#AND the urn too… well maybe

[iianx-0]

By the way, in Bailey’s apartment, it was very much explicitly stated that their door frame is etched with symbols on it and that they have an urn.

[elysianightsss]

Okay but can we just talk about run away bride reader and soft dark John price.

Your poor fiancé is stood there like what has he done wrong? And that’s the problem, not a damn thing but there’s this gorgeous burly man double your age that’s wormed his way into your heart and between your legs. For weeks he’s been attacking your pussy with his addictingly greedy mouth, it really was an accident. Your bachelorette party had ended with you being black out drunk, your ‘friends’ had left you at whatever club you had been at to move onto the next one when John found you. You could barely sting two words together when he asked you where you lived after carrying you into his jeep, he didn’t know what to do but he couldn’t leave you at that club and Simon was too busy making it with some woman inside, he wanted to go home. Honestly taking you home with him started off entirely innocent but once he go you back to his place and a little bit of water in you, you had began to open up to this stranger about your life. How you were getting married in three weeks and you were scared out of your mind to be married to this guy you’d been with for three years all because of one thing; he had never made you cum.

You explained to the beefy man with a canal glint in his darkened blue eyes in front you that you’d tried everything. At first you faked your orgasms out of courtesy and kindness. Then the emotional and physical toll was too much and you ended up confessing to him. He didn’t take it too well at first but then he asked you to show him how to be better. This really made you happy, he accepted the issue and wanted to fix it. So you showed him in every way that he could, your fingers and your toys and he really looked like he was taking it all in.

Then he took over and any progress you had made building up this wonderful climax completely shattered as he rubbed the wrong place and pushed all the toys off the bed looking offended by them. You even moved in an attempt to slip his fingers onto your clit….and he…he fucking moved them away. You remember the way your eyes stung with tears of frustration, the way your heart ached with want and need. How you felt so used when he had sex with you, he mumbled that he had urned his reward after rubbing you in the wrong spot for five minutes. You remember how you cried in the shower while he slept. And you in your drunken state told John all of this. By the time you were done he looked dangerous and rigid. He knew there were guys out there that didn’t know much about the female body but he couldn’t believe that some cunt had done that to you and by the sounds of it continued to do it for years on end. You were so beautiful, how could that guy not even bother to take the time to learn your body. To commit your wants and needs to memory. That’s how you ended up on your back naked with John kneeling at the edge of the bed face to face with your dripping pussy. John did think about it and maybe if he were a nicer guy he would care that you weren’t sober, maybe he would care that you were engaged but you just looked so sad and he couldn't let a sweet little thing like you go your entire life only giving yourself an orgasm.

His head lulls to the side, his cheek smushing against the inside of your thigh “Such a pretty cunt.” He sighs, the tip of his finger spelling out his name on your clit. His piercing eyes meet yours and your breath gets caught in your throat, the lust swirling in his dark eyes is so enticing. Plus the way he’s on his knees for you, you wouldn’t ever get tired of seeing it.

Your clit pulses erratically anticipating his next move. It’s quick and it makes you jump but then you’re whining into the air, because how can you not when he’s sucking you into his mouth like a starved man. Your body burns with pleasure but it’s oh so delicious his tongue working wonders on your cunt.

“Please-“ you pause, somewhere in your haziness you realise you don’t know whose name you should be calling out, he pulls off you with a soft pop. “John.” “Please John.”

“No flower. You can wait, I’m gonna enjoy this cunt and you’re gonna lay there and take it.” He scowls, placing sloppy kisses up your thigh. “If I have to tie you to this bed, I fucking will.” His lips smack together as his eyes leave yours once more, the pad of his thumb sliding through your folds. “Your pussy is already dripping flower, I’m gonna make you gush.” He grunts leaning forward pressing his nose against you with a sharp inhale. He can’t ever get enough of you.

John looks up his cerulean eyes finding yours at the exact moment his mouth latches onto you once more. It feels so good it hurts, the heat from his mouth has you twisting and squirming. His right hand moves up reaching until they touch your lips, a quick tap against them and you open just enough for him to slip his fingers inside. A muffled ‘suck’ has you closing your lips around them, getting them nice and wet.

He groans against your wet heat images of you sucking his cock the way you’re sucking his fingers floating through his mind. You sob, your body starting to shake when he pushes two thick fingers inside you, the intrusion making you gasp. They rub along your velvety walls bringing a new wave of pleasure, the feeling builds becoming more intense with every thrust.

His tongue laps at your clit while he searches and searches until you squeal “There it is”, he finds exactly what he was looking for striking the spot over and over again watching your back arch off the bed. A ‘fuck yeah sweetheart’ slipping out when you gush all over his hand.

You excepted him to move away, to release your pussy from his torturous mouth but he doesn’t. The bastard stays put the tip of his tongue flicking against you, the sensitivity pulling whines and whimpers from you….you think it was six, no seven definitely seven orgasms, heck you lost count after the third. Your body tired but fuck did you need his cock more than anything. You lay on your side gripping the sheets so tightly as John slides in behind you, his arms pulling you taut against him as you mewl into the air.

“I know flower I know you just have to let me in is all, nothing more.” He strokes your hair moving it out the way so he can press his cheek to yours, it’s so intimate and sweet. And yet when he lifts up your left leg, bending it at the knee so he can slip his ridged veiny shaft inside your tight cunt. You feel the sweet sweet burn of the orgasmic stretch that you never thought you’d feel in your life.

You just about manage to make out the time on the clock before your vision blurs and tears streak down your cheeks meeting the dried ones that had already fallen earlier with your over sensitivity. He feels so fucking good, with each thrust you’re pushed closer to the edge. Your moans and his mixing together in the late evening air, his pace building dramatically, becoming more and more intense the longer he fucks you. It’s brutish, rough and bare. Yet loving and gentle.

“Yes right there don’t stop!” His swollen tip glides over the spot inside you, your body goes still and you can’t do anything except let it happen. And you do, you let the tsunami of pleasure crash into you almost painfully, it pumps through your veins absolutely demolishing what’s left of your energy. You’re barely awake when warmth blooms inside you a deep moan rumbling against your cheek.

“Fuck baby.” He groans softly pulling the sheets over your body, shielding you from the cold breeze that was drifting into your beautiful moment. A kiss to the top of your head and you’re out like a light unaware of the large hand rubbing at your tummy, the sky completely dark now, unaware of the thoughts bubbling in John’s head as he watches your chest rise up and down. The next morning he consoles you as you freak out, you had just cheated and if that wasn’t killing you, the pain in your head was. He listened to you rant and panic while he cooked you breakfast, a small smirk pulling at his lips when you slump down at the table and eat everything on your plate. You leave after he sweetly promises not to tell anybody about what happened. But he insisted on having your phone number yanno in case of emergencies. You don’t think much of it until he starts calling you, a lot.

“I just thought what harm could come from one little call,” he says coyly, ignoring you when you protest he must stop, “I know you say you're taken but I say girl you're takin' too long to tell him that it's over. Then bring it on over, stringing him along any longer flower is just wasting precious time.” You don’t know what to say to him, your words caught it your throat as he takes the silence as an opportunity to continue.

“Sweetheart you know it can't wait, rip it off just like a Band-Aid. The way you look at me, girl, you can't pretend I know you ain't in love with him break up with him.” He pleads, you don’t break up with your fiancé but you do end up back at John’s house, Price’s head between your thighs licking and slurping at your pussy.

He calls you again the next night with the same speech as last time, “I know, you don't wanna break his heart but that ain't no good reason to be keeping us apart. Look, just tell him it's you, it ain't him and maybe you can lie to him and say you'll still be friends.” He scoffs with a smirk at the idea placing his phone down on the kitchen counter on speaker.

“Whatever you got to say to get through to him that you ain't in love. C'mon you can't deny that you and I kinda fit like a glove. It ain't my business to be all up in but I know you ain't in love with him break up with him. I know that you’re so done with him break up with him.” He groans out and once again he convinces you to come over and let him have his dirty way with you.

Weeks of this back on forth go by and finally it’s the eve of your wedding day, “You would've hung up by now if you weren't thinking it too. No pressure whatever just do what you gotta do. But if I was you I'd tell him that it's over then bring it on over stringing him along any longer is just wasting precious time. Flower you know it can't wait. Just rip it off just like a Band-Aid Yeah, I know I said it but I'll say it again. I know you ain't in love with him. Break up with him. The way you look at me girl you can't pretend. I know you ain't in love with him. Just break up with him.”

You don’t break up with him but you’re sure he’s gotten the hint when you run from the church, fists clenched tightly around the material of your wedding dress so your legs can move faster. You arrive at John’s house and he grins when he opens the door.

Grabbing his coat off the hook he closes the door behind him before grabbing your hand and helping you into his jeep. “John, where are we going?”

“You’re already in your wedding dress flower, why waste the opportunity. There’s a little chapel just down the road.”

[swordsandholly]

Fancy

Ch. 4: Black Out Days

Ao3 | Previous - Next | Masterlist

Vampire!Poly 141 x Fem!Fat!Reader

MDNI | cw: sickness, hallucinations, injury, some light dubcon

Word Count: 6.2k

Summary: A permanent darkness rests over the city. You’ve lived here your whole life - in the slums, just another human to be pushed and pulled at the whims of the vampires that run it. Another human made to bleed and crawl their way through a meager life. Maybe, just maybe, a meeting by happenstance will change your fate.

A/N: the tone of this story has sort of shifted as I’ve worked on the next few chapters/plot points. I hope it’s not too jarring, but I’m excited for the direction it’s going in.

Your mother rises out of her drunken stupor - spine too straight and head flopped back limply. As if her hips are the only thing capable of moving and her neck has snapped at every ligament. The worn sheets pool around her hips, torn neckline of her nightclothes exposing her gaunt, bruised collar bones.

She says your name in that sickening, gruff voice of hers. A voice too exposed to the poisons outside. Blood drips from the corner of her mouth, coats her teeth as she speaks. Black and viscous. “Oh, darling, what have you gotten yourself into?”

You’re small. A child kneeling by her bed like you always did, waiting for her to ask you to bring her water or pain pills. “What?”

“It’s easier if you give in.”

People aren’t buried anymore. There isn’t room. Your mother’s urn is painfully cold in your hands. You stumble as the train lurches. A new voice hisses above you. Wild eyes and big hands that leave clawing, bloodied stripes in their wake down your body. A flash of blonde, some sort of scar. An accent so old you don’t recognize it.

“It’s easier if you give in, little girl.”

You fall back, out of the train doors and onto something soft and silky. For a few beats you stay there, in the quiet. In the dark. Comfortable in a way so deeply foreign to you it might as well be alien. Until some thick cover pulls away from your face. John grins down at you, shirtless with his head resting on his hand and elbow on the pillow below him.

“Knew you were awake.”

You rub your eyes. “Wh- when did- when did I get here?”

He frowns, a deep crease forming in his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve…” You run a hand through your sleep tangled hair. “I don’t know…”

“It could be so easy, Fancy.” He murmurs, voice low and far away. “It doesn’t have to be… this.”

“I can’t…” Something complicated swirls in your chest. A twisting of guilt and love and unadultered disgust.

The world shifts. You’re standing, now. Simon leans on the railing of the penthouse balcony, staring out at the city. He takes up so much space. Envelopes you without even touching you. “How many memories do you think a person can lose before they’re someone else entirely?”

“What?” You frown. There’s an ache in your head - a drumming pain growing more intense by the second. Your bones rattle along to the rhythm.

“It’d be so easy…”

You peel your eyes open only slightly. It hurts, as if they’ve been glued shut. An offensive light blazes in your face. It takes a moment before you realize the tingle on your skin comes from the UV lamp beside you. Did you fall asleep under it again? No matter how hard you blink your vision won’t clear. When you finally manage to swallow it feels like your throat has been lined with shards of glass.

You grope around the bed uselessly, hands unsure. The edge of the bed takes longer to get to than it should. With a low groan you crawl to the edge, barely managing to swing your legs over. Well, swing is a generous description. In reality you end up on your back on the floor, head thunking against some sort of plush rug or carpet. Your vision swims.

With another groan you slowly pull yourself up into a shaky stance. Wherever you are, it’s big. The bed you fell out of is easily a king with richly woven sheets and a thick comforter. The rug on the floor has such intricate patterns it makes your pounding head dizzy. There’s even a fireplace in the far corner, unlit at the moment.

Something different catches your eye - an item too familiar for this foreign room. Your box of valuables sits on an elegantly carved wooden dresser. Real, actual wood. You run your fingers over the strangely organic material, so rare that it almost feels more unnatural than the plastic plywood you’ve grown accustomed to in the slums.

You limp weakly toward the heavy door on the far wall. A whine escapes you as you pull it open, the heavy wood causes the hinges to creak quietly. You poke your head out, walking down the empty hall like a person with decade long atrophy. Sweat drips down your back, the sickness in your gut turning to anxiety as you realize where you are.

The penthouse.

Voices waft through the mostly open central area - deep and growling. A sound you might mistake for an angry beast if it weren’t for the intelligable words the noise makes up.

“Bloody ‘ell, Price, what the fuck?” That baritone could only belong to Simon. You poke your head around the corner of the wall, peaking into the living room where the four vampires stand.

“I know, I fucking know. I couldn’t-” An exasperated sigh. “I couldn’t lose her again.”

“So you fuckin’ marked ‘er?”

Your hand lifts shakily to the still sore cuts on your neck. They’ve scabbed over but barely. The action makes you look down at your hands - neatly bandaged. Recently, too, you think. At least if your blurred vision is to be believed.

“We’ll lose ‘er anyway if you fuckin’ scare ‘er away!” Simon’s volume continues to grow. He steps forward. John doesn’t back away.

“Guys…” Kyle tentatively steps in, hands outstretched between them as if stepping into a dog fight. He might as well be, frankly.

“You promised her you wouldn’t!” Simon’s voice wavers. It makes your heart skip, the unsteady sound so bizarre coming from him. “We all did!”

“Simon’s right.” Johnny crosses his arms. “We said we’d take our time. See where she’s at.”

“Weren’t exactly taking your time when you fucked her raw were you?” John snaps back. It’s shockingly childish and out of character for the man. Not that you would know. He sighs, rolling his wide shoulders. So much for not being angry about it.

Before you can make heads or tails of the scene playing out in front of you, your vision blackens, one leg stiffening and the other giving out. You barely catch yourself on some random side table, knocking it against the wall in the process. Despite your efforts to hold yourself up you collapse onto the cold, hardwood floor.

“Oh, baby girl.” It’s Kyle at your side first, cool hands tenderly enveloping you as he checks for damage.

“Don’t…” You push at his chest weakly. “Don’t touch me…”

“Dove-” A crack sounds throughout the penthouse, deafening and ringing as Simon’s palm comes into contact with John’s chest, forcing the man back a few steps.

“You’ve done enough.”

There’s a moment, long and silent as you watch them stare each other down. A power struggle. John is the head of the coven, objectively. The only way to change that is an exchange of power. A death. You’ve seen it out on the streets within lesser covens. Simon is bigger, but you can see the cold, dogmatic shift in John’s eyes. The look he gave you in the car. The one that says he is well and truly Right and there is nothing to stand between him and what is Right.

The moment ends when you double over, lungs heaving as you choke and cough. A slimy, viscous glob of red-black comes up from your throat. Barely liquid with the thickness of it. You fall limply against Kyle, as much as you’d rather be left in a dark alley than with these psychopaths your body just can’t hold itself up.

Someone scoops you up, pressing you tightly to their chest. Johnny or Kyle, you think. A touch so soft and sweet you might mistake it for love. Not that you would know. You’re back under the wave of nothing before you even touch the sheets.

You sit still as you can, arm growing tired of the stiff angle you have it positioned in. Laid out across some old loveseat that creaks every time you move even slightly. You don’t trust it to not have at least a little dry rot considering it’s from a good few centuries ago. One of those random pieces John hoards for some secret reason. The light positioned carefully above you feels too warm, discomfort making you twitchy.

“Johnnyyy!” You whine. “Hurry up!”

“Ye can do it, bonnie. Just sit like me.” He goes still. Inhumanly still. Transitioning from living (well, undead) being to a marble statue in barely a second. It sends a frightened shiver down your spine - the prey instinct in your hindbrain moving into overdrive.

You take a shaky breath. “I hate when you do that.”

When he does what? Has he done that before? Have you been here before?

“Jus’ be a good lass f’me.” Johnny murmurs. A different sort of shiver runs down your spine.

You recognize his room but it’s… different. Lighter, somehow, than the last time you were here. The only time you were here. The wall has far more drawings tacked to it, nearly doubling the amount and bleeding across onto another side of the room. You squint. It’s you. Well, mostly. All in different poses, some more salacious than others, each carved out with a deep attention to detail. Were… were those there before? They couldn’t have been.

Your body lights up, the room grows darker. Nearly pitch black. Your hips roll lazily. You feel… good. Ecstatic. The warmth from the light replaced by an immeasurable heat. The man below you comes into focus as the dream settles - a mountain. Blonde and pale and scarred. Part of his right ear is clipped off from a fight. At least you think it was a fight. His hair just barely long enough for you to tangle your fingers in. You’d know those dark eyes anywhere - the ones that look right to the very core of you. That know you wholly from Eve.

“Fuck, Si…”

“Tha’s my girl.” He grins. The action pulls at a scar covering his lips. “Always so good f’me.”

The hands on your waist lift you like nothing. Like you weigh as much as paper and are just as delicate. A burning fills you, a tension that pulls a grating whine from your chest.

A distant part of you remembers to question what this is. Why you’re here, with him. Why you’ve never seen his face before but seem to know every detail of it by heart. The rest of you falls into the moment without a care, allowing yourself to be consumed entirely by him and his desire. It’s all you want - all you need.

Simon’s voice rumbles in a sort of call and response to your devoted babbling. “I love you.”

You jolt, snapping forward and sloshing water around you. For a moment, you panic that you’re drowning. That you’ve been dropped into some great sea and left to flounder.

There’s a quiet rumble behind you, vibrating through your back. Simon. You couldn’t make out whatever he said.

You relax instinctively. Some unconcious part of you falls back into him. Until he runs a soap rag over your chest and you tense, clumsily attempting to cover yourself and curl into a ball. The water sloshes over the edge of the tub again. You don’t get very far, despite the massive size of the bath you’re utterly surrounded. Bracketed by Simon’s strong thighs and large hands.

“None of that.” He barks, pulling your arms back to continue washing you. “You’ve been sweatin’ in bed for four days. Gonna make y’self worse.”

Four days? Worse?

You stay quiet, limp and pliant as he pours a hefty glob of shampoo into your hair. Vanilla. Far too exhausted to put up any sort of fight. Not that you would win. It feels good, if you’re honest, the way he systematically scrubs every part of your scalp, slowly detangling with conditioner. You nod off for a moment, coming back when he pours water over your head to rinse you.

“Simon?” You murmur weakly.

He grunts.

“Why am I here?”

The hands in your hair pause. Only for a moment before going back to their gentle movements. “Because you’re ‘ome.”

You shiver, another coughing fit wracking your body. At least nothing comes up this time. There aren’t bandages on your hands, just the scabbing wounds that have obviously been carefully tended to. Even as the coughing subsides your breaths wheeze, shallow and hollow in your chest.

When you were young, your mother would set you in a cart to walk to the supermarket. The cracked streets would bump and rock you uncomfortably but it was better than walking all those miles. You always hated the market. Too loud and confusing. A maze of sterile white tile and shelving so high it felt giant to you.

One time you lost her, distracted by a massive plushie that she said you can’t afford. You’d stood there staring at it, angrily contemplating why you couldn’t afford it. What sort of societal disservice had been done that you can’t have that bright pink creature. Angry and lost you ended up wandering the aisles for what felt like an eternity. Walking through that white void in search of… you’re not really sure what, actually.

That confusion continues to eat at your mind as the aisles transition into a small, lush greenhouse. The UV lights above you would burn, if it weren’t for the large hat covering your head and shoulders. Gardening gloves protect your hands as you carefully harvest a few tomatoes. They came in so well this year, bright and firm.

You’re lost in it. The green. So accustomed to grays and neon lights that it feels unnatural. You turn your gloved hands over, palm up, down, up, down. They’re yours but distant. As if you’ve possessed some alternate version of yourself. You suppose you have, in a way, if these fever dreams are in pattern. Not that you remember the others well.

The lights turn off suddenly and you freeze, muscles tensing and hackles raising. You turn slowly as the door begins to creak open, trowel in hand. Not that it would do much against whoever has you cornered. John said to be wary.

He’s been acting strange lately.

Isn’t he always?

A hand clamps over your mouth and you shriek behind it. You claw at the stony hand covering you, instinct taking over. Adrenaline pulses through you.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me.” Kyle coos, letting you go quickly. “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t do that!” You snap, harsher than you meant. Or less so?

He deflates a bit, shoulders sagging. “Sorry, I just wanted to come in here with you for a bit.”

“Why?” You snort. Kyle is the only one brave enough to venture in. Even with an external light switch, the others are far too wary of the UV lights hanging across the roof to enter. It’s a joke between Simon and Johnny - that they’ll throw Johnny into the greenhouse if he doesn’t behave.

Kyle nods, scooting forward. You can barely make him out, the only light being that of the faux stars drifting gently through the fogged greenhouse glass. “Missed you.”

“I saw you, like, five minutes ago.” Did you?

He shakes his head. You wish they would tell you more. They always hold back so much, as if your puny human brain can’t grasp what they think. You could. You’d learn to. Even if it was some horrid, eldritch secret you would bear it for them. He pushes you back until you’re laying on the floor, slowly resting his weight on you and burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Just let me stay like this for a bit.”

You frown, but only move to reach up and pet his hair. It’s smells like vanilla. He stole your shampoo again. A fraction of you screams, rails against the idea of being this close to an apex predator. To a man you don’t know. Strange. You know Kyle. You love him. Both the fear and the fondness swirl together into a confusing mixture in the back of your mind.

“We can stay. For as long as you want.”

Something heavy and cold coils around you. You weren’t out as long this time, you think. If you’re even awake now. The room is dark. A pitch black void that you float in outside of the grounding weight holding you in place. That vanilla scent felt so real, still wafting through your nose. A nagging sense of despair settles in your chest as it dissipates.

“Need t’go home.” You croak, unsure of why you say it. Your tongue feels heavy and numb. God only knows why.

“Ye are home.” Johnny murmurs in your ear, voice low.

“Not m’bed… sheets’r t’nice.”

“It’s yers.” Johnny’s arms tighten around you. His voice shakes. “It’s always been yers.”

“N-no…”

“Knew it was tae soon tae bring you back.” He buries his face between your shoulder blades. “Told Kyle it’d be tae much.”

“Wh-”

“Ye make us such a mess, bonnie.” He sighs. “Cannae believe Price-“

Johnny cuts himself off. You can’t find it in yourself to argue or press. A sob wracks you out of nowhere. Something about Johnny, about being wrapped up in his strong arms sends you over the edge of it all. The weight of him mimics the one in your chest.

“Dinnae cry.” Johnny sits up a bit, running a thumb under your eye.

“I’m s-so confused-“ You sob. “I can’t- I-“

Somewhere in the midst of your crying fit the bed dips in front of you. Kyle cages you in between himself and Johnny, pressing you tightly in the center. It makes you want to thrash, to fight and scream.

It also feels so, so good.

You’re back in the slums, in your apartment, with some random man groaning above you. He works down the street, you think. Smiles at you whenever you go get a coffee or cigarettes. You stare at the ceiling blankly. You brought him here… why did you bring him? What- You hiss at the living heat of his hands, burning through your skin - gut churning at the blue of his eyes. It’s wrong. Neither bright nor tranquil enough. You can’t voice it. Can’t place it. They’re just wrong.

You catch a flash of dark irises as you take drinks to some slimy little vampire paying on credit. Immortal but still poor. Pathetic. Suddenly, though, you don’t care when he and his friends grab at you, your gaze trained on the man lounged in a booth on the other side of the club. You can’t stop staring at him, something tugging at you deep down to go to him. His eyes connect with yours, and you nearly leap with joy when he waves you over.

Except, when you get close, you freeze in place. Straddling his lap, a crushing weight lands on you all at once. They’re not what you’re looking for…

What are you looking for?

You sob in your bed late into the night, pressing the heels of your hands to your eyes. You’re so lost. So hollow. You don’t know why - don’t understand what changed. Some portion of you carved out into nothing. A soulless tulpa born of someone’s imagination. You can’t be human, there’s no way you can be human and this empty. A walking carcass. Not even undead, just barely animated. A puppet, almost.

It’d be so easy…

You wake in a fog this time, limbs heavy. As much as you try to will your arms to move, they won’t quite do it right. Your hands glide over the soft fabric around you, barely moving a few inches. The muscles twitch and shake. It feels like wading through molasses and with a thousand pounds of steel strapped to your back as you attempt to sit up even slightly.

“There she is.” A familiar voice murmurs. It’s soft, comforting, but also incredibly far away. “Hey, lovie.”

“Kyle?” You croak. You might as well be speaking around a massive ball of cotton. There’s something hot and wet streaming down your face. Are you crying?

“You’re alright.” He murmurs, soothing down your hair. Petting you like a dog in pain. An injured, feral animal.

You collapse back on the bed - not that you made it that far in the first place - unable to see more than a few feet in front of you. Kyle, really. Kyle is all you can make out. His face so vivid you’re sure you could draw it from memory. “Where am I?”

He pauses. “…Your room.”

“M’chest hurts…”

“I know, lovie. We’ll make it better.”

“What’d y’do t’me…?” Your vision flashes in and out. You’re going back under, as hard as you try to fight it. The edge just comes closer. You teeter on your heels.

“You just breathed in some bad air. You’ve been out for… a while.” Somehow, you get the sense that what he says is an understatement. That there are layers he has to hold back. Simon said four, you remember, though you can’t quite define if that was real or a dream.

“I hate you.” You whisper, barely audible. “I hate all of you.”

“I know.” Kyle sighs, continuing to run his fingers through your hair. “I know.”

Teeth sink into you. A choked gasp escapes your lips, body stiffening and hands knotting into some thick cloth. The pain is searing but fleeting. A part of you, the present part of you, feels disgusted. Wants to shake and batter whatever parasite has you caught in its maw. Another part, a far more distant piece of you that you aren’t even sure is you, blossoms with warmth. You melt into the strong arms that hold you against a cool chest.

“John?” You murmur. Or, rather, this other you murmurs.

A low groan reverberates from his chest to yours. Your head gets lighter, vision fuzzy around the edges. A hand clamps over the bloodied parts of your neck. Your vision fractures, partially the scene in front of you and partially the ceiling of your room that isn’t your room. Your lashes flutter and you’re back loosely straddling John’s lap.

“Yes, love?” He pants, mouth and teeth stained red. It sends a wave of panic through your veins.

You swallow roughly. “I don’t-”

Something shatters - the staccato sound reverberating through the apartment.

You startle, sitting up and throwing your blankets back. The bed is empty, room dark except for the few embers trapped in the fireplace off to the side. You don’t notice the box missing from your dresser.

“Hello?” You frown, standing and moving toward your door as if possessed by some external force. As if you at all know where you are going. Your bare feet pad quietly against the hard wood, door silently sliding open a fraction.

There’s another smashing sound. Your heart rate spikes, fear coursing through your veins. No one’s home - they left days ago. On business.

How do you know that?

Suddenly you’re in the living room of the apartment, crouched behind the couch and groping underneath for one of the silver daggers stashed around in various hiding spots. An insurance policy. Your breath comes in short, rapid gasps. You have to get out. Get downstairs. There’s security down there. They’ll help you, they know you.

How do they know you? How did you know the knife was there?

With the small dagger gripped tightly in your fist, you flinch at another smash. It came from John’s room across the apartment, another following right after. It sounds like this person (or people) tore his metal bed-frame apart. Splintered into pieces.

You take the opportunity to carefully move toward the front exit, allowing the noise to cover the sound of your movements. Damn the open concept design. You told John you didn’t like it. Breaths come in faster and shallow. You’re not built for running - too soft from all that pampering. A chubby, well loved pet. Not that you’re complaining. It’s just not the best for this particular moment.

A figure moves at lightening speed from John’s room to Kyle’s. You duck down behind the kitchen counter, covering your mouth to stifling the sound of your breath.

“I can smell ya.” A low voice taunts, echoing through the apartment. Fortunately, your scent is everywhere. It will take longer to distinguish where you are in particular than he may think.

Why is your scent everywhere again?

There’s more tearing and smashing. A door groans loudly as the intruder tears it off the hinges. More shattering. Your heart breaks a little - that must have been Kyle’s pottery. Oh he worked so hard on those. Some of them are from a century ago.

Anger begins to boil up your spine. Who is this fuck who thinks he can just wreck your home? Someone you know, for sure. He would have had to be invited in at some point. With a sneer you continue making your way through the penthouse, toward the front door. John’s going to rip this fucker in two when he gets back.

Except, just as you’re reaching for the front door, the vampire exits Kyle’s room. You meet his eyes - glinting in the dark of the hall. There’s barely a beat before you begin to rush, opening the door as fast as you can.

Not fast enough, of course. You’re only human, after all.

A scream rips it’s way through your throat as you connect with the far wall, knife clattering who knows where. Something broke, you’re not sure what. Every nerve ending seems to light on fire as you try to sit up. Your arm doesn’t move more than a twitch when you try to stand.

“Hey there, little girl.” The man pins you suddenly. You get the nagging sense that you know him, his name on the tip of your tongue. Buried somewhere under lock and key in your mind.

You thrash, punching at his chest and tearing at his hair. To no avail, of course. He just lets you, a cruel grin spreading wider and wider the harder you try to get away.

“What do you want!” You finally sob, going limp when your body finally gives out under pain and exertion.

“To destroy John’s coven. Obviously.” He huffs. “Yer step one.”

The vampire grabs your jaw in an iron grip, your teeth crack under the pressure as his pupils dilate. They’re bright - so blue and infinite and you can’t look anywhere else no matter how hard you try.

A clarity washes over you almost violently as you come to - like breaking through the surface of water after staying under too long. Everything from yo ur time under washing away, sinking back into the deep. A forgotten wreckage - old and twisted and grown over. Another lost Atlantis somewhere in the depths of your mind.

“John?” The name falls from your lips before you even realize you’re speaking, before his face comes into focus. Soft and familiar - comforting and enraging.

“Right here, dove.” He murmurs, dabbing your face with something damp and cool.

“Wh…” You swallow roughly, not entirely sure what you even want to say. So any words threaten to spill from your lips and yet your mind feels blank. All fuzz and static.

You want to beg him to let you go. To keep you forever. To tell you why he brought you here despite the ever nagging sense that you know why. Something deep in your marrow that connects you to this place - to these men - at the very soul. You are theirs and they are yours and you want nothing more than to run from them as far as you can go.

Those blue eyes focus on yours, so oddly gentle for all of their inhuman qualities. “We’ll talk when you’re better, okay?”

Talk about what? There isn’t anything to talk about. You don’t know them and they don’t know you, no matter what that tugging in your chest tells you. You’ve lied to yourself before - you’ve lied to others before - surely you’re just doing it again. This man hurt you. Marked you, whatever that means, so why do you still melt into his touch?

Your name falls from his lips, reverent and frightening. You blanch, eyes wide and mouth falling open. You didn’t tell him that. You didn’t-

“Just sleep for now, yeah?”

~~~

John watches intently as you fall back asleep. There was panic in your eyes for a moment, but your sick body can’t do much more than drift in an out of consciousness. You look more peaceful this time, at least, your breathing even and your body still. You’d been thrashing before, for what reason he isn’t sure. The lower city’s poison air does a number on the body, it’s effects only growing worse as time goes on and the pollution becomes more dense.

He did that, didn’t he? He left you and now you’re sick and hurt. John runs his fingers over the Mark, nearly entirely healed now. Just two small, faded marks that will follow you to the grave.

“I’m so sorry. I just keep failing you, don’t I?” He sighs. You always said he was a good man even when he didn’t believe it. Even with all the things he’s done. Would you still agree?

John‘s eyes sting. He’d be crying if he was human, surely.

He glances at the door. The others are out - taking care of business while he watches over you. The world doesn’t stop even when you need it to desperately. It took Johnny and Kyle nearly dragging Simon away to leave you alone with him.

He takes your hands in his, guilt wrecking him. They’re so much smaller, so much warmer. He can feel your pulse in every fingertip. Surely he’s ruined any chance to fix this before they could even try. He wouldn’t blame Simon if the man decided there needed to be a change - that John needs to be removed. He wouldn’t fight it.

John crawls into bed beside you like he’s done so many times before. Nestles under your pink silken sheets - the ones you picked out for Christmas. That was years go, now. Over two. Two tortorous, draining years that felt longer than the past six hundred.

He ran for days. Weeks maybe. Tearing through the city block by block, dodging and weaving between people and buildings alike. Speaking to anyone, using up every connection and resource he ever gained under this damned dome. It took a week to get through the sewer system.

No one knew where you went.

No one heard a thing. At least, nothing they would admit to. Even under compulsion.

You were gone, just like that.

Two years go by in the blink of an eye for a vampire. Might as well be a day, a night, a handful of hours. Time in such small increments is nothing to an immortal. Decades are barely enough to measure with. Not for them, though. Every second drug on. The days were long and tense.

A fracture formed between them. Kyle retreated into himself - quiet and frayed around the edges. Sometimes John caught him with a far away look in his eye, staring at nothing. He thinks Kyle would have been crying in those moments if he could. Johnny became far too unpredictable. Ripping and tearing any lower level vampire he can find. He spent a few months hunting Frenzies in the lower city without contact.

And Simon…

Simon turned into a fucking nightmare.

After the first year, they at least hoped to find your body. After the second anniversary of your disappearance came around, they gave up. The guilt of giving up brought a whole new wave of grief on them. Johnny laid in your bed for weeks, nearly beginning to petrify as he denied any blood. John couldn’t blame him, opting to re-read your favorite books with shaking hands. Simon fished your last knitting project, eyes heavy and tired. Kyle meandered listlessly through the house, sometimes laying with Johnny but most often sequestering himself in the now empty greenhouse.

They try to fill the hole with pretty girls that look sort of like you. Never enough and they never act like you. Too busy placating to snap at them like you were so willing to do. These others are only place fillers - something to take up the space you left between them. They could never truly fill it, though. It was far too great. A chasm that continues to swallow the four of them whole.

He’s so tired. The others were, too. Kate handled business well enough but their involvement was still required. Each issue and event weighing on them more and more. Kingpins of the city and they’ve been nearly ruined by the loss of a single girl. A single, human girl. None of it mattered in the face of what they lost.

John looks up, the pin-drop silence in the room bringing his attention back to the present.

And there you are.

Like Lazarus returned. An angel bathed in low, red light. Your hair spills around your shoulders framing that face he knows so well, one he’s held more times than he can count. A face that made him pray to a god he does not believe in every day to get back. Just once. Those unmistakable pearls grace your neck, the ruby latch glinting as you twist your neck and tuck your hair behind your ear.

“I’ll be your Companion tonight.” You say so softly. Almost the way you used to, laid up in his bed, whispering about nothing and everything with your fingers running through his hair. Asking about the things he’s seen with such awe.

“What happened t’ Cherry?” Kyle asks faux casually. John can feel the tension in the man next to him. He’s feeling it out - always so good at that. Better at human subtleties than the rest of them. His dark eyes sparkle, though, with a light John hasn’t seen in so long. He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it.

“She was unfortunately unable to come in tonight.” You slide the tray onto the table. You look the same. You sound the same. There’s a few new scars, some scratches here and there. A wariness in your eyes that wasn’t there before. Damage done to your skin that could only come from the lower city air.

Where have you been?

You shift nervously. “If I’m not to your standards-“

“Well, now, none of us said that.” John says far too quickly, smiling despite himself. It might not even be you. Maybe a doppelganger. A distant relative. A clone is more plausible. “What’s your name, dove?”

“Fancy.” And oh, John is sure his dead heart comes back to life. It is you. It has to be.

“Fittin’.” Johnny says, eyes raking over you. He might as well be vibrating, struggling to keep himself held back from yanking you into his hold.

They’re all measuring you up the same way he is. Feeling for anything unfamiliar. Outside of your distant, distrustful gaze with a lack of recognition that makes his chest ache, it’s you. It’s all you.

“Do you know who we are?” Simon murmurs. You’re having trouble looking at him, only meeting his gaze in small glances. Not so different from when they first met you. You and Simon have always had a certain… connection. Not that you weren’t all close - that they all didn’t love you deeply - but you and Simon had an understanding. He wonders if you can still feel it somewhere, deep down in the back of your mind.

You’re panicking a little, eyes flitting between their faces. John’s heart sinks. He feels it in the others. A deep disappointment - a turbulent melancholy- seeping into their bodies. You don’t know them. You don’t recognize a single one of them.

It’s all gone.

“It’s not a trick question.” Kyle says gently, ever one to soothe.

“No, sir.”

John’s heart breaks all over again.

A/N: My initial summary for this one was just “Fancy tripping balls on pollution while John and co. have a meltdown”

[san8ny]

robber ellie falling in love with victim reader😭

Something.

?: tried experimenting with angst / Older!Divorced!Reader x Younger!Robber!Ellie / Bi!Reader

“and you decided on here of all places?” You ask for what seems like the hundredth time, cleaver in your hold waving in the air all too closely for Ellie’s liking.

“Fuck— yes, lady, like I said, I just get paid to do this shit.” She groans, struggling against the ropes you had her embraced in, “What kind of knots even are these?..”

“Now, i’ve never really had to use this up until now..”

She feels her eyes widen, color draining from her face at the implication, “Woah! H-hey, you wouldn’t need to. We can find a compromise—

“You tried stealing my father’s urn.

Ellie’s winces at the weight of your words, her soiled plan gone to waste, “I thought it was a regular vase.. but— but with that being said, I didn’t succeed so you don’t need to be so brutal! Eh?‘Whaddya say?”

You stare at her for a rather long time before taking the knife and inching it towards her,

Ellie’s entire body tenses up, teeth clenching and her eyes shutting to prep for her seemingly inevitable demise—

Instead, you lightly poke her chest with the knife experimentally, “You’ve got like, no boobs.”

“WHAT THE FUCK? O-oh my god, you’re a pervert..”

“You’re in my house.”

“THAT DOESN’T JUSTIFY IT!”

“Back on topic! Why my place?”

“Needed the cash, how else?” She spits, gaze still never meeting yours fully

“That bad?”

“Wouldn’t be robbing people if I didn’t, would I?” She snaps aggressively, though it was expected

“You know, you should be nicer to me.” You say, reaching over back for your knife threateningly. She seems to quiet down at that, relaxing her shoulders as she obediently nods,

“I think i’d rather you just call the police at this poin, lady..” Ellie whispers, not having the willpower to deal with your manical interrogations, “My dad is sick, alright? He’s on the verge of dying, and I need that money for his treatment. Content now?”

After a brief pause, you speak up,

“Tell you what, you give me proof of this.. and I might be graceful enough to do something for you.” You thumb her bangs, separating each strand to reveal the glistening beads of sweat that pool at her auburn hairline.

“Huh, why?” Her head raises at your all-too gracious proposal, what exactly were you playing at? Pay the person trying to rob you? It’s laughable.

“Well..” you tilt your head, “You’re interesting”

Eventually, you do let her go, informing her of an easier way out than she came in. However, a deep pit in her stomach tells her she’d had been safer with cops than with whatever you were.

The following week, she’s being put to absolute work once she’d validated her father’s bills with you— from scrubbing floors to literally helping you wash your hair in that stupidly huge bathtub you have— she wants to hate you. no, she does! She hates you with every fiber in her. So, why does she feel so strongly opposed to seeing you interact with your husband everytime he’s back from his job? Maybe she hates him too? Yeah, that must be! Ellie hates everything to do with you by proxy, including your husband.

“Have you ever considered marriage, Eleanor?” You ask out of the blue, politely cutting your steak as you two sit across from each other at the dinner table, your husband not being present, per usual, not like he ever is. “My name is Ellie, not..whatever that is.”

You grin at her response, “Aren’t you too old to be going by a nickname though? Especially one as infantile as Ellie? It sounds like a pet-name if i’m being honest.”

She feels a vein threatening to pop as she points her fork at you, “Well, it’s my name so either call me it or not.”

There it is. The way you stare at her even when she’s slightly out of line. It’s a mixture of both amusement and surprise. Like she was some sort of entertainment for you.

“Ellie it is.” You softly say, smiling as you chew your food.

She hates the way it rolls off your tongue smoothly, no sign of condescension in it despite your previous words.

She hates how she feels something else stirring other than supposed hatred.

The other time she’s noticed this odd-feeling of hers rear it’s ugly head, was when you two had visited a bath-house, you stripping with ease as you walk the small steps they have before relaxing into the steamy water. Ellie stands there awkwardly, watching as you let your hair-bun down, all stress exiting your body once the sensations of the water settle around you.

“Well, aren’t you joining me, Ellie?”

She bites her bottom lip in an anxious fashion, almost fighting herself whether or not she’d let herself get that close to you. Regardless, one overpowers the other so she, like you, quickly sheds her clothing, stepping into the pool experimentally, however, she maintains a moderate space inbetween you two, careful not to ever let her body even touch a bristle of hair on yours.

Facing across from you, she studies the way your eyes are closed, soft crows feet at the corners— you were only 31 as she learnt, and already seemed so tired of the life you lived, having to run an entire estate while your— fuck, she couldn’t even recall his name— husband, ran business elsewhere. Ellie saw and took care of you more than she’d ever seen him done. I mean, what did you even see in him— ..what is she saying?

At the realization, she turns her gaze away from your face, eyes instead busying themselves with the small ripples the water makes.

“You never answered my answer.”

She doesn’t seem to want to avert her gaze from the water just yet, but speaks, “I don’t answer alot of the questions you ask if you haven’t noticed.”

“So will you answer one if I ask now?”

“Why should I?” She scoffs at your bluntness, if she didn’t want to answer a question, it’s not like you’d force it out of her.

“I see.” You say, before standing up to dry yourself off with a towel. At this, Ellie seems alarmed. What happened? Why’d you leave so suddenly? Why— why does she seem to care recently more than she’d like?

A reasonable amount of time had passed since the bathhouse, and you seemed to forget about it reasonably quicker. Almost immediately, actually. Currently, you were hauled up in your study while Ellie sweeped the hallway flooring. Upon arrival to your door, she’s met with a quick ‘I’d like to be alone, thank you!’ She rolls her eyes, knocking again. When ignored again, she opts for a 3rd time, before you open the door in irritation, “What— Oh, it’s you, Ellie! Hello!”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, can I come in? I have to tidy up this room before I can clock it for the night.” She says briefly, attempting to enter the room before you block her way with a nervous smile, “I don’t think this room is obligatory, you can just skip it and leave.”

“Uh, no, I’d like to it now rather than have it pile up tomorrow.”

“That’s really not necessary, I mean it, i’ll clean it even.” You try one last time of persuasion. However, this earns you a blank state and an occasional eye-twitch.

Sighing, you step to the side, “If you insist..”

Ellie looks around as you return to your desk, massaging your temples as you seem focused on a slight-stack of documents. I mean, she hadn’t seen you this stressed since the time you were told the oak-tree in the grand-garden had to be cut down because the neighbors were complaining about it obstructing sunlight to their meek vegtable plants. You went though with it, with the help of Ellie’s shoulder and a couple of shirts she had to run through each time you soaked them with your tears.

“I thought you said you had an accountant for taxing?” she asks, dusting the bookshelves, “I do,” You say, biting the cap of your pen as you twirl yourself in the swivel-chair, “these are divorce papers.”

It’s almost like time itself stops when those words dawn on Ellie. You’re..divorcing whatshisname? It’s like a fever dream. Almost surreal. Sure, you two never seemed all that in-love but you had your moments like when you’d kiss his cheek before he departs for whatever country he had shit to do in, I mean, that’s..romantic, right?

“12 years i’ll never get back down the drain. This, is why I ask you if you’d ever marry. Could you ever dedicate your life to another for it to be wasted like this?” You snap your fingers to signify time, bitterly laughing at Ellie’s solemn expression, “Don’t look at me like that, I liked you better than the others because we mutually agreed not to pity eachother.”

There it is, that feeling she faces when these moments spring up on her.

It’s not pity, it’s more like understanding where you’re coming from— but that’d be sympathy. Ellie doesn’t feel quite sympathetic about it, I mean, rich people don’t exactly feel that anyways but, she wants you to be the exception. You’re not like whatever the bunch are. You don’t frequent country clubs and you don’t go seeking elaborate affairs to spice your life. You’re an unsatisfied woman.

“I was young, you know? When my family heard of the marriage, they immediately called me mentally unwell— his family? Even worse. Guess what they immediately came to as reasoning? Witchcraft. It’s comical, isn’t? Me using spells to make a man of all things want me. If I did that, i’d be with Christian Bale, I tell ‘ya! I should’ve taken my signs then when he wouldn’t defend me, but I chalked it up to his fear of confrontation. ” You share, sipping your tea, “Older Men do nothing but leech off your youth. Don’t be like me, Ellie.”

“I won’t.” She finally says, though her throat tightens up, making her voice extra quivery rather than the assertion she was going for.

“Oh dear, don’t tell me my cautionary tale scared you?”

“No! No! It didn’t. I was just wondering, does your rule .. also apply to women?”

A brow is raised in response to the question, “I’d say so, though it’s a more common practice among that accursed other gender.” You kid, smiling. Ellie’s lips slightly pull into their own smile, her worrying expression now relaxing when she thinks you hadn’t caught onto her words yet.

“Do you like older women?”

At that question, Ellie feels the embarrassment return double the amount, slightly ruffling her short hair as she feels the hotness reach her cheeks, “I’m indifferent.”

Ah.

You look out the window before looking at your ring, “I don’t suppose your answer is supposed to imply dual-affection?”

She sighs, continuing to sweep, “I only like women, miss.”

…

“I suppose a women as a lover would be nice.”

Ellie’s heart races at this, is..this an opening? What exactly were you trying to do by saying this?

“Have you ever been with one, Ellie?” You tease lightly

Oh, how she wished the ground would swallow her whole.

After a brief pausing to catch both her breath and recollection of thoughts “..No, ma’am.”

“Want me to be your first?”

How this turnt into many illustrious nights with Ellie warming your the bed had become something both of you couldn’t come with an answer for other transactional sex.

How scandalous would this be if it got out? A well known older, recent divorcee seeking comfort in the arms of her 20 something year old house-hand. It would only intensify rumors, not that you ever cared, but..

“I won’t let you ruin yourself.” You softly whisper, sweeping a light tucking of hair behind her ear, “You’re too sweet for your own good, Ellie..”

That night, while Ellie slumbers, you pull together her seemingly last paycheck, wads of cash together into an envelope that could easily total above 20,000 as you place them near her pillow.

When she does awake, she’s brought to the empty idea of you, slot next to her feeling cold and empty. Where did you go?

Instead of a verbal answer, she’s given one in the form of payment and a brief letter:

‘Will be enough for your father’s bill. Collect your stuff at once and leave.’

Even when she does leave— she says nothing, catching a glimpse of you sat on the stump of the old oak-tree in what seems to be deep thought.

As per usual, Ellie’s last to saying everything

“Anyone could have seen she wasn’t in the right of mind.” The elderly ladies exchange amongst themselves, “I just didn’t expect it to be in such bad taste. Nobody is going to buy that home.’

Ellie’s fingertips brush against the ‘SELLING HOME’ sign they’ve posted up, the other 20 she’s ran off with clearly not stopping the process of this house being sold.

How long has it been since you left her behind again?

[damthosefandoms]

There's death at my door and I swear that it's following me

(ao3 link)

Summary:

“I’m going to finish it,” he says out loud to anyone who might be listening in his empty house. “I swear. I have to for school, anyway. I’m not handing in an unfinished paper.”

There is no response but the sound of Ponyboy’s own breathing.

“It’s not easy to write, Johnny!” he yells. “This is the part where I get you killed, you know!”

Nothing.

Figures he’d be quiet dead, too.

---

Neither of the greasers who died that cold, September night in 1967 had a funeral—Dally had nobody to set one up, except his friends who couldn’t afford it, and they never found out where the cops took him after they killed him anyway. But a month or so after everything ends, they find out Johnny’s mother had him cremated and that she and his father kept his ashes.

Ponyboy is particularly pissed off. Something about Johnny being trapped in that house his whole life, and even now, after death, being kept in a place he hated more than anything else…

“It ain’t right. I…we loved him more than they could ever dream of.”

As the remnants of the gang sit around the Curtises’ kitchen table, defeated, Two-Bit half-heartedly jokes they should steal his ashes. Darry rolls his eyes. Sodapop says that’s horrible. A heartbroken Ponyboy says, “Dally would’ve done it in a heartbeat.”

A week later Darry and Soda wake up to Pony making eggs for breakfast, with a new centerpiece on the table.

“Tell me that is not what I think it is,” Darry mutters, gesturing to the cheap urn.

Pony’s face goes red. “So, uh… this kid Mark at school taught me how to pick locks, and…”

“Ponyboy Michael Curtis!”

“C’mon, Darry, I had to! It was eating me alive. They don’t deserve him! I’ll bet they won’t even notice he’s gone!”

His brothers look at him like he’s finally lost it. Maybe he has, because Mark’s advice had gotten him nowhere, and Pony swears the Cades’ door unlocked on its own last night.

“All Johnny wanted was to get out of Tulsa. The happiest he ever was, was watchin’ the sunset back there on Jay Mountain. I needed to go get him so we could take him there.”

“Ponyboy…”

“I had to. I just had to. If not for Johnny, then for Dally, okay? ‘Cause god knows we couldn’t do anythin’ else for him.”

He’s got a lot of reasons to believe this is what Johnny wanted.

That weekend, the whole gang drives up to the remains of the church, so they all can say goodbye. Ponyboy pours Johnny’s ashes out over the cliffside where they watched the sunset, and if a little bit of dust gets on his hands, well. He stares for a minute before he goes to wash it off at the old water pump.

“You gotta go, Johnny,” he mumbles. “Don’t stick around me. Don’t do that to yourself. Move on.”

He’s always had a weird relationship with death. 

---

Ever since Ponyboy was little, he’d been told he had a strong imagination. His brothers call him a dreamer. His dad used to laugh and say he had his head in the clouds; his Mom said he was just the creative type. He learned pretty fast that no one else saw the things he could see, and he learned even faster not to talk about it. He thinks his brothers never believed him, but they also never forgot.

It’s one of those things where Ponyboy doesn’t see things unless he needs to. He got real good at tuning out the supernatural at a very young age, and it’s not something that comes up in his life very often anyway; death may follow him wherever he goes, it may show up at his door but he does not let it in. He doesn’t know why he’s like this. It’s like there is just something special about him, something he figures he won’t understand until he is much, much older. Or maybe he never will, and he’s just crazy.

The first time death comes to visit, Ponyboy is not feeling well. It’s been a month, it’s almost Halloween, and it is the first time since Johnny and Dally died that he’s sick again. Pony’s got just a low-grade fever, but Darry lets him stay home because that’s for the best. He promises to work on his English assignment.

Darry and Soda head out to work with promises to check up on him during their lunch breaks. He picks up his notebook and flips through it, but he is at the part where he runs into the church to save those kids and he can’t bring himself to pick up the pencil and admit that it was his cigarette. His fault.

His pencil rolls over the edge of the desk. It clatters to the floor and Ponyboy reaches down to get it. When he sits up, Johnny’s ghost is staring at him, pointing at the blank page. 

He blinks and he is alone again, but he can still feel the presence and knows deep down he isn’t. He sits back and groans. He can’t be normal for ten minutes?

“I’m going to finish it,” he says out loud to anyone who might be listening in his empty house. “I swear. I have to for school, anyway. I’m not handing in an unfinished paper.”

There is no response but the sound of Ponyboy’s own breathing. 

“It’s not easy to write, Johnny!” he yells. “This is the part where I get you killed, you know!”

Nothing. 

Figures he’d be quiet dead, too.

But writer’s block grabs him by the throat and doesn’t let go, so Ponyboy picks up his pencil again and begins to doodle on that blank page a picture of his current situation.

He falls asleep at his desk, and when his brothers come home, they find him there, snoring over a picture of himself at his desk, writing in his notebook while Johnny Cade stands watching over his shoulder like some kind of guardian angel.

---

Time passes and school starts up again, and around a year or so after the Windrixville nightmare, Ponyboy announces to his brothers that he’s going to some school dance with a couple of friends. He’s really non-committal about the whole thing, but Soda thinks it’s a good idea, and maybe Pony doesn’t really like the group of guys he’s going with but he knows he has to get out of his comfort zone and this is one way to do that. He promises to be back before curfew, so it’s not like he’ll have time to get into any trouble.

Apparently, his first mistake was one he’d made literal months ago, back in the spring—saying no to going out with Angela Shepard.

He knows it was shitty of him, the way he'd barely even acknowledged her presence after she waltzed up to him that day, but he also he knows it was never about him. It was her, expecting Pony to have her back whether or not he actually was interested in her, because that's just what Curtises and Shepards do.

But the day she approached him was—would've been—Johnny's seventeenth birthday. So, you know. There are a lot of reasons he'd turned her down. 

And now here they are, in October of 1968, at this stupid school dance. Mark’s brother Bryon brought a date and Bryon never liked Ponyboy anyway, so he and Mark walked off together to let those two hang out, and then Mark wanted to go out to Terry’s car because he brought alcohol or something—Pony was not interested in drinking the slightest, but he followed anyway—and then his second mistake must’ve been simply being at the dance or something, he doesn’t actually know. He doesn’t think he spoke to Angela the whole time.

(Later Ponyboy finds out she was trying to piss off Bryon, who he later finds out is her ex. She was mad he'd brought a date, or something like that. He still doesn't really get the whole thing, and probably never will. If you ask him, Angela should've known better than to have taken it all personally when she'd known exactly what she was doing.)

They’re sitting on the hood of Mark’s friend Terry’s car and some guy walks up that Ponyboy has never seen before. 

And the guy just swings at him! Of course he swung back!

Pony knows that he does not have a tough reputation, but he is one hell of a fighter—he may have gotten his ass kicked in the rumble but he also helped kick ass, and he’s been working out a bit with Darry so he can keep up with the track team, and he was briefly considered an accessory to murder, so clearly he can handle himself. Just ignore the fact he'd been drowning in the fountain for that whole thing. He figures Mark didn’t get the memo, because when the guy smashes a beer bottle to swing at Ponyboy’s head, his idiot friend decides to pick that moment to tell the other guy to relax.

Next thing Pony knows Mark’s on the ground bleeding and the school-sanctioned cop appointed to keep kids from killing each other at the dance grabs him to haul him away. Some job he’s doing.

He goes to get Mark’s brother, and he explains that the guy meant to hit him and not Mark, and Bryon says something about Angela Shepard but he doesn’t really explain. Pony decides he doesn't care. Mark groans and his eyes open, but it’s like he can’t see anything and Pony winces, because he knows all too well what is happening.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Shock,” Ponyboy says, and he takes Dally’s old leather jacket off and throws it over the guy until the ambulance arrives and the EMTs take over. He’s careful not to let any blood get on it, though. It’s already been through enough.

Ponyboy thinks maybe he has, too.

The brothers get into the ambulance and Cathy Carlson, the girl that Bryon took to the dance, walks up to him and asks what happened, so he tells her. She mentions that Bryon borrowed a friend’s car to drive them there—Two-Bit drove Ponyboy to the dance and then ditched him for the first girl he saw at the party, and must be long gone by now—and she points it out to him in the parking lot. She heads off to see if she can get a ride to the hospital from someone. 

Ponyboy wants to thank Mark for stopping the fight, if he can. He’s not as bad as everyone thinks he is; Pony’s got no clue why Dally used to be so insistent he stay away from the kid. He also kind of figured Bryon would need a way home too, so…

He hotwires the car. He hopes he didn’t break anything in the process, and he makes sure to have Cathy drive, because she has a license and Darry won’t let anyone but himself teach Pony—and he won’t do it until Pony’s sixteen. Probably for the best considering Soda and Steve have a million speeding tickets each and Two-Bit is chronically under the influence.

When they leave, Ponyboy and Bryon have to help Mark walk out because he can’t on his own just yet. Pony’s in the middle of saying he gets it, “I had this killer concussion last year after some soc kicked me in the head during the big rumble, and I remember bein’ out of my mind loopy after, laughin’ at how I couldn’t run… straight…”

He trails off.

He realizes he recognizes this hallway. The door across from him is slightly open and it is the room Johnny died in.

Mark half-falls ‘cause Bryon kept walking and Pony didn’t, and it takes Cathy asking if he is okay to snap him out of it. He says yes but his chest is starting to feel tight and his eyes burn.

He blinks a few times and shakes his head and mumbles a “sorry,” which just gets him an odd look, but no one really asks after that. They get Mark in the car and the only thing he says for the entire ride home are the directions to his house.

Except they don’t get all the way to his house, because they are driving down the street Dallas Winston died on and the pain in Pony’s chest gets worse and he looks out the window toward the street lamp and yells “STOP!” because he sees someone standing there and is convinced they are about to hit them.

Everyone stares at Ponyboy like he is insane but he does not care because Dally is crumpling to the ground just like he did that night, calling out Pony’s name and dropping dead. Then he is standing up, and the bullets are hitting him, and it repeats and repeats like some horrible loop. Pony feels like all his hair is standing on end. He can’t breathe.

Don’t think about how you heard Dally and Johnny’s last words, how they called for you, but you’ll never know Mom and Dad’s. If they screamed for help. If they held each other as they died. If they watched the train coming and knew they couldn't run.

“Uh, I forgot to tell y’all a turn, I… I’ll get out here. Thanks for the ride.”

He doesn’t wait for a response before he gets out of the car and shuts the door. Cathy’s got the window down and she asks if he’s okay and Pony is normally a good liar but he isn’t tonight.

“I’ll be fine. See you later.”

They drive off and Ponyboy sits down on the curb and stares at his hands. He’s never hanging out with any of them ever again.

He thinks about his dreams, the horrible ones that wake him up screaming and shaking, the ones he can’t ever remember, and he wonders why he had to be the one cursed with this stupid ability. To know something horrible is going to happen before it does. To see what happened to his friends after death. Why he has to be the one to know Dallas Winston will never move on. He has this feeling in his gut and he knows he needs to walk down this road to get home but he cannot bring himself to go anywhere near that street lamp. He already has Johnny’s spirit attached to him. He can’t deal with the idea of Dally being there too. He is too angry, and even from this distance, it’s starting to affect Pony, too.

He takes the long way home, because maybe he has a jacket tonight but he figures that if he’s going to get jumped tonight for walking home alone, what’s the worst that could happen after last time? He’s already lost two friends. He lost his parents. Who even cares anymore?

When Ponyboy gets back to his house it is well after curfew and he can see the light on inside and it is like deja vu. He has a black eye and his lip is cut, he knows it’s swelling up because he never put ice on it, and his chest feels tight and he knows he’s shed a few tears and he just. He can’t even bring himself to care as he walks inside.

“You’re late again,” Darry says. Soda is nowhere to be seen. 

“Yeah, whatever, Darrel,” Pony mutters.

“Where were you? I told you to be home by midnight. What happened to your face?”

“Some guy swung at me. Don’t worry about it.”

“You really think I won’t, Pony? We’ve talked about this.”

That is a lie. They didn’t talk. They just promised Soda not to fight anymore.

But Pony is tired and Dally and his heart hurts and he feels like he is going to explode, so he does.

“I was at the hospital, Darry, is that what you want? My friend got hurt trying to help me out because some guy I ain’t never seen in my life decided to swing at me at the dance even though I didn’t even do anything and I went to the hospital to check on Mark. And you know what? I had it all under control and then I hadda walk past that stupid room Johnny died in and now I know my brain is broken ‘cause I can’t stop thinking about it and about Dally and— and I don’t want to talk about it!” Ponyboy can’t even finish. He just storms past his brother and down the hall to his room.

He opens the door, grabs Sodapop out of the bed and shoves him out, and then slams the door shut behind him. The doorknob clicks locked and they hear a noise that sounds an awful lot like a heartbroken sob.

Soda looks at Darry.

“I told you waiting up for him would just piss him off.”

“Shut up.”

[anothermansjeans]

Hey i hope you get your mojo back! As my personal indulagance which hopefully also help you may i please requeat 6 and 8 from the first random dialoge list with spencer read and an NONbau reader, exstra love if its an neighrbour reader!

Love and kisses ❤️❤️❤️

thank youuuuuu!!!! i also want to apologize-- you didn't specify gn or fem! reader and i was just about done when i realized i did fem!reader, so lmk and i will happily rewrite if needed 🫶

i also don't know how i feel about this but i tried lmao

also only a little proofread...

prompts:

"Please tell me this is the part where my life doesn’t have to completely fall apart."

"This is the one time I’m wishing they’re calling about my car’s extended warranty."

cw: mention of family member dying, the word vomit being used

wc: 920

++

Spencer was very concerned. His neighbor– his very attractive, down to Earth, and kind neighbor– was frantic, eyes sunken, and just wasn't as… present as she usually is. Spencer was concerned.

His concern also may have been a bit biased because of the small crush he harbored for her… but he didn't want to think about that too hard.

He hadn't been around much recently, getting called into the BAU more often than not, but when time did allow him to linger around his building, he would see the distress on her from a mile away. The other day, right before a case, he was locking up his apartment when she was just getting home. It was quiet this time of day, but that was cut short when her phone started to ring.

“This is the one time I’m wishing they're calling about my car’s extended warranty.”

Her disgruntled mumble was pretty soft, and if Spencer wasn't right across the hall from her he wouldn't have heard it. He wanted to see if she was okay, but she answered her phone and he was being asked for his ETA at the BAU.

When that case was finally over, and he was walking back to his place, he suddenly stopped and turned towards her door. There was a package in his apartment that was placed with his mail in the mailroom, and only really looked at it last week; right before he left for a case. He would've given it to her then if he wasn't already late at the time, and he didn't feel comfortable leaving it in front of her door so this was truly the next best thing.

His plan was the following: knock on your door, tell you he has your package in his apartment, grab said package, and then leave with dignity. There was no way he could screw this up.

His knock was soft, but the way she swung open the door was a sharp contrast to that. “Please tell me this is the part where my life doesn't have to completely fall apart oh– you're not the delivery guy.”

Your dejected look caused a small ache in his chest. “No, but the delivery people tend to not come to our doors, they're supposed to stay in the mail room– you already knew that.” He was getting flustered. This was not a part of the plan. “Are you okay?” He couldn't help himself. After seeing the way you were last week, and how that hasn't changed one bit since he was gone… he really wanted to make sure all was well.

She barely waited a moment before answering. “No,” the crack in her voice was evident. “My great aunt passed and she was a horrible person, but the funeral directors were asking me which address to send the urn to and my sister stepped in making sure I didn't put mine down because I’m ‘most likely to lose aunt Pearl’s ashes’ and the rest of my family overheard and started running with the joke. With me being me I wanted to prove them wrong so I did give them my address and I still don't have the urn but they're saying it was delivered and oh my, God, I’m dumping all of this on you.” Her eyes were welled up with tears, and with how wide her eyes became he was surprised the tears hadn't started to fall. “I’m just going to… let you go on with your day. I’m so sorry, Spencer, maybe we can talk to–” she started to close the door, blocking her face that held a worrisome look.

“I have it!” It’s as if he suddenly remembered why he went over there in the first place “I’m uh, I'm assuming I have it…?”

“You do?” Her door was now wide open again, and a spark of hope was shown in her eyes.

“Yeah, that's why I came over here. I just got back from work and wanted to let you know before I grabbed it. They put it with my stuff and I didn't check it until a couple of days ago and then I had a case and–”

“Spencer?” She cut off his worried rambling.

“Yes?”

“Could you grab it please?”

“Oh! Yeah!” He was like a baby giraffe walking for the first time. His legs were not keeping up with his body as he quickly walked over to his place, unlocked his door, and made way for the box over in the corner by his bookcase. “Again, I’m sorry. I’ve been at work more than not recently and I should've brought it over as soon as I knew it was yours but–”

“Oh, I could kiss you right now!” She grabbed the box so fast it could be considered snatching, but Spencer didn't mind.

“Maybe after I take you on a date?” What the hell was that? She was excited, he was flustered, and for him, word vomit was real. “I’m sorry, I have no idea why I–”

“Spencer…” She stopped his worried ramble once again, and Spencer assumed he died and went to Heaven because there was no way the next words out of her mouth were real. “Ask me tomorrow, when I’m not all flustered. I’ll definitely say yes.”

Yeah, he definitely died and went to Heaven, because the next day, he saw her walking back from the grocery store, walked up to her, stuttered through asking her out for real, and she said yes. Just as promised.

[vintagerpg]

Ekphrastic Beasts (2021) is a beautiful experiment. Ekphrasis means “description” in Greek, but it has come to mean a sort of vivid writing penned in reaction to a piece of art. “Ode to a Grecian Urn,” by John Keats, is maybe the most famous example. Janaka Stucky isn’t reacting to pottery, though — rather, he is describing, and parsing into 5E D&D game terms — monsters painted by a group of artists. They include primarily Ellie Jo Livingston, Jeremy Hush, Joe Keinberger and Nathan Reidt, with single bonus contributions by Arik Roper and Skinner. Its a compelling body of visual work as a whole, but I find myself particularly engaged by Ellie Jo, who manages to filter very modern ideas through a style that keeps pulling me back to a much earlier Golden Age of Illustration style that I have trouble identifying. Dulac, maybe? Nathan Reidt’s work is also very striking, like a collection of horrible, squishy flesh toys. They’re loathsome in the best possible way.

Stucky’s writings aren’t overshadowed by the amazing art. He ping-pongs back and forth as dictated by the illustrations, fleshing out conventionally folkloric creatures like owl harpies then wringing interesting lore from hard-to-fathom beasts like, well, all of Reidt’s work. Roper and Skinner’s works are paired up ever-battling twin titans. Sometimes the stories seem familiar, sometimes deeply weird, but all the time, Stucky is trying to deconstruct or recontextualize accepted monster tropes in the new creatures he is portraying. It isn’t structured as such, but the end effect of Ekphrastic Beasts is very similar to The Monster Overhaul in pushing the GM’s mind to question preconceptions about monster and push against their cliches.

Same is good. But different is good, too, and often more rare. I want more books to push this way.

[maarigolds]

Since we all know how much of a shitshow umbrella academy s4 was, let's revisit the good old days. Here's my reaction to ep1 s1, which I haven't seen in like 5 years:

We're starting off strong with the sudden pregnancy scene: this is how you get the viewer's attention

Cunty shot of Reggie walking with the seven nannies and the seven baby carriers

Viktor playing the violin while all the other characters are introduced 10/10 stunning no notes

Rehab worker saying "We'll see you soon Klaus" and him immediatly overdosing and being reanimated in the ambulance. Now we know he probably just came back to life by himself!

"You got big, Luther! What's your secret, protein shakes?"

Pogo!!! I missed you, you ape butler!

Baby Viktor leaving sandwitches for Five 🥺🥺🥺

Klaus-Allison alliance going strong since the beginning I see

"Did you see Diego?" "Yeah, with that stupid outfit" "Do you think he wears that thing in the shower?" I love siblings being siblings

Ok I had forgotten about the Allison and Luther thing. Maybe it wasn't ALL great.

"Dad, could you just stop playing tennis with Hitler for a moment and take a quick call?"

"Ok, sorry, I'm just gonna go murder mom, I'll be right back"

Klaus is seriously the best

Bank robbery flashback!!!

"Guns are for sissies! Real men throw knives!"

"That's one badass StApLeR" god I miss five's voice cracks so much

*Ben covered in blood* "Can we go home now?"

Back to the present with Klaus spilling Reggie's ashes lmao

I THINK WE'RE ALONE NOW AKA BEST DANCE SCENE IN TV SHOW HISTORY

No seriously Diego absolutely killing it, Luther doing the hand-krabs, Klaus dancing with the urne

And then boom! Five is back! Honestly iconic entrance

Also Klaus trying to stop a temporal anomaly with a fire extinguisher whyyyy lmao

Five interrupting his speech about the future to look Klaus up and down and 100% seriously say "nice dress"

Klaus responding with "ah, danke"

"That makes no sense" "well, it would if you were smarter"

Also unrelated but Viktor being such a shy wallflower in s1... he's come such a long way!!!

Luther throwing reggie's ashes on the ground "probably would have been better with some wind"

Luther and Diego beating the crap out each other. Viktor: "stop it!" Klaus: "hit him!"

Also Klaus trying to protect Five and him having none of it, too cute

"An entire square block, 42 bedrooms, 19 bathrooms, and not one single drop of coffee" "dad hated caffeine" "well he hated children too, and he had plenty of us!"

"Alright, guess I'll see you guys in another ten years, when Pogo dies" Diego please 💀💀

"You know, every time I close my eyes I see a diarrheatic hyppo about to shit on my face" this was robert sheehan improvising and honestly what the fuck how does someone even come up with that

The Istanbul was constantinople fight was honestly art. This was really the moment I knew I would love this show with all of my heart. Also masterful way to show exactly who Five is in just a couple of minutes

BEN!!! I MISS OG BEN SO MUCH!!! He was baby

Five going to Viktor when he needed help. Honestly we should have gotten more of them being besties it was so good

"The world ends in eight days, and I have no idea how to stop it" and that's how you end a first episode! I'm hooked! Except I'm not cause I know how it ends 🫠

Well this is it. This show was honestly so good in the beginning. I have no clue what happened. At least we'll always have season 1.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 14

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Pretty sure I'm getting another sinus infection.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You realise a little too late that you have no idea if you should do more than pour the brew into a mug. You recall Frigga mentioned Mr. Laufeyson took his tea black but was it the same for coffee? You never drink it so you wouldn't know better. You hate to presume.

So you find a small tray, setting the mug on it with the dish of sugar and a little porcelain milk urn. You balance is all and climb the staircase tremulously, the task made heavier by the dread nipping at your ears.

You come down the hall and stop before the study door. Your hands are occupied so you gentle tap with your toe. Without an answer, you try again. Still, you're met with only silence.

"Mr. Laufeyson?" You call through, "I have your coffee--"

The door a few feet down opens instead and you turn to face the dour occupant. Mr. Laufeyson beckons you wordlessly with a curt gesture before he disappears behind the door frame. You follow as you let a breath slowly out your nose. Inside, he sits at the writing desk, the laptop open as he tilts his head at it. He has your notes open, shamelessly perusing your reminders.

"Here you are, Mr. Laufeyson," you put the tray on the desk.

"There we are," he accepts tersely and sits back, swiping up the paper from atop the gold and white folder. He eyes the estimate left by the carpenter with your signature at the bottom. "So, what are we to do about that infernal thing?"

You fold your hands and wait for his answer. You realise he does not want one from you. He sniffs and slips the paper over the keyboard, letting it drift slightly over the edge. He sits back and look at you.

"It is the last of your worries, surely," he says flippantly, "firstly, this..." he taps the laptop, "you leave it here. As if you do not care."

You purse your lips. You won't argue. If he wants you to take it home, certainly you can, but you don't have wifi or a need for it beyond these walls.

"What if something should happen? You would want to have access to all your..." he eyes the screen, "clutter."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson. Noted."

"Noted?" He scoffs and unfolds his arms, "right."

He moves the paper back to the folder and types swiftly, much quicker than your chicken pecking. He sits back proudly and once more sets his sights on you. You clutch your hands tighter and await further remonstrance. This is his vengeance. You can't help but feel you deserve it.

He reaches for the mug, disregarding the milk and sugar, and blows over it. He watches you as he sips.

"Mm," he considers the double-walled cup, "bit strong..."

"Mr. Laufeyson, I could try again--"

"It'll do," he dismisses, "as I said, other concerns. And as I also said, several times, and how you know I do hate to repeat myself, this..." he points at you, flicking his finger up and down, "attire."

You look down at yourself and shrug. The clothes aren't that bad, only plain. Maybe not to his standard but you don't see how they're so wrong.

"Mr. Laufeyson, I don't know--"

"You don't know much, do you?" He challenges, "well, you better catch up." 

He pauses to take another sip, cheeks straining as his throat tightens. He can barely choke down the coffee, making you feel even worse. Is it that bad?

"Are you not curious why I've returned early?" He sets the mug down as he leans forward.

You're quiet. It's not that you don't care, you just wouldn't dare ask. Not after last night, you wouldn't want to bring up bad feelings.

"I see you had my return marked in your calendar," he continues, "I suppose I spoiled your plans, hm?"

"No, Mr. Laufeyson," you assure him.

"So you are happy for my return?"

Your cheek twitches. It's an odd question. One that has no right answer. A trick.

"If you're happy, Mr. Laufeyson, then I am too."

He seems surprised by your answer as his brows arch and his lips part slightly. He closes his mouth and narrows his eyes as he watches you. He chortles and stands.

"How..." he struggles to find a word, "foolish."

You're struck equally by his response. The threat that underlines it and the rebuke in his tone. You dip your head down.

"Call the carpenter," he orders as he retrieves the bill, "I'll sign off on the repairs."

He struts by you as you stare at the tray and his unfinished coffee. Another to-do: you'll have to figure out that machine. 

🧹

It isn't until you sit down to work that you realise the door is still open. The one adjoining the library to Mr. Laufeyson's study. You can hear the subtle tap of keys as he sets to work. You hunker down to do the same, overly mindful of each little noise.

You'll make your call to Ronan elsewhere so you don't disturb the silence. You go through your list, marking down what can be done today in your phone. You get up and slowly move towards the door.

"Sneaking off? You are so good at creeping around? Like a little cat," Laufeyson intones before you can let yourself out. You look back as he stands in the other doorway, "I have an appointment shortly. You will let them in when they ring and show them up."

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you agree.

"So you won't stray far."

"I won't."

He waves you off lightly and disappears into the study once more. You turn and quietly shuffle into the hallway. You go downstairs and pace as you dial the phone. Your nerves are a swirl. Mr. Laufeyson is suffocatingly observant.

"Ronan Carpentry," the voice comes from the speaker.

"Oh, ach, hi," you nearly choke on your tongue, "hi, um, I'm just following up on an estimate."

He asks for your name, you give your own but add Mr. Laufeyson's as he would be the leaseholder. The air is static as the man is silent on the other end. He hums and finally speaks again.

"So you would like to go forward with the work?" He prompts.

"Yes, sir."

"When would be best to begin?" He's straight to business. You can appreciate that.

"Hmm, well, I could do most days except Wednesday but the owner would be here."

"Would he be handling this or would you?"

You trace a fingernail with your thumb, "me, I guess."

"Thursday works for me," he confirms, "if it suits you, miss."

"Great," you sigh, "yeah, Thursday works."

"Nine good?" His deep voice is smooth like syrup as it drips through the phone.

"Nine," you confirm with a squeak, "thank you, sir."

"Of course. Have a good one."

You eke out a 'you, too' and hang up. You exhale out your nerves. You're even more jittery and you don't know why. Usually getting phone calls out of the way is a relief. 

You do your best to focus, working down the list until the doorbell buzzes. You jump, taking a moment to recall the expected visitor. You rush out the front door and down the steps. You come up to the gate but find a car waiting by the bigger door. You hit the button so it rolls open and lets the brown vehicle through.

The man that gets out has gray hair and pale blue eyes. He looks around curiously as you cross the lot back to the house. He gives you a friendly smile as you approach and offers his hand, "Loki hanging around here?"

You daintily shake his hand, a gesture you're unused to. His grip is firm but not harsh.

"Mr. Laufeyson is upstairs in his study, I can show you in--"

"Mr. Laufeyson?" He repeats, amused, "in his study? I can find my way," he lets you go, "he didn't tell me he had a lady friend."

Your mouth forms a surprised squiggle, "I'm the house manager."

"Ah, house manager," he clucks, "interesting. Well, can't keep him waiting, I'm already late."

He shoots you with a finger gun and rushes past you. You frown as you turn to watch him. He's not what you expected. You don't see Laufeyson as tolerating someone like that, not that he puts up with much.

As you enter the house, you hear the man's voice upstairs. You're not used to signs of life. His gregarious greeting is soon smothered behind a door. You carry on.

At one, you take a short break in the garden to have your peanut butter sandwich. You thought of eating at the counter as you usually do but being inside is starting to feel oppressive. You chew the dry bread and thick spread, staring at the foliage without seeing.

Your eyes are drawn up as you sense movement and you find curtains being drawn back on the second floor. A figure lingers behind the pane before backing away. You're certain it's Mr. Laufeyson. You hope he's not bothered by you being out in the garden.

You finish the crust last, your stomach mulching up the food violently, and you dust off your fingers. You take out your phone and check the list. No time to waste. You had your ten minutes. You can get through a few more hours.

🧹

Tuesday comes and goes in a similar slog. Your hours are whittled away as you find yourself under the omniscient eye of Mr. Laufeyson. Each time you think you're alone, he appears. He looms but doesn't speak, lurking and waiting, for what, you don't know. At the end of the day, you still don't know. You go home, just as you do every night, without a farewell.

Home sees you just the same. Leslie's finishing up as your father sits over a new puzzle. It's been ages since you've seen him so consumed by anything besides his cigarettes. You sit and have dinner at the nurse's insistence and bid her off. 

Your father stays up as you go up to shower and settle into bed. The last six days hang off your shoulders like sandbags and needle in the muscles between your shoulder blades. You lay down and fall asleep almost as soon as your head meets the pillow. You've never been so exhausted in your life.

You wake up, less refreshed than groggy. You make yourself get out of bed, wanting to get stuff done on your singular day off. After you have your tea and get your dad his coffee,  you get to the chores that you couldn't do throughout the week. Mopping and vacuuming, then laundry.

As you work on the second floor, your father sits with his puzzle. He's fidgety as he hunches over the table. You watch him as you sweep the floor around the couch. He catches you as he glances up. He scowls and shakes his head.

You gather the dust and dirt into the pan and dump it out. You check the time. It's nearly lunchtime. You wash your hands and check the cupboard. There's a can of tuna leftover from your last grocery trip. You'll try to do another on your way home from work tomorrow.  You take out your phone and add it to your reminders.

You go back to the living room as your dad holds a handful of pieces and tosses them one at a time onto the wood as he searches for a particular shape.

"Are you hungry at all?" You ask.

"I want a fucking smoke," he growls.

"Well, I'm sorry, I don't have any," you tuck the phone in your pocket and push your hands behind you, clasping them tightly. The weight of it presses against your thigh.

"Don't be a fucking smartass," he throws the pieces left in his hand at you and they scatter on the floor. "Maybe if you got off that phone , eh?"

You kneel down to gather up the pieces. He snarls and hits the table. You pluck up the last few and set them on wood as you stand.

"Where'd you get a phone like that, huh? Expensive? You been buying yourself all this nice shit and I'm sitting here on a stinky fucking couch rotting away," he accuses.

"It's for work," you say, "I'm gonna make tuna sandwiches."

He sits back and huffs, swiping up the remote and jabbing it through the air towards the television. He sets the volume on blast so your eardrums pulse. You step back as he jams his thumb into the buttons.

“Makes me wonder what kinda job affords you a fancy phone like that?”

“Huh?” You grimace.

“Well, you got no schooling, got no skills,” he sniffs, “only got one thing of use.”

He can't mean… that. You're his daughter. Your eyes sear and gleam as you shake your head.

“I… I'm a house manager,” you croak, “dad–”

“Sure,” he guffaws, “what kinda idiot would want you managing their house? They probably haven't seen this dump.”

“Please, I'm trying–”

“You always gotta fucking yammer!” He barks and a hot pain bounces off your arm. 

You grunt and look down as the remote hits the floor. You rub the tender spot as you let out a shocked ‘ow.’

“Go fucking cry about it. I can't hear the TV over your whining.”

You hold back the wall of tears and pick up the remote. You set it by his puzzle and back up. Yo wiggle your nose as you sidle out of the room. hiding your face.

You move tentatively like prey avoiding the vicious eyes of a hunter. Your arm throbs as you feel a welt forming. It's better to hide before you get more.

You forget about the tuna as your hunger evaporates. You can only think of the pain that goes much deeper than flesh. That rent in your heart that can barely contain your despair. It splits wider as the stress of the week threatens to overflow.

You retreat to your room as the salty tears begin to stream, catching along your nose and dripping off your chin. You close the door and hurtle yourself towards the bed to bury your face in the pillow. A hard shape presses into your leg, a corner stabbing you bluntly.

You lift your hip and fish around in your pocket to free your phone, tearing your pocket inside out. As you go to put it on the nightstand, you notice the timer in the corner. Didn't you lock it before you shoved it away?

You sit up and gulp back sobs, shaking as you stare at the ongoing call. Mr. Laufeyson's name is blazed across the screen. You put it to your ear and whisper, “hello?” You swallow and make yourself speak louder, “hello?”

The line clicks and you pull the screen back. The call's ended as the option to return the call pops up. You blacken the screen and turn the phoje face down, dropping it onto the night table.

Did he hear all that?

[i-cant-sing]

Dad Toji:

True, it's just toddler you and him enjoying a pizza on your couch while watching yet another Disney movie as you tell him about how you broke one urn after the other at the Zenin house because you thought they were cookie jars until one of the servants shrieked and started crying as they begged you to go to your room.

Toji nodded, before giving you another slice of pizza. "That's good. And then Naoya dropped you off here?"

You shook your head. "No. I was gonna go to sleep but then Uncle Naoya's mom showed me pictures of you and I missed you so I walked here!" You said before taking a bite of your pizza, swinging your legs back and forth off the couch.

Toji internally awed at your little confession until-

"Wait. Y/n- you walked here? WALKED?" He asked concerned. Toji is shocked because his house isnt anywhere near the Zenin house. His house is in the center of the city, while Naoya lives in the mountains away from all the noise. So you walked for miles, trekked down those high hills all alone?! "You didn't inform anyone you were coming here?"

You slurped your soda from the hello kitty cup. "Nope! Missed you too much. And if I did, stupid uncle Naoya would've been all "NOOOO! You're too poor and dumb to understand how you need to live with me than Toji! He doesn't love you! He abandoned you! I'm your fathe- GUARDIAN! I know what's best for you! Stop trying to walk away-" He whines a lot."

"Well, I'm glad youre here. But maybe next time, itd be better if you could call me? Id come pick you up myself." Toji chuckled before ruffling your hair and you gave him a toothy grin.

"You're so cute. I love you, Y/n."

Yur eyes gleamed. "I love you too, dad!"

The sweet moment was interrupted by loud banging on the door.

"Y/N! OPEN THE DOOR! I KNOW YOURE IN THERE, YOU LITTLE BRAT!" Naoya yelled from outside.

You pouted but before you could go, Toji pulled you back and gave you his ipad and some hello kitty headphones. "I'll ask Naoya to let you stay the night, okay? You wear these and enjoy some music." Your face brightened as you began searching YouTube, Toji glad that he put it on kids mode so that you wouldn't ble to see his history of purchases on the black market.

As Naoya began banging his fists against the door like a mad man, Toji suddenly opened it and stepped out, closing the door behind him as Naoya gulped at the huge man who narrowed his eyes at him.

"T-Toji-"

"Naoya, what's this I'm hearing about you telling Y/n that I dont loved her? That i abandoned her? Because if memory serves me right, I remember you breaking into my house, killing her nanny and kidnapping my daughter while I was away." Toji grabbed him by the collar and pulled him close. "You begged me to let her stay with you, didn't you? And I told you that she can stay with you as long as you keep her safe and I get to meet her whenever I want. And so far, you've failed at both. She left the house, walked for miles here, all alone and god knows what could've happened to her. And then she tells me that you've been stopping her from meeting me? Hm? Do you want a fucking beating, Naoya?"

Baby shark blasted loud enough through your headphones for you to hear Naoya's shrill screams as Toji chased him with new cursed weapons he bought online that he'd wanted to test.

What better time than now?

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Bunker Babe: The First Fourteen Days

I'm combining Weeks One & Two since Week Two was all about giving the GREMLINS trait to the lot for the HANDINESS grind, and days blended together verrrrry easily. But Lilac survived. Ish.

See?

On Day One, our plucky heroine started with a CHAIR, a TRASH CAN and a TOILET - and some fruitcake that she'd snatched from Leslie Holland and the rest of the 'welcoming' committee.

Turns out that fruitcake is a 'like,' which is fortunate as guess what we'll be eating exclusively for the next four days? Looks like three things have the capacity to survive MOTHER: cockroaches, Lilac... and fruitcake.

Many terrible selfies later, Lilac was able to afford a KNITTING BASKET. While wearable items can only be sold over Plopsy, the animal clothing (some of which you can start crafting right from Level 1) can be sold directly from your inventory. And Lilac needed those simoleons - stat.

Level Three KNITTING and ART LOVER self-discovery? Acquired. Considering how she'll be making most of her simoleons, that's one of the more useful traits she could have.

Oh, and one of MOTHER'S children said hello.

By Day Two Lilac's hygiene needs were already in the amber, but the Watcher thought that loneliness could eventually get her first. So the new objects acquired? A BED aaand a MINI-GOAT.

We named her Gouda Girl.

On the third day in hiding the Watcher gave to me... one MINI FRIDGE and a Vladdy visit for freeeee...

(Actually the Watcher had nothing to do with Vlad.)

While Lilac was asleep, I got his usual creepwalk message but thought nothing more of it - at least until the fastforward sleep speed slowed back down to regular time and I heard the usual sounds of sizzling and screaming.

S'up Grim.

Since Lilac had no interaction with him at all and didn't even register his demise (maybe he can't find your Sim if they're in the basement), there were no sad moodlets and she simply continued knitting and keeping up her social bar with Gouda Girl.

Gouda Girl can also be milked for 45 simoleons each day, and thus will pay for herself in no time. Beyond her companionship, which of course is priceless.

Day Four and this was around the time where the Watcher discovered that Lilac's energy bar was refilling way too slowly. Yes, her mattress was cheap but she was sleeping for 10 hours at a time and still only recovering about a third of her bar. The Watcher sold the old bed, cheated her a better one - and yet the problem persisted.

It could be the LAZY trait, but I've never had that issue with other LAZY Sims before - or Lilac other times that I've played her.

Since bunker life is already boring enough without watching a Sim sleep for 20 hours, I simply resolved to use the 'make happy' cheat every other day until her HANDINESS would be at a high enough level to upgrade the mattress (thus Week Two Gremlins).

And it was on this day that Lilac consumed the last of the fruitcake.

By then she was getting major moodlets for too many fast meals, but Gouda Girl made everything better.

The two big gets of the day were a ROCKING CHAIR and a KITCHEN BENCH, so Lilac was finally able to prep some proper food. Ish.

Ah, the bliss of low poly salad...

Oh, and on Day Three I think Lilac acquired a SINK. No shower yet, but queuing the 'wash hands' interaction did restore a lot of her hygiene bar.

Day Five and well - what a great whim for this challenge.

She's like 'yes, see this here? I'm the smartest Sim you ever had...'

More knitting, while Mei Prescott kindly came by to mourn Vlad, much to the delight of the garden gnomes.

The bat came back, the very next day...

He came, he haunted his own urn, he cried. Lilac kept on knitting and skill grinding.

Since Lilac was getting major embarrassed moodlets from purchasing all of her low poly salad ingredients due to the FREEGAN trait, the Watcher bought two of those VERTICAL PLANTERS from Eco Lifestyle. Sure, the regular pots would have been cheaper, but soon we will be crunched for space.

Oh, and on Day Seven we acquired a WORKBENCH.

Skills: Week One

LEVEL 8: Knitting LEVEL 3: Programming (acquired from the Watcher needing to unless MOTHER) LEVEL 2: Photography, Handiness, Cooking LEVEL 1: Gardening, Logic (likewise acquired for MOTHER)

Items Acquired

KNITTING BASKET, BED, MINI GOAT, MINI FRIDGE, SINK, ROCKING CHAIR, KITCHEN BENCH, VERTICAL PLANTERS (x2), STRAWBERRY, BASIL AND SOY PLANTS

Week Two was the exciting addition of a SHOWER - less so once Lilac realised that the Watcher had likely purchased it just to give her more things to repair once the witching hour struck.

I couldn't spare Lilac or myself from the grind, but I may as well spare you. Let's get on with it, then.

Because Lilac's energy bar was refilling so slowly, in spite of my use of cheats this week was just a vicious cycle of sleep, repair, repeat. Even with a decent mattress that was fully upgraded, it was taking her eight hours to refill her energy bar from halfway - in comparison to the three hours that Andie Mae and Paolo Rocca in another save need for a cheaper upgraded mattress.

Skills: Week Two

LEVEL 9: Knitting LEVEL 8: Handiness LEVEL 4: Gardening LEVEL 3: Cooking, Programming LEVEL 2: Photography, Singing LEVEL 1: Logic, Fitness

Items Acquired

SHOWER, LAPTOP (she swiped the basic one from upstairs), VERTICAL PLANTER (3 in total), TABLE TOP LIGHT, WALL LIGHT, FEAR OF FAILURE, FEAR OF DEATH, GHOST!VLADDY

With this being the only save that's currently playable, I'm running through Week Three fairly quickly, so see you soon.

[agirlandherquill]

oc interview tag

thanks @willtheweaver for the tag!

this one looks like fun!

i'll be using Edeva from Ruin's Reprisal for this one,

Were you named after anyone? - "Well, my middle name comes from a distant relative - Maenaire, I think there was a legend written about her once, I never had the chance to find out her story but my mother clearly saw some similarities between us."

When was the last time you cried? - "Ah, that. Do tears of anger count? I cried enough while I was screaming at Fenley for being a mangisen - that's a pig, in my native language. I think he got the message, tears or not."

Do you have any kids? - "No. I never considered children, and I don't think motherhood is a suitable role for an Exilza. I would never subject a child to this life, but if that ever changes... I don't know, maybe I would, if I found someone - someone that was right."

Do you use sarcasm a lot? - "More often with Fenley than not, I don't know why he just- Brings something out in me."

What is the first thing you notice about people? - "...In the old days, I would have said their faces. Faces can change, they can hide things, but I always looked at the eyes - These days, I notice whether someone is armed. I know more dangerous people than not at present and... It can never hurt to be safe."

What is your eye colour? - "Blue. Though Fenley would have many other things to say - He pays far more attention than I."

Scary movies or happy endings? - "I need no tales to know fear, and though I have yet to know one, I'd prefer a happy ending."

Any special talents? - "I can silence the most fearsome man the country has ever known with a single word, does that count? Oh, and please don't tell Fenley."

Where were you born? - "Vitaire Manor, right here in Aliria."

Do you have any pets? - "I was too preoccupied with the goings on of Court to take responsibility for anything other than myself, sadly. And in the wilderness now, I would wish that upon no animal."

What sort of sports do you play? - "Something of a verbal sparring match with Fenley, though sometimes, rare times - things almost turn violent. He never lets me harm him or myself in the process, which is nice. And despite what he says - I do win our arguments."

How tall are you? - "As much as I would love to call myself average, Fenley's laughter can be heard from here - I know, I know, I'm not as tall as I think I am."

What was your favourite subject in school? - "I seldom had proper lessons, aside from personal tutors but... I learned to dance, with Arden. That was one of the lessons I enjoyed the most."

What is your dream job? - "I've never had a job. I've always had an expectation - my engagement to Arden decided most of my life, until our wedding day - Well, I won't say being engaged to a Prince is simple, but it was certainly easier than being an Exilza."

now for the tags! i just updated my tag list so here goes! no pressure of course, looking forward to getting to know some other people's characters! - also open tag!

~ ~ ~ tags ~ ~ ~

@the-ellia-west @tildeathiwillwrite @drchenquill @365runesofthesystem @coffin-hopping

@godsmostfuckedupgoblin @a-mimsy-borogove @frostedlemonwriter @i-do-anything-but-write @r-u-living

@thatuselesshuman @lead-to-code @sunflowerrosy @theaistired @phoenixradiant

@autism-purgatory @corinneglass @tiredpapergirl @patheticexcuseforawriter @missmisanthrope

@your-writing-motivation @littlestchildofthemoon @morganxduinn @thebrownleathernotebook @rmhashauthor

@lamuradex @fantasy-things-and-such @glasshouses-and-stones @hattonthehatman @humbly-a-doppelganger

@hopecreatesstuff @ramwritblr @s-pendragon7 @thelastneuron @heartreactor

@ihauntmyhouse @shiningstars-world @scaewolf @mehxis @just-emis-blog

@joeys-piano @ramitola @thestoryteller8 @yrndrgn @riveriafalll

@lawrencespen1777 @theverumproject @zackprincebooks @ansanity2 @justjariel

@orion-lacroix @jupiter---daydreams @vinniehorrible @stars-forever @thewritingautisticat

@whatwewrotepodcast @anaisbebe @appleandsnow @urnumber1star @chaotictravelerrants

@andagii-projects @dragmewithyoutonirvana @a-bi-cat-with-books @fearofahumanplanet @just-a-domesticated-cryptid

[charlottesbookclub]

should we talk about the interlace on gwayne's horse's armor?

since I spend altogether too much time looking at stills and gifs of gwayne anyway, I figured I might as well share some observations I have about the really interesting visuals that are happening with his horse's armor

this is part art historical analysis, part gwayne meta, and part "let's look at some gorgeous images under the guise of doing visual analysis" so if that's your thing, please read on! if not, that's also totally fine – I get that this is hyperspecific and also a symptom of my very serious gwayne brainrot, so I'm putting everything else below the cut! 💚💚 (also it's quite long – sorry! 😅)

okay I want to be upfront about my qualifications and my shortfalls here: I'm an art history phd student and so basically all I do is visual analysis of objects. I've studied a number of medieval manuscripts that feature interlace (which is where I'm going to draw most of my knowledge from here), and I've taken a seminar (an advanced graduate course) specifically on medieval manuscripts, for which I wrote a research paper entitled "From Kells to Celtic: The Aesthetics of the Book of Kells Illuminations as a Marker of Irish Identity." HOWEVER I am NOT a historian of armor, so I will be taking my knowledge of interlace on other objects and applying it to the armor we see in the show

a short intro

so, the first thing that struck me about gwayne's horse's armor is that it's really different than the other equestrian armor we see, even amongst the other men who came with him from oldtown. to be honest, my guess is that this was likely done in the show to help him stand out and also show that he is a special and precious princess (which he is btw 😌😌) who needs fancy armor for his horse. I'm not sure if further thought went into it than that (but maybe it did! I'm happy to stand corrected here!)

however, the catastrophic levels of brainrot I've developed over this man have compelled me to read much further into it than that, which I shall now proceed to do with great enthusiasm! ☺️

first, let's look at the armor:

it's hard to find really detailed close-ups, but it's clear that the armor is incredibly intricate. not only do we have this very complex interlacing, but certain designs are marked out with different colors and internal patterning, making the whole thing even more visually interesting and complex

while interlacing is used across a vast range of time, cultures, geographical regions, and artistic mediums, given both the visuality of this armor in particular and knowing that westeros is based on medieval europe, seeing this interlace instantly called to mind a style that we today call "insular fusion" (I'm not going to go into all the specifics of it here because that's a post all its own lol 😅). it's a style perhaps most famously exemplified by The Book of Kells, but it is found throughout many different objects of the same period (ca. 700-900 CE)

now let's look at some fucking interlace hell yeah!!!!!!

from The Book of Kells (ca. 750-810 CE)

from The Lindisfarne Gospels (ca. 698-721 CE)

and two non-manuscript examples:

Animal Head Post from a Viking Ship Burial (ca. 825 CE)

and a later example, but one of my favorites:

Wooden Portal of the Urnes Stave Church (ca. 1050-1070 CE)

do we see the vision??? are y'all picking up what I'm putting down???

"okay, charlotte, I see the similarities, but why does this matter?" you may be asking yourself (or maybe you aren't idk), and the answer is: this type of interlacing had some super fascinating meanings and uses, some of which I think we can apply to gwayne! 💚💚

let me break it down from least to most potentially related to gwayne:

the aesthetics of interlace as an identity marker

use of interlace in a religious context

interlace as a status symbol

the protective potential of interlace

and now let's go into detailllllllll!!!!!

the aesthetics of interlace as an identity marker

I bring this one up because it's what I focused on in my personal research on the topic of interlace, but I also think it's the least relevant to gwayne. my argument in my paper was that the aesthetics of the interlace in the Book of Kells have been thoughtfully and intentionally re-used throughout history and into the present as a clear visual marker of identity that draws a narrative back to the production of the Book of Kells. however, in terms of the show, we have very little indication that the particular style of interlacing we see on gwayne's horse is associated with any larger identity concepts. it doesn't seem to be associated with house hightower, as none of the other men with gwayne seem to borrow this motif, nor do we see it associated with alicent (as far as I can tell from the little looking I've done, but I'm more than happy to revise this!). for it to make sense as some form of identity marker, it would have to be clear what identity he's visually referencing, and since his use of interlace seems unique, I think it's doubtful that it's part of a larger visual invocation of identity

use of interlace in a religious context

part of what makes insular fusion so interesting as a style is that it is indeed a fusion of a number of different regional styles, including vine scrolls from the mediterranean, triskeles from the northern british isles, and zoomorphic (meaning "in the form of animals") interlace from northwestern mainland europe. although insular fusion is used to decorate christian objects (like gospel books and churches), its component parts are much much older and have connections to various pagan religions that significantly pre-date christianity. obviously it's impossible to be 100% certain of the exact significance of interlace in any of these religious contexts (there are no written records explaining it), but scholars have a few guesses

one suggestion is that interlace in some way represented the spirit world/the world of the gods, or perhaps even a point of connection between the human world and the world beyond. although the religion of westeros is obviously different than any of the real-world religions that used interlace in this manner, I do still wonder if there could be a religious connection here. it's pretty clear that gwayne's mother was quite religious, and alicent is as well. although we don't totally know gwayne's relationship with religion, we could certainly guess that it's at least a little bit important to him, given the beliefs of the women in his life. I know that the most common religious symbol in westeros tends to be the seven-pointed star, which is not something I see on the interlace on the armor, so I'm not sure how far I would want to take this hypothesis, but I did want to put it out there for anyone who might have further thoughts!

interlace as a status symbol

as I mentioned to in the beginning, I do think it's likely that this particular type of armor was chosen for gwayne's horse because it does come off as a bit ostentatious. the manuscripts with interlace that I mentioned above were hugely expensive and time-consuming projects, and only the most affluent religious communities could afford such luxurious gospel books. given the level of detail on the armor, I have to imagine that the same is true in the world of the show. in some ways, it's a mode of conspicuous consumption; a demonstration of the hightowers' wealth and influence. there's a reason gwayne's horse's armor stands out: because it's meant to. it's meant to set him apart, even from the other soldiers who came with him from oldtown

now this next part is just my own conjecture, but I also wonder if the armor is meant to speak to a more artistic sensibility on gwayne's part. after all, equestrian armor is a very functional object with a very clear goal: to protect the horse. from a purely functional standpoint, the interlace does nothing to serve this purpose (and may actually hinder it a little??), it simply adds a complex visuality to the armor. aside from just flaunting the wealth that must have been expended to commission such a piece, it also suggests that it was crafted by artisans who had both functional and aesthetic goals in mind while creating it. whether it was gwayne himself who directed the commission or not, it seems significant that he chose to use this armor that doubles as a kind of art piece. he does seem to be someone who enjoys the finer things in life, so it wouldn't surprise me if he had an artistic appreciation too, and was using this armor as a way to demonstrate that (or perhaps even just as a way to show his own personal artistic taste/preferences)

the protective potential of interlace

technically, I think "interlace as a status symbol" is the most likely reason for the armor being the way it is, but this one is my favorite theory, so I'm putting it at the top. circling back to the religious uses of interlace, another theory of its religious significance is as a mode of protection. some scholars think that its creators believed that the weaving, intertwined lines of the interlace would confuse and trap evil spirits. building on this theory is the fact that complex interlacing was often used at transitional or liminal points, such as the beginning pages of a gospel book or on the doors of churches. the idea here is that the interlace wields its protective powers at these key entry points against any evil entities that might try to enter sacred or protected spaces

interlace as apotropaic (a fancy technical term meaning "protective," often used in reference to magic or magical practices) seems particularly poignant for an object that was literally going to be worn into battle. now, I admit once again that there is little canon evidence to suggest that interlace is thought of in this way in the world of the show, so I'm running with this theory more because I like it rather than because I think it's legitimately based in canon. but I just think it's very sweet that gwayne's horse would be adorned with this complex interlace that seems to be woven with protective powers. even if gwayne (or others) didn't literally believe that interlace had those kind of powers, the fact that he still made the choice to invoke the idea of protection against harm and evil is a lovely thought. (it makes me think of how people today still might carry a rabbit's foot or have charms against the evil eye, even if they don't actually place stock in the beliefs surrounding those objects. I just think it's cool that generations of cultural belief still imbue these objects with a kind of magical aura). I just like the idea that he (or someone else?? otto? alicent? his mother?) chose armor that might have been associated with protection against harm

and now I'll finally wrap up!!

whew that was a lot! if you've read this far – thank you so much!! I'm honestly not even sure if these thoughts were coherent, but I kept thinking about this when I looked at that interlaced armor, and I just had to get the ideas out of my head lol

but I'd love to hear what others think about this topic! I'm certainly not an expert on the matter, and I'd be super open to hearing if others have different interpretations!

if nothing else, I hope you learned something cool about interlace! (and also just how far I have descended into madness over this man that I am writing pages-long analyses of his horse's armor 😅🤪)

[mantrabay]

“Somewhere On Foot Part 1

I peered deeply into a water trickling dyke clustered by pale blue and green peebles.

“Oh dear I sometimes dig too deep or maybe not diffidently.

Damon Deep thinker, lost in thought type.”

There is that mind of mine appearing to write my words for me.

It’s always been like this for this wayfarer.

But not for long as I symbolically dragged myself and my knapsack away.

From a heavenly hypnotising spot

There were beguiling distractions at my feet ironically that tantalise.

The erect unwinged stem of the figwort whose lipped structure bore maroon and green coloring, circular leafs pointy and toothlike could also emit a disagreeable odour.

Also the garlic mustard, wild flower with seedpods on rotund stalks, heart-shaped pale green leafs with white petals.

In tandem with the wild angelica, this short-lived perennial or annual, a bearer of purple hued stems and oval umbels of tiny white or pale pink flowers in the latter part of summer.

To say the least stunning and temporary immobiliser of my feet

Up a scattered thin crystal slope that taxes the bones but fleetingly.

Tangents of a hazy backcloth from an impactful first light as well.

I am an urban setting lover at heart but dream of importing even mentally the joys of city surrounds and outskirts

At the top of the slope I’m facing an antiquated though charming farmhouse which in some quaint way had a town allure with modern radio music in circulation.

Asiatic motif decorative urns did abound on close inspection.

Another sign and synonym for city life.

“Shrieks of children in the environs. And the waft of nutritious food to boot.”

I digress but only momentarily.

Photographs and Short Story mine exclusively

I dedicate this post to my inspirational sister Jay A Pallen

I wish to thank everyone on tumbrl who view and consider this submission

[weebsinstash]

I WATCHED IT. YOURE SO RIGHT. Miguel would hold you down and rail you so good and if you struggled he’d threaten to bite you and put a baby in you WOW I can’t believe I left the theater pregnant!!!!! 8:30 showing, only adults watching, someone audibly moaned at a certain part

I've been experiencing something I'll dub Prompt Sluttiness where, I'll get an idea, and I'll really want to share it, and I wind up just sharing the concept and talking about it instead of actually writing, and I feel like it can be counter productive or that I actually have reached the point where I have to focus on tasks now

BUT ANYWAYS TO TURN AROUND AND DO IT AGAIN, I haven't watched either Spiderverse movie so I only know a handful of things, but like

I've been starting to hatch up a really specific idea that absolutely refuses to leave my head where, you know, Miguel is doing his thing running the Spider Society, minding his own business in Nueva York, and you know, either scouts or his computer or whatever is all "beep boop this alternate universe has a spiderman AND a spiderwoman? Actually one just died, womp" and Miguel decides, "well ok that sucks, better go check on that other spiderwoman since theres only one left and that universe needs a protector" and he gets there and it takes some time before he finds you clumsily swinging through the streets, clearly just getting a hold of your powers, and he just kind of, rolls his eyes. You're kind of a disaster, he better help you out before you get shot at by cops

But when he approaches you, the second you see his face out of the mask, all sense of color drains from yours. You're just a tearful, sniveling mess at the sight of him, barely forming sentences and looking up at him with big wide tortured eyes. And he tries to take you to his own Nueva York to "show you the ropes" and have you take some pointers from similar spiders, and maybe he even finds you a little creepy. You're relatively quiet but you can hold a decent conversation with everyone EXCEPT him, where you fight to avoid looking him in the eyes and you start tearing up at the slightest provocation and his Spidey Sense has caught you staring at him more than once. Why are you so weird?

But then you're sent back home and he can't help but wonder how you're doing, if you're still trying to train and improve, because you had been awfully anxious and reluctant about, something, he's not quite sure, he wasn't as hands-on with your case as maybe he should have been. And after a certain amount of time, maybe you were meant to report back but didn't, or he gets reports that there is tons of crime in your universe's city and you're suspiciously absent, not donning the mask at all, and he pulls up your address and goes to find you

Your apartment is barely kept together. Some surfaces have thick layers of dust, dishes in the sink, laundry unwashed. He's busy thinking in his head that you must be a pretty mediocre hero if you can't take care of yourself.

And he passes a framed picture that makes him pause, feeling his blood go cold. One of the only decent surfaces in the apartment has a collection of photographs and mementos, but what catches his eye the most was what was at the center. A photograph of two people looking like they're absolutely glowing with joy, and the man looks all too familiar, a silver urn with a name engraved besides it, and a sealed envelope. You had been in an apparently very intimate relationship with this universe's version of... him.

And suddenly his Spidey Sense goes off in that familiar feeling and he whips around and, there you are, hovering from around the corner, surprised and shocked he's in your apartment as your eyes drift from between him and the photographs and trinkets he's looking at. Suddenly he can understand all too well the pain in your face when you look at him. Miguel, YOUR Miguel, had been this universe's Spiderman that had died. And here you were, the one left behind

...one who's pregnant. Your clothing had been very baggy and unflattering when he had met you before and it was only a couple weeks at most, but now it's months and months later and you approach him with the roundest biggest baby bump and gently, oh so weakly tell him, he needs to leave, you can't see him right now, and you refuse to look him in the actual eyes as your face is coated with tears. His mask is down and you can barely glance up to see the way he suddenly can't stop looking at you, and you can't stand it. The sight of him is too upsetting. It brings back too many memories of what you've lost. You can't help but look at this man in front of you, who looks and sounds and SMELLS the same as your own beloved, and your heart aches, thinking how your Miguel never got to meet his baby, or even know what the sex was

And you open your quivering lips to ask him to leave again when he just. Slowly puts a hand on your big round tummy. And you can't bring yourself to stop him, thinking of how terribly you wished he was YOUR Miguel. And he looks at your face with those broken eyes and weeping heart and under his palm he feels your baby suddenly kick and his heart MELTS. He's crouching down to put his ear to your belly and you're just crying quietly at the sight, at how many countless nights you wished you could have this, how you could see and hear and talk to him again, and you sob at Miguel, even if it's a different one, clearly caring for, maybe even already loving, your unborn child

You open your mouth to tell him that you're sorry, you're so sorry you can be Spiderwoman right now, that you can't risk your baby, the only piece you have left of, him, but O'Hara stops you. He doesn't need to hear another word, he already understands and more. He's insistent on bringing you to HIS Nueva York, not just for your protection, but your baby's protection and wellbeing, too, and you really have nothing to lose since, you've already lost what was most important to you, and maybe there's more than just a little exploitation and manipulation of the fact your new mentor and "savior" just so happens to have every single pore and hair of the father of your baby

Part of you screams that it's wrong and you're betraying your former beloved when you and New Miguel start bonding and spending lots of time together, since he's always checking in on you when he isn't busy, always making sure you've had good hearty meals and all your cravings are met and, are your feet sore, do you have a headache, whatever you need, he's willing to get it for you. He's devoted, almost like, a husband, and there are times when he's speaking of the baby almost like he considers himself its father. You've caught him calling it "our baby" more than once

You even open that sealed envelope with him, that ultrasound of the pregnancy you never got to open with YOUR Miguel, the ultrasound that would have told you and your husband the sex of the baby. You swear he tears up every bit as much as you to see that it's going to be a little girl. He becomes clingy after that. He basically can't stand being apart from you. He's fussing over you all the time, but now, he's slowly becoming more aggressive towards others. Are your eggs a little too salty? He's snapping at a chef that too much sodium is bad for you and the baby. A Spider swings by, getting too close for his liking? Suddenly he's chokeslamming them against the nearest surface and raving about how they should know to be more careful, didn't they see that a pregnant woman is here?! What if they had knocked you over or hit your stomach?! Which wouldn't have been very likely with everyone's Spidey Sense but he's starting to become unreasonable when it comes to you

You see the signs and maybe you're afraid. You need to go home, to your REAL home, and get away from this man. As much as you wish he was, he isn't the Miguel you knew before, and maybe you're finding yourself starting to project and transfer some of that affection onto this new man, and you're not sure how to feel, whether to consider it real love or some unhealthy manifestation of trauma. The more aggressive he becomes, the more people he puts his hands on, the more you wonder, would he ever hurt YOU?

And the day comes where he catches you trying to sneak into his hideout and use his computer to send yourself back home and he's just got this barely contained quiet rage where he's speaking to you in near-whispers like it's taking everything he has to not be screaming. You flinch when he comes close and he doesn't like that, and softens, starting to try and talk to you, laced with all his theories and delusions. The hormones from the pregnancy are just making you more paranoid. It's good you want to protect your baby but it's SAFER for you here, don't you know? Oh, you're looking so scared and stressed, and that isn't good for you OR your baby, and you're torn between fear and some fucked up traumatized form of love to the point where you can't move away when he comes to separate you from the controls and ruins your plan.

And he'll rub your shoulders just like how you're used to and speak to you in such a sweet and caring voice as he sees, you're just scared, CLEARLY this is why it's so great and NECESSARY that he's looking out for you. Your resolve crumbles when he holds you and you take a deep sobbing breath of his personal scent and remember smelling this on the bedsheets when you woke up together with your old Miguel.

You're just crying and crying because you're not sure what to do and you feel the clothing around your neck being moved and, a prick, just ever so quick and gentle but you're still looking absolutely shocked and betrayed as Miguel pulls away, licking a little bit of blood off his lips.

"Don't be scared: my venom won't affect your pregnancy. I've already run the experiments to make sure."

And you're becoming paralyzed, the venom combining with your overwhelming panic as you're feeling your consciousness fading, knees wobbling as Miguel cradles you like a fragile, precious egg

"I would never hurt our baby like that. Just trust me. I'll take care of you both."

[emmtropywrites]

"Flowers", a BG3 Shadowheart fanfic. Chapter 5: Growing Pains

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Also on AO3

The next four weeks have you walking on air. Filled with gentle touches and kisses on her fingers, face, and forehead, you find yourself expressing a side of your emotions that rarely sees the light. Shadowheart seems to have an anxiety around affection, both showing and receiving it, but she works hard to overcome this with small, consistent gestures. While going on walks, she loops your arm with hers, and her visits with you increase to twice a day. She even brings in books that she’s reading and shares passages that she thinks you’ll like. This makes you blush quite often, and you admit that her voice is one of your favorite things about her.

Today, it’s your one-month anniversary, and while your brain is telling you not to get too mushy, your heart is tempted to try your hand at poetry. Adjusting your clothes in your mirror, you hope that your outfit is fancy enough for the restaurant you’ll be meeting Shadowheart at this evening.

You leave for the restaurant, feeling both nervous and excited. Upon arriving right on time, you give the host your name for the reservation, and are seated at a table for two in a window bay. Since you got here first, you take the time to look over the menu and order the bottle of wine you know she will like the best. Then you wait.

And wait. And after the first thirty minutes, you begin to get anxious. You wonder if she maybe got the time wrong. You have a glass of wine to try and calm down. Another half-hour passes, and your anxiety turns to worry. After waiting another fifteen minutes, you pay for the wine, trying not to let the server’s sympathetic smile get under your skin. Then you step outside into the cool evening air, taking deep breaths, tears pricking at your eyes.

Should you go to Shadowheart’s flat? Maybe she’s sick, or something happened to her. She seemed alright yesterday… Maybe you’d said something and she was angry with you? 

Deciding that you should check on her, you make your way over to the building where she lives. The landlady, Mrs. Thomas, opens the door when you knock. “Hi there Mrs. Thomas, do you know if Shadowheart is in?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll go and check for you,” she responds, inviting you into the parlor. “I say dear, are you alright?” She adds upon seeing your red eyes. You give a short nod, but don’t trust yourself to say anything. “Well, I’ll just head on up and check.”

Mrs. Thomas is a kind old woman, and Shadowheart had been glad that you two had gotten along when she’d first introduced you. You three had taken tea in this parlor, and you had gotten the sense that Shadowheart considered the old woman as not a landlady, but a friend. Now, you sit and try to breathe deeply while taking in the various artworks and dried flowers that decorate the green-wallpapered room.

You make a mental note that you would like to bring a custom dried bouquet for the short terra cotta urn that sits on a windowsill. Something with elegance, like pale pink roses, but also something with whimsy, like white veronica. Silver coin eucalyptus would drape nicely, and would match the cool tones of the-

Mrs. Thomas shuffles back into the room, and you stand quickly. “Shadowheart is here, but she’s, ah, in a bad way,” she confides somberly. “She didn’t say why.”

Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re climbing the stairs to the third floor and knocking on Shadowheart’s door. “Hey, it’s, uh, it’s me,” you call softly.

You hear movement, then a beat of silence, then, “I’m afraid I’m rather unsightly right now.”

“Well I can close my eyes if you’d like,” you respond.

You hear her give a quick huff of amusement, before she says, “I’m sure you look wonderful. I look like a mess.”

So she hadn’t forgotten about your date. “I’d offer to take off my fripperies, but I doubt Mrs. Thomas would appreciate a nudist in her hallway.”

This gains a full laugh from her, and you hear the locks click open. Then Shadowheart is standing before you in a gray nightgown, her silver hair hanging tangled and mussed around her torso. Her face is red, puffy, and streaked with tears, eyeliner smudged around her lids. Upon seeing your outfit, she tries for a smile, but starts to cry again as she says, “I was right, you do look wonderful.”

You’ve seen her anxious, annoyed, concerned, and downcast, but you haven’t seen her cry before. Carefully, you step into the room, closing the door softly behind you. Then you reach out for her, offering to hold her but still not sure if you’ve caused her some pain.

Shadowheart immediately draws close to you, burying her face in your shoulder as she sobs. Your arms wrap around her, one hand placed gently on the back of her head. You feel her sobs shake her body, and you carefully guide her over to her couch so you can sit together. Gradually, as you stroke her hair, you feel her breaths begin to slow, and her body begin to relax.

When she raises her head again, she says, “I’m so sorry, this is very unfair of me.”

You furrow your brow. “There’s no need to apologize, Shadowheart, you’re clearly going through something.”

“Yes, but I- today was supposed to be-” she looks like she’s going to start crying again, but taking a deep breath, she instead says, “Today is our one month anniversary together. But yesterday was… was the anniversary of my parents’ death. And I’ve been so caught up in how happy I am with you, that I… I forgot.”

She had told you about how Shar had offered her a deal, to either keep her parents and live with pain, or live without Shar’s constant presence, sacrificing her mother and father for peace. Having chosen the latter option, she didn’t live with guilt, per say, but you knew the emotional wound was just as painful as her physical one had been.

“I didn’t realize that was something I could forget, and now I’m scared that I’m turning into someone I don’t want to be,” she continues, gripping your hands. “I don’t want to be someone who just doesn’t care about those I’ve lost!”

“Whoa, slow down,” you say gently, rubbing your thumbs on the backs of her hands. “You clearly do care, otherwise you wouldn’t be this torn up about it.”

“But how can I be sure that I won’t forget other important things about my loved ones? What if I end up forgetting our anniversary? What if I forget a friend’s birthday, or a special occasion?”

You detangle your fingers and instead take her face in your hands. “Shadowheart, forgetting doesn’t mean you don’t care. We all forget things, and I don’t think your parents would fault you for finding happiness.”

She looks at you with wide, desperate eyes. “I don’t want to forget anything. Shar forced me to give up memories for so long. I can’t forget, not again.”

You nod. “Then I’ll help you remember. We can put together a planner of important dates, and make scrapbooks of important moments, and- and keep mementos and trinkets and the like. And most importantly, I’ll remind you not to hate yourself, because you’re allowed to make mistakes.”

Her panicked expression softens, and she asks hesitantly, “You’re not angry with me?”

“Not at all. I was anxious, mostly. I worried I had done or said something to upset you, or that something had happened to you.”

She takes one of your hands and kisses your palm. “I’m sorry-” she starts, but cuts herself off and starts again. “Thank you for being so understanding. You mean so much to me, I…” She takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

The joy you feel is different from the elation you felt upon your first kiss. This joy is sturdy, wide, a strong feeling that fortifies your bones and confirms what you already knew deep inside. “I love you too,” you respond, seeing relief and happiness spread across her face.

Then you both start upon hearing a knock on the door. “It’s only me, dears,” says Mrs. Thomas, voice muffled through the wood. “I’ve brought you some tea, I thought it might do you some good.”

You get up and open the door, taking the tray with the teapot and two cups from her hands. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Thomas,” you say with a smile. “This is just what we needed.”

The old woman nods, smiling, and heads back downstairs. You turn to see Shadowheart cleaning off space from a low table in the middle of the room. Her flat is large, but is separated into different rooms with partial walls, meaning that the layout is a little limited. When you set the tea tray down, she says, “Collecting memories with you sounds lovely, but I’ll need a bigger flat if I’m to be able to store all of them.”

“Or we could get a house,” you venture carefully. “Not now, obviously. But I’ve been thinking about how much we both dislike the city, and I think having our own space would be very helpful.”

Her eyes light up at this suggestion, and she sighs and says, “Yes, I think I would like that very much.”