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katiexpunk · 1 month

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The Invited | Pairing Lucien Flores X Fem!Reader

Summary: Lucien Flores is invited back into your life in a very unexpected way, at a very bad time – what are you going to do about it?

Warnings: Borderline abusive, controlling relationship (not with Lucien). Like literally, we hate the reader’s fiancé. No, I’m serious, read this one with caution, there are heavy undertones of the reader’s fiancé being controlling and generally not a nice guy, no matter how much he tries to play the part. Implied infidelity. Heavy flirting, heavy tension. Religious undertones. Alcohol. References to Lucien being a playboy. References to wealth, art, and money. General Hollywood/California vibes. This one will have a happy ending. No use of daddy, no use of Y/N. This is gonna have some filthy fucking smut, hand to my heart.

Part 1 W/C: ~3.5K

A/N: Just, yeah…yep. I am as horny for him as you all are (like what the actual fuck). This story will continue as I learn more about Lucien and his character. P.S. Sorry if you got double-tagged, I accidentally deleted the whole fic so I had to repost.

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It started with one look, as many things do.

Initially, it was all just innocent glances across a crowded room, perfunctory nods, and polite whispered hellos in shared spaces. It didn’t take long for it to turn into more than that; that’s just who he is and the effect he has. You can’t say you didn’t hear the rumors, heed the warnings through the grapevines of the limitless supply of women who came before you, but listening never was your strongest skill.

The only girls you know who listen are strapped to a church pew, on their knees, and for what? Salvation? At least you know the pleasure of worshiping at the altar of a man who promises he’ll make you see god, a man who follows through on his word, no questions or fuck-all commandments required.

Or at least you did.

Maroon 5 said it best, even the sun sets in paradise.

++++

As you stand by your bedroom window, the last rays of sunlight paint the room in a warm, golden hue, casting elongated shadows across the minimalist decor. The gentle breeze from the Santa Ana winds whispers through the trees outside, carrying with it a sense of anticipation – dread – for the night ahead. You hate these things, but schmoozing is part of the role you have to play, just one of the many rules he’s slowly but surely made sure you follow. The good girl he’s made you become.

Focusing on fastening the back of your earrings, you watch the sun dip below the horizon, a silent witness to the transition from day to night – light to dark – although things don’t feel that light these days.

"There she is," comes a familiar voice from behind you, causing you to turn and find him leaning casually against the door frame. His presence brings a sense of unease, a reminder of the doubts that linger beneath the surface.

A forced smile plays on his lips as his eyes trail over you, his gaze filled with a familiarity that feels suffocating rather than comforting. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, you wonder if he believes it or if he’s just saying it to say it.

Most of the time, his admiration feels hollow, a facade that fails to mask the cracks in your relationship. In his eyes, you see reflections of expectations and obligations, a reminder of the compromises you've made at the expense of your happiness. It wasn’t always this way, especially in not while you were just dating, but things quickly shifted once you said yes.

You turn your attention back to the vanity in front of you and slip one final detail – your engagement ring.

“Thanks. Ready?” You ask, feigning excitement as you glide across the room, wrapping your arm around his. You can tell from the way he looks at you that he has something to say, something to critique, but he remains silent.

You descend the steps in the grand foyer as it welcomes guests with its opulent charm, bathed in the soft, flickering light of countless candles. The air carries the delicate fragrance of freshly cut flowers, mingling with the subtle scent of expensive perfumes and cigars. The walls boast exquisite paintings and sculptures, each hand-picked, and sourced from all corners of the globe – a deliberate show of wealth.

As you step into the room, conversations swirl around you, punctuated by the clinking of champagne glasses and bursts of laughter. You observe the guests, their designer attire and dazzling jewelry all but scream like me, I’m rich. Among them, art connoisseurs and collectors engage in lively discussions about the latest exhibitions and acquisitions. Directors, models, and Hollywood elites mingle effortlessly, their conversations flowing freely.

You're well aware that in L.A., half of the business dealings often occur in the shadowy corners of closed-door meetings, or in the expanse of lavish parties like this. It’s a city where nepotism runs rampant and connections are king. It's a city where who you know can often be more important than what you know, and navigating the intricate web of relationships is a skill in itself.

Dressed in an elegant gown, silky and yellow, your neck frosted in diamonds that shimmer like the stars above, you glide through the crowd with a grace that contradicts your inner turmoil. You’re good at this part, faking it, blending in. You might have grown up with this, but you never really felt like you belonged. It’s sort of strange to be surrounded by a sea of people, all while feeling like you’re stranded alone on a remote island.

As you exchange polite pleasantries and forced smiles, a nagging doubt creeps into your mind. Are you even meant to fit in with this crowd? Lord knows you wouldn’t be if you had anything to say about it, but being the daughter of a politician is a special kind of hell. We all have to make sacrifices. And you have – a lifetime of them. Sometimes, you can't help but long for simpler pleasures – a quiet Saturday night with frozen pizza, a bottle of wine, and a comforting movie. Fuck, you can’t even remember the last time you went out with friends, drank too much tequila, and flirted in innocent fun, or the last time you dipped your hand below the waistband of your panties without the fear of being caught.

Sipping your champagne, you endure a rather tedious conversation between the CEO of a tech startup and a broker. It doesn’t take long for the sensation of boredom to settle in, mingling with a growing sense of disillusionment. A dull pain throbs in your feet from the pressure of your heels. Their voices start to fade into the distance as you zone out, feeling increasingly disconnected from the authenticity you crave.

You decide you need a break, some fresh air. They’re not even listening to you; you're not even sure if they notice you're here or not. But still, forever polite, you excuse yourself anyway and make your way across the room, weaving through the crowd of suits and couture. You’re not thinking about anything except getting the hell out of here until you hear your name called behind you.

It’s a voice you’d recognize anywhere, in any lifetime, in any place. You stop in your tracks and look over your shoulder.

“Hi,” he says.

What the fuck? You’re sure you must actually be drunk now, or so bored that you’re delusional brain is conjuring him up. You don’t say anything in return, you just stand there. The room slows around you, bodies pause mid-motion, and your world goes silent.

“Been a long time,” he casually says, lifting the glass to his lips, eyes intent on yours.

His words, the low rasp of them, snap you back to reality.

“Lucien – wha, what are you doing here?”

“I was invited.”

You barely hear his response. Fuck, he looks so good. Handsome as you remember him, all salt and pepper curls, dark facial hair, and broad shoulders. He’s clad in dark jeans, and a colorful silk shirt, the buttons at the top undone, giving just the slightest glimpse of his sun-kissed skin and the chains that rest there.

Arousal pools in your belly, thick and heavy, a feeling that you haven’t felt in years. Not since him.

"Invited, by who?" you ask, your voice laced with challenge. He takes a deliberate step closer, his presence enveloping you in a heady mix of desire and tension. The air around him is thick with the sticky-sweet smell of cigarettes and the woody notes of his cologne. He smells good.

He's close now, close enough to send a shiver down your spine. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, feeling the heat of his breath against your skin. Shit, those brown eyes. Your pulse quickens as his large palm closes around the back of your left arm, the touch sending electric sparks through your body. It's a soft but firm grip, possessive and confident.

As he trails his palm down the length of your arm, you hold your breath. He stops once your hand is gently balanced in his, and you feel his fingers brush against the cool metal of your engagement ring. Glancing around the room for a brief moment to make sure nobody’s watching, he dunks his head, and whispers in your ear, his lips so close that you think he might kiss your neck.

“I think you already know the answer to that, sweetheart.”

What.

He places a soft, innocent kiss on your cheek as he retreats and takes a step back. You don’t miss the way his eyes trail over your body, lingering for a moment too long on your collarbones. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and he gives you a polite nod, before stepping away, slipping into the crowd, leaving you woozy and confused.

What the fuck does that even mean?

As you internally grapple with what the hell just happened, your fiancé finds you in the crowd, possessively trails his hand along your waistline, and plants a wet, rather drunk, kiss on your lips.

“What did he want?” he asks, harshly.

“Nothing, just saying thanks for the invite,” you respond, hoping he can’t sense your lie. Hoping he falls for your trap.

“If you’re lying to me sweet pea, that’s gonna be a real problem.”

“I’m not.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“So why do you look so flustered, huh?”

“You know how I get when I drink champagne,” you retort, playing up your innocence.

“Right, well you better pull it together, can’t have my girl sloppy,” he warns, his voice a little slurry himself, his balance unsteady as he takes another sip. He’s moved on from champagne to whiskey. A bad combination, a dangerous one.

“You know the only reason I invited him tonight was that I think it’s an important lesson for you –”

You interrupt, “YOU invited him?”, your voice clear and stark. The truth hits you like a freight train. You want to cry, throw up and scream all at the same time.

“Of course. Listen, baby, I know you went through your slutty phase, but look how far you’ve come.. look how much I’ve helped you grow,” he slurs, “men like that, don’t deserve women like you.”

And there it is – the truth.

Your blood hits a boiling point. You give him a death glare, but he doesn’t seem to notice before he’s quickly moving on.

“Come on, baby.” I’m not your baby, not anymore, haven’t been for a long time.

“I’d like to introduce you to some people,” he says, grabbing a fresh glass off of the passed tray, and handing it to you with a little too much thrust, enough for a few drops of it to spill over onto the silk of your dress. Your fingers grip around it and you follow his lead, despite the bitterness you feel. Ugh. Why is it so easy for you to fall into line now? Secretly, you hope the dull burn of the alcohol will distract you – calm you – make you forget.

You’re drunk, aroused, mad, and confused, and on top of it all, you’re fading in and out of the dull conversation your fiancé has you engaged in, or rather than listening to. Not like he lets you get a word in, anyway. You scan the room looking for him whenever you get the chance, trying not to be too obvious. You finally spot him in the corner and try to ignore the magnetic pull that lassos around you once you do. He’s talking to a model, because of course he is. Is he intentionally trying to make you jealous? Or is he just being his usual fuck boy self?

You chug what must be your sixth glass of champagne to forget the bitter memory of the last time you saw him – when he told you that you should just keep things casual, that he couldn’t handle the pressure of being with the daughter of a politician, that he would never measure up, and that this was just temporary, just sex.

It wasn’t, and you know it. You know he knows it.

But fuck it –

If he wants to play games, you can play games. You’re the one who’s engaged, this is your house, your space. You’ll show him what he’s missing.

With that in mind, your personality shifts a bit, part in courtesy of the alcohol, part because of your rage. You do your best to intentionally play up your happiness in a room full of strangers, show him that he doesn’t affect you. Show him that he doesn’t matter, that he never did. You cling tight to the arm of your fiancé, being sure to pull out your best doe eyes, your innocent fuck me eyes that you know men can hardly resist. The eyes you know that drive him wild.

But there’s no point, he sees right through it.

Shit.

He knows you too well, better than all the rest. You let your guard down with him, trusted him, and now he knows all the signs – all the tells – he knows where your heart and mind truly rest, probably before you even do.

Shove it down. Shove it down. He doesn’t matter. You are engaged. This is the life you want.

It’s not.

You watch through the corner of your eye as he excuses himself from the conversation with the model and walks through the crowd, intentionally finding your eyes as he does. He slips up the stairs, away from public view.

Ignore him. Ignore him. Ignore him.

You can’t. You know you can’t.

Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re stepping out of the conversation you were never really in, letting your instincts guide you. You lift the hem of your dress, your heels teetering slightly as you make your way through the bustling, suffocating room.

Each step up the stairs is a battle between your mind and your heart, your brain screaming warnings while your emotions, your arousal, tug you forward. It’s always been this way – a magnetic pull, an invisible force drawing you in to him like a moth to a flame.

This is a mistake.

Don't do this.

Do this.

You want this.

You're engaged.

Stop thinking.

Climbing the final stairs, your heart pounding in your chest, you surrender to the emotions swirling inside you. Your brain protests, but your heart has already made its decision.

"Luci—" you timidly call out, but before you can finish, he reaches out in the darkness and pulls you into his chest. You let out a little oof of surprise, but soon find yourself settling into the embrace, his warmth enveloping you as his hips press tightly against yours.

He doesn't utter a word, simply holding you close, his body a comforting anchor in the dimly lit hallway. His hand rests at your waist, the other gently cradling the swell of your cheek as he gazes down at you. Despite the darkness obscuring your features, you can sense him drinking in every detail, every curve, the small details you’re not sure anyone notices anymore. He’s looking at you like he always has, like you’re the main character in every story he’s ever cared to read.

With a tighter grip, he guides you further down the hallway, away from the prying eyes at the top of the staircase. Your back eventually meets the cool surface of the wall, and he pauses there, his presence dominating the space, sucking up the air around you. His grip on your waist remains firm, as if he knows exactly what he wants and how to get it.

Under his touch, you feel yourself melting, surrendering to the intensity that is the two of you. There's a confidence in his demeanor, a certainty that courses through you. A live wire of energy that you’ve never felt with anyone but him. He knows exactly how to read you, how to anticipate your every desire, and you find yourself powerless to resist.

You’re suddenly acutely aware of the ring on your finger, and before you can protest, he’s already speaking.

“He’s not the man you think he is, sweetheart.” His words pierce you like a knife.

You don’t respond. What can you even say? He can already see your truth, your reality, written plainly across your face. He searches your face for hesitation, any sign that he’s crossed a line.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and you can only nod. Yes, please.

This isn’t normal, this isn’t a thing that people frequently experience – it’s wrong, you’re engaged. Even if your fiancé is a grade-A asshole, you can still maintain your morals.

But the thing is – there’s something so electric about the two of you together, an undeniable force, a promise written into stone long before you even realized it.

The combination of your bodies, two halves of a whole, is the only excuse you can muster for why you’ve found yourself in your current predicament – pressed up against a wall, his broad frame pinning you into place, the weight of his gaze like a flame threatening to swallow you whole, turn you into ashes.

Even though it’s been years since he’s pressed his lips against yours, the weight of the pretty little rock on your left finger fades into distant memory, and he pulls you back to a different reality.

A reality where nothing else exists, a reality where your timelines converge, a reality hand-sculpted just for the two of you. One where he didn’t fuck up, the one with the happily ever after.

With your lips connected, it’s easy to let your mind fall silent.

And when he breaks for a bit of breath, your eyes connect once more and you can’t help the thought that crosses your mind.

What a pleasure it is to burn.

His hand finds its way to your thigh, and his fingers make their way to where you so desperately need them to be. Nipping at your neck, he whispers sweet praises into your ear, each word sending sparks of arousal that dance along your skin. It's carnal, primal, an undeniable biological reaction that leaves you practically dripping for him.

"You know me, better than anybody," he rasps against your skin, his words a seductive promise of something more. Planting a soft kiss on your collarbone, he leaves you reeling with need.

But just as you're about to respond, the telltale sound of creaking wood and heavy footsteps echo up the stairs, accompanied by the call of your name. Panic floods your senses as you realize who it is.

Fuck, shit – no, god damn it.

Lucien quickly steps away from you, and sneaks off into the bedroom adjacent to the hall.

Your fiancé appears at the top of the steps, his gaze sharp and knowing, as if he can sense the tension in the air. In that moment, you know you can't keep hiding, can't keep pretending that everything is fine.

“What are you doing up here?”

Fuck it, be bold.

“We need to talk.”

TO BE CONTINUED

If you like this, please consider a reblog (dm me if you want to be removed): @endlessthxxghts @theoasisofthings @pedrostories @bastardmandennis @milly-louise @ghostwritesthings @josephquinnswhore @drunk-and-capable @syd-djarin @survivingandenduring @hotgirlbedtimescenarios @ohheypedrito @joeldjarin @nerdieforpedro @amyispxnk @paleidiot @ghostwritesthings @kulekehe @darkheartgatita @goldenhxurs @javiscigarette @morallyinept @ro-nahime-things @gwendibleywrites @missladym1981 @auteurdelabre @morgaussy @yxtkiwiyxt ily.

#lucien flores #lucien flores smut #lucien flores fic #the uninvited #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #pedrohub #pedro stories #pedro pascal characters #lucien x reader

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studioghibelli · 4 months

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lonely like me- joel miller x reader series

— ;; chapter one, tombstone

summary: joel miller has wrapped himself in an impenetrable wall of thorns, where nothing of seriousness can ever get to him. you have spent the last five years running from a bloody, violent past, thirsty for revenge. when two unstoppable, stubborn, roughed up forces meet, something soft and unspoken begins to ensue.

warnings: no use of y/n, some original characters, sort of enemies (the bickering type) to lovers, cowboyjoel!au, wild west!au, orphaned reader, bounty hunter!reader, hefty age gap (20s/50s), female reader, I am basically taking so many creative liberties this is pretty much my own story with joel miller in it i am so sorry people, probably going to be a slow burn, tragic backstory, will update as i go <3 lmk if i missed anything!

rating: r, 18+ mdni

word count: 4.2k

note: i will be making a spotify playlist for this eventually. this is my first series pretty much ever, so any comments, recommendations, feedback, critiques are all welcome- so please feel free to comment them! thank you kindly my friends.

The wind was howling, like a pack of grieving wolves.

Beneath the canopy of Texas' barren wasteland, the night sky was aflame with twinkling slivers of white, perfectly painted atop the canvas of navy as the promise of winter soon approached.

You couldn’t remember the last time your back wasn’t aching. With the sudden chill that had blanketed itself over the land, your bones cried out for help more and more with each passing day. You were too young to hurt like this, too young to know a pain like this.

But life was a brutal teacher, and you knew there was no other way through it but to hurt with no respite. A desert with no oasis.

Your horse whinnied beneath you, the leather saddle cool to the touch of your naked hands.

“It’s alright, boy. Only got a day of ridin' left. Just a bit longer and you’ll get all the barley you want.” He liked this answer, sweeping his head to the right with a deep huff out of his nostrils. His heavy hooves continued imprinting against the soft brown earth of the ground beneath.

Fritz was your father’s horse, before the attack. Before you were left with nothing but a wad of cash, a fading Stetson, and an old, stubborn steed. Despite his head strong nature and aging body, Fritz was still a beautiful sight to behold. A buckskin American Quarter with white socks on each leg, accompanied by a thick, luscious black mane and a matching tail that was always brushed out and braided- courtesy of you. Your daddy had, supposedly, wrestled him in the deserts of New Mexico when the both of them were just two young bucks, taming him then and there. A bond was formed, a silent sort of partnership that only a gun slinger and their horse can have.

Well, that's how the story goes, anyway. You were never too sure how true it was.

He still had a wild streak in him, after all these years, after all this suffering. Just like you.

You looked up at the moon. It hung from its dainty piece of silver twine, twinkling against the backdrop of dusk. It had always been a sight to behold in your eyes, a celestial entity so unobtainable, yet one you loved so dearly, so deeply.

An owl hooted to your left, and you heard the leaves of the surrounding vegetation dance against the smoothing rhythm of the harmonic gale.

"We've been out on our own for too long, boy." You whispered to Fritz. He pulled against the leather reigns slightly, and you saw where his head was turning. About two miles south you saw lights flickering. A town. A town much closer than your original stopping point.

"Always were the ones with brains, weren't ya?" You patted his head, steering him in a new direction. "A few days off track won't hurt." Fritz was silent at the sound of your voice, clopping quietly and huffing every so often towards the vibrant town.

As you drew closer you could hear buildings bustling with music, women singing songs and men slamming their cups of beer together, frothy foam clinging to the sides. A sign was posted above the entrance:

TOMBSTONE

Something about this place sounded awfully familiar, but you just swallowed it down, eyes hellbent and searching for the nearest stable. Out there, far off in the distance, stood a creaking barn you figured Fritz would be safe resting in.

Clopping and clacking to the entrance, you saw a tubby man with a newsboy cap on, a cigar hanging beneath a thick, red moustache.

"What can I do ya' fer, ma'am?"

"Need to board him. Got any room?" You asked, pulling yourself off your worn saddle with a hefty sigh. Oh, how your body ached.

"Yeah, I got room." He eyed you and your horse, sniffing. "It'll be $15 dollars for the week."

With an eyebrow slowly raised, you pointed towards the sign. "Says right there it's $10. You tryna bleed me dry?"

His eyes, aged and graying atop the leathery mask of skin he wore, widened with surprise. "Now I ain't never met a girl on her own that can read."

"Now you have. I'll settle on giving you $8, since you tried to play me."

He gave a thick shrug of his shoulders, giving in to your offer. "Fair 'nuff. He gets barley twice a day, dollar extra fer some apples. Fresh hay every two days, can throw in a saddle at the end, for twenty extra, if ya' want."

"Sounds good. Hear that, boy?" You turned to Fritz, gently running your fingers down his dusty muzzle. "Just like I said. All the barley you want." Your loyal steed nudged against your chest, before a thinning, weakly looking stableboy took him in to the darkening barn.

"What's your name anyway, miss?" The old man asked, sitting back down in his chair as you grabbed your bag.

"Don't got one anymore." You mumbled, thumbing through your satchel.

"Everybody's got one."

You ignored him.

"This should cover it. Take care of my boy. I'll give you enough for an apple a day." Stuffing the cash in his hand you turned on your heel, before sweeping back to look at him. "And, trust me, I will know if you're skimpin' on those damn apples." You rested your hand on the holster to your side, fingers brushing the pearlescent handle of your Colt. It was a threat, not a warning.

The man tilted his cap, nodding. "I ain't got no doubt about it, miss."

You walked down the dirty road, the thick air burning your nostrils. It smelled like manure, liquor, and lumber. The streets were nearly barren, except the occasional prostitute smoking outside a door, or a fight in a dark alley you had no business standing around to watch.

Just to the corner, you saw the swinging doors of a decaying saloon, falling apart at the corners, and made your way inside. There was an empty seat at the bar that you made a straight B line for. Beside the empty chair sat a broad man in a leather jacket, head bowed, black rim of his Stetson covering a brow you figured was laced tight, thinking about whatever guilt and bad blood inevitably plagued him.

Your eyes raked down his back, his jacket stretched tightly against it. Clearing your throat, ignoring the feeling which stirred within you just at the sight of this man's backside, you sat beside him, ushering the bartender over.

The smell of cigarette smoke, smooth whiskey, and warm, nutty oak seeped in through your nostrils. You realized it was him. The nameless, faceless man who had not so much as looked to the side, despite feeling your body shift beside his into the seat.

"Well hello there, pretty lady. What can I getcha' this fine Thursday?"

"It's Thursday?" You asked incredulously, studying the bottles behind him.

The bartender, a boy about your age with slicked back blonde locks and a thin patch of hair on his chin laughed at your surprise, nodding. "Yes ma'am. Been out on the road for long?"

You scoffed to yourself. The man beside you twitched his chin a bit, but his face stayed covered by his thick shoulder, eyes still behind the darkness of the shadow his well-fitted, worn, aged hat provided.

"How'd you tell I've been out on my own?" Your words were laced with sarcasm.

You had seen better, brighter days.

When your skin wasn't caked by the thick, dry southern dust, when you wore handmade, tailored dresses the color of lilies and sea foam, when your hair was always clean and curled courtesy of your mama, when you were young and alive and pure and clean. A life you felt was more of a theory, a concept, rather than a memory. A story you had never lived, not for many years. Not since you were a young, naive little girl, forced to live out on her own. Forced to witness the bloody walls, dripping knives, rippling gun shots. Forced to live a waking nightmare.

Now here you were. Cotton trousers stained by mud and tea, vest tearing away at the seams. You barely recognized yourself, whenever you caught a glimpse in a flowing stream or dirty window. You didn't think you were pretty anymore, not like you used to be. But you'd rather take the toughness you had acquired, the grit and the anger you held, over being pretty, soft, feminine.

Well, you were still trying to convince yourself of that.

"You okay?" The bartenders voice snapped you out, and you looked up at him.

"Just a whiskey and sarsaparilla. I like mixing 'em." You explained, and the boy nodded once, turning on his heel to work whatever magic he knew.

The shrouded figure beside you scoffed. "Cowboys don't mix their shit." He grunted out.

Your voice caught in your throat before you could throw back an insult, an explanation, anything. He sounded..... delicious. Angry, tough, worn by life, raspy and rough and.... and your eyes dropped down to his hand, wrapped around the glass of his double shot of what you could only assume was Jim Beam or Maker's. His nails were caked with dirt, palms wide and rough, leathered up by what you figured were decades of hard work. You couldn't see his face, but you knew by his hands that whatever was beneath must have been real nice to look at.

For what felt like the hundredth time, you cleared your throat. "I ain't no cowboy." You finally mumbled, voice tired like a petulant child's.

He chuckled sweetly, lifting his cup up to his lips and downing it in one thick gulp. "Sure do look like one."

"Well, I'm not."

"Just playin' dress up then?"

You rolled your eyes, the bartender handing you an open glass bottle of sarsaparilla and a shot of amber hued liquid. "It's all I had."

And that's when he looked up. You glanced over, not expecting to see that.

Tanned skin, dark eyes, perfect lips. A thick moustache, surrounded by scruffy, graying facial hair. You saw a stray curl fall from the brim of his hat, brown and laced with salty white streaks. His jaw was sharp and tempting, lips wet from his tongue, and his gaze was steady, confident. He was the most attractive man you had ever laid eyes on. Time had done him well, the clock had been good to him. He was old, much older than you, no doubt about it, but still so alluring, mysterious, delicious,

"Holy shit." You found yourself whispering.

"Yeah," he grunted while flicking his fingers, ordering another round, "I have that effect on women."

"I'm not a woman. I'm a cowboy, remember?"

"Does this cowboy have a name?" He asked, eyeing you slowly.

"Not one she plans on tellin' you."

He gave a deep shrug of his shoulders, twirling the new cup of liquid between his fingers, before nursing a slow sip. "Mine's Joel." He grunted after a long moment of turning something or another over in his head.

"You said you stole?" You asked, the music of the live band behind your backs playing up louder.

The man rolled his dark eyes, the orbs dripping with honeyed amber, before looking at you. "J-O-E-L. My name is Joel."

"Oh." You said in a moment of understanding. You brought the cup of your mixed liquid towards your mouth, slowly sipping at it. "Well now I just feel like I'm being rude, not telling you mine."

"You are pretty rude, yeah." He agreed, a burning smirk planted on top of his thin lips.

"Well, just for that, I'm not telling you now. You ruined it." Your arms crossed over your stomach, eyebrows stitched together in a grimace.

"Only agreein' with ya. I guess I'll have to come up with my own name then."

"For me?"

He nodded.

"Like what? Just pull one outta your ass? Kate? Jane?"

Joel laughed a deep laugh from his chest. "You're dumber than a bag of rocks, aint'cha?"

Your cheeks heated up, out of embarrassment or anger, you were unsure. "Could be. Not as dumb as you though. J-O-E-L."

"I was thinkin'.... hmmm." He studied your face, and you felt that foreign stir brewing back inside your belly. He traced your features. You wondered what he was thinking. Joel had a light smirk dancing across his mouth, eyes darkening ever so slightly with every new inch of skin on your face he discovered. He poked and prodded you with his gaze, and you suddenly had the urge to cover up. It was like he was undressing you, slithering deep into your soul, unearthing and unlocking secrets you had never confessed to anyone before.

"Yeah, those names'll suit you for now."

"What will?"

"Just have to wait and see."

"Well you don't have much longer to confess. I'm heading out tomorrow." You lied.

Joel nodded. "I am too. Where you headed?"

"West."

"What's West?" He asked, stirring the remaining liquid in his cup.

"Work."

"'S that so? What you do for work?"

You stared at the ridges in the wooden table, white knuckling the edge. Memories you wished to repress came swimming up to the surface of your mind. The metallic taste of blood, the smell of salty tears. Begs and pleas and I'll give you anything you wants and please, just give me some times. Your jaw clenched. Joel took notice.

"I hunt." You finally answered. It wasn't exactly a lie.

"Hunt what?" Joel asked, curiosity sparking within him.

You pointed to a few torn posters on the wall with your head.

One, yellowing at the edges with browning letters stood out amongst them all.

HARVEY JONES, 58 YEARS OLD

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE FOR:

MURDER, ARSON, KIDNAPPING.

$5,000 REWARD

"People like that." You muttered, staring at his picture.

Harvey had an old and scarred face, tanned and rough. His right cheek looked like a dog had gotten ahold of him, covered by patchy, gnarled facial hair, and his eyes were cruel, painted through with rage by the steady hand of time, no doubt a victim to the tempestuous waves of life. You swallowed, and Joel watched your eyes gloss over with something he had become well acquainted with: Rage.

"You think he's campin' out West, too?" Joel asked, eyes cemented to the side profile of your face. God damn, were you pretty, he thought. A firecracker.

You nodded slowly. "Wyoming."

"That's where I'm headed."

"What're you running from, Joel?"

"Not runnin' from nothing. Searchin' for my brother, 's all."

You shook your head, eyes meeting his. "Everybody's running from something."

Joel sat in silence, finishing his drink. "I have a proposition for you."

"I'm not sleepin' with you." You grumbled into your cup, staring at him from behind the rim.

"Not what I was gonna ask. Nice to know that's where your pretty little head went." He snickered, waving for another drink. Poor bartender, you thought, he must be five drinks in already. You saw the cups piling around him. Damn, could he hold his liquor. The mark of a real man, your pops always used to say.

"What's this proposition then, Cowboy Joel?"

"I go with you, out West. Keep you safe, help you find that Harvey man. I get half the reward for takin' care of you."

"I don't need some disgusting, stinky man takin' care of me."

Joel laughed, that chesty, deep, gorgeous laugh once again, his neck falling back. "Now I know I ain't stinky, darlin'."

Darlin'. That must have been the name. Your cheeks lit with the flame of.... well, something you didn't quite have the name for.

"And you know I ain't no fool." He continued, his voice settling into a sturdy sort of seriousness. "But you don't look like you've been too well out there on your own. How old are those clothes? Four months? Five? Covered in dirt, even though you wash them weekly. Right? Am I gettin' somewhere with this? Your cheeks are covered in scratches. It's rough out there. Rough for any man on his own, not jus' you." Joel raised an eyebrow, waiting for you to nod. And nod you did. You could feel bitter hot tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly blinked them away, continuing your silent sitting.

"Now, let me see you there safe, make sure you get that man for whatever he did to you, and we can go our separate ways. Like nothin' ever happened. Hell, I'd settle for less than half- If I end up likin' you some."

"Okay." You whispered. "Okay." You repeated, louder this time.

"You got a room here for the night?"

You shook your head no. "I just got here, 'n hour or so ago."

"Want to join me in mine?"

"I said I'm not going to sleep with you-"

Joel cut you off. "That's not what I'm askin'. I don't want to see you naked." You narrowed your eyes, for some reason feeling a bit deflated by that comment. "Just figured it'll give you someplace to wash off. Got a tub in mine, you can go up there and get some of that dirt off. I'll stay down here, if it'd make you feel any better."

You saw him pull a key from his back pocket, pushing it towards you. You stared at the little piece of metal before taking it, glancing up at him.

"Do you... do you know if any clothes shops are open 'round here?" You finally asked, almost sheepishly.

"Think there's one down the road, to the left. Could still be open."

You stuffed the key in your bra. "What's the room number?"

"Twelve."

You gave him a nod, pushing your way out of the saloon, feeling the fresh night air hit your cheeks. You gasped for breath, taking in the sensation of the earth soaking its way into your lungs, filling you to the brim with the crisp night. You hadn't realized how hot it was in there, how stifled your chest had become.

"Dammit." You grunted to yourself, leaning the palms of your hands on your knees as you bent over. These weird feelings? Yeah. Not good. "Dammit. Dammit!" You snapped again, this time louder. Your worn boot kicked a pebble across the street, hearing it clang against the metal of a water trough. "Fuckin' stupid asshole."

You walked the directions he had given you, finding a little clothes shop with the lights still on. You ratted your knuckled against the door as you walked in. A pretty lady, about the age of this Joel you had just met, smiled at you from behind the counter, not deterred by your appearance.

"Howdy! Looking for some new clothes?" She chirped, a sweet song-like quality tugging at her words.

"Yes ma'am. Something nice."

"You a rider?" She asked.

"I am, yes ma'am I'm on the road a lot. Need something that lets me move freely." You explained curtly, not meaning to seem so standoffish.

"Have you ever tried a riding skirt? Just got a new shipment in, made from the finest cow hide." She guided you towards a mannequin, showing you the skirt.

It was ankle length and looked heavy, but you felt a shimmer in your eyes once you saw it. The hide was light brown, patches of white and black spots littered throughout. Must have been a pretty cow. You'd look like a proper lady wearing one of these, you thought, a bit like you used to. You shook the thought away. No. You needed tough. Rough.

"I, uh-" You rubbed the back of your neck. "I think I'll just settle for some pants."

"Sure! These are new." She held up a pair of trousers, simple and black, a pair you knew would fit you nice and well.

"Those'll do." You smiled, gently grabbing them from her. She caught your eye, grinning.

"Good! Now we're gettin' somewhere. I think this would look great together." The pretty lady held up a long sleeved white shirt with a black bow, reminiscent of a bolo tie, around the collar. Alongside it, there stood a nice, deep maroon vest, silver embellished buttons lining the middle, a pretty frill at the hems.

"That's pretty." You admitted, grabbing it from her.

"You need a new holster? Boots? Belt?"

"Well, might as well just get it all." You joked, eliciting a laugh from her.

You settled on a thick belt that matched the vest, a silver buckle in the middle with deep florals carved into the material, a real piece of turquoise jutting out in the middle. Your holster was falling apart, so you grabbed on that matched the belt, and a pair of new leather boots that ached when you tried them on. All good boots have to be worn in, you thought, it'll be worth the blisters.

"How about a hat-"

"No!" You rushed out, a bit too brutally, and she took a step back with her hands raised defensively. You coughed a bit, repeating yourself much softer. "No. No thank you, I mean. This hat was my-... it's a, uh, it's a family hat."

There was a long sort of silence, thick and awkward, the kind you hated the most. "Oh, do you have some sort of, like... sleeping shirt?"

"I've got a nightgown."

Grudgingly, you accepted, taking the soft, feminine fabric from her. It was white, with a dainty bow at the low collar. It was... cute. Something the old you would have worn. Something that sweet, pretty little thing of a girl you once were would have swooned over. It filled you with a twinge of pain.

"Thank you." You spoke earnestly.

She smiled, nodding a bit, before taking you to the register. "It'll be $80."

"$80?" You repeated.

"A bit too much for you?"

You thumbed through the wad of cash in your satchel, handing her $100. "No, it isn't enough. You could be making bank in here, lady." You scooped up the bag your new clothes were in, turning to walk towards the door. "Keep the change."

She giggled a giddy laugh, bidding you a sweet and meaningful farewell, before you made your way to the inn, searching for this mysterious door 12.

Once you finally found it, you unlocked it with ease, the lamp on the beside table soon flickering awake with golden life as you flipped it on. The room smelled like Joel. Like wood, smoke, whiskey. It smelled good. You felt your skin prick with goosebumps, and you shook it out of your head. A man has never had this sort of effect on you. You groaned, stuffing your face in the palms of your hot hands.

This was business. Business. Business. Business. That's all it was. All it ever would be. All you would ever let it be.

The bath in the corner was already full with water, untouched, a bar of soap on the table beside it. You stripped, allowing the cold water to soon engulf you as you let out a little yelp, the temperature making your bones ache even more. Your nipples hardened painfully, and you gave one a twist, feeling some odd sort of relief inside of you, caused by that stupid oaf down at the bar.

"God damned fucking water." You grumbled as it sloshed against your face, directing your energy towards being annoyed, before reaching for the bar of soap. You must have scrubbed every inch of your skin, for at least an hour, before you felt clean enough to get out. The water was swirling with dirt and soap suds, and you winced at the sight. Were you really that dirty? You felt embarrassed.

There was a knock at the door. Joel.

You rushed to dry off and threw the nightgown over your head, before he stepped in with a hand over his eyes.

"Now, I ain't tryna' get a peak if you're still naked." He felt around with his free hand, closing the door with a kick of his leg. Something about that made you feel.... some sort of way.

"I'm not naked." You grumbled, and he let his hand drop.

"Well, I didn't take you for the nightgown type. Did you buy that for me?" He asked smugly, his fingers moving to the buttons of his vest.

You rolled your eyes. "No, I didn't." You spat matter-of-factly, taking every ounce of willpower to turn your back to him as he unclothed himself.

"Mhm. Well, better get a good sleep tonight, darlin'. Got a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

You shuffled your way to bed, refusing to look his way, trying to ignore the new name he had brandished you with, and climbed under the wool blankets, keeping as many feet away from him as possible. You felt his weight shifting against the hard mattress beneath you once he was undressed, the blanket shuffling. You knew his back was turned to yours, obliging your unspoken wish for space. As you stared at the wall, you felt yourself begin feeling silently thankful for a change of pace from the cold, hard ground.

You fell asleep to the lullaby of his snores.

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junosmindpalace · 10 days

Text

FOR YOU, FOREVER AGO

🎧 take a piece of my heart and make it all your own.

pairing: arthur morgan x gn!reader

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: arthur, and the notes he leaves in the books he gifts you. who could have figured love can transcend time?

content: established relationship, reading, reading and some more reading (together), soft and playful love, fluff with some angst at the end (arthur's death mentioned). reader is briefly said to be wearing a chemise.

a/n: i said i wouldn't write him again and here i am. writing him again. because this game has taken up so much of my writing headspace...

There’s an old saying that Arthur has heard retold in various different ways, and it went along the lines of “an idle mind is the devil’s playground.”

It derived from Proverbs 16:27: “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop,” something he later found out upon overhearing the phrase from the Reverend’s mouth during one of his rare sermons. Arthur doesn’t believe much in any sort of sacred text, but he could, to an extent, believe in that phrase.

It’s a belief Dutch and Miss Grimshaw hold in especially high regard, and their incessant nagging to do away with him loitering about in the camp proved that. And while he agrees that it is necessary for everybody to do their part, Arthur spends much of his time out involving himself in all kinds of tough and weary business, and like anyone else, sometimes the enforcer needed a break.

Though it seemed so to quite many people, Arthur’s mind was not solely fixated on his life of crime. Like many other people he was a man of love, who enjoyed reveling in Mother Nature’s beauty, and memorializing its likeness in his journal in gorgeous detail, too. He enjoyed lingering in on conversations that took place around him; mundane things like about rumors and town happenings, though they weren’t always pleasant. And above all else, he enjoyed being around you.

Scare was the time to enjoy such leisure with your responsibilities, however. Often, he would return to camp well into the dead of night or during wind down time you had permitted for yourself (because Lord knows Grimshaw wouldn’t) to entertain your mind. Borrowing from the collections of books around camp was one of few forms of amusement you relied upon for some sort of satisfying stimulation.

Arthur couldn’t help but sometimes be jealous of this. To enjoy the leather cover of a book against his fingertips and the patches of sweetgrass and lavender enclosed around him like a makeshift bed was a luxury he could rarely afford. Yet still, he found ways to incorporate his own amusement to look forward to when he did have the off time to enjoy it.

The habit, at first, was a means of compensating for his long absences. It was almost his way of giving you a piece of his heart to hold to your chest, fill your mind, make your own with your wild imagination while he was away for sometimes frightening days at a time.

Arthur provided you with literature of all sorts, from dime novels to hardcover books, when he encountered them on his travels. Mythology retellings, exaggerated tales of the fictionalized Wild West, dramatic historical fiction with royalty, castles, and dragons, and the sort of philosophy books Dutch enjoys reading passages aloud from that critique civilization. Each one, though unique in content, held a message with consistent love that made your heart swell and your lips stretch into a pleasant smile at the intent behind them.

Couldn’t resist.

Thought you’d like this one.

All my love.

Thought of you.

For you to enjoy when I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time.

It's late when Arthur finds time to enjoy the stories with you, propped up on his side in the while his other arm is draped loosely around your waist as you lay in the same position, holding the book the two of you were enamored with in one hand. The firelight illuminates the pages for him to read from over your shoulder, his fingers brushing over your stomach and arms absentmindedly as he immerses himself in the world along with you.

“This gentleman sure is a character.”

“Ain’t he?” you snicker, taking the comment as an indicator to turn to the next page. “Almost reminds me of someone.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” he raises a brow at you, observing your expression with a tilt of his head.

“Nothin’ at all.” you hum innocently, pretending to fix your attention back onto the pages. He catches your bluff when he teasingly curls his arm around your waist and presses you closer against his chest, invoking a squeal of laughter from you as he ruffles your chemise.

“Just turn the page.” he chuckles with a slight shake of his head and a roll of his eyes, but when you meet his playful gaze with one of your own, any further teasing dies on his tongue as his breath becomes lodged at the sight of your glow in the firelight.

“Okay.” you tut with a raise of your brows, resituating yourself and leaning further into his grasp, to which he responds by hugging you closer.

When your time wasn't spent under the stars, it was in your tent. Accompanied in your shared bedroll was a book from a marketplace stand you had picked out together when scouting around town. One of Arthur’s hands holds it on his stomach with his fingers at the bottom, while his other holds your shoulder soothingly. You lay your head over his heart, listening to its steady pulsing, and following the small text with tired eyes to lull you to sleep.

Sometimes he read to you, when your eyes grew too heavy to look up at him, and your brain was too exhausted to form coherent enough thoughts, let alone conversation. He'd read with his free hand, voice gradually becoming husky with thick exhaustion of his own the more he read on.

“Why’d you stop?” you murmured to him as you lulled you head up to look at him, briefly slipping into fuller consciousness when taking note of the absence of his voice amidst the evening chill.

“Thought you’d fallen asleep,” he replied, rubbing a hand up and down the side of your arm before planting a kiss on your forehead. You only shook your head.

“A little more?”

Arthur peered outside through a crevice in his tent to the pitch black, redirecting his attention back to you with a sigh. “Alright. But only a little.”

Sometimes you read to him, when he returns to the campsite with his brain scrambled from the hat and madness of his travels, and longs, almost on autopilot, for your presence and an extended period of rest. With his arms wrapped firmly around your waist, legs tangled on your sides and head snug against your stomach, you propped up one of the books you had borrowed from Mary-Beth, a romance that you could always rely on to knock Arthur out, with one hand, while the other carefully threads through his locks of brown hair.

“That sounds like a nice place to live, don’t it? In a house with a white picket fence and a beautiful garden.” You had asked him quietly one of those nights, looking down at his still figure, who merely hummed in response against your stomach. “Maybe outta the country.”

“And go where?” he replied drowsily, peering up at you through small eyes.

“I don’t know…surprise me.” you teased, and Arthur chuckled.

“Maybe someday, sweetheart.” he placed a kiss on the fabric of your night wear, letting out a sigh as he adjusted himself against you again. “Maybe someday we’ll go somewhere real nice.”

Amidst ever changing lives—periods of transition and transformation and hard feelings and new hopes and dreams—you made sure to often revisit his little notes kept in between the first few pages of a book picked out with you in mind and written with all the care you had to offer to one another. Nights apart we’re spent tracing the loving words with your eyes, running a nail through the loopy font. It reminds you that you lay under the same stars, the both of you wishing to reunite sooner than later upon one of the billions that twinkled in the sky.

When Arthur had passed under the dying night sky, the menial, but important, declarations of love became lost to you.

Focusing on anything outside of survival seemed impossible afterward, and the grief was all too fresh and thought consuming. Most of the time was spent rebuilding your life to the best of your ability, something not quite what you had envisioned in hopeful late night conversations with Arthur, but more bare minimum. No beautiful porch with a nice garden, no homey furnishings. Only a simple bungalow with a creaky bed and a bag of few possessions you managed to snag in your abrupt departure.

At the bottom of the bag one day, you find something, no, many things, you had not laid your eyes upon since before the hope of a new dawn was extinguished within you.

It had been the first time you had felt an urge to be productive. For most of your days were spent in melancholy and anxious paralyzing thought that kept asking, what’s next?

You held them in your hands carefully, turning them over before opening them curiously, only to have your breath hitched when your eyes landed on the front.

Couldn’t resist.

You scrambled for another.

Thought you’d like this one.

Another, and then another. All of them until the reminders brought you to tears.

All my love.

Thought of you.

For you to enjoy while I’m away.

To keep you preoccupied while I’m gone.

To make up for lost time.

The rest of the night became dedicated to remembering all that you once had, and that you were once determined to have. Reading stories that always seemed as fantastical as your dreams of a sweeter life, perhaps where they even derived from. The inspiration and hope they fuelled gradually returned with each memory you recounted of your shared dream with Arthur.

He had given it to you in the end. Taken you some place nice, even if he wasn’t there himself to enjoy it with you. He’d given you a piece of his heart all those years ago, and you made it your own. Given you the resources—just enough money and a whole lot of love—to help you realize a life you always wanted. He was there; in the blooming flowers, in the magnificent dawn and dusk, in the pages of books you held carefully between your fingers. And you’d remind yourself of it every night with a trace of your fingers over his scrawled messages of adoration.

return to masterlist.

#i am slowly transitioning to writing more character fics #which you can find on my ao3 #so feel free to follow me there :)#im currently working on two (2) very lengthy rdr fics #one being centred around the women of rdr2 and another basically inserting adult jack into my own fictional 1910s world #with tati helping me a lot with #so look forward to that!#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan fluff #arthur morgan angst #red dead redemption 2 x reader #red dead redemption 2 fluff #red dead redemption 2 oneshot #rdr2 x reader #rdr2 fluff #red dead redemption 2 angst #rdr2 oneshot

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worldsewage · 2 months

Text

🚧 I’m carny, but feel free to call me WorldSewage, HOMERUN, World, Sewage, any other iteration of it, as long as I know you’re talking about me. This is a side account!

He/Him. I’m 19– January birthday, year of the rooster. I’m the guy who draws the bipedal salmonids.

I don’t believe DNIs work, but let it be known AI / transphobes / unsolicited critiques will be blocked. I abuse the block button, at times.

Some of my content WILL be suggestive. Please block #suggestive if you’re uncomfortable with this content!

AU content will be rolled out slowly, I am not a very fast artist, but my ask box will always remain open, so feel free to ask questions (chances are it will be answered! Albeit slowly!)

I love my mutuals, do not be afraid to talk to me! I can’t promise I’ll be super chatty, but I want it to be known that I love a good conversation. I don’t know how to convey this so often I wind up drawing your characters.

I work in the kitchen and get paid minimum wage and I love my job and life to bits, I am not a “professional” artist, but I work quite a bit, so my drawing time isn’t very long.

If you bastards open up a white board, @ me! I want to join! (Joking)

Homerun Au / ABOUT ME / extra art / info under the cut! 📌

My agents:

Alligator : 25 (she/her)

Saint : 14 (they/them)

Valentine : 20 (they/them)

July : 21 (they/them)

(Ages as of SPLATOON 3 ^ …)

My tags are formatted pretty clearly, but just in case.

Homerun au - pertains to all information / art that takes place in this au, my agents are all designed to fit into this au.

Most of my character tags are formatted like “Name ( thing they are )” — (examples: “saint (Neo 3) , fido (oc) , carny (sona) , valentine (agent 8) )

Carnying - off topic posts , I don’t usually vent publicly , but most of my rambling will probably be under this tag.

My art - is my art tag… I usually always tag the characters featured in my art.

⚠️ I draw on JSPAINT or on Procreate: I use primarily custom brushes.

⚠️ catch me on my Main account— @gatored , and for warrior cats content: @rendside

⚠️ I don’t know how I pick colors, I just do. I would like to make a tutorial some say, but I have no idea what I’m doing.

⚠️ art requests are ok! I’m willing to do art trades, but as of right now, I am unavailable:)

⚠️ I’m okay with fan art! Please just don’t be weird! I’m okay with oc interaction fanart? Ships are okay to an extent, please mind the ages of my characters, any inappropriate comments made towards characters who are children / depicted as children will be killed.

⚠️ feel free to tag me! I don’t mind!

⚠️ you are required to compare my art to various foods. (Joke. but I will smile big if you do this)

——

🥩— I can’t promise I’ll update the below as of posting this (3/6/23) so please check out the “HOMERUN AU” tag for all information, but here are some quick links for those interested!

I know this au MAY seem a tad confusing, but I’m updating it as I go!

Homerun World Building: X — X

SQUIDSISTERS X — Evil Callie + “MUD” — 🐙Octavio

DEEPCUT: “Return of the Mammalians” (designs) (designs + small information) (bigman comic)

#saint (neo 3)#valentine (agent 8)#alligator (agent 4)#july (agent 3)#pinned #carny (sona)#when I was typing the tags for this #for some reason I wrote July’s name as Sicily #and I was like… that’s not right. why did I write that #then I saw a friend’s design was named sicily #and I was like ohhh…. the power of the subconscious mind…

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froggibus · 3 months

Note

Hi there! If requests are still open, would it be alright if I requested HC’s for D.Va, Mei, Sombra, and Mercy with an S/O who’s a writer?

Thank you!! You rock! Keep up the amazing work!

Writer S/O Headcanons - D.Va, Mercy, Mei & Sombra

Genre: fluff!

Pairing: D.Va x gn! reader, Mercy x gn! reader, Mei x gn! reader, Sombra x gn! reader

CW: mostly fluff, some canon/implied canon things (we love our doctor/science women), i'm horrible at writing sombra (sorry)

been a while since i did an OW request, haven't touched the game since the beginning of Dec since i don't play for a team rn & hate the direction the game is going :( but i love the characters so its a dilemma lol anyway enjoy!!!

(also!!! i am once again bothering you guys to vote in this poll if you haven't already. your input matters to me vv much & would love to hear about what you want for our valentines event this year!)

D.Va:

literally your biggest fan

she always supports your writing no matter what & definitely shares it on her stream

will probably just game while you’re writing

she gets loud sometimes but she tries her best to stay quiet so you can focus

does her best to read your writing but she has such a short attention span she just can’t sometimes

will write little hearts and stars on her favorite passages in your writing

brings you lots of snacks and drinks!! makes sure you’re always hydrated and that you don’t work too long

honestly probably gets really distracting sometimes

like reading your writing over your shoulder or tapping her nails on the desk really loudly

“Hana…”

“sorry,” she’ll say sheepishly. “you just have me on the edge of my seat.”

Mercy:

your proofreader/beta reader

she LOVES to read so you know she’ll pick up anything you write and devour it

will lay on the couch with you after work while you write and listen to the taps of your laptop

“hey, Ang, do you know the word? like the one—the word for—ugh”

“luminescent.”

you’re not sure how she does it but she always manages to read your mind & know exactly what word you’re looking for

also super helpful when you have random medical questions

she’ll break down exactly how you treat a stab wound in a dingy motel for you without batting an eyelash

queen of overworking so she won’t judge you too harshly if you work all night

but will definitely be there to chastise you with a glass of water in one hand and some plain toast in the other

Mei:

literally the sweetest ever

always tells you how amazing your work is & recommends it to all her friends

working in the science field she’s always reading scientific journals so your work is a breath of fresh air

she’ll have a glass of rosé and settle down with your book after a long day

NEVER critiques your work because she thinks you’re the best ever

probably annotates it with her thoughts while reading it and voices her excitement about it

asks you a million questions about your work and nods along while you give long winded explanations

cooks you yummy food & brings you 5 spice hot chocolate to keep your energy up

snuggled up to you on the couch and listens to you think outloud

Sombra:

absolute best research buddy

you open your mouth to ask her a writing question and she already has it pulled up in four different browsers

thoroughly explains everything to you too

through her work she knows a lot about violence and other things

so she’s always willing to answer questions—especially spy + stealth related things

if anyone ever tries to criticize your work online she’ll literally doxx them

probably hasn’t read much of your work but she makes it up for it in undying support

you could be writing about murdering a public official and she’d support it

lets you sit at her desk with her while she works and hums soft songs to you

(if you enjoy content like this, interactions go a long way! comments, likes & rbs are always greatly appreciated ^-^ !!)

masterlist | overwatch masterlist

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soft-mafia · 5 months

Text

Buzzsaw [Buggy x Reader]

Part 1: Introductions, Troublesome Girl

warnings: fem reader, oc insert, slow burn, age gap mention(reader is 20), blood/injury, reference to violence and murder, set before the events of One Piece, not completely proof read

a/n: I decided to go through with the idea of making my own series since I’ve been inspired by all of the fics others have made! I hope you guys like this loollll I’ll try to make sure to update as frequently as possible. Also there’s this part where Y/n introduces herself with her last name first, I only did that because in OP a lot of the characters do that too. Tbh I don’t think I’ll continue this if you guys don’t like it😭so please feel free to send in any opinions or critiques!! (This fic is about anime/manga Buggy btw)

“What do we think, boys?” Buggy asked as his men kneeled down next to the unconscious body of a woman. She was still breathing, but was bleeding out slowly. Her clothes were drenched in blood, more noticeable on her white coat.

“She’s loosing a lot of blood. Should we take her back to the ship?” One of his crew members asked.

Buggy squinted, rubbing his stubbled chin for a moment as he looked up in thought, “Hmmm..” he looked back down at the woman.

“Oh what the hell, I am feeling a bit generous today.” Buggy said before kneeling down to gently pick her up. She was light, extremely light, he knew that she had to get medical attention fast before she died.

“What the hell was she even doing out here anyway?” Cabaji questioned, “This island is desolate, there’s no town here and judging by her clothes it doesn’t look like she’s apart of a tribe of some sort.”

“It is a bit peculiar. We can ask her questions once she gets fixed up.. well erm, if she doesn’t die on us, that is.” Buggy looked down at the girl in his arms. [H/c] hair fell over her face, her lips slightly parted, there was blood dripping down her face from a head wound. Buggy held her firmly in his arms, carrying her back to the ship.

•

When she awoke, her head was pounding. The smell of musk and sea air filled her nose and made her cringe upon consciousness.

Faint sounds of seagulls could be heard from outside. She sat up and looked around; she was in a dingy make-shift nurses office, but all of her wounds were perfectly bandaged and wrapped up.

She swung her legs over the side of the cot, then looked around some more until she caught the glimpse of a window. Where the hell am I? She stood and made her way towards the glass to look out at her surroundings; there wasn’t any land. “Shit..” she mumbled under her breath before stomping out of the room, wanting to get a better look at where the hell she was.

When she stepped out of the room she was met with a long corridor of other doors, but at the end of it was a bright tunnel of light that she followed. It led her to the main deck, she looked up, holding an arm over her eyes to block out the morning sun. The girl was met with a Jolly Roger with a big red dot where the nose should be. What the hell?

She ran over to the edge of the ship, putting her hands on the railing as she looked down at the sea, she saw her reflection in the water far below, her face was clean, and a huge bandage was placed on the right side of her hairline, where her injury once was. The girl looked out to the sea for a while longer, a small wave of relief fell over her, until she remembered what happened.

She stood there for a moment, her breathing shaky as it all played out in her mind once again, her hair blowing through the wind.

“Look who finally woke up! Sorry toots but we had to toss that coat of yours, there’s no way you’d be able to get all that blood out of it anyway.” A deep chuckle emerged from behind her, followed by creaking footsteps against the deck. The girl turned around to face the voice in both shock and surprise. She looked like a ghost at snuck up on her, making the man put his hands up innocently, “Sorry, sorry! Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

The man was tall, broad shoulders and an even broader torso; he practically casted a shadow upon her, making her feel slightly intimidated. The most noticeable feature about him though was right in the center of his face.

At first glance she thought it was fake, but the texture of it, and the fact that his nostrils molded into it made her eyes widen slightly.

“You should be thanking me, my crew found you basically half dead, if it wasn’t for us you’d probably be eaten by the crabs.” The man said, his voice was hoarse but deep, and has a menacing undertone. She looked into his eyes, a deep ocean green, his brow bone casted a shadow over them that just added to his chiseled features. Rough looking stubble painted his jaw.

She felt a warm feeling in her chest, she stood there in awe, not even realizing he was speaking.

“Hm?” The man grunted, confused by her lack of response.. she looked like a stunned possum, “Are you listening to me?!” He growled, “Stop staring at me like that and show some appreciation!! It’s rare for me to be so generous, especially to brats like you.”

“Oh- uh.. are you a pirate?” The girl finally spoke, slowly taking her arms off of the railing and turning her body towards him. The way she moved interested him, soft movements, but careful and wary, like a cat.

“I’m not just any pirate.” The man chuckled and crossed his arms, the sleeves of his red striped t-shirt squeezing against those muscular arms, “I’m Captain Buggy!” He said with a grin, surely this girl knew who he was. He was the most feared, flashy pirate around!

She just stared at him again, with those same big bug eyes. “Eh-.. Captain Buggy the pirate clown!” He frowned at her, narrowing his eyes a bit, “The flashiest, most feared pirate captain in all of the East Blue?!”

“I don’t-.. I don’t really follow pirate stuff.” She replied, making him grumble and press his palm to his forehead for a moment before looking down at her again, “Well remember the name because I’m the reason why you’re still alive! What the hell even happened to you anyway? What causes a little girl like yourself to just.. wind up on a desolate island, half dead?”

Buggy raised a brow as he noticed her demeanor change, she looked to the side nervously, suddenly becoming scared again before she whispered, “Buzzsaw.”

This made the clown’s eyes widen, “What?”

“I was.. kidnapped by Buzzsaw. Me and my friends.”

“Buzzsaw?! The serial torturer that not even the marines mess with?!” Buggy felt a cold chill run down his spine, “It’s rare for someone to survive a run in with him.. he’s gonna be coming after you y’know?”

“He killed all of them.” The girl said, looking back out at sea. Buggy was really starting to regret his decision of saving this girl.. “Your friends?” His voice cracked. What the hell was I thinking?! That maniac is going to come back looking for this girl and I don’t think I’m strong enough to take down someone like him!! Buggy panicked in his mind.

“When I escaped he- didn’t try to fight back. He just let me leave.” She whispered again, not actually speaking to Buggy, but she was trying to make sense of it all. Why did he let me leave?

“Yeah yeah that’s nice. Uh, where do you live exactly?” Buggy laughed nervously, clasping his hands together, “Just tell me, I’ll tell the navigator and you’ll be back home in no time to mommy and daddy!” He grinned, breaking a sweat.

“I can’t go back home.” She turned back towards him, “I have nothing left— I don’t have parents, and now that all of my friends are dead I have nothing.” Tears pooled in her waterline, making Buggy’s heart clench.

Don’t look at me with those eyes..!!

“Well um.. you can’t stay here.” Buggy swallowed, “Sorry kid, but I can’t have you here. You being here just put a huge target on my ship!”

“But you can protect me, can’t you? Like you said, you’re the most feared pirate ever. There’s no way Buzzsaw would come after me if I’m with you.”

Buggy cursed himself for trying to impress this girl moments ago.. Damn it!! Why did I say that!! “Umm. Yes, but.. as a captain I have the duty to keep my crew safe!!” He stood up straight, hands on his hips, “Sure, I can fend off that guy without a problem.. but my crew aren’t the sharpest tools in the toolbox y’know.”

“Then let me join your crew or something! Is there an application I can fill out?” The girl looked up at him again, stepping closer to him, a desperate plead in her voice. “Eh- err.. fine! Fine! You can be on cabin girl duty or whatever..” I need to get rid of this girl!!

“Cabin girl?! Isn’t that for kids?! I’m an adult!!”

“You’re so ungrateful!! You know I can just throw you overboard right?!” Buggy snarled, “You’re lucky I’m even letting you join my crew!”

Buggy and the girl glared at each other for a moment before she huffed and turned away, crossing her arms. “What’s your name, anyway?” Buggy grumbled out, looking her body up and down, Hmm. Not too bad.

“Y/n.” She replied, “L/n Y/n.”

“Do you know anything about being a pirate, Y/n?” Buggy asked her with a smirk. After a few days she’ll be begging to go back home, she looks so weak! She wouldn’t last a day on this crew, that’s a perfect way to get that Buzzsaw off my tail! “Not really. But you can teach me right?” Y/n looked up at him, still glaring, but her voice was soft with a hint of hopefulness. Buggy hummed and put a hand on his chin, “I suppose I could..” Just for now.. until she starts crying to be let off the ship.

Buggy then stepped beside of Y/n, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and holding her firmly to his side with a laugh, “Well here, let me give you a tour of the ship! And a run down of what you’ll be doing for me.”

Y/n couldn’t help but blush. He was so strong, and the way he held her.. she chewed on her bottom lip and looked down at the deck as he led her off, rambling about pirate stuff, but she wasn’t listening. Y/n’s mind began to wander as well, what was she going to do now? Was she going to spend the rest of her life as a pirate, hiding behind this captain for the rest of her life? She couldn’t get the blood curdling screams out of her head, the sound of her friends choking on their own blood, the haunting images of their mangled corpses.

“Are you listening?” Buggy interrupted Y/n’s train of thought. She blinked for a moment, then looked back up at him, “Huh?” She then looked at her surroundings. They were in the lower deck, crates stacked upon crates, some unopened, some not.

“Your first task is simple, take stock of every thing, make sure things are in the right boxes.. shouldn’t be too hard, right?” Buggy gave Y/n a firm pat on the back which nearly knocked her over. “What?! But there’s like a million boxes in here!! And I’m still injured!”

“Well in that case it looks like you’re gonna have a lot of work to do then, huh?” Buggy laughed before stepping out of the room, closing the door behind him and leaving Y/n to her own devices. That should do it! Surely she won’t be able to finish all of that so easily without a slip up.. and once she makes a mistake I can just kick her off at the next town without feeling like an asshole! Perfect!

The next day, Buggy walked down to the storage room, Cabaji and Mohji in tow behind him with a huge smirk on his face— but when he got there.. Y/n was asleep on top of one of the crates, everything looked clean and orderly. He then bent down to pick something up off the floor, “What’s this?” He grunted, squinting and looking at it as his eyes adjusted to the dark.

It was a clipboard, Y/n had written down each labeled box along with its components, “No way! No way she did this all by herself!! It’s impossible!!”

Buggy’s grumbling was interrupted by a scream from Mohji, then a loud thud as he fell to the floor.

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” Y/n shouted as she jolted awake. “I didn’t mean to wake you up!! I swear!!” The beast tamer scrambled to his feet, then brushed off dust from his chest.

Buggy stormed over to Y/n, “You- you did all of this?!” He pointed at the clip board.

Y/n rubbed her eyes, then took it from him, “Oh yeah, I did. I organized everything and took stock just like you asked.. how long was I asleep?”

Buggy grumbled and looked down at his wrist, “No idea..”

Y/n furrowed her brows, sitting up on her knees while watching Buggy as he checked his bare wrist as if he was wearing a watch, “What are you looking at?”

Buggy snorted softly when he realized what he was doing, he then jerked his fist down and then growled at Y/n, “That’s none of your concern!!!” He snapped before turning away, his coat swishing behind him flashily as he stomped out of the storage room.

#one piece #one piece buggy #buggy one piece #buggy the clown #buggy x reader #buggy the clown x reader #buggy headcanons #oc x buggy #oc x canon #buggy imagines #one piece x reader #one piece x oc #buggy the star clown #buggy op #op buggy

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enchxanting · 1 year

Text

our love is god [ethan landry]

read part 2 here || all parts

pairing: ethan landry x fem!reader

warnings: nothing yet but this fic is heathers-inspired, so be warned for the future.

author's note: hi guys, long time lurker first time poster. this is my first time WRITING fic so feel free to leave any critique. also i don't know if i did the cut right lol i have a lot planned and hope you like!

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Dear Diary,

I should’ve never let Mindy convince me to start this operation.

Sure, it’s nice to have a steady cash flow, but nothing is more aggravating than everyone and their mother asking for doctor’s notes, report cards, prescriptions, and absence notes when I’m just trying to make it to fourth-period math. When I was ten, I expected to use my Nancy-Drew-inspired skills to unearth hidden staircases or find whistling statues, not help someone’s checked-out mom get a Xanax.

Yet I forged three (3) permission slips today. Why? Because, next to mysteries, I love the sweet smell of cash in the morning. Yesterday, I added $150 to the rainy day fund. Hopefully, when the weather’s right, I'll be inspired to buy a car and ditch Woodsboro. This town is fucked, alright. Just ask Chad, Mindy, Sam, or–

“Tara! Jesus Christ!” I rub my leg where her sneaker connected. “What’s your damage?”

“Are you done, Shakespeare? You said you’d get lunch with me like, fifteen minutes ago.”

Tara isn’t so great with patience. But, again, I am not so great at keeping track of time. “Yeah, whatever,” I say. “Let’s go see what they’ve cooked up for us today.”

I follow her through the winding path of tables, chairs, and teenage bodies. As we go, I collect bills from outstretched hands and replace them with papers of varying sizes. Tara turns to smirk at me. “What was the event this time?”

“Oh, you know. It’s report card season, and this school is not known for its stellar GPAs.”

“We just have you to thank for keeping it floating below a 3.0,” she teases. “Tell me, Y/N. Does all that extra brainpower of yours get used up matching the way people dot their i’s and cross their t’s?”

I roll my eyes at her. “Sure, Tara. Let’s just get some lunch. I’m seriously starving.”

We grab trays and join the line, aimlessly chattering about the day. Tara’s been my friend since the beginning of the year when I was the only new kid in a town struck by tragedy. We were the only new buyers in Woodsboro over the summer. The rest are still empty, the memory of last year’s Ghostface attacks having driven out long-time residents.

What’s surprising, though, is that the so-called “Woodsboro Four” are still here. Sure, Sam, Tara, Mindy, and Chad mostly stick together, but despite the terrible tragedy that they witnessed, they let me and Annika, Mindy’s current girlfriend, into their lives. I could never measure up to that. I’m just glad they want to be my friend.

I’m taken out of my musings on friendship when I feel someone’s eyes on my back. Without turning around, I recite my usual speech. “$5 for report cards, $10 for prescriptions and absence notes, and an extra $5 for rush fees.”

“Woah, um, tempting, but I’m not looking for any forgery.”

Confused, I turn around to put a face to an unfamiliar voice. The guy’s tall, almost as tall as Chad, with curly brown hair and brown eyes that widen when I meet them. “Sorry, I was just going to get my lunch, but you dropped some cash back here.”

For some reason, my voice is not working. All I can do is look up at him, suddenly captivated by how shy he seems to be. When I pause for a few moments too long, Tara reaches around and takes the money from his hand. “Uh, thanks. I’m sure my friend here appreciates it. Usually she’s more talkative.”

“Oh, god, yeah, sorry,” I finally get out, stumbling over my words. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Suddenly, I think he remembers to be bashful and walks away without another word.

When he’s gone, Tara laughs. “God, Y/N, drool much? I’ve never seen you like that before.”

I flush red. “Whatever, Tara, you’re the worst.” I give her a playful shove and walk off to buy my lunch. I hand the money to the cashier, but all I can think about are those big, brown eyes, and I know I’m fucked.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry x reader #scream 6 #scream 2023 #jack champion #heathers #heathers au #high school au #ethan landry fanfiction

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heyjude19-writing · 1 year

Note

Do you know if ITSD will be put on GoodReads?

Hi anon!

Short answer: I sincerely hope not and if it does wind up on goodreads it's absolutely not coming from me.

Long answer: Please. Fic readers, I implore you to please stop adding my fanfics to goodreads. It makes me extremely uncomfortable. Fic writing is an unpaid hobby for me and to have it critiqued publicly alongside traditionally published works does not sit right with me. Awhile ago, someone let me know Remain Nameless was on goodreads, so of course I looked it up. And wow, yikes, found some real nasty reviews there, and while there were also positive ones too, the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I understand people like to do this because they like having their fic reading counted towards their in-app reading goals. But please, if people could consider how this once again blurs the line between unpaid fanworks and traditional, capitalist media. Fanfiction is a separate form of media, it's written and shared for free, it exists outside mainstream publishing. It's also not a great idea to keep drawing attention to fanworks on the same platform as the actual trademarked properties. Just my view as a fic writer, and i hope people will respect my wishes in regards to my stories, though i obviously have no way to enforce this.

#goodreads #fic writing #thoughts on writing

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roo-bastmoon · 7 months

Text

Homage vs. Copying

So I'm not feeling super great these days, but I still dip into Jikook spaces for a quick hit of lovely serotonin and to check up on my friends. Alas, I see some folks raging in the tags that JK is stealing Jimin's original concepts because he's too stupid or lazy to come up with his own... I'm not having flashbacks to BTS' plagiarism scandal, I'm not. I have thoughts--and lots of photo examples--about this topic, under the cut. Let's get into it--and keep it civil, too.

First off--let's just establish that folks have the right to use the Jikook tag to both celebrate and critique Jikook and the fandom around Jikook. People get to write about what they want on their blogs. They get to rant, so long as no one is using hate speech and slurs. (The minute I see that shit, I quietly report.)

Clearly, folks who are angry at Jungkook (or Jimin) come into the Jikook tag because they want attention from Jikookers, and the best use of my time and energy is to self-police and block them. That way I am not infringing on their right to scream into the wind all they like, but I also don't have to hear the noise.

Second off, unless JK called any of us up and said: "Hey, guess what? After 10 years of evidence to the contrary, suddenly I'm incapable of original thought, so I just take advantage of Jiminie-hyung, whom I keep calling out and hyping up and praising and asking to spend time with and traveling with and whose style I also match in my personal life!" maaaaybe we give the benefit of the doubt, and at least entertain the possibility that Jungkook is expressing visual alignment with Jimin because he can't just openly claim him in other ways?

Like, I'm not saying that IS what's going on, because Jungkook doesn't call me up and tell me his thoughts, either. It's fine; I'm not mad. He doesn't even text Jin back. I am just saying we should maybe sit with the idea for a bit and really marinate on what that might mean for a queer couple.

(Or we could just take in things without pronouncing any opinions yet--ya know, until we get more data around Jungkook's choices and how Jimin feels about it.)

It's fine not to assume the similarities are romantic gestures; but it's also fine not to assume the worst--that JK is siphoning off Jimin like a leech. Jungkook was consulted by the Seven stylist and he got to be creative director for his Vogue shoot; he also had some say in his music videos and performance stages. He is making choices deliberately, and it makes no sense to me that he would choose to openly copy a bandmate out of laziness. He has a professional reputation to consider.

Rather, I think this is one of the few places where he has artistic license to tether a thread between him and Jimin. I think he's paying homage.

(Side note: In film and photography, an homage is an imitation of another work. At first glance, it may seem like an homage is a rip-off or a lesser copy, but it actually pays tribute to and honors the source work. Homage is a great way to use other filmmakers' styles and content to crystallize your unique voice as a filmmaker.)

So that's my currently theory about what's going on.

Yet, honestly? None of us really know WHY there's so much similarity in their looks these days. The similarities are now stacking up so much as to be undeniable, though.

Personally, I'm leaning to this being a celebration of the fact that Jikook have always shared similar tastes; it's one of the many ways they click. Jikook know that. The stylists know that. So yeah, when JK gets a chance to observe and emulate (and expound upon) Jimin's style, he does. Because Jimin is one of the coolest people in the world to him. So he shows this in his own creative work and in his own personal wardrobe.

Here's why I hold that opinion at the moment:

Could this all be the stylists choosing to recycle looks or throw bread crumbs to Jikookers? I guess.

Could this be Jungkook just borrowing from Jimin as a shortcut? I'm not sharing his brainwaves, so I can't tell you there's zero possibility.

But what seems more likely is that of all the artists in the world, Jimin is the one Jungkook has always kept his eyes on. Out of love and respect, not malice and opportunism.

Like with the 1108 and 13 numbers that THEY keep inserting into their own communications, these similarities in style is also an emerging pattern.

If you feel protective of Jimin, I understand why you'd be wary of so much similarity. But consider what we know of both Jimin and Jungkook over the past 10 years...

While neither of these human beings are perfect (and they will continue to make mistakes), they clearly love each other. And you don't steal from the people you love. But you do honor how amazing they are whenever you get the chance.

So maybe let's just hear JK out on this?

Okay, that's all the energy I have for this topic. I got deadlines and health tests to power through over the next few weeks. If you comment with your own ideas, that's cool--but please keep it respectful of Jikook and each other. I don't want to banhammer anyone but I will.

Love, Roo

PS Even if I'm not around much, you can be sure I'll buy and stream 3D, and I encourage you guys to give it a chance too! <3

#jimin #jungkook #jikook

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jeannereames · 6 days

Text

And Alexander Wept for Hephaistion....

If you don’t mind, I wanted to ask, you said something along the lines of: by the time Alexander was coming closer to his death, he had recovered from the grief of Hephaistion’s death (if I’m remembering this correctly; I’m so sorry I have a fuzzy memory) how long do you think he mourned Hephaistion?

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

This was an ask via message, so putting it here to reply publicly, as it may be of interest to others.

First, however, I want to mention a pair of articles I wrote many years ago now, but which are still valid:

“The Mourning of Alexander the Great,” Syllecta Classica 12 (2001), 98-145.

“Some New Thoughts on the Death of Alexander the Great,” with Eugene N. Borza (lead author), The Ancient World 31.1 (2000), 1-9. (I wrote the last 1/3 of it.)

The first, in particular, is an in-depth analysis of Alexander’s behavior after Hephaistion died. I’m still rather proud of it, as it brings together two quite diverse fields: bereavement + Alexander studies. If I had a critique for it now, it’s that I didn’t analyze the stories inherent in the primary sources, but that also wasn’t my intention in writing it. I specifically say that I do not plan to pick apart which reports of Alexander’s behavior are likely authentic and which aren’t. My goal was to evaluate all of them in terms of possible evidence of pathological bereavement, according to the (then) DSM III-R (et al.).

TL;DR version of the article: Alexander’s mourning was NORMAL and followed recognized patterns, if one allows for the loss of someone extremely close, a spouse/similar.

Yes, there were complicating factors. BUT he did not go crazy with grief.

Unfortunately, this article is far less known than the “An Atypical Affair” article on Alexander and Hephaistion’s relationship. That’s too bad, as the “His grieving was extreme!” persists among even some of my colleagues, never mind those outside the field of Macedoniasts. (It’s also admittedly possible that they were simply unconvinced by my arguments, but in that case, one usually cites and says so.)

If I could put a giant blinking neon light on one of my earlier articles to get it more attention, that would be the one I’d point to.

The second article—or my 1/3rd of it anyway—deals with the possible effects of deep mourning on the immune system of adult males of Alexander’s age group. Yes, according to some limited research, it does have an impact that increases susceptibility to infectious disease. Add his poor overall physical health after all those battles (and Macedonian-style symposial drinking), and he was just too spent to fight off the typhoid or malaria or whatever fever disease got him.

Ergo, he died roughly 8 months after Hephaistion. We don’t have a date for the latter’s death, but sometime in October or November of 324 BCE is the window. Alexander died June 10th, 323 … or possibly a day or so later if he were in a paralysis too deep for his breathing to be ascertained. (As per Gene’s part of the article.)

The dating is important, as it affects where he (probably) was in his mourning process.

Mourning follows a somewhat predictable pattern, and one of the biggest mistakes made by those unfamiliar with human mourning is to underestimate (often by a lot) just how long mourning takes … even perfectly normal, healthy mourning.

For a major loss, main mourning takes up to a year. No joke. That’s why bereavement counselors try to keep the bereaved from making any permanent decisions within that year. They’re still very much being buffeted by the winds of grief, even if they want to pretend they aren’t. But even after the year anniversary—and marking it with some sort of formal ceremony helps!*—mourning continues off-and-on (sometimes really intense for a few hours or even a few days) for up to 5 years. Again, no joke. Some bereavement studies experts don’t really consider a person truly recovered (note I never say “over it”) for as long as 10 years.

Additionally, ANY deep loss triggers mourning; it doesn’t have to be death. A divorce will result in mourning, even if the people in the marriage wanted to divorce. It’s still a “death” of sorts. Moving some distance away, graduation, and retirement can all set off mourning. This surprises people, that mourning can attach even to “happy” circumstances. Anything that includes an ending will set off mourning, albeit it may not be that intense.

But THE #1 and #2 most devastating losses are the loss of a child and the loss of a spouse/spouse-like figure. Period.

So, a slight correction to the question, I didn’t say he’d recovered from his mourning, but that he was beginning to emerge from the deepest parts of mourning.

What do I mean by that? There are (roughly) 3(-4) major phases of mourning. The speed at which we pass through these varies, dependent on the type of death and our closeness to the deceased. (The first article goes into that in more depth.)

Shock phase, which is typically anywhere from a few days to about 2 weeks.

Deep mourning phase, where the bereaved must come to terms with the loss. The bereaved cycles through a series of stages (not the best term) and, more importantly, struggles with certain TASKS of mourning (as per Worden). Again, the length of this phase can vary, but for serious losses, it can take up to 8-9 months, with the worst of it usually hitting 3-6 months. There is an intense focus on the deceased and the bereaved person may want little to do with new people and vacillate between wanting to talk a lot about the deceased or wanting to give away all their stuff because it’s too painful. Anger, bargaining, depression, self-blame … all are typical of this phase. It’s INTENSE. It really does take months, and people routinely underestimate it.

Re-emergent phase, where the bereaved begins to take an interest again in the external world, may make new friends and new plans that don’t involve the deceased. The deceased is far, far from forgotten, but the bereaved is learning to live without the dead person.

Continued bereavement would be a fourth phase past the one-year anniversary, where the bereaved will still experience grief, sometimes very intense when triggered by a particular memory, a birthday, or anniversaries. But the overall “worst” part of mourning is past.

Finally, especially in the deepest part of mourning, the depression felt by the bereaved is on par with clinical depression, but (except for rare cases) the bereaved absolutely should not take or be prescribed antidepressants as these interrupt the mourning process.

Yes, it hurts like hell but one can only go through, not over, around, or under. Through.

In some cases, however, bereavement becomes “complicated,” resulting in what’s referred to as pathological bereavement, by which I mean only not normal (I wouldn’t even say abnormal). Sudden death (as with Hephaistion) IS one factor that can complicate mourning, but it doesn’t necessarily lead to full-blown pathological grief. In the article, I evaluate all Alexander’s listed behaviors and explain why my final conclusion is that his bereavement was sharp, but not pathological.

Alexander’s behavior in the last few months showed aspects of the third phase. He was planning (or probably returning to planning) his next campaign and thinking about improvements to the city of Babylon apparently with the intention of making it his eastern capital. Yes, he was also planning Hephaistion’s funeral, but the other two things were new and show re-engagement.

So Alexander’s mourning had not ended before he died himself, only shifted. Even if he’d lived another 5 years, he’d still have experienced bereavement off and on.

Remember, grieving takes TIME. More time than you expect.

If you know someone going through grief, especially for a family member, beloved, or very close friend … give them space. Let them cry. Encourage them to talk about the lost person if they want to, but don’t force it if they don’t want to. Don’t argue with their theology/beliefs about death or their gallows humor, but also don’t shove your theology/beliefs about death, or your gallows humor, onto them. Read the room.

MOST OF ALL, JUST BE PRESENT. It matters less what you say than that you’re there. They may not even remember what you say later; they will remember you showed up.

—————-

* In fact, world cultures that have traditional, one-year anniversary ceremonies routinely show better outcomes for mourning individuals.

#asks #Alexander the Great #Hephaistion #Hephaestion #death of Hephaistion #death of Hephaestion #Mourning of Alexander the Great #bereavement #mourning #tasks of mourning #stages of grief #Alexander the Great's grief #alexander x hephaestion #alexander x hephaistion

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prettyboysdontlookatexplosions · 1 month

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medialog february 2k24

is it almost april. yes. am i letting that stop me. no. the perfect is the enemy of the good!

watched

she must be seeing things - a 1987 indie about a woman who gets obsessively jealous about her girlfriend's past after discovering her collection of photographs of ex-boyfriends; this movie contained one of the most human-feeling love scenes taking place between two characters in an established relationship i have ever seen, and captured the feel of new york city apartments inhabited by the un-rich in a visceral way. it is also a funny movie about how annoying artists are. i am like sincerely curious as to whether jonathan larson, during the years before or while he was developing rent, caught a screening of this (it had its premiere at film forum, where i saw it), because a story of sexual jealousy between a very professional black lesbian lawyer and her irritating yet captivating white bisexual artist girlfriend... did feel a little familiar to me as a person who could still belt out every line of take me or leave me in my sleep, ngl!

poor things - we've discussed this but: Yes. Me. Absolutely. i wanted to live in the world of this movie forever, it could have been four hours long and i NEVER say that shit. one of those where sometimes i see critiques or queries i think are valid and i nod peacefully and think: ah, but it wasn't for that; it was for me, to have a treat. also one of those where people are saying some bonkers ass shit about it all over the place, as we have also discussed; i do genuinely believe that reading it as in any way interested in or convinced it is describing a story of female empowerment is deeply misguided, and that much of the pleasure of the movie comes from the fact that bella doesn't need to be empowered, because she has been lucky enough to be raised as an experiment rather than as a woman, which is a fun sexy provocation that is of course nonsensical if taken literally but incredibly fun for me (the person this movie was for) to sit with for two hours.

office space - i watched this in high school and HAAAATED it, was bored out of my mind, and then every time it came up in conversation, which it did a lot because this is how things were in high school in 2005, i would say i didn't get it and the person i was talking to would say, "you have to watch it twice." i don't think i've ever had an experience with a piece of media where the response to my response was so reliably uniform. anyway yeah this is funnier the second time. stephen root might be our greatest living actor idk

drive-away dolls - YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHH BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITCHHHHHHHH

the heartbreak kid - elaine may's mikey and nicky is one of the most emotionally brutal films i've ever watched, but i think i found this harder to sit through. it's brilliant - i talked about it with a friend who'd seen it sometime earlier who said it was the first movie she could remember seeing that confronted men's fantasies so directly, which is apt - but absolutely excruciating. i never really understood what the film people were talking about when they talked about the use of cuts to build/release tension until the scene at a restaurant where a guy keeps winding himself up to break up with his wife on their honeymoon, and not doing it, and the camera just makes you stay with him until you are begging for relief.

sex, lies & videotape - rewatch with director's commentary. steven soderbergh is definitely on the list of famous people i delusionally believe i could be friends with if the circumstances of life had caused our paths to overlap.

zone of interest - another one that has really Brought Out The Takes, about which i'll just say: no one in this movie is turning a blind eye to what they're doing with the possible exception of the mother, who's happy to join in with some chattily murderous antisemitism but finds the material reality of it too distasteful to stay (in at least one potential reading of a plot point left interestingly ambiguous). personally i thought the film was (1) almost completely disinterested in the question of the banality of evil (2) quite good.

mission: impossible - i talked my friend into going through the series with me and we started off with a double-header; the colors in this movie are sooooooo good. tom cruise at this point has obviously had work done by xenu's finest specialists but revisiting this did remind me that he actually also genuinely always has looked quite young for his age - he's 34 in this but he looks like a baby.

mission: impossible - 2 - i literally can't believe there are people who don't like this movie. grow up

read

monster midway: an uninhibited look at the glittering world of the carny, william lindsay gresham - i guess i don't know what i expected from a nonfiction book about the carnival by the author of nightmare alley, the great american novel, but it definitely wasn't 300 pages about how the carnival is the most special and wonderful place on earth and the people who've given their lives to it are the noblest, boldest, most magical folks you can find. i particularly enjoyed the section on palmistry as cold-reading, which included a long quote from fake psychic about how really most people just need to be told some basic emotional truths and to believe in themselves, so if she can give them that, that's a dollar well spent, which is tbh hard to argue with.

listened

rosie tucker - tiny songs vol. 1 - rosie tucker came onto my radar through one of dave's mixes, which i'm still listening to - her song "all my exes live in vortexes," which opens "i hope no one had to piss in a bottle at work to get me the thing i ordered on the internet," caught my ear - and while i haven't delved further into her discography, i did love this 12-track, 10 minute album (not a typo!), which gives you the sense of someone spitballing an idea for a song just long enough to start it, then losing interest and moving on to the next one, but in a good way? idk it's fun and weird and only 10 minutes!

#media 2k24 #isabel 2k24

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teacuptoast · 2 years

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Dead or Alive or Neither

Relation: Young Justice x platonic! gn! reader

Warnings: angst (when do I ever post something happy?) to fluff ig, dark, the reader is not live, laugh, loving.

Words: 0.8k

Summary: "Some days I don’t know if I’m alive or dead amongst the living."

A/N: Another short little blurb that kinda took a dark turn and then took a light turn. Anyway schools kicking my ass right now so it's hard to find motivation. Let me know if you want a part 2 because I've got some ideas. Anyway, Enjoy!!!

Navigation

There are so many more people than you think. They’re everywhere. On every park bench in the city and drifting past you on the street.

Some of them are old, some of them young, and the tragic ones are little. They’re pale and dim and with a strong gust of wind, you think they’d blow away. Most of them smile at me but are scared once I smile back. They spiral into confusion as they try to speak. Though I pretend to look past them because there are just so many.

The rare ones that aren't fooled easily follow me around. Samuel, from the bakery down the street, likes to critique my pastries while Debbie, an English teacher, looks over my job application essays. More times than not this older version of me welcomes the help.

I remember being young. Other kids were outside, running down the streets playing tag or at the naborhood pool. My delicate mind was found in the backyard forest. I’d play with the white birds, pale squirrels and misty foxes till nightfall. Dancing around me would be generations of forestlife, all celebrating, living through my own spirit.

Although when I left the forest, there were no more foxes or squirrels or birds. There were people everywhere. There was now the old lady from down the street drifting around the neighborhood. Or there was the man who didn’t have a face or the woman with holes in her stomach. They were on every corner, in every building, and behind me at every second. I was scared, I was seven.

Now I'm twenty one. Just a normal person with a normal life, a normal family, a normal school and a not so normal team of superheroes. They just thought I was a good fighter, and had an intuition that could tell them what's around every corner. My ‘intuition’ was really just the old soul, who would tell me what would come of our actions.

It was truly a ‘fake till you make it’ situation. Fake being perfect. Fake being happy. Fake being a hero. I was fake, H/N wasn't real and I'm just a shell of a person.

I don’t take my mask off around them, not because I care about my identity, but I can’t let them see the person I am. Some days I don’t know if I’m alive or dead amongst the living.

“Thank you for coming to this service, now you may give your goodbye.”

Almost simultaneously, we all stood up once the mic settled. Rowes upon rows of people all here to grieve the loss of a friend, family member, or lover. Roes in our hands, I had to make sure Dick didn’t pick the petals off during the ceremony. He was anxious and nervous. Though there was nothing I could do to soothe the teens' suffering.

Silent sobs were heard from my teammates, as most of them rarely had encounters with the dead. I tried to cry, I really did, but I couldn’t seem to sympathize.

One by one more people kept walking towards the casket, starting with his own family, followed by members of the league. We began to file out of the row into the aisle. First was Nightwing followed by Conner, next was a broken Martian and Atlatian. Lastly was Artamis.

Over her lover's empty casket she cried and tried to steal any last moment she could with him. Though after a long time, she walked away and joined the others in a warm embrace.

Taking a few steps upward I stopped before the wood. A small grin rested on my face, waiting to drop my flower on top of the casket. Slowly I read the name on the casket.

“I’ve got to ask,” I questioned in a whispered voice, “What's it like showing up to your own funeral, Wallece?” Looking up I meet the eyes of a familiar ghostly redhead. He looked a little stunned at first, confused as if I was really talking to him. Scrambling he tried to talk, but couldn’t seem to find the words.

Smiling, I continued, “Yes I can see you, no need to choke up,” Dropping my flower onto the wood I asked again, “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Artemis, please take care of her.” He stumbled out in a hurry, but I cut him off before he could finnish.

“Of course Wally,” I responded in hopes of soothing him, but I quickly cut to the chase, “I know you want to stay here, watch over us, but you have to move one. You don’t get too long to decide and I highly suggest you take your ticket upstairs.”

Silence now covered us as he quietly spoke, “I will just…promise you’ll keep her safe.”

“With my life,” I added, “Now rest Wally. It’s time to go home.” With my final words to him I gave him one last somber smile before walking off to the others.

Maybe I’m just dead or alive or neither.

A/N: How was the story? Got some feedback? Let me know in the comments. Thanks for reading and I'll see you soon

#young justic x reader #young justice #dc x reader #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #young justice imagines #nightwing #dc #wally west x reader #wally x artemis #sorry for the angst

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hyvcklvr · 9 months

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[user hyvcklvr is also terribly in love. this is based on real life experiences of mine. Except I'm not Mark and I'm a girl. Quote at the beginning is from Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman. Send in requests pls. Lmk what you think. Ty.]

[1:11 a.m.] Amor.

“There is a law somewhere that says that when one person is thoroughly smitten with the other, the other must unavoidably be smitten as well.

Amor ch'a null'amato amar perdona

Love, which exempts no one who's loved from loving.”

Mark lay in his bed, arms and legs sprawled out as he blankly stared into the ceiling. Beside him lay his copy of “Call Me By Your Name”, with one of the pages fluttering back and forth due to the wind coming from the air conditioner, as if it were trying to choose a direction to go where it could finally rest upon the page below it. Quite like Mark's heart, he thought. Fluttering and fluttering, trying to do something, make a decision, a choice, anything, but alas, he had no say in this.

For Mark's heart at the moment had already been stolen by someone else. It was the heart of a person so purely and entirely in love.

It's been a week, Mark thought. A week since he'd seen her. The one he dedicated hours of walking to school and pages of his journal to.

Mark knew that falling wouldn't be easy. It never is. Not for him. Not for anyone. But one look into her brown eyes and Mark knew, he just knew, she was worth it.

Mark thought that he had fallen in love with her the day he saw her sitting alone in the bus, with the sun setting and the light falling on her face, illuminating and painting her features with shades of orange, red and pink. Shades of the sunset. Mark was mesmerized. Everything happening around him was suddenly a blur to him, and all he could focus on was her soft smile as she waved her friend goodbye from the window.

Her smile? It was to die for. Yeah, Mark had seen pretty smiles before. He had liked girls before with pretty smiles.

But her smile wasn't just pretty. It was comforting. Somehow, seeing her heart shaped lips curl up into a smile, her usually gloomy and resting face brighten and her big, brown eyes which were quiet, but always wide open in curiosity turn into pretty crescents, felt like a hug to Mark. Watching her tilt her head back and laugh was like looking at a painting and Mark wanted to click a picture and save it forever.

Mark had not just fallen for her this time, he had literally tumbled down a hill for her. His notebook was filled with lyrics for her, his sketchbook filled with desperate attempts of capturing her face on paper.

She claimed she wasn't a quiet person. “I'm not quiet.” She told Mark one day. “It's just that the people aren't the right people.”

And oh, Mark was ready to give away everything just to be the right person. Was he? He thought to himself sometimes. He was a pretty talkative person, but for her, he'd shut up and listen to her talk all day long. He loved it when she talked to him on their way back home. She'd always be so excited, with big bright eyes itching to reveal something or the other everyday. Usually their conversations would start with her saying "You know what happened today?”

“No. No I don't. But please, tell me. I wanna know everything that has happened in your life.” Mark thought.

And she did tell him everything, the excitement in her voice getting evident as the story gets more and more interesting. Making big hand gestures and jumping about in her seat. She was an author, he thought, because she always had a story to tell. Mark? Well. He was just a fan. A fan who'd listen to every story with detail. Almost as if he were a critique, a poor one, for he had nothing to criticize in her stories. No, to him, she was perfect.

Some moments with her were simply. Simply intimate. Intimate in the most non-intimate way possible. It could be one of the riskier moves Mark had pulled, like when he slid in next to her on a seat one day, asking if she wanted to listen to music. They had the same taste in music, and then onwards, they'd sit next to each other almost everyday, his black earphones connecting them as they say there next to each other, bopping their heads to the music. So close but so far.

It could be something simple, like her resting her chin on the backrest of Mark's seat, while Mark is sitting with his arms over the sam backrest, hand so close to her soft brown hair, palm itching to just stroke it while they say there in silence. She quite enjoyed sitting in silence. He was never a fan of it, but silence wasn't as scary as it seemed when he was with her. She enjoyed his presence, he hoped, because she had told him one day, when he was whining about how none of his friends were present, “I like quiet days. Besides, it's more peaceful right now with just the two of us, don't you think?”

Yes, yes and a thousand times, yes.

And Mark lay there, on his bed, at 1 a.m., with his copy of “Call Me By Your Name” in his hands. He was hopeful. Love, which exempts no one who's loved from loving. He remembered how she had flushed tomato red when he had hugged her on his birthday. He remembered the feeling of having her in his arms, even if it was for a moment. The warmth she radiated, how she was home in itself. It made him wonder, that maybe deep inside those shy glances, that small smile, that eagerness when she talked to him, maybe, just maybe, she reciprocated his feelings?

Mark cracked a smile at that. “I'm delusional.” He thought, as he buried his face in his pillow and kicked his feet in the air as if he had come straight out of a teen girl movie.

“amor ch'a null'amato amar perdona”

Maybe, there was hope.

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