur took another drag and leaned slightly forward to watch the woman as she guided the lead of her pencil across the smooth paper surface.

“Yes. Very much so. But, at least I knew which bible was mine every day at mass.”

“You went to church everyday?”

“Had to, unfortunately.” Del sucked her teeth at a mistake. “The orphanage I lived in was run by Nuns.”

Arthur lifted his brows at the revelation that the young woman had decided that her topic of choice to draw was him. Sure, her technique was…unconventional and child like at most, but without a doubt it was him.

“How long were you in an orphanage?”

“Too long. Since I was five. After my mother died, I was left there to become a nun.” Del took in the features of the outlaw and created a mental picture of his face and pose to recreate. She noted that Arthur had kept his body and arms still as she ran her eyes over his broad shoulders, strong jaw, and powerful hands. She smiled, he was posing for her reference. “You can see that I’m obviously not a woman of the Holy Spirit.”

Even if she wanted to return to the nunnery, there was no way she could now that she took a stranger's life. Thou shalt not kill and what not.

“Indeed,” Arthur’s expression changed from playfulness to puzzlement. It seemed that he had something weighing on his mind.

Del was frustrated with her lack of talent. She made his head too big and his hands too small. She scratched the drawing out, and turned to a fresh page to start over.

“Why did you leave?” Arthur asked, but the question being asked was not the one that Del knew he wanted to say. She wasn’t sure what he was contemplating, but she didn’t want to pry. She inhaled with aggravation. She had messed up once again. This time his eyes were too far apart. His hands were normal but his arms were too long.

Another page wasted. She tried once more.

“Well…that reason is a bit more complicated,” she began as she studied his face once more. “There are a few reasons why. First, I wasn't fond of the way they treated us. Spare the rod, Spoil the child and all. Second, I wanted to find my father, Dutch. And third,”

RIP

Del had torn through the page with the fervency of her erasing. Fuck, and it was going so well…

Del slammed the book shut in frustration and sighed. She was not meant to be an artist.

Arthur took one last drag on his cigarette, tossed the butt, and removed his hat. Del watched the outlaw take the book and pencil to his stations, crack his knuckles, and stretch his neck from side to side in preparation. He opened a fresh page, and began to gently push the pencil as his blue eyes took in her face.

It was her turn to be the model. Del felt amazed as she watched the tough and callous fingers of the outlaw move with such delicate motions along the paper. He was already able to catch so much of her likeness in just a few seconds. Arthur Morgan was an artist.

“What was the third reason?” Arthur asked, his lingering gaze made Del’s core burn. She swallowed hard.

“O-Oh. Third, it seems so silly but I know that it’s valid.” She played with the edges of her skirt ruffle.

“Ha, I promise I won’t laugh. We all have our reasons.” Arthur chuckled. The drawing of Del was more flattering than she perceived herself to be. He made her nose not as protruding, and her mouth fuller. Arthur Morgan was an artist, and liar.

“Okay,” Del shifted her pose slightly. Arthur grimaced, and she smiled through teasing teeth.

“Why the hell did you move?! I gotta start over!” He turned the page angrily. Del turned to expose her facial profile. She watched the outlaw sigh with frustration from the corner of her eye.

“Gotta keep you on your toes, Mr. Morgan.” Del laughed. It was good to laugh after everything that had happened.

“Third reason, Ms. Black.”

“I wanted to be a mother.”

Del watched Arthur’s expression change through her peripheral vision. Men could provide children, want children, but men could not understand the pain of childbirth. It was a longing within Del’s being that she felt more and more each day as she aged.

“A mother? Like to get married.” Arthur tried to contain the questions Del knew were going through his mind.

“Not necessarily married. My situation was…different than most when I left.” Del contemplated whether or not she wished to open up the complexities of her situation when she left the orphanage.

Would he understand?

Would he think differently of her?

Would she now be damaged goods?

Despite their limited interactions of late, Del felt that she could talk to Arthur about anything. The lifestyle he grew up in was so different and free compared to hers. But regardless, men could never truly understand what it was like to be pregnant…

…or to lose a child before it entered the world.

It had been ten years, but time did not make the loss any easier.

Arthur ceased his sketching when he noticed the expression across the young woman’s face change from joy to pain. He set the pencil down onto the table.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No! It’s fine.” Del wanted to change the subject. She decided she wasn’t ready to reopen another part of her she had locked away, especially since she had just started to return to normalcy. “I let the priorities of my life change with the situations I had handed to me. It all means something in the end.”

The young woman held the blue eyes of Arthur Morgan with her own.

“We can’t change the past, only how we handle the future. Everything in between is a gift.” Del remembered the words Diana had said to the young woman as she held her stillborn son, sobbing.

“Wise words coming from such a young thing.” Arthur said softly. After a moment of silence between them, he pulled his eyes from her and set the pencil down. He rose to his feet, sat next to the woman, and handed the open book to Del to show his hard work.

“I’m not that young, sir. I’m nearly 30.”

The drawing was beautiful. Arthur had captured her likeness and his technique was to be admired, and envied. He drew her pose and even shaded the way the oil light illuminated her features. “This is amazing. How did you learn to draw?” Del breathed in astonishment.

“Hosea taught me. He taught me many things...like how to read and write. But I enjoyed drawing the most.” Arthur took the oil lamp from the table and motioned his head for Del to follow. She removed herself from her seat, and let the man lead her to a tent attached to a small wagon.

Arthur sat on the cot that had been set up underneath the canvas tent. There was a small table that housed a few trinkets and a framed photo of a young woman. The man pulled a brown satchel from underneath the cot, and rummaged through the contents until he found the journal he was looking for.

While he searched, Del observed the array of old photos he had attached to the side of his wagon.

A man with a thick mustache who donned the same hat Arthur wore, a hound dog, a cutting from a newspaper, and a photo of Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea.

She examined the youth upon the three men in the photograph. Dutch was young, but older than he was in the photograph she owned. Arthur, though, looked to be no more than sixteen. He was a handsome boy, and his face lacked the defined lines that his future counterpart sported around his eyes. She felt a smile tug at her lips.

“Look at that infant.” Del teased as she pointed to the youth in the photograph. Arthur scoffed, rested his head back against the wagon, and looked at the giggling woman.

“Ha, infant. You, madam, are a talented comedian.” Arthur closed his eyes and let a quick gust of air through his nose in laughter.

“I do try.” Del touched the edges of the photograph. Despite the age of the picture, Arthur kept it pristine. He cared very much for his belongings. She figured that outlaw life did not allow for the burdens of worldly possessions. “When was this taken?”

“Hm..hard to say. Most years tend to run together, but I’d say maybe 20 years ago? 15 maybe?” Arthur scooted down the cot, and patted the canvas material for Del to sit. She obliged without hesitation.

Arthur opened the journal, and Del smiled wide. He quickly turned the pages by running his thumb down the edges. “I enjoy drawing when I’m traveling.”

Del motioned to take the journal but stopped herself. She did not want to invade his personal sanctuary without permission. “May I?”

He smiled and handed her the journal.

Interesting animals, trees, rocks, buildings, towns, and even people took up the pages of Arthur’s journal. The leather binding was beat up and worn, and some of the pages were yellowed and contained drawings that seemed considerably old. Arthur loved this journal, and Del could tell he added pages to it once the contents had been filled.

“This is Amazing, Arthur. You have talent.” Del looked into Arthur’s tired eyes with admiration. Arthur Morgan was a complicated and interesting man. The pull that Del felt towards Arthur was as if she was a magnet being pulled to her complementary half. She wanted to know more about what went on within the brain of Arthur Morgan.

And she hoped he wanted to know hers too.

“I hope I can join you on your travels so you can teach me how to not be terrible at art.” Del laughed, but she meant it.

“Well, we will see. Dutch might keep you on a tight leash for now.” A yawn escaped the man’s mouth. He was exhausted, and it had to be past midnight. “I’m sorry, Del.”

His expression contained a slight hint of embarrassment. The young woman only smiled and handed the journal back to the outlaw.

“Don’t be. Go to Bed, Mr. Morgan.”

That night Del dreamt of horses, and Arthur Morgan finally slept a full night's sleep since Blackwater.

A week went by since that night, and Del had begun to experienced the worst case of “camp fever” she had ever felt in her entire life.

Del could only wash so many clothes, feed so many chickens, wash dishes, cook, count stones….she was an animal locked in a cage of her own creation. She knew that staying put by Dutch’s advice was the best course of action with the law searching for her, but laying low did not change the unending itch that begged her to leave. It was torture that she could not scratch it.

She watched in dismay, as Arthur came and went from the camp, from her spot at the round table. An intense envy burned in her soul, but she knew better than to risk being seen in Valentine so soon after the murder. The pan was still hot, figuratively speaking.

To pass the obscene amount of free time, Del focused on expanding her connections with the other members of the gang.

Naturally, she spent most of her time with the girls as they did most of the tedious camp chores of cleaning and sewing. They welcomed her into their clique without hesitation. Del was helpful, and they appreciated her for taking on a portion of the burdens of the camp. Dutch had not explicitly said that Del had to perform duties, in fact he seemed pleasantly surprised when he watched his daughter start her day with a large basket of laundry.

Del enjoyed bouncing Mary Beth's novel ideas back and forth as they sat and sewed. Tilly’s soulful singing while they washed clothes near the river reminded Del of Diana’s own gospels from her days as a slave. Del missed Diana dearly, but knew the woman was enjoying her retirement in Del’s homestead.

And Karen— oh Karen. Del and Karen bonded immediately. They laughed and joked to pass the time as they repaired the tents and cots around the camp.

On one particular day, they caused themselves to laugh so hard and so often that Mrs. Grimshaw separated them for the remainder of the afternoon as if they were two young school girls causing mischief during class hours. Grimshaw said to be silent just for a moment's peace for her to think.

Separating them did not stop the two as they would regroup at the end of the day and share a bottle of whiskey where they continued the conversation right where they had left off. They carried this routine into each night to soothe the aches in their hands and enjoy their budding friendship. Del had more friends and family than she had ever expected.

Hell, even Molly came around to Del’s presence. At first, she would sit in silence near Dutch’s kin to hear the conversations she would have around lunchtime with Abigail about Jack and the drama of her John Marston.

Eventually, Molly began seeking Del out for conversation. Mostly about her undying love for Dutch Van der Linde, but Del enjoyed the unique personality that was Molly O’Shea. Del could see how much the young woman felt for her father, and it made her happy to know he was so loved by this beauty.

Soon, Molly started to invite Del to drink their morning coffee together and after the second day the two met each morning like clockwork to discuss the local drama. Dutch was pleased that the two women of his life had finally come together in harmony.

By the middle of the third week Del spent her free time pacing along the outside of the camp border. That was where Sadie had noticed, and took up with the young woman on her walks. Sadie was strong and beautiful, and Del learned that this woman was a recent addition like herself. Though, Sadie’s circumstances were tragic and more out of necessity. Sadie cried often to Del often, but She could see the fire of vengeance growing in the woman’s core. Sadie Adler would not be in grief for much longer.

Del learned more of her brothers in arms as well. She learned about Lenny’s love of book learning that created a bond despite their age gap. She felt as though he was a brother to her, and she said that she would have to take him to the library destined to open in Blackwater in two years. Hopefully by then, the bounties on their heads would be cool enough for a visit.

Javier had started to teach the young woman Spanish after she inquired about the meanings of his Mexican folk songs as well his amazing guitar skills. He offered to teach her how to play, but she broke two strings and figured she’d focus on one thing at a time. Javier was kind to her, a bit of a flirt at times, but he meant well.

Bill was crass, and drank the majority of the time he spent in camp. However, Del noticed the affinity that the man held for shy Kieran. His disdain for others' interaction was no more than a front he used to hide his sensitive personality. It would take more time to understand him. However, the more she got to know Kieran and his love of horses, the more Bill seemed to show up to add his thoughts and opinions on their conversation topics.

Del enjoyed the silent evenings she spent alongside Charles at the campfire. Although driven by pure desperation for conversation, Del managed to open the enigma rather quickly and the two became friends. Del respected his need for solitude, but enjoyed learning how he made arrows. He spoke of his father, his mother, and the hardships of his life. Charles was a good man and a handsome man. He had good morals, smarts in both book and common sense, and Del believed wholeheartedly that the woman who would settle down with Mr. Smith would have a true hidden gem of a man. If she could even hold him down. Like her, he needed to roam. It was something they bonded on.

John was fun. He was a lot like the little brother she had never had, and sometimes wished she didn’t have. They played practical jokes on each other. He’d pull her hair and she’d hide his cigarettes in odd places. At one point, Del had to reassure Abigail that John was nothing more than just her annoying brother because of how close they became.

As a result, Del and Abigail got to know each other well. She would sit with Abigail in her tent after supper and listen to young Jack as he read the book given to him by Hosea. She got flustered easily, but her heart was strong and her resilience unwavering. She was the backbone that John Marston needed to keep him straight. Even if he hadn’t recognized it yet.

Micah…Del did not care for him. Nothing about the man initially turned her off of him. He was humble and kind to her. He even brought her a bowl of stew one night as she read an Evelyn Miller Novel. She thanked him, but found her body would tense and scream for her to avoid him. Something about him just wasn’t right. Still, Dutch favored him, and listened to his advice often. Dutch seemed to make a point to bring Micah around Del. For what purpose? She did not know. Maybe he could sense her instinctive disdain and wished to warm her to his friend.

And Arthur—oh, Arthur. He was barely there. His absence for days on end made Del hate her prison more. She understood that his particular status of third hand in the gang meant that he was the primary source of income for the family and their needs. Del learned that he and Hosea had recently robbed a few carriages for cash, and Arthur had even taken up bounty hunting in his free time. That week, Arthur had left to collect loans from debtors stupid enough to take from Strauss. Del missed him, and enjoyed their nightly drawing lessons when he was present for the evening. Though, they were few and far between.

At the end of the third week, Del was ready to pull the strands of her black locks from the roots of her skull in desperation for something—anything—to happen.

She could only listen to so many of Pearson's stories of his time in the navy. She had heard practically every one of Uncle's jokes. She read nearly every book in Dutch’s possession.

This was too much.

Del sat on the log bench near the cracking warmth of afternoon fire, and held her head heavily in her hands.

“You okay?” Karen’s voice held concern as she joined her friend to smoke a cigarette. She cocked her head to the side, and let the blonde curls fall over her shoulder as she offered Del one. Del politely refused, and released the breath she had held deep in her chest.

“No. I can’t do this anymore, Karen,” Del sat up and stretched her back. “I’m not meant to be stuck like this. How do you do it?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” Karen smirked and took a long drag of her cigarette. Del nodded. She already knew the answer, but wanted to hear anyway. “Whiskey.”

“Oh, Whiskey. ” Del pushed Karen’s shoulder playfully. The girls giggled in unison. “I just…I need to get out. Just for a little while. I know Dutch is worried about my safety, but I know how to keep a low profile.”

Karen could understand Del’s frustration wholeheartedly. The lifestyle they lived was not something the latter was used to and she knew Del took after her father. She was stubborn, and could not be tied down.

Karen had long since adjusted with the help of whiskey, and for a while, the affection of Sean MacGuire. But, Karen knew all too well that Del was not attracted to the allure that whiskey had for Karen. Nor did Del have the affection on a man to distract her. Even if she did, Dutch was taking the role of protective father seriously. Something in him awakened the day Del rode to camp, crying fearful tears.

Karen too had to work through the same feelings of entrapment when she first joined the gang. But, Del was not Karen and would snap soon. She sighed and put a hand on her friend's shoulder for support.

“Well, why don’t we ask Dutch if you can go into town. Why don’t all us girls go? It could be fun and I need to stretch my legs.” Karen took a final drag of her cigarette and walked away before Del could protest.

“Absolutely not!” Dutch waved a hand at Karen and Del to shoo their prosperous suggestion away. Karen shot her friend an apologetic look as she shrugged her shoulders and took leave.

Coward.

“Valentine is still too dangerous for you to be galavanting about. Do you want to be caught and hanged?”

“No, Dutch. I just—I need to get out for a little bit. I’m going crazy from boredom. Karen and the rest of the girls will be with me. They’ll provide a shield and I won’t do or say anything to anyone else. I just want to go to the store for a new book or—“

“I said no!” Dutch did not intend to raise his voice at his daughter. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nostrils to calm himself. Dutch always kept his head level and his temper cold. At least he tried. It seemed to be harder as of late. “Del, child, I understand that you are a grown woman who has managed to take care of herself for the past 20 years, but things are different now. I just want what’s best for you. I am your father, despite my absence in the majority of your life, and I am using my authority as such to keep you out of harm's way. It is my responsibility.” Dutch sat further back into stool and rubbed the tension forming from his brow.

This woman was indeed his child, and as such he knew that to tell her no was to invoke the same charisma that flowed through his veins. After all, he gave the trait to her. In that moment he thought of Jeanie, and wished she was there to convince the girl to listen. Jeanie was an amazing diplomat.

Del put a hand on his shoulder and kneeled to his eye level. She would play the part of the loving and careful daughter, and try to sway her father’s decision.

“Please, Dutch. I’ll be able to keep my eye out for any information that may be useful. I’ll buy cigars! You like cigars.”

“No, Cordelia.”

Dutch used her government given name.

He was serious. Del was about to collect the shattered shards of her ego and prepared to accept defeat. Dutch had won this battle, but he had not won the war. She would find a way to escape for just a few minutes eventually.

It looked like she would wither and die in this camp, but she knew she just needed a plan.

That plan came in the form of a certain outlaw. Del did not expect Arthur Morgan to ride into camp at that exact moment from his latest two day endeavor. Del watched the outlaw dismount his paint in one strong motion. She let her eyes hang on the shape of his broad shoulders as he hitched the beast to its designated post.

Arthur lifted his saddle like it was nothing, and gave the old boy a strong pat on the neck before he made his way to the lock box behind Dutch’s tent that they used to hold the gang's earnings. He distributed his share, and joined his leader for a smoke.

“Afternoon, Dutch,” he tipped his hat in respect to the charismatic leader before he held the gaze of Dutch’s kin with a shy smile. “Del.”

“Afternoon, Arthur.” Del returned the expression to the man. She had missed Arthur’s brooding presence around camp. He had been gone for two days this time. Two days too long. Dutch only nodded an acknowledgement, and grunted.

“What crawled up your ass and died, Dutch.” Arthur laughed as he lit a cigarette between his lips. “I’ve been gone for two days and this is how you greet your son?”

“Del wants to get arrested.”

Arthur choked on the smoke of his cigarette in disbelief and looked at the girl. Del scrunched her nose in utter disagreement.

“I never said that.”

“Well, you didn’t have to.” Dutch puffed his cigar angrily. “She feels that she is much smarter than her father, and that she can just go on her merry way right into the law's grasp just to explore Valentine because she’s bored.”

“I just want to go to the store for a new book.” Del was letting her own stubbornness take control of her typically calm mind. Dutch was acting like a child. And Del knew that two could play at this game.

Arthur reluctantly looked between the arguing father and daughter, and wondered just how he had allowed himself to be caught up in a battle he knew the two would never end. Del was definitely Dutch’s daughter, and as such she could keep an argument going as long as she felt necessary.

“The store? Arthur! I was hoping you’d take me to the store for a few …provisions.” Uncle was not particularly blessed with good timing, but for once Del and Arthur were thankful for his untimely interjection. “Dutch, don’t be such a wet blanket. Let the poor girl have just one day of freedom. I promise on my grave that I’ll protect her. Plus, we will take the girls with her to be with her at all times, and Arthur will be there to look out for us. “

“I will? I never agreed to help you, old man.” Arthur grimaced. True, Arthur and Uncle seemed to embrace the trope of a love hate relationship, but he did not completely hate the lazy old loon.

Still, Arthur had just returned to camp and had hoped to catch a few minutes of a much needed afternoon nap. He planned to refuse and stick with Dutch’s decision, but the soft grip of Del’s fingers on his jacket sleeve said otherwise.

The young woman looked at him with pleading glacial blue eyes, and Arthur knew in his soul that he had no choice but to comply with her wishes. If he didn’t, Del would make him regret it.

He knew how Dutch acted when Arthur defied him, but he was fearful of the unknown power of a Cordelia Black scorned. That unknown scared him more than Dutch at the moment.

“Please, Arthur.” Del said softly in a way that made the outlaw's heart beat irregularly. He looked at Dutch who only stared at his adopted son with an expression that said,

Don’t you dare disobey my authority.

Arthur inhaled sharply.

“Fine. Dutch, I’ll make sure she’s safe. I promise.”

#rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 arthur morgan x oc #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 Arthur morgan x original character #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x original female character

1 note · View note

beforeiforgetyou · 1 month

Text

Foolish Little Lover Boy

Oh, he’s writing again, that sad little boy. While his brothers play football and chase the girls on the playground, he’s collapsed in a corner, feverishly weaving fantasies and feeling into art that he could barely understand himself.

They pull his ears and take his notebooks for sport while he’s still mid-sentence. They rip out the pages and push him in the dirt, but when he gets back up, the boys and girls both are reading his stories out loud. Laughing at first, but then suddenly enamored. They pass the handwritten pages to their peers expressing surprise that such a strange boy could ever create something so captivating. Still, they trip him when he walks past their desks, but then ask to read the latest installment of a novel he’d never finish.

Little Lover Boy, gifted with the talent of tongue but too shy to use it, so he scribbles away trying to make sense of the veneration and dejection at the same time. Who loves him? He’s fourteen-years old and too old for imaginary friends but he has one. He needs one. Someone to love him at the end of the day. It’s harmless, innocent, imagining arms to hold him when the kids lock him outside the bathroom and he pisses himself. Again. Someone to whisper sweet nothings to him when his mother mocks him for the smell that evening when he gets home. Someone to love him. Someone to love. To understand at the very least.

Once he thought someone cared. An old man with weepy blue eyes and wrinkled hands. He laughs at his jokes while they play piano. He likes the piano. He writes his own songs. The old teacher tells him how beautiful and brilliant he is and for a moment this sad little boy believes him. Does someone finally see him? No. It was a just a trick again. Just like the playground bullies. But this time instead of hands pushing him down, they cover his body and instead of voices calling him names, this one is whispering lies. It isn’t love. He’s dirty now. Disgusting. No one will ever want you now, Lover Boy.

Still, he keeps growing as even the strangest boys do. He keeps writing, but it’s not good enough. Nothing is ever finished. They call him “faggot” and throw food at him in the cafeteria, so he skips lunch and eats the candy bars from the vending machines behind the gymnasium. They’re making him fat, but it doesn’t matter. At least they won’t find him here. He’ll eat peanut butter crackers and Zebra cakes under the blankets when he gets home so his mother won’t see and call him a pig. He creates. Alone here. He is the god of the characters and worlds in his mind. He’ll never admit it, but he’s always the hero in his stories. Always the winner. Always gets the girl and the trophy in the end. There are not stories really, they are wishes.

One day they steal his notebook and they don’t give it back. He’ll never know what happened to it but he knows better than to ask. The red one. His favorite one. He knows they showed the girl he has a crush on the love letter he was never going to send. Now she looks at him with disgust whenever he tries to talk to her. It’s fine. He won’t write for them again. She wasn’t very pretty anyways.

He’s sixteen now, and he can’t turn to imaginary people for comfort anymore. Too old, too grown, too wise. He knows he’s alone and he’s prepared to face it. But the words aren’t enough anymore. His fingers can’t move fast enough to keep up with the onslaught on self-hatred and doubt that flood every waking moment of his consciousness. Poor, silly, boy.

He finds solace in blood. Knives. Razors. A cliche. Will someone please stop him? Will someone please help him? Doesn’t he know that soon he’ll be 30 years old and still have to explain to strangers why his arms are covered in scars? Ugly, little, fat boy. He doesn’t think he’ll live that long. His mother laughs when she sees the cuts. His father looks the other way. He keeps writing. But it’s different now. Dark, sullen, angry. It isn’t fair but he’s too tired to keep asking why.

A blonde haired girl loves him sometimes. He doesn’t know how to touch things without breaking them and sends her home to her parents with bruises on her arms and legs from where he held on too tight. They send her away from him, call him a monster. Vicious thing. They’re right. He writes her love letters but doesn’t know where she is to send them to. Alone again. His mother tells him he’s a genius and he’s better off without white trash like her anyways. Brilliant little sadist. No matter. He has new friends now. Intoxicating ones that come in every shape and form that money can buy. If only he had been this high when he was fourteen, he might have stood a chance.

He’s seventeen and he’s had enough. Gentle poet, little author where have you gone? His notebooks lie barren. He sleeps on the beach. He sleeps at the mall. In his friend’s backyard. One time he wake up with cockroaches crawling in his ears. His mother doesn’t look for him. One time his father tried to get him to come home, but his mother tells him to “leave it be.” She doesn’t care anymore. He’s not a prodigy anymore- just another runway, disappointing loser. She doesn’t want him. Need him. His sister will turn out better anyways.

He sleeps in movie theaters and bus stops. He still goes to go school though. Brilliant little street rat. Straight A’s so the teachers don’t care that he hasn’t eaten properly or showered in weeks. They don’t care that he’s passed out on ecstasy and cocaine in the middle of math class because he still aces the final. He gets the second highest SAT score in the whole school. His English teacher tells him he writes like James Patterson, her favorite author. He doesn’t care. Words mean nothing now.

Nineteen-years old, and now he’s a man. He’s learned that words mean nothing but all he has are words so he means nothing at all. The stories in his head are useless. The praise from the playground bullies and indifferent teachers was useless. So he doesn’t leave a note. There’s nothing left to say. He climbs to the top of the parking garage at his dorm room and looks out at nothing. Trees. Lamps. An empty road. The football stadium in the distance. This isn’t real. He isn’t real. It’ll all be over soon. Like he was never here. Was he ever here? He would have liked to finish just one book. Just one story. To leave something behind. But he’s too tired. Broken little lover boy.

He falls three stories and land in a bush. No one sees or hears. He stands up and pulls the twigs out of his hair and brushes the dirt from his clothes. Matching scrapes on both his palms. The only evidence. Stupid thing. He goes back inside. He writes the note this time. It says “God help me, I can’t even die right!” And so he lives.

Twenty-one years old. He can drink but he doesn’t like the taste of beer or liquor. Even if he did, he can’t afford it. He’s working three jobs. He sleeps on foam pad on the floor of a run down apartment. One night he wakes up and sees his roommate masturbating over him. He doesn’t say anything. What can he do? He doesn’t have anywhere else to go. He’s hungry. After work he crawls under the seat of his car to get enough change to buy the $2 meal at the Taco Bell across the street. It tastes like magic. When he doesn’t have enough change he eats rice and white bread. Sometimes he puts food coloring the rice so it looks different. So his weary brain thinks it’s getting fed something other than the bland, tasteless mush he exists off of.

Sometimes his parents send him money. But they always want it back. They call him constantly, like debt collectors. When he fails to deliver, he has to go home. He will die there. A piece of him dies there. He doesn’t write a word then.

Wake up Lover Boy. He’s twenty-two and his rich, white grandpa is dead. What will you do with that money? Buy a house? Start a business? Invest? No. Those things aren’t for him. He books a trip around the world. India, China, Australia, Japan. But he doesn’t get very far. That poor lost soul falls in love yet again in Denmark of all places! But not with a girl this time, no. He falls for the cobblestone streets, early morning pastries, and misty rivers of Copenhagen. He lives in a hostel and shares a room with eight other people for a month. He loves it. He wakes up and walks to the café and drinks the mild coffee and teas. He rides bikes like the locals. He takes trips around the river and pictures of cathedrals and statues that make him want to cry. In the evening, he sits in his bunk and watches the world below. He writes like never before. He’s free. For a while at least.

But something goes wrong (as it so often does) and now he’s twenty-four and in jail. Again. They think he might harm himself, so they take his clothes and put him in a padded cell. Maniac. The other prisoners laugh at his exposed penis for the next three days. He sings Disney songs in the dark because they’re the only ones he can think of. He’s not allowed to have a fork or toilet paper, so he eats on the floor like a dog and tries not to itch his shit covered ass. The isolation awakens imagination again and his friends return. They hold him all night. He’s not allowed to have a bed or a blanket and he sleeps naked on a mat on the dirt covered floor. His friends are there. They take him away. He sees himself from above. Pathetic. He won’t cry though. He doesn’t do that anymore. A real hard ass now, aren’t you Lover Boy?

On the fourth day, they give him clothes and a bible. He rips out the pages of the bible and writes love letters in the margins. He writes small because he has so much to say but there isn’t much room to fit it in around the scriptures and psalms or whatever that nonsense is. It’s not interesting anyways and God doesn’t live in these prison walls. He writes a story about a horse and a cowboy. Another one about a girl and a balloon. He writes about how much he wishes they’d let him shower. Fat little criminal.

He doesn’t speak much for two weeks when they let him out. He stares at the ceiling of the room he’s renting in a trailer park. He’s working two jobs and trying to finish school and it’s all that he can afford right now. He doesn’t know it yet but he’ll be evicted in two weeks and live in his car. He’ll call his mother and she’ll say, “ We just can’t keep helping you like this.” They won’t speak much for the next six years. In the meantime, he gives the letters he wrote in jail to his girl but she doesn’t read them. She’s angry because it was her birthday and he missed it. In four years, he marries her anyways.

Hard ass nigga, but a million dollar smile. No one is better than you now, Lover Boy. He breaks hearts and hurts feelings with his callous demeanor. He thinks of his mother sometimes and how she’d tell him he was better than everyone else. He sees it now. Who are all these losers anyways? He hardly speaks. When he does, he lies. Truth is sacred and nothing about this world is revered enough for it anymore. He doesn’t build walls, no, this brilliant architect constructs forts and castles complete with moats and dragons. No one shall pass. No one shall know what lies inside.

Love seeps through sometimes, or so it seems. He lets his wife in but even she can’t break down the final walls. No. That feat will come later and unexpectedly. From some brown-eyed vixen who will break his heart in ways he didn’t think possible. But until then, he persists. He builds. He grows. He heals. He softens. Like butter. He tries to write but everything is sad or angry. So he paints, draws. Sometimes words aren’t enough but these images are healing. Little Picasso.

What is this peace? This love is safe, secure and comfortable. It’s strange and unfamiliar. He’s happy but this happiness is unfamiliar, scary, boring. He still craves the chaos. Where are his tormentors? Lost it seems, so he must become his own. Foolish little masochist.

He wants to be a father. She wants to be mother. He imagines four boys, sons. His own. They look like him. Maybe they’ll be like him- sullen, melancholy authors. Or maybe they’ll be athletes and he’ll struggle to relate to him. Maybe they’ll be dancers, musicians, billionaires. He won’t care. He will love them fully. No matter what. At work they ask what he’d do if his son has gay. He doesn’t understand the question. He says, “I will love my gay son.” They don’t get it. It’s not parents job to judge or control where their child’s life goes. It’s a parents job to love them, all of them, always. He will be a better father than his was. His wife will be a better mother.

But the universe has other plans. Your son is dead Lover Boy. Before he even took a breath. Your hope, your love, your future. Do you grieve him? Did you name him? Of course he did. He cannot speak his son’s name. He cannot write it. He can hardly think it. They should try again. Don’t give up. But it’s not that easy. You cannot just replace a life.

Twenty-nine years old. So who are you now? Are you healed yet, you angry little man? He pretends. Money flows and money fixes everything. It reminds him of school. Grades were currency then. Now it’s dollar signs. No one cares if you’re okay so long as the bills are paid. He writes. But only for himself now. There’s nothing left to say to anyone else. But he’s soft and sweet now. He’s learned that words can also be spoken to change mood and get that he wants. He’s an artist that way. Gentle soul hiding his broken heart. He likes to sing now. What a weird guy.

Failed fucking author. By choice that is. He didn’t want to study writing in college because he hated having to have his peers read and critique his works. They were all idiots anyways. No, now this little writer is a philosopher, or so he fancies himself one. Narcissist. He writes about God, the universe, other metaphysical bullshit that no one cares about. He cares. That’s all that matters anymore. He writes to understand. You aren’t fooling anyone, little lost boy. We can still see it. Your existential search for meaning is the same as when you were fourteen years old making yourself the hero in all those tall tales you used to write. It’s still just a wish.

Thirty-years old. Look at him now! Not as ugly, not as fat, just as sick. Just as stupid. Still writing nothing for no one. Still longing for someone to come and save him. But oh, he’s not a little boy anymore. Just a sad little man. Still, the smartest one in the room. He knows how to save himself. He’s done it a million times now. His mother is long gone. The playground bullies have succumb to their own fates of poverty and early pregnancies. It’s hard to see it sometimes but he’s doing better now. Despite it. To spite it. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, he likes what he sees. The scars. He likes them. A reminder, that nothing in permanent.

Stupid boy. Stupid man, I should say. Now you’re in love again but it isn’t like before. He doesn’t understand this love. Who is this girl? She’s just a girl but then why does she shake up his world so violently? What is this feeling? For a Lover Boy, you’re a terrible husband. Kissing girls you shouldn’t be touching. But he has to get closer. He has to know. A new kind of love. Something new, exciting, dangerous. He’s writing again, more than before, more than ever before. Trying to explain, to understand. More than friends, less than lovers. Be careful Lover Boy. You’re damning yourself all over again. He knows. He knows. But he doesn’t care. He craves this tragedy.

Oh, you silly monster. Look at you now! Surrounded by all the things your fourteen-year-old self would have died for. Money, books, art, cars, clothes, women. Can’t he see he’s okay? Of course, he’s okay. His wife is gone but she’ll be back. His affairs are ending but he’s had his fun, learned his lesson, and refueled his passion for the melancholy narratives that have carried him thus far. Alone again. He weeps, he grieves. He writes. The past feels like distant memories now. They can’t touch him anymore. His mother doesn’t even know his name anymore! Oh yes, this little Lover Boy is still alive and he’s still growing. Isn’t that funny? Even he can’t stop time.

Boastful little author. He’s supposed to be writing a book. A book about love. The philosophy of love. Why does he still love? Why haven’t you given up yet? It’s because of that night. When he fell three stories and it didn’t even matter. Did God save you for something better? No, he doesn’t care for all that religious nonsense. God is too busy for him anyway. It just wasn’t high enough.

It’s because this broken little man never really wanted to die. Just to be seen. Be heard. Because there are still wishes that may come true. Still words that way, one day, matter. So he’s writing again. Hopeful, wishful, wonderful things. There is still love in his heart. He still believes that one day, it will all be worth it. It will all be okay.

#things i must remember #personal #text post

0 notes

saganandkatelynindc · 9 months

Text

MLK, The National Cathedral, The Senate Train, The Capitol and the Library of Congress and a fabulous report!

Wednesday, July 19, 2023

We played today's agenda like a symphony!

The morning broke with thundershowers and heavy rain - but by 8:45 there was no rain although the humidity was absurdly high. We walked out of out hotel to get our Uber and my glasses steamed up and within a couple of minutes the sweat was running down my back. BUT it was all worth it when we reached the amazing MLK Jr. Memorial on the Tidal Basin and found the number of tourists there was 4!

I have quite a worksheet of thought for this memorial, but we decided to leave the notebooks behind and use cameras to capture the info needed to fill out the pages later in the dry air-conditioned comfort of our condo. It was the right decision.

This statue is surrounded by a semi-circle wall covered by quotes from Dr. MLK Jr. The man was a wordsmith and each quote had the potential of pushing the kids to think deeper and harder. I LOVED it!

I asked the kids WHY they thought the artist had not presented a fully finished statue of MLK Jr and they quickly replied because the work of this "hope" is NOT done yet. I wonder how many people consider that when they visit this amazing spot.

Much later in the early evening - the kids worked together to do their MLK pages. Their discussion was music to my ears!

Back to the progression of the day...

After about 25 minutes of the having the MLK Jr. Memorial to ourselves, we Uber-ed to a Metro Station and then headed toward the National Cathedral.

The bonus gift was the ridiculously long escalator at the end of the Metro trip. The kids were very impressed and while we awaited our next mode of transportation, Katelyn ran down and UP the escalator - not once but twice. PHEW!!!

Then we headed to the cathedral. Wow!!

If you look really closely you will find the grotesque of Darth Vader.

We did - with the help of an employee and the monocular Grampa INSISTED that we take with us. It was so much better than the one I had originally packed. Thanks Grampa! And ta-da!

Do not confuse these with with the gargoyles all over the cathedrals - because gargoyles are part of the gutter/drain system. The grotesques deflect rainwater by bouncing it off the tops of their heads and away from the stone walls.

Try as you might you just can't get a good pic of the cathedral - it is just too big. So we are going to the Internet for this:

It is massive - inside and out! We "heard" it was the 4th largest cathedral in the world - but not even close. It is in the top 25 though. Katelyn was awed, with the size but Sagan said "I've seen bigger - a LOT bigger like St. Peter's Basilica in the Vatican." He is right - it is the biggest in the world and almost twice the size of this one but THIS is still spectacular

There are amazing stained glass windows including my personal favorite - the Space Window complete with a moon rock.

The Rose Window is extraordinary too!

We explored the Cathedral and discovered chapel after chapel - and it turns out there are NINE! And that has nothing to do with the main sanctuary. Below Katelyn is trying on on the chapels we discovered.

When we explored the crypt, we discovered this:

We saw Woodrow Wilson's tomb and a lot of other people we didn't know - but they must have been someone BIG to be buried there. We did see a small prayer chapel donated by Paul Mellow in honor of his father Andrew W. Mellon. We found hallway after hallway that were simply art.

Sagan sent this picture to his Papa with the caption - I like big buttresses and I cannot lie."

That was hilarious!

We walked a block and a half to a Mexican restaurant and had a great lunch, then took an Uber to Senator Stabenow's office. There was a little hiccup here because traffic was much more congested than I expected when I put together this timeline and instead of arriving 15 minutes early - it looked like we would be arriving 5 minutes late. But, nothing to worry about.

They were awaiting our arrival and as promised had a wheelchair for Sagan IF he wanted. He wanted. And we were off! First to the Senate Train that takes us under the street...

.and into the Capitol Building.

The kids react very differently to things - as is to be expected. Katelyn gets so excited, I think she might explode. Sagan engages but if you try and take he picture, he acts like he is a victim of torture. So instead of saying "Cheese" when I take a pic I say "act like you are NOT being tortured, please." That usually gets a smile and I think Daphne said something similar for this pic.

Anyway - Sagan got the rest he needed and we got to cut the lines. I'm calling it a WIN, WIN, WIN, WIN!!

We saw some places the average tourist doesn't because our friend from Senator Stabenow's office didn't know exactly where she was going. She finally got us to the right area and we saw a great movie and then hooked up with a tour and our guide was quite terrific. He had lots of stories to tell and we got a few minutes to snap a few pics. The dome - or it actually is a dome inside a doom - is magnificent.

After our tour we headed to the Senate Balcony - and to our joy, the Senate was in session. I did fear Katelyn was going to burst! OF COURSE you can take no photos and you can't even have you purse or a phone - they even made me take off my Fitbit - if you can believe it. But we did see Senator Stabenow and Senators Klobuchar, Murkowski, Tina Smith, Sinema, Kelly and Whitehouse. There were plenty more, but I was having a hard time identifying them from the back. FUN!!

But no time to dawdle - we had an appt at the Library of Congress - with Sagan still enjoying the respite of a wheelchair, we headed down the tunnel into the Library of Congress. Again with the skipping the lines and into the beauty that is that building.

And the jewel in the crown... The Thomas Jefferson Library (and two cousins!)

We took the Metro home after that and we all took a rest. After all it was a pretty full day.

The kids worked on their books and I updated our calendar and worked on this blog. We had dinner from leftovers once again and as we have needed to modify a few things, decided that Katelyn should give her report now. She was IN!

Another A++++ piece of work!! And now we know all about the man for gave us the National Gallery of Art. Thank you. Andrew W. Mellon! You can watch the entire report here:

youtube

And the crowd went wild!!!!!

By 8:50 I had had it - and I was ready for bed and it turns out so was everyone else. I'm not sure what time everyone went to sleep - but it wasn't long.

Big day tomorrow too!

Stay tuned.

#Youtube

0 notes

print-on-demand · 1 year

Text

How to Profit from Amazon Print on Demand Without Stock?

Fulfillment by Amazon is what most people think of when they ask about ways to make money on Amazon (FBA). Amazon arbitrage is acquiring goods at a discount (during sales, closeouts, or Black Friday, for example) and then selling them on Amazon for a profit. To get the items listed for sale on Amazon, you'll need to process the orders either manually or via a warehouse.

You may save money by buying in bulk from firms that also offer wholesale accounts on Amazon, which is called "Amazon Wholesale." Depending on the supplier, they could be replaceable, but processing the items would still be necessary.

Private labeling is a method of making money on Amazon by having a company produce goods that are then sold under your brand name or your brand printing. It also comes under amazon Print on Demand. If your goods are coming from abroad, you'll find that working with such firms requires a great deal of hands-on involvement.

If you want to take your Amazon business to the next level beyond private labeling or labeled products, being a manufacturer will enable you to create and sell your original items. Once again, it was a rigorous and lengthy process.

To add insult to injury, you'll need to invest a significant sum of money into any of these Amazon money-making strategies before you can see any return on your investment.

To make money on Amazon, the stock is no longer necessary. Sure enough, you're correct! There's a lot to gain from this situation, including less danger, reduced cost of entrance, and increased earnings potential.

Guide to Using amazon print on demand Service to Publish Your Journal:

Now more than ever, empty-page notebooks are all the rage. The silver lining is that they use so few words. The majority of the pages include lines. That's hardly surprising, given that the whole point of buying a notebook is so that you may record your inner monologue.

Several varieties of journals exist, each of which may be produced quickly and offered to the public with little effort. Books sold via print on demand amazon service (Kindle Direct Publishing, or KDP) are produced specifically for each customer's request.

That's a massive benefit that significantly lessens the danger involved. When people buy them, you're not only capitalizing on the book industry, but also the very profitable gift industry. This is because journals are perfect gifts for a wide variety of people and events, such as college students, graduates, new parents, new jobs, retirement, anniversaries, promotions, Father's Day, Mother's Day, birthdays, and so on.

Continue Reading Here

#print on demand amazon

0 notes

prttydolls · 2 years

Text

book switch ¦¦ draco malfoy

𝗌𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒 ¦¦ what happens when you switched books with the boy you liked?

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀/𝘴 ¦¦ books getting switched,mutual pinning, cheesy love confession, mention of proms.

𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗋 𝗂𝗇𝖿𝗈 ¦¦ f!reader, any house!reader, 5th year, your house = y/h/n, pureblood!reader

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾 ¦¦ HAHAH!! I found how to make the font, and now this will be my new format for writing 🤍 also; i switched the whole plot of the fic 🤥

love, is such a funny feeling isn't it?

you feel like you have a million butterflies fluttering in your stomach, whenever you see him. draco malfoy. Whenever he looks at your direction you blush and get so shy. you feel like you were being cupids target everyday, but it's only you..

You try doing everything to make him notice you, but he never said anything, and didn't even look at you.

Iittle do you know, he did notice.

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ✩. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

“im just saying maya, CHICKENS were here first not eggs.” your friend, alisa argued. “Tch, then where did it come from?” maya scoffed.

“eh, your right... but—” before alisa could finish you barged into the dorm. “YOU GUYS! THERE'S A BALL HAPPENING NEXT WEEK!” you excitedly squeled.

“wait really? How did you know?” maya asked putting her novel away. “well, I saw some 6th years talking about it and got a poster from them.” you explained as you handed them the poster.

the poster had blue background with two people dancing, with big bold letters on top and bottom “WINTER BALL

4TH TO 7TH YEARS ARE ALOUD

BEING HELD ON THE GREAT HALL

COME JOIN US ON DECEMBER 23 6PM

*please bring a date.*”

“eeek! im so excited!” alisa giggled adoring the poster. “i know! but my only problem is, i dont have a date..” you sighed. “you should try asking out draco..” maya suggested.

“me? ask him? nah, i bet he doesn't know i exist!” you whined flopping down onto your bed.

“oh, cmon just atleast tryy?” Alisa shook your body. “eh, fine....” you said with a muffled voice.

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ✩ . ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

you woke up the next day, as usual.

got into your y/h/n uniform fixed yourself in the mirror, got breakfast, and checked out some books at the library.

you were a tidy person.

you were thinking about the ball again, maybe you could ask draco. but you doubt that he knows you. but who didn't know you ? you were a y/h/n prefect and not to mention head girl for y/h/n.

“ouch! hey watch where you—” draco cursed, shit you bumped into him, making all your books mixed up with his. and whats worse you BOTH had one same colored notebook.

“oh hi y/n, here— let me help you.”

wait what?!

he fucking knew YOUR NAME?!

“its o-okay, i can do i. thank you d-draco” you stuttered, while grabbing your books clumsily, and accidentally unkowningly grabbing his diary. and rushed off to your friends.

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ✩. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

“okayy, what a day. atleast ill doodle at the end of the day.” you sighed and grabbed your green notebook, as you opened the cover you noticed something different.

it wasn't your doodles, it was words. huh— you couldn't help but read the pages, the first page was from 1st year.

i got sorted into Slytherin, and my father gifted me an expensive quill for getting slytherin, during the ceremony i saw this really pretty girl she got sorted into y/h/n tho, i heard from the other student's her name was y/n y/l/n. ill send a letter to my mother, to ask her if the ‘y/l/ns are purebloods?’ just to make sure.

he knew me from the very beginning?! what the hell was going on!?

as you read more and more into the pages, of course you didn't read anything personal. you only searched for your name. and what caught your eye the most was the recent page.

the ball was coming up, and i wish i could take y/n out, but she probably already HAS one .. i wish it was me. i wonder what would she wear, and how she would look like. i personally think she would look like a princess or an angel. i mean she is an angel. i see how she blush and looks away shyly when i shoot her a smile. im such a pussy for not asking her out. I'm planning to, ill hope that she didn't have a date yet. anyways this week was—

he thought i was an angel? oh holy merlin— and HE WAS GONNA ASK ME OUT?! SOMEONE PLEASE WAKE ME UP!

you blushed so hard, but you suddenly realized you need to give this back to him.. it was wrong that you read his diary, but you need to be honest with him.

First thing tomorrow, ill give it back

·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ ✩. ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙　✩　*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙

You woke up excitedly, and ran down as fast as you could to the slytherin dorms.

You were anxious and excited at the same time, was draco gonna be upset? Was he gonna hex you that you read his PERSONAL diary? Now you were nervous..

“there you are.” a cold voice spoke up.

you jumped and slowly turned around to see none other than, draco malfoy holding YOUR doodle book— you were thinking i didn't draw anything stupid right?? WAIT! i forgot i drew him shit shit shit.

“well, looks like we got our books switched up. and I've got to say, you are such an amazing artist.” draco smirked.

“oh- well i- thank you?” you mentally slapped your self, you literally said thank you as a question. “and i assumed you read my diary?” he added.

he didn't look mad, he looked awfully calm.

“yes, BUT! i only read the things you thought about me and—” you started to ramble, and apologized to him, he laughed at you. not a mean laugh, but more of a flattered laugh.

“its alright, now here is your book and ill take mine.” he chuckled, you swore you saw a blush forming his pale cheeks.

“can i ask you one thing though draco..?” you asked cautiously. “hm, sure?”

“is your feelings true? that- you like me i mean..” you slowly backed away from him, Draco's eyes widened. “well- yes.. i had since 3rd year..” he smiled nervously. you never seen this side of him, so nervous, giggly, calm, and he blushed?

“i like- you too draco... i honestly thought you didn't know who i am..” you threw him a giddy smile, he walked closer and closer until he got you cornered into the wall. you couldn't help but lean in and kiss him.

shit— YOU JUST KISSED HIM! you were about to pull away but he kissed back to, after about 2 or 3 minutes of making out, draco lets out a breathy laugh and says;

“since you've read my diary without my consent, will you go to the winter ball with me as a punishment.?”

“id love too.”

𝖳𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 :: @dracoslittleangel @imabee-oralizard @f4iryluvy @lilytoyourjames @siriusblackstwin

#pee uwu #draco malfoy #draco x reader #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy imagine #draco imagine #draco fanfiction #draco fic #draco fluff #— {🐚} her work's !

148 notes · View notes

danihow · 3 years

Text

Flower love

Legolas x human!reader

Lord of the rings

Word count: 2.5k

Summary: While crossing through the forest, our dear Y/N decided to help Legolas to braid his hair back.

Warnings: Fluff, that’s it.

A/N: I actually thought of this after learning the meaning of some flowers. Im so sorry ittook me a month to finish this and I’m not even please with it.

The sun was half an hour away to be hidden by the tall mountains that surrounded the valley when Frodo and Aragorn came to the agreement of staying the night in a forest opening near a stream.

The girl nodded with a little smile just before leaving the bag she helped Sam carry beside an oak near them. She could still feel her back tense after carrying a hobbit for what seemed like hours while crossing some really high grass a couple of days before, when horses were not available to use. Those little men could be short but all the food they could eat a day really weighted on them.

Then, she looked at her surroundings, her gaze danced over the men who she shared her everyday with for the last couple of months, her gaze went from the four hobbits that gathered in a small circle talking over what should Sam cook for supper before going to sleep, Frodo being the center of the debate that Sam was arbitrating. Next to them, sat against the log of probably the eldest oak in the bunch that circled the fellowship was Boromir, his long legs stretched in front of him while his head was abutting the log, a small smile spread on his relaxed face as he overheard the hobbits’ chatter, almost closed eyes staring at nothing but a yellow hyacinth a few feet from him.

Then, she spotted Gimli arguing with Legolas for who may take the second best place near the fireplace Aragorn was building up, the woman could see how Gimli scrunched his nose in disgust when seeing the other option perfectly placed near the fire was over some wet mud, mentally determining himself to win over the elf, who looked with a playful smirk at the dwarf getting angrier, even Frodo knew that the elf was bothering the dwarf for mere fun, he did not need a fire to keep him warm.

Lastly, there was Gandalf, sitting with his pipe in what seemed to be the perfect place, not too close yet no too far, a place where he could watch over each member of the fellowship during what was left of the evening without getting cold.

“Who’s turn it is to check the surroundings?” Frodo asked once their little gathering agreed with Sam to prepare some rabbit soup.

“It is mine.” The lady told she took her bow and quiver from her champagne horse and he nodded, looking up from the fireplace as he finished.

“Be careful young Y/N, this woods are not to be trusted.” Gandalf warned in his wise voice, looking at the young woman with kindness, receiving the same smile back as she waited for Aragorn’s permission to leave.

“Be back before the sun is out, if not, Legolas will go and search for you.” The ranger said without looking at her, knowing well she was more than capable of handling any inconvenience by herself.

“Of course I will be back before darkness arrives, there will be no need to search for me.” She told with a smirk just before leaving the little safe place they have established themselves for the night.

With light steps she jogged through the woods, taking in the smell of wet dirt mixing up with some wild flowers, probably some dragon flowers. Her warm eyes wandered in between trees and looked up the branches, noticing hints of the bronze highlights making their way throughout the branches, giving the woods a special feeling. The thin golden brims of light could be seen shining down to the ground covered in either moss or clovers.

Her cheeks caught the whisper of nature that summer was in its way in the warm breeze that blew around as her ears could catch a distant chirping, oh, how much did she wished to have the hearing of an elf to listen better to the beautiful melodies birds gifted in this season.

Time went by as she enjoyed the peace the woods carried as her eye caught nothing irregular that deserved extraordinary attention. Now, in a slower pace she walked alone to the opening just when the sun finally sat below the horizon and nothing but darkness could be seen, taking her time to arrive as she spotted the warm light of the fire not too far from her.

“Just in time, young Y/N. We were about to search for you.” The old wizard muttered at her returning with the pipe placed in between his lips. Making her notice how the silver-haired elf left his own bow aside and sat back down in the place he was before, it appeared the elf have granted the log to Gimli since the dwarf was proudly sat on it at the contrary side of the fireplace.

“There are no signs of orcs in the near paths, they seem not to like these ways.” As the words fell from her mouth relief seemed to take over the hobbits a bit once she finally took off her quiver and bow and placed it near where her loyal horse, Dagros, rested.

With much grace a human could have, she sat in the free place next to Legolas, reaching for a little notebook she kept in a little bag attached to her cloak

“Miss Y/N.” Pippin called, getting the woman and the elf’s attention. “What is that notebook you write in each night?” The curiosity in his voice make her chuckle as Merry elbowed him in the ribs.

“Pip, you cannot ask people things like that.” He scolded with a frown in his features.

“It is okay Merry.” She smiled warmly at them as Pip smile got back to his face in pride as he did not actual wrong. “Well, Pip, I just like to write what happens each day so when I get old, I can read and remind it in case I ever forgot any of the crazy things we do now. Is like a journal.” She said, opening the notebook to a random page, just to find a sketch of the mountains and a dry blue flower, which she carefully took in between her fingers. “I also keep the flowers we recollect, so I can frame them and treasure them in some years as I do now.” And with that, she had gained the attention of the four hobbits, who stared at the blue poppy and the acacia blossom the elf at her side had collected for her around a week ago.

“That is an amazing idea, Miss Y/N.” Samwise spoke as he stirred the rabbit soup he had in the fire and Frodo nodded by his side, staring directly to the soup with hunger.

Then, everyone returned to their usual chatter, Merry and Pippin chattering their mischievous plans someone should worry about later, Frodo talked with Sam as he cooked, Aragorn seemed to be talking with Gandalf in their own voice level, Boromir was resting with his eyes closed for some minutes as the dwarf sharpened his axe a few feet away with total concentration; the elf, sat at the other side of the fireplace, looked at the orange flames without attention while his ears searched for any strange sound near them and the woman by his side scribbled something in her notebook, knowing that the elf would not betray her trust and look over the pages she transcribed her life in.

Minutes passed by and the elf bit his inner cheek, his hand playing with some flowers he found earlier and kept in his pocket. “Y/N.” He called to get her attention, once her gaze was placed on his and he got a kind smile, he talked. “I found these near the stream before sunset, thought you would like them.”

His hand grabbed the flowers and revealed to her two pink peonies just blooming, one smaller than the other one but still with a far more vivid pink tainting her petals. “Legolas, thank you, they are beautiful.” Her delicate hands grabbed the flowers from his, touching for enough seconds to make his heart twirl in his chest with joy.

A few feet away, the wizard and the ranger looked the scene with a little smile on their own, knowing farewell what the elf was doing and how oblivious they both were to it in their own minds.

“I will keep them as long as I can.” Her words were sweet and warm, making his chest warm at her as she placed the flowers in between the two pages she wrote in a few moments ago. “I have not seen these type of peonies in a long time, back home we only grew tree peonies.” Her smile may not have been wide, but in her smallness all Legolas saw was comfort and happiness, making himself happy.

He smiled at her one more time and guided his gaze to the fire in front of him, losing itself in there. Gears in his head started to spin, taking himself down memory lane for some long minutes. Thinking about everything and nothing, like the trip they had ahead, the woods and its creatures, thinking about the fellowship and more; then, he started to remember, all kind of memories striking their own way back in his mind, the last months, his mother and father, anything his mind could get access into, he remembered.

“Legolas.” A distant voice talked to him, but he was still lost in his mind.

“Legolas?” A voice and a squeeze in his forearm took him out of his own mind, looking up he found Sam with a bowl of soup standing in front of him with a concerned look on his face, the elf, concerned by himself on what was happening look to his side to find Y/N with the same concerned look in her facial features while one of her hands slowly let go of his arm. “Sam is asking if you want a bowl of the soup, its rabbit.” Her words were slow for him to understand why they were calling him.

“Oh, sure, thank you.” With a small nod the bowl was taken out of Sam little hands into Legolas’, careful to not spill any food in the ground. Once Samwise had walked away to serve Aragorn’s and Gandalf’s soup, the pair sat in silence, enjoying quietly their own soup.

“What has you so troubled? If I may ask.” Her voice asked in a mutter some moments later. There was no way in the world she had not noticed how he was lost in his own thought to the point his keened ears were shut from the world, something not so typical in any elf.

“Nothing, lady Y/N, just some memories from the past.” He answers, leaving the empty bowl of soup aside as looking at her, finally noticing the bits of worry in her eyes. “Seriously, there is no need to worry Y/N.”

“I cannot help but to when you wear such a look on your face Legolas. It almost depresses me too.” The young woman joked with a knowing smile on her face. “But is okay you don’t want to tell, just let me know if I can help.” She muttered, making the elf smile at her, how could she be so sweet?

“Thank you, Y/N.” He said with the sincerest smile he could give her.

“And what happened to your hair?” She asked, just now noticing how the braids he wore were more undone than done.

"The orcs in the morning probably messed it up.” He mutters while his hands passed over the thin braids on the side of his head, remembering how in the last village they visited the woman in front of him braided a bunch of young girls’ hair. “Would you like to braid them for me?”

“Are you sure you want me to?” Her voice was pure concern, she knew about the traditions of the elves and the dwarves, she knew what the hair meant to them. “Is not that I don’t want to, I do, is just... I mean- It is your hair what we are talking about and I am... me.” She tried to make him understand her point because of her fear of disrespecting other culture, yet, deep inside she yearned to braid his hair for a long time now.

“I know you are you.” He chuckled, reassuring her. “And that is why I am sure, do not worry about that.” He nodded in her direction and make himself comfortable in the ground in front of the log they were sitting in, right in between her legs so she could have it easier. “You said you would want to help me how you could, believe this would help me a lot. You can braid whatever you want in there.”

“Alright, if you say so.” She whispered, untangling his soft blonde hair with her fingers, it felt even better than silk or velvet. Soon, she started braiding his hair, taking two thin braids from each side of his face to the back of his head, forming a big braid in the middle with both of them and tying it. Then, with her delicate fingers she soothed the hair that was left down, smiling to herself as the soft strands of his hair ran through her fingers with such ease. Through the process, the elf whose hair was being braided was smiling wide as he felt her fingers brush again his hair and in some occasions, against his ears, causing him goosebumps.

Meanwhile, both Aragorn and Gandalf stared at the scene with a small smile in their faces, both of them could see at bare sight the special bond the elf and the human had together now and the eldest could predict how it would evolve in both of them, still, that was not ought to be said now.

“And... I’m done.” She muttered once she fully finished, making the elf to raise his hand and carefully touch the braids.

“Thank you so much, I love them.” He said, getting up from the ground to sit back again in the log.

“Next time an orc messes up your hair, make sure to pick up more flowers so I can braid them in your hair, maybe some more acacia blossoms.” She smiled while a blush covered her cheeks as he turned to face her.

And while the woman played with the pages of her notebook and the new peonies inside, rethinking if the braids and flowers meant what she thought they could mean; the elf smiled back with gratefulness as he may or may not try in a future to mess his hair more if it meant she would be the one braiding it. And then maybe, just maybe he could ask to court her.

Yellow hyacinth: Jealousy. Dragon flowers: Grace, strenght. Blue poppies: Oblivion, imagination. Acacia blossoms: Concealed and chaste love Pink peonies: Romance, love at first sight.

#i dont wike it #legolas #legolas greenleaf #legolas x reader #lotr one shot #lotr #lotr fanfic #lotr imagine #lord of the rings fanfic #legolas fanfiction #elf #elf fanfic #peonies #flowers #lord of the rings #legolas imagine

420 notes · View notes