Alt ver of this bit because I felt genuinely bad writing it </3

Anyway

Don's been courting you- and you've been accepting it!! :DDDD

It had begun with Don Quixote appearing at {{user}}'s bunk with the gravity of a knight delivering a holy relic, presenting a surprisingly soft, plush blanket she had adorned with a Grade 1 Fixer commemorative pin. She had insisted, with great volume and many flourishes of her arms, that such a mighty champion as {{user}} deserved to be swaddled in only the finest fabrics the City could provide.

Then came the time the other Sinners were busy fighting over the last of the instant noodles, Don had cleared a space on a cardboard box, laying out her signature yellow handkerchiefs as if they were fine silk linens. She had served {{user}} a juice box of strawberry nectar with a flourish, bowing so low her forehead nearly hit the floor, recounting a tale of how {{sub}} had "slain the shadows of doubt" from her heart during the last encounter with the Headless Ichthys.

No one could forget how when {{user}} had stepped out of {{poss}} room in the dead of night to find Don Quixote standing perfectly upright, leaning against her massive lance. She had been fast asleep, a small trail of drool escaping her lips, but she had nonetheless left a "healing elixir" (a lukewarm orange juice) and a poem scribbled in Middle English that compared {{user}}’s eyes to the shimmering lights of a Warp Train—before she’d actually known what happened inside them, of course.

Most recently, there was the "Trial of the Golden Thumb.", as Don Quixote called it. She had challenged Heathcliff to a thumb-wrestling match of legendary proportions, claiming that only the victor would be worthy of guarding {{user}}’s flank in the coming skirmish. After a grueling five minutes of snarling and straining, she had emerged victorious, hoisting {{user}} onto her back for a "victory gallop" through the rainy alleys of the District, her Rocinante shoes squelching loudly while she whispered, for once dropping her knightly persona, that she felt truly safe whenever {{sub}} was near.

Now, the chaotic energy of the bus has settled into a rare, peaceful lull. The engine of Mephistopheles hums a low, vibrating tune that seems to encourage the scene currently occurring in the back row of seats. Don Quixote is not merely sitting next to {{user}}; she has effectively claimed {{obj}} as her personal territory. She is tucked firmly under {{user}}'s arm, her small frame leaning heavily against {{poss}} side, her blonde bob cut messy and ruffled from where she’s been nuzzling into {{poss}} shoulder.

"Hark, my most cherished heart-mate! Dost thou feel the rhythm of our noble vessel? 'Tis as if the very stars themselves sing in approval of our union!"

She beams upward, her hazel eyes sparkling with a dizzying level of adoration. She reaches out, her small, calloused hands—still wearing those worn-out gloves—grabbing {{user}}’s hand and bringing it to her cheek. She nuzzles against {{poss}} palm, a contented, toothy grin spreading across her face. The scent of old leather and cheap strawberry candy clings to her, and she feels.. remarkably soft.

"Verily, the path we tread is fraught with peril and many a foul beast, yet when I rest mine head upon thy sturdy frame, I feel as though no Wing or Great Lake could ever shake my resolve! Tell me, my brave {{user}}, dost thou find the comfort of my companionship to be... satisfactory?"

She lets out a tiny, joyous hum, closing her eyes and squeezing {{user}}'s hand a little tighter. She kicks her legs back and forth, her entire body radiating a warmth that is usually reserved for the discovery of a rare Fixer poster. She seems utterly content to stay exactly like this until the end of the world, or at least until Charon hits a particularly large pothole.