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thetomorrowshow · 6 days ago

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febuwhump 12 - used as practice

title: burying my whole life

fandom: traffic smp

part of my bad boys gang au!!

cw: blood, violence

Scott swallows, shifts his weight.

He lets himself, for a moment, wonder about Martyn. Is he in the same situation? Blindfolded, tied to an uncomfortable chair? A dirty gag pulled taut between his teeth?

Or is it worse?

Then he shakes himself. He’s not thinking about that. He’s not going to sit here and run himself ragged, panicking about what they might be doing to his friend. He’s fine, so he has to assume that Martyn’s the same way.

This was supposed to be an easy job. They only take easy jobs, after all—one of the perks of being independent contractors is that they get to pick and choose whatever jobs they want to work. But hiding bodies hasn’t been enough to cover rent as of late, and they really can’t afford to lose the junkyard.

They’ve worked for every respectable gang in the city, so Scott would have thought that there would be a bit more respect on the Mean Gills Hunk o’ Junk services. His and Martyn’s matching t-shirt uniforms are practically a Red Cross symbol around here. They aren’t to be touched.

The job had sounded pretty easy. Implicate this new gang, the Neighbors, in a murder that belonged to the Clockers. Scott didn’t feel too bad about it, seeing as the Neighbors hadn’t been so kind as to utilize their services yet. They seemed like a pretty small start-up, and the Clockers were probably trying to squash them out of the game before they really got their feet under themselves.

Well, they have their feet under them, that’s for sure.

The Neighbors aren’t actually a gang, that much is clear. They’re some sort of—private elite force, Scott thinks, with training that he’s never seen from the usual thugs. He and Martyn can hold their own in hand-to-hand combat, but a single man in a button-up shirt had taken them both down with a couple of lightning-fast sweeps of his legs. It had been almost like an art form, a fluid dance that only he knew the steps to.

Scott had woken up . . . wherever this is. Alone. Unable to move his arms more than to flex his wrists, his legs bound in three different places, the only movement allowed him the ability to twist his head around. Nothing to look at, not with his eyes covered.

How long was he out? How long has he been here, in this unknowable prison, waiting for whatever judgment is sure to come?

In all likelihood, Scott’s dead. There are very few scenarios here where he ends up alive. They’ll probably interrogate him about his past work, the many bodies that he’s thrown into the incinerator or buried beneath all the junk. Then they’ll kill him, his knowledge of whatever they’re doing too threatening to their work.

Why did he ever have to get involved in this business in the first place? He’d always dreamed of living an average-length life.

What had seemed like an easy way to get a lot of cash has backfired in an unfortunately foreseeable manner.

Scott sits in silence for far too long. Hours, if he had to guess—which is unpleasant, frankly, waiting for his own death for so long with restricted blood circulation. If they were polite about it, his captors would have come in right after he’d woken, done their quick little interrogation, and shot him in the head.

When someone finally joins him, they don’t ask the demanded questions he expects. They don’t take off the blindfold or the gag, but they release him from his other binds (which he can now tell aren’t ropes, but something like mini bungee cords, easier to loosen quickly) and pull him to his feet and into a brisk walk, all without a word.

Scott stumbles along with them, a person on either side, his wrists clicked into handcuffs before he can so much as lift his hands. That’s frustrating, and not because it restricts his chances of escape, but because he’s already struggling with walking as pins and needles fill his legs and he’d like to be capable of catching himself if he falls, thank you very much.

Somehow he keeps his feet, though he hasn’t got any sort of presence of mind to pay attention to where they’re going, especially when he can’t see. Probably to some other room to be interrogated.

But they stop suddenly after what he assumes is a bit of a hallway, and they don’t have him sit down or remove the blindfold or anything. They just stand there, fingernails digging into Scott’s arms, and wait.

Scott lets out a slow huff of breath through his nose, flexes his fingers. Is this some sort of intimidation thing? What are they waiting for?

This is going to be it. He’ll be standing here for ages, then some big scary man will come in and tear off his blindfold and gag. He’ll demand to know his purpose and press him for every bit of information he knows, then he’ll nod to one of his goons and they’ll shoot him in the head and his body will be dragged away (probably to be buried in his own junkyard).

He knows so many things, though—what if he keeps giving information that the big scary man doesn’t even want? He’s so overflowing with things that he knows he doesn’t even know what he knows! Great, now he’s going to get a bad grade in hostage, something that is normal to—

Shuffling footsteps.

Scott swallows as best he can behind the gag. It sounds like multiple people, kind of far away. Maybe two more men with Martyn in between them?

“Here,” a lilting, woman’s voice says. She sounds far away—like she’s at the other end of a long room. “There’s your target.”

What?

A beat passes.

“What?” a man (from that same distance) says incredulously, echoing Scott’s thought.

“You’re a marksman, aren’t you? Show us your skills.”

Is Scott in a shooting range? Why would they bring him here?

“What did he do?” the man asks.

“Doesn’t matter, does it? He’s an enemy to us.”

“But—but he’s helpless.”

“What does that matter?”

Oh.

Oh, no.

Scott can see it, in his mind’s eye. Him, bound and gagged, a faceless perpetrator, stood at the end of the shooting range. This anonymous man, perhaps facing a test of loyalty, placed at the other end with a gun in hand.

There’s still men on either side of him. A test of accuracy, too.

They aren’t even going to interrogate him?

Scott feels kind of offended, honestly, that they’re using him as nothing more than a prop in someone else’s test. He has knowledge of worth! He has dirt on every gang in the city, and despite what he always claims, it can absolutely be tortured out of him.

Maybe Martyn already gave up everything useful. Maybe Martyn traded his life for Scott’s. Sounds like something he would do—there’s never really been love lost between the two of them; circumstance brought them together and convenience kept them together and now convenience dictates their separation.

To be fair, Scott would have sold him out, too.

Ah, well. He lived a decent life—for the first sixteen years, or so. He was kind of a terrible person after that. To be frank, he probably deserves to die.

As someone else’s loyalty test, though? Really?

His ideal death is absolutely to sacrifice himself to save someone else for reasons that he’s not going to personally examine, but this is just embarrassing.

“I won’t.”

If Scott didn’t have a gag in his mouth, he would have groaned. Is he seriously going to drag this out? He’s seen movies, he knows what’s going to happen.

Sure enough, there’s a long pause, then a meaty thud followed by a pained grunt. After a moment, the woman speaks again.

“Shoot him.”

When the man speaks, his voice is notably strained. “No.”

Another thud. Then another, and a bit of a crack, and the man makes another sound of pain. After a moment of relative silence, he hears a sliding sound, as if something heavy is being dragged along the floor.

A door opens, then shuts.

Scott still has a gag in his mouth, but he makes his best attempt at a groan anyways.

That pattern repeats itself four times.

Scott is pulled from his chair and into what he has to assume is a target range. The anonymous man being tested is brought in, he refuses to shoot Scott, he gets beaten into submission, and then both of them are dragged away again.

The sixth time, as Scott stands in the target range with guards on either side, he wishes they would loosen the gag. Then he could at least try to make this interesting. It sounds fun to beg for help. Or maybe he could try to anger the man. Or he could stay silent by choice. That would be enigmatic.

The man sounds exhausted today, and Scott briefly wonders what he’s been going through when they’re not in the room together. Do they hurt him? Interrogate him? Train him? At least with Scott they give him food and water at fairly regular intervals. The man seems to get weaker and weaker by the day.

“Really?” the man says, his voice carrying thinly across the room. “Again? Same guy? Don’t you get tired of this?”

“Don’t you?”

There’s a long silence that follows that.

Scott waits with bated breath.

Is this going to be it, at last?

Even though he’s been prepared five times now, his unpreparedness strikes him like a staff to his knees. Did he ever thank his neighbors for the housewarming cookies they brought him? How long has his cat been alone at home? Why didn’t he ever reach out to his mom? Just a call would have sufficed. He could have even visited her.

The silence continues.

Then—a cry of pain—and relief drops through Scott’s chest.

It’s immediately chased by exhaustion, and a little bit of shame (it’s not like this putting-off of his death sentence will change anything that he has or hasn’t done, and all it’s doing is causing pain to this other man), but he only swallows and allows himself to be led away.

“Give me the gun.”

There it is again—that jump in his stomach, the weakness in his legs, because this is it, this time. No more trials.

Seven is a meaningful number, Scott heard once. He doesn’t know what it means. He has to assume it means the end.

“Good. Shoot—”

BANG.

Scott can’t help it—he flinches (he curses himself in the moment for flinching)—

He . . . isn’t hit.

There’s sounds—sounds of a struggle, shouts and deafening gunshots and the men on either side of him split apart, leaving him standing alone—and Scott hasn’t properly walked or stood on his own in what feels like days, so he sways in place, but he can’t balance himself with bound hands—

Running footsteps come toward him, and someone (who smells like sweat and blood, gross) wraps an arm around him before he can fall.

“Run, run, run!” the man’s voice says, too loud in his ear.

And what’s Scott supposed to do but run?

He lets the man guide him, stays as close as he can without tripping over his legs. He runs blindly, desperately trying not to fall—which is harder than it looks, blindfolded and handcuffed and weak. He manages to follow the twists and turns fairly well until the man drags him on a sharp turn and he stumbles over his own feet, falling flat on his face.

“Oh, geez—sorry, one second—”

A door squeaks; hands grab at his face, and the gag is pulled and pulled (and with it, painfully, the corners of his lips) and then torn loose. Scott gratefully lets his mouth fall shut, then winces as the blindfold is forcefully ripped from his eyes.

He opens his eyes (which hurts, the light hurts, how long has he been here?) and looks up.

In the dim lighting, Scott blinks past watery eyes and sees the man who has held his death in his hands seven separate times.

He’s—

He’s actually kind of hot.

Like, yeah, there’s blood trickling down the stubbly side of his face, and he has a massive black eye, and his blond hair is clumpy and tangled and gross-looking, but . . . he’s got potential. He definitely isn’t the worst last thing to see.

Scott swallows, his mouth bone-dry and tongue swollen, and manages, “Hey, hot stuff. What’s a guy like—like you doing in a place like this?”

Adorably, the man blushes. “I—um—can you shoot?” he blusters.

Scott hopes he manages a devilish smirk with his numb lips. “Only if you buy me dinner first.”

“Holy moly.” The man actually gets up and walks away, though he returns after only a few seconds. “Look, I can get us out of here if I can get a phone. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“I haven’t checked,” Scott grouses. “I think it was confiscated in the onboarding training.”

“Yeah, same,” the man says absently.

Scott would check his pockets, but his hands happened to be bound with actual handcuffs, rather than the bungee cords that had bound him to the chair. He hasn’t noticed anything in his pockets as of yet—and who would leave a prisoner with their cell phone? It’s likely long been destroyed.

“Okay, well—I have these guns,” the man says, holding out two handguns. “Genuinely, can you shoot?”

“Not like this,” Scott says drily, jangling his handcuffs. The man hasn’t even offered to help him up. He’s just lying on the dusty carpet of this—it looks like a small meeting room, with a table in the center and a handful of chairs scattered about.

Come to think of it, it probably wouldn’t be too hard to hold a gun while handcuffed, but Scott isn’t exactly a marksman. He can hold his own in a fistfight, and he’s actually pretty decent with knives, but guns aren’t his specialty. Sure, they keep a handgun in the office in case of emergency, but he’s never really needed to use it.

“And I can only shoot one right now. . . .”

Scott scoffs, which quickly turns into a real coughing fit. When he can breathe, he chokes out, “You can only shoot one, period. Dual-wielding pistols doesn’t actually work, genius.”

The man shrugs. “I’ve been practicing, I can get decent cover fire. But they broke a few fingers, so. . . .” He holds up his left hand, which Scott can just barely tell in this lighting is shockingly swollen.

Despite his doubts on the gun matter, Scott grimaces. Broken fingers hurt, and he’s only ever broken one before (perks of accidentally slamming your hand in a door). He can’t imagine breaking multiple, then having to shoot with that hand.

“Okay. Here’s the plan,” the man says, checking out the open door. “First person to walk by, I shoot ��em and take their phone. Then I call my friends and we get out of here.”

“That’ll be way too loud,” Scott points out. “They’d kill us before any of your supposed friends even showed up.”

“Well, it’s not like you’re throwing around any clever ideas,” the man says hotly.

Which is entirely unfair, seeing as Scott is literally lying on the floor, and until mere minutes ago was not only handcuffed, but blindfolded and gagged. Honestly, it’s shocking he can even function right now. It’s shocking he’s even alive right now.

They’re not actually going to escape, right? There’s no way, not when they’re in the depths of the Neighbors’ organization, when there are surely plenty of skilled fighters searching for them right now. They’ll probably kill Scott on the spot, then take the other guy back to continue whatever they’re doing with him.

“Search the room, would you?” the man says. “I’ll keep a look-out.”

Scott rolls his eyes, then shifts to his knees and pushes himself up, starts going through the room.

It’s just as small as he’d assumed, a table barely larger than a desk in the center with four chairs, two on either long side. There’s not any sort of tech in here, not even a projector, and the whiteboard on the wall only has a singular dried-out marker with it.

He turns around to tell the guy that there’s really nothing here, but he already has a preemptive hand held out toward Scott, clearly signalling to be quiet.

Scott freezes. Listens.

He doesn’t hear anything until the footsteps are almost upon them, just outside the door of the meeting room, and quick as a flash his accomplice darts out the door, then back in, dragging a struggling man in a suit with him, hand with the broken fingers covering his mouth.

There’s a moment’s struggle in which Scott’s accomplice tries to drag the suit to the ground, and the suit tries to get his gun aimed behind himself to shoot him. Scott’s fairly certain he hasn’t been noticed yet—he hurries forward, ramming his head into the suit’s stomach—

The force of it bowls all three of them to the floor with a loud thud. Scott rolls over someone’s lumpy body—his new friend cries out—the Neighbor grunts—

It’s too dark, for goodness’ sakes, Scott can’t see and he’s all turned around, his hands held together by the stubborn cuffs, there’s no way he’s going to survive this—

BANG!

Blinding pain overcomes Scott’s entire system and he thinks he only doesn’t scream because he’s left without any air in his lungs. He doesn’t know where he’s been hit, but it hurts more than anything that’s ever happened and he can’t see, can’t feel his body, can’t do anything but gasp in agony.

Is he dying? He’s probably dying. He’s definitely dying, it—it hurts so—

What’s happening? Why is he dying? He’s dying—

Scott isn’t sure how long he spends hanging in the limbo of all-encompassing torture. At some point, though, the pain begins to centralize in his right arm, and he sucks in a deep breath, some of the red on the back of his eyelids fading. The ringing in his ears starts to recede, little by little, until he can hear someone muttering in his ear.

“—you’re all right, help is coming, just need you to stand up—”

An arm worms its way under his back and pulls him up slowly, Scott helpless to prevent it. His knees buckle when his bare feet find the floor, but whoever has him doesn’t let him fall. His right hand pulses angrily, far too hot for him to focus on much else.

“Come on, it’s not that bad. We need to get out of here so my buddies can get us away, right? Can you open your eyes?”

Scott tries. He really, really, does, but he can’t quite wrench them open, his eyelids soldered shut. He does manage, however, to stand, though his legs tremble weakly under the weight of his body.

“Let’s go, let’s go. Are you gonna pass out? You look white as a ghost. Stay awake, yeah? What’s your name?”

His name. Scott lets the person supporting him guide him forward. “Scott,” he rasps.

“Cool, nice to meet you. What do you do for work, Scott?”

“Junkyard. I—” Scott finally forces his eyes open, the world before him grey and tear-blurred. “I—”

“Junkyard, that’s cool. Got any family?”

They’re escaping. They’re getting out of here, Scott and this random man. What happened with the other guy, the one in the suit? Did they take him out?

“Scott? You good?”

“Yeah,” Scott breathes, and his hand pulses—

He looks down.

He can’t really tell what’s up through his tears, but there’s a dirty piece of fabric tied around his hand, soaked through with blood. Blood’s all up his arm, all over his leg, dripping lazily from his fingers. He blinks, blinks again.

“Can you walk yet?” the man asks, and Scott now notices how exhausted he sounds, almost entirely out of breath. “‘Cuz—dude, I can’t go on like this.”

Surely he can walk, right?

Scott decides to at least try.

He pushes off of the man—not completely, but enough that he’s mostly supporting his own weight. He’s still pretty much blindly following, but they really ought to move faster if they’re actually going to get out. Scott pushes past the jelly that his legs have become and increases the pace, swallowing back the instinct to vomit.

“What’s y’r name?” he forces out, more to keep himself conscious than out of actual curiosity. Which is probably why the man was asking him personal questions in the first place, come to think of it.

“Jimmy,” the man replies, after only a moment’s hesitation. “I think—I think that’s the door out. It looks like—here—”

They push together on metal, heavy heavy metal—

Scott breathes in fresh air—

Then his legs give out entirely.

He sinks to the ground in some sort of weird slow motion, and Jimmy manages to drag them both over the threshold before he’s falling too, and Scott feels all fuzzy in the back of his mouth and really, really sick. . . .

Then black.

“I can’t believe you passed out on the doorway.”

“Uh-huh, and who was it who basically dropped me?” Scott retorts, no heat in his words. Jimmy snorts.

“I’ll have you know, I had three broken fingers, four cracked ribs, and a broken collarbone,” Jimmy counts off. “Not to mention all the bruises. You just had a tiny gunshot wound.”

“A gunshot wound that blew off half my hand,” Scott says wryly, gesturing to his heavily-wrapped right hand, now bereft of a pinky finger and a decent chunk of his palm. “Those tend to bleed a lot.”

Jimmy winces. “Sorry—”

“No, you’d better not be apologizing again,” Scott interrupts. “Losing a finger is better than losing my life.”

“I should’ve been able to get the gun away from him, though,” Jimmy says awkwardly. “I know this stuff, I’ve been doing it for years.”

“Right, I totally expect you to be perfect after being tortured for a week.”

“Oh, come on, it wasn’t—”

“You’re both injured and you aren’t supposed to be out here,” a voice comes from behind them. Scott’s heart jolts, but only Grian comes up in front of them, arms folded over his zipped-up leather jacket. “Come on. In you get.”

Being out on the back porch had been fun while it lasted, Scott supposes. Back to the weird library-turned-hospital.

But Grian grabs Scott’s left arm, shoos Jimmy on when he pauses. “Go on, get your bandages changed. Scott and I need to talk.”

Jimmy hesitates a moment longer, eyes darting between Scott and Grian. Scott, despite his nerves, nods confidently.

“I won’t be long,” he says. “I’d never miss a chance to see you shirtless.”

The tips of Jimmy’s ears turn pink and he grumbles something, but heads on inside. Once the door to the patio closes, Grian lets go of Scott, leans back on the railing.

“You have to stay, now,” he says bluntly. “You’re too much of a risk.”

Scott grimaces. He doesn’t remember how they got here—he fainted as they left the building, then woke up in a bed in the heart of the Bad Boys’ base. Eight years he’s avoided swearing fealty to any gang, and somehow, he’s ended up with the Bad Boys. “I have a business,” he tries half-heartedly.

Grian snorts. “You think the Neighbors don’t know where it is? They’ll kill you before the day’s over.”

Okay, he really didn’t think that would work, anyways. New tactic. Become a Bad Boy?

He really doesn’t want to be a Bad Boy, but until he can find a way to flee the country, he’s probably stuck here. Good thing he’s hurt his hand so, he won’t be expected to be any sort of gunman.

He’s pretty good at making the most of situations, though.

“I think I have some talents that the Bad Boys would find useful,” he says. “As long as I’m compensated.”

“You’ll have to talk to someone a bit higher up the food chain to work that out.”

Scott nods. “The Baddest of Boys.”

“Please never say that again.”

“The Worst Boy, even.”

“Go back to bed.”

Scott chuckles and moves to head back inside, but once again, Grian catches his arm.

“Tim’s got a lot of people protecting him,” he says in a low voice. “If you’re just messing around, you’d better leave him alone.”

Which doesn’t make any sense, Scott thinks as he heads back to his library-hospital bed. He doesn’t even know a Tim.

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oneluckydragon · 4 months ago

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✨🌸 Sunshine on your skin, flowers in my soul 🌸✨

🌊🫧Summary → In the midst of his reconciliation with Team Wish, Dusknoir begins coughing up flowers. This unfortunate brand of bad luck should be a cosmic joke. A spiteful punishment that the world has brought down on him out of malice, out of vengeance for his past deeds. A cruel, agonizing curse manifested with the single unjustified purpose of preventing him from realizing happiness, ever seeking redemption, ever righting his multitudes of wrongs and moving on with his life. But that's not true, and he knows it deep down. Knows it in the very core of his soul like the flood of petals building in this throat.

This is his fault because he is a coward, and that's all he has ever been. A backstabbing, lonely coward.

And now he is going to die because of it.

[AO3]

[CH. I -- Word Count -- 13,290]

🌒💫 Return → the act of going back to a place, person, or memory

[CH. II -- TBA]

#(Momentarily comes back from hiatus just to drop this and then proceeds to immediately leave)#I didn't forget about my fic that I promised literally a year ago! Woo!#Here's the 1st chapter fellas!#I've been through misery and hell (still there tbh) but I'm hanging in there with my pencil and paper #(mutuals I did this for YOU)#(scribz once again THANK you for the art ilysm)#I gave up on trying to write everything coherently like a perfectionist before posting chapters #I've decided I'm just gonna post 'em as they're done instead of hoarding them all until I'm satisfied with the entire fic #It was unhealthy and hard to be motivated while writing all of this in my own little isolated box #Maybe with some feedback from readers I'll be more willing to focus on this and get it done rather than let it rot in my docs for months #Sunshine on your skin; flowers in my soul #my fic #Dusknoir/Grovyle #Dusknoir/Grovyle/Celebi #Hero/Partner #Echo/Sora #echo/umbreon #sora/lucario #pmd ocs #lots and LOTS of feelings in this fic be warned my friends #Must admit I am so nervous sharing this publicly cause it's like baring my whole heart to you guys #If you take a peek then I hope you end up enjoying it c:#pls leave me asks if you wanna share thoughts!!! I'd be so unbelievably happy to talk about this fic if anyone is interested #or maybe post a comment or kudos on AO3 instead!! anything pls I'd be indebted to you forever #No promises on a fic update schedule but I will TRY not to let it take months this time #pmd explorers #pmd eos #pmd sky #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd fanfic

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fellamarsh · 5 months ago

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another thing i've been trying to do recently is read more self-published stuff. "but fell," you say, "you're a self-published author. surely you've been reading self-published stuff all along" and then i laugh for so long in response we both become uncomfortable.

see, the fear (which has for a long time been killing my mind) that i'll read other self-published stuff and find out that it's so much better than mine that i might as well stop writing forever kept me from doing that basically ever. i have a hard time not unfavorably comparing my work to others and had convinced myself i was being smart by withholding an avenue of de-motivation (reader: i was not being smart). it also doesn't help that i'm pretty low income and have a hard time spending money on books i haven't already read, and that self-published stuff isn't always available at the library---but really a lot of it was just me being a coward. which i'm working on. i could talk about how this particular cowardice is Very Silly, but i think enough has been said about it on writeblr and in the Writing Space in general that i don't feel the need to (though i will if anyone wants me to).

instead, i wanna talk about the self-published things i have read in the past few months and ask about the self-published things you love!

so: what happened was i got real sick, and while i was real sick i (naturally) read over 200,000 words of ace attorney fan fiction in the span of a few days. eventually i got bored of it (and also maybe annoyed at how people were characterizing some of my guys), but i still wanted to read something gay and romantic and nice, something i knew was gonna end happily, which isn't my typical fare.

now you may be saying (having gotten over all the uncomfortable laughter from earlier) "fell, you write gay romance. what do you mean that's not your typical fare?" listen. until a couple months ago i hadn't read a cut and dry romance novel since before i finished college. for context: i graduated in 2015. i know it doesn't make sense. i'm a guy who doesn't make sense.

but in this case it worked to my advantage. not the not making sense thing, but the not having read Published Romance in 1000 years thing. I didn't know where to start. I was very skeptical of everything the library had Available Now in the Gay Fantasy Romance category. what if it was all bad and also not good?

and then i scrolled past the familiar cover of our very own @ashen-crest's A Rival Most Vial.

now this was comfortable territory! this was a novel by a very nice writeblr person whose posts i enjoy! i already loosely knew the plot, i was familiar with the characters, i knew the names of things like rosemond street and the griffin's claw and that ambrose had blue hair and that at the end of it all there would definitely be Boyfriends. i didn't have to worry that this would be bad! i only had to worry that it would be really good!

but i wasn't worried about that, because i was officially Not Writing at the time, and because why the hell hadn't i read this book yet Ash literally emailed me some very kind words last year when my cat died??

Y'all, I devoured ARMV. If you haven't read it yet---especially if cozy fantasy is more your thing than it is mine---you should check it out Immediately. It was fun! It was heartwarming! It was sweet and earnest and confident! I was delighted to find it was occasionally hot! Ambrose and Eli snuggled up into my sick exhausted heart and found a permanent little place there. (Especially Ambrose. I have such a thing for Stiff Guys who Kind of Suck for Tragic Backstory Reasons and are So So Lonely They Don't Even Realize It. gawd)

(And a very small part of my brain spent the whole time wondering why I had been so afraid to really engage with the work my community is doing. The community that I'm in. The one I'm a part of. Why?! Maybe more on that later.)

But from there the curse was broken! I immediately devoured @stjohnstarling's What Manner of Man in a similar sort of frenzy (and hooooly shit guys am I excited for the expanded, finalized version to come out at the end of next month!) and started digging into @lurinatftbn's The Flower that Bloomed Nowhere (which I can already tell is going to be an All Time Favorite).

And now I want to ask you what your favorite self-published books are so that I can read them, too, but I think I will in another post that doesn't dedicate so much space to talking about my various and sundry Issues and isn't Terminally Long

#my god the library. darling. beloved. breath of my life and heart of my soul.#i should make a post about her #also. and maybe i'll make a separate post about this at some point too #but i truly think the free serialized webnovel rough draft ala What Manner of Man is The Future #i should probably make a whole separate post about all these novels too tbh.#boutta become Posting Guy. The Guy Who Posts #and writes novels in the tags. but i've always been like that #i never talked about the dream i had where i was emry karic from the lutesong series did i? i totally meant to. fucked up!#so i had a dream where i was emry karic.#I (emry karic) was fleeing a bunch of elves in a forest with my mom and sister (who were fully my irl mom and sister)#they thought i had done a murder and were chasing me (emry karic) with spears and stuff. they almost caught me #but i managed to escape. later i came upon a weird old-timey fantasy carnival.#and for some reason one of the fun attractions at this carnival was A Day in Court #where you watch someone defend themselves in court.#you'll never guess who had to defend himself in court and what the charges were!#notably there were no other characters from the lutesong series involved.#and i also have yet to read any of the books in the lutesong series. emry and his flower crown simply invaded my brain out of nowhere #i thought about turning this post into separate posts or rewriting it or smthn because it's so long and all over the place but #that sort of defeats the whole trying to just post and not be so up my own ass about it that i never actually post thing #so here you go #if you are also someone who struggles or once struggled with reading other people's stuff because of self esteem issues. hi!#we're now spidermen pointing at each other

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spoondrifts · 7 months ago

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role reversal hmc au where sophie gets isekai'd into modern day wales after her sisters leave for their apprenticeships and she accidentally speaks a portal into existence with NO idea how she did it. after a lot of shenanigans she eventually lands a job at a local university library, where she realizes "hey, i'm actually more capable and respected in this world than my own, where the Laws of Nature mean i will never succeed. the rules are different here, why go back?" cue sophie actually thriving in wales to the point where she starts to be like "oh, so it wasn't me. it was the actual universe that didn't want me to succeed. good to know that i just need to stay here if i want to be valued and successful." (← lying to herself; self esteem lower than dirt)

and then one day she's shelving books when she overhears patented loserfailure grad students howell and ben arguing over magic at a table and interrupts them to be like "you guys are idiots. that's not how magic portals work." and neither of them have ever opened a portal before despite their theoretical prowess, so they're fascinated by her, because they can CLEARLY tell she's a witch by her story but she refuses to believe them, because obviously she was just the hapless victim of a random magical accident. so now ben and howl are trying to drill information out of her about how exactly she created a portal, while also cracking open the chest of deep-seated inadequacy issues inside her that stem from the whole magical world thing in the first place (that directly play into her inability to admit she might have magic after all). she flourished in wales without magic just fine, she doesn't need it and she doesn't have it!! shut up about the magic SHUT UP!!!

meanwhile howell is enchanted by this peculiar witch woman who accepts approximately none of his bullshit + ben is deeply impressed with her practical spirit and her obvious gifts, and sophie eventually grows to love them both—howell for his callous habits and cowardly personality and good heart underneath it all, ben for his dogged loyalty and biting wit and kind soul shining through.

and herself, too, learning the lesson she'd always needed to learn: that it was never about ingary, or wales, or anywhere else. it was always just about her, and what she's capable of when she's willing to trust herself enough to try.

the three of them build a door. ben enchants the doorbell with a beautiful song, strummed from his guitar; howell paints the dial with a colorful, slapdash scour of four equal quarters; for the first time in many months, sophie asks the door to take them home, and means it.

and it does.

#I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS ABOUT THEM YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND #maybe one day when hazbin lets me go i'll be able to write hmc fic again #for now have this :3 #sophie hatter #howl pendragon #wizard suliman #ben sullivan #howlsophie #howl jenkins #howl's moving castle #benhowlsophie #hmc #we need a ship name for these three. something about flowers maybe #still not over howl & sophie tending to ben's garden while he was ''dead'' STOP I LOVE THEM SO MUCH

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icantthink-ofagoodname · 6 months ago

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Whaaaat i dont project onto characters i would neeeeeever! *Runs quickly to hide this*

#fanfiction #fanfic #writing #rin okumura #ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #bonrin #because yeah #you'll never geuss the AU #eh I'll tell you #its flower shop and tattoo parlor AU #flower shop au #RAHHH #I am projecting so much i shouldn't even be calling either of them by their names #instead of bonrin its kadeskeets but plot twist kade and skeets are the same person he just has two names for himself #also i see the neurologist tmrw BECAUSE OF CHRONIC MIGRAINES!!! the capital S looks small idk why #and minorly because of tics #but anyway migraines can be different for people but imma go with personal experience

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thesolaireslawyer · 6 months ago

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Not Fair

TW - Cursing, If You Look Hard Enough Slight NSFW,

WC - 1072

AN- well here it is the long-awaited part 2 of David Shaw was paying attention! I hope it was worth the wait{ I couldn't remember if the cat was male or female- mb.. like a slight David x Asher type thing- matching word count was not intended}

It’s not fair. You should be here with me. You should be here. Smiling, laughing, and gossiping with Asher. You should be here! You should be annoying the shit out of me. You should be here. Angel.. I miss you so fucking much. God theirs so much I wish I could say..

But I'm reduced to say it right here. Over a gravestone with your name on it. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve come here. Every day is harder than it needs to be. Waking up without you in my arms hurts. My mind likes to convince me that you’re in the living room playing Minecraft.

Funny enough.. I’ve been playing Minecraft more. I wanted to see what you loved about that game so much… angel the last thing I expected to see when I opened the world biome I started on. Was an entire pack of wolves..

I would have been offended to see the name, Davey.. But now the only thing I want is to hear you say it one more time. Run my hands over your body.. Had I known..God.. I just miss you so much.. Things are so much harder without you.

I haven’t spent the night in the house since your passing. It's too quiet.. The pack has taken to watching over me. Or sleepovers is what they’ve taken to calling it. I'm not the world's smartest man. But I'm not stupid either… even when you’re not here..

Talking to you is easy. It's a bit funny.. You get to meet my mom before I ever did. Micheal stopped by earlier, he couldn’t bring himself to come to the service. And he felt bad about it.

I'm sure you wouldn’t have minded.. But he did drop off your cat.. The one I said I wasn’t going to take care of. His new partner is allergic to cats.. Originally he was going to give her to us after the trip.. But you know how that turned out.

So he gave her to me. And I’m starting to see why Milo keeps a cat. Though she’s a gremlin just like you…. Were… it’s nice having a reminder of you.. But the main reason for today's visit.. It will be the first day I'm spending the night alone back in the house.

Of course, asher is trying to come over. He wants to make sure I eat. As if he could properly cook something. The last thing I'm going to let his ass do is burn the damn cabinets again. Though he’s been the biggest help.

He’s even been getting into fewer arguments with Christian.. However, I feel that's more of them building a good relationship. But I don’t know.. I haven’t been focusing on my alpha duties. I took a break from some of the jobs. Milo and Amanda have been covering for me.

But I know I’ll have to get back to work soon. As much as I wished the world would stop so that I could permanently sit here and cry like I want to. I can’t.. I know I can’t.. I’m an alpha let alone the alpha of one of the strongest packs in Dahlia..

I’ll have to go soon..but I want to say sorry.. I know I wasn’t the best partner.. I was an ass, a prick.. Any name really. It’d probably fit. These words don’t mean much now that you’re gone. But I still needed you to hear them.

But do I remember the things you have taught me. You’ve taught me things I needed to know. Things I’ve needed to grow. Angel, you still teach me things while you're gone. Your cat teaches me things too. I brought her a bed. But she likes to sleep in our bed..

Or well mine now. I think the reason I’ve been so scared to be alone in the house is because we got it together. It was supposed to be our forever home. But without you it’s quiet. And doesn’t feel like home.. Or at least our home anymore.

Your memory haunts the place. Everywhere I go in that house. I get reminded of what I lost… what the world lost. I still remember the nights I had to force you to get off of that damn computer. You did so much for me. And yet I can’t return.. The favor… Angel something I’ve come to realize, as time passes..

Yes, I still think it’s not fair you got taken away. From the people you loved and cared about. Yes, it will be hard to live life without you. But.. what you’ve taught me is things will get better.

I will keep opening up more.. I will keep living. You will never not be on my mind. But your memory has and will make me stronger.. And the pack has my back more than ever.. Sometimes I wonder if that's the influence you had on them..

They most definitely see through my bullshit now. I know that's something you taught them.. You and Ash.. learning to accept you’re gone hurts. It hurts a lot.. But..i know things will get better. Angel.. I love you. And I always will.

David stands, brushing off his jeans and wiping the tears off his face. It was getting late and he needed to get home. His furry friend would be upset if he was late. He took one long look at the gravestone. Forget-me-nots were growing around it. He laughed a little as another tear rolled down his face. And made his way to his car. As got in the car and went to adjust the rearview mirror.

He saw a familiar face.. With a matching smile.

‘’ Good job Davey ‘’

And that moment he couldn’t help but break into tears.. And laughs. His angel would do something like this. Or find a way to do something like this. They’ve always been like that. He started the car and that face stayed for most of the ride. They even had a conversation.. Before he had to say goodbye for the final and last time.

His angel was floating with the angels. And probably telling his mom all about him. As well as gossiping with his dad. Time will heal this wound. But for now, he’s allowed to grieve.

#you can fight me on this one but angel most def has a collection of wolves named after everyone in the pack.#even a memorial for Gabe #redacted audio #redacted David #redacted angel #redacted Gabe #they even have a wolf for sam that they keep locked up all day and let him out during the night #yes this is in the same directive as my sam story idc- it my favourite way to write.#anyways if i feel up too it I'll probly write an inversion piece - but this turned out better than i thought it would #THE FLOWER CHOICE WAS SPECIFIC

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yurislilygarden · 8 months ago

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I saw you were looking for ideas for Vaggie so I thought I might suggest something?

kinda simple but in the show Vaggie is very protective and also lowkey kinda violent. I definitely think she would not trust reader and the only way she would ever get neutral about it would be through Charlie. If the hotel residents ever want to try and contact reader through the screen (I think you mentioned that as a concept once) or do anything regarding contacting reader I definitely think she’d be the least on board. Vaggie would likely be worried about this hurting Charlie especially since reader seemingly just watches them all the time. Plus if the hotel residents even see how Heaven is reacting to this (the whole idea of reader being like gods sibling or whatever) Vaggie really would hate it even more just cause she hates heaven and it’s principles. Basically she’d be pissed, Charlie would have to convince her to be neutral, she’d worry about reader hurting Charlie or the other hotel residents, and she’d hate the idea of someone watching them suffer (I feel like she’d be initially on team “watching for fun” but after talking with Charlie she might be convinced to be on team “forced to watch”). A lot of Vaggie is going to rely on how Charlie is about it.

sorry this was kinda long and I hope it makes sense

Don't worry anon, it all makes sense <3

The thing with her being unable to trust reader and going anywhere neutral because of Charlie is one of the only things I have written down.💀 She'd be indeed the last on board if the hotel people decided to try and contact the reader in any way (I'm pretty sure that I did mention contacting through screen once if I remember correctly, but I need to go through all he asks again anyway (planning on adding a tag to make them easier to find)). Vaggie would be so against most stuff regarding reader due to being worried about Charlie (and others but they don't need to know shh)

No one should tell her about the heaven ideas in the negative stage because otherwise getting her to neutral would be so goddamn hard (it would nearly throw her back to the negative about reader zone when she finds out about it when being neutral).😭

I also think she would be initially on the team that thinks that reader watches them (suffer) for fun but with Charlie's (and a little bit of the others opinions) she will EVENTUALLY get to the mindset of thinking that reader simply watches out of curiosity and doesn't mean much harm. (She would at one point get to the 'maybe they can't do anything besides watch but I'm still gonna be on guard because what if they can do something else' team lmao)

#THANK YOU SM ANON <333 #gonna include quite a lot of this into her part I think #i'll see once I get to writing later today #but yeah most likely most of this is landing somewhere in there #gonna have a bit more written for her lets gooo #i want part 3 to be out somewhere next week (since it's Sunday) and I may actually succeed if I won't be busy (which I shouldn't)#˚⊱lily answers⊰˚#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x y/n #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin #hazbin hotel #self aware hazbin hotel #self aware au #sahha #≽❀Flower's answer❀≼

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threerattsinatrenchcoat · 8 months ago

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Snippet Swedsnesday!

I was tagged by @graysparrowao3 .

No pressure tags: @aviatorasharak @beesht

Today I'll bring snippets from a fic that I think should have way more love and a WIP

I'll Write to You in Flowers

Lae'zel quietly watched him tie individual bundles of clippings and arrange them in the larger one. "Which is me?"

"This." He pointed to it. One long stalk of proud red plumes, several inverted stalks of compact buds, and a collection of delicate, star-shaped flowers. Lae'zel's assessment was correct; they only suited each other in meaning.

Lae'zel's lip curled into a sneer. "Showy. I am not showy."

"That is a gladiolus. A noble flower. It symbolizes integrity, strength, victory and loyalty."

Her face softened. "Accurate. What of the rest?"

"Borage. Symbolizes bluntness. Directness."

The sneer was definitely a smile now. "And the one that is upside down?"

"Lavender."

"It smells… acceptable."

"Lavender, upside down, means trust. And tied with the ribbon on this side, it signifies that this spray represents my feelings towards you."

"You feel you can trust me."

He nodded.

"You will tie it both ways, then," she harrumphed. "What of the rest?"

(You can read more on AO3)

The Moth and the Wasp

(WIP, working title, coming out... one day..?)

A total value of 635g in collectable spoons (to the right bidder) balanced on Mattis's face. Silfy offered another spoon, but just as he got it to catch on his cheek, the door slammed open. A skinny, short tiefling stormed in, mouth twisted into a scowl. One he hadn't seen in months. Ever since she ditched him, Silfy had been the one to handle talking to her.

"Mol!" he grinned, mostly out of habit.

"I've got work for you," she said.

"Oh, now we're good enough to work with?"

"Don't tell me you're still sore about that."

In a fantastic impression of Mol he said, "We're a crew! You're my ride and dies!" Back in his normal he added, "Then you ditched us in Baldur's Gate. Yeah, I'm a little miffed. Perturbed, even."

"It was temporary. I was setting things up in the city. I got you in, didn't I?"

"Alfira got us in. She made me cut my hair! I'd had some of those mats since Elturel! They was my friends, wasn't they?"

Silfy nodded.

"Well, both of you and me, we're friends!" Mol said. "Hells, Mattis, never thought I'd argue with you so much over giving you gold. Triple your current rates, too."

His eyes lit up. The only thing he loved more than gold was Silfy, and some days that was debatable. Gold was power. Gold greased their way into Baldur's Gate and was going to grease their way to legitimacy.

"What's the work?" Silfy asked, notepad ready. Ever since she started hawking papers she got real into writing things down. It was a little scary sometimes.

"Theft. Right up your alley."

"Of what?"

"Need to know if you're in or out, first."

"Theft," Mattis mused. He and Silfy were a whole thieving package, sure, but they hadn't done a theft without Mirkon and Meli. Neither were going to come; Mirkon because he was studying now, and Meli because… because…

Still couldn't think about Meli. Right. Fine. Meli wasn't coming, either, that was the point.

"Need you to do a smaller job, before I bring you on," Mol said. "To be sure you still have skills."

"How much is this paying?"

"Nothing. You get the whole payout at the end. That's why it's three times your rates."

Silfy tore off a sheet of paper and passed it to Mattis, who glanced over it, sucked his teeth and said, "Bad news, Mol. Current rates just went up."

"Mattis—"

Riiip. Silfy passed over another sheet.

"Market's wild right now. Current rates are now double."

"Fine! I'll do your old rates for this job and your new ones for the next. Gods, you two are colossal pains in my arse."

"If you could get anyone else, you would've, we know."

#bg3 fanfic #bg3 wyll #wyll ravengard #bg3 lae'zel #flower language #I'll write to you in flowers #bg3 mol #bg3 mattis #bg3 silfy #the Moth and the wasp

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voidbeau · 3 months ago

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🌿Promises, Promises🌹

---

Thorn x Mr. Flower fic i wrote spontaneously for me. i need.

so sorry if some things don't make sense lmaooo

Mild hurt/comfort, mild angst, some fluff, mentions of blood and injury.

Thorn and Mr. Flower have a conversation about some things.

---

As per usual, when it happened, he hadn't been told much.

Workers in the manor sprinted to and fro and much to Mr. Flower's annoyance, grew hushed whenever he'd draw near.

It was all the same vague answer.

"There was an accident." Said the maid, the nurse and even the bodyguards who were often the ones dragging a half beaten Thorn in from god knows where.

And never did the explanations come with any further details.

So there Mr. Flower stood, in the middle of the foyer, body as tense as his face was stern.

Nurses stood at the ready, quietly and uncomfortably whispering to each other.

It seemed they were called on short notice and they themselves had only been apprised of so much regarding Thorn's recent situation.

Or so Mr. Flower was told, which of course only made him that much more tense.

The gnawing anxiety that made his mind race and his stomach flip were never not the driving force behind Mr. Flower's insistence on trying to get as closely involved as possible and to drag out every detail possible from whoever he could.

Because he knew he wouldn't be getting it from Thorn.

But that wasn't going to stop him from trying and he had a few choice words for the rose man for making poor Mr. Flower worry so often.

The heavy double front doors crashed open almost at the same time the thunder rolled from outside, pulling Mr. Flower from his thoughts.

His eyes widened as he watched the now wide open front entrance intently.

The biting winds cut through the foyer and the heavy rains speckled the cold marble floor of the manor.

There, with either arm draped over the shoulders of two of his bodyguards, Stag and Leo, was Thorn.

He was a mess. Rips in his suit like he'd been attacked by a wild animal, blood dripping from freshly torn wounds, bruises on his face. His neck appeared to be missing a few of his protruding thorns as well.

Mr. Flower winced upon seeing his partner stumbling through the doors as he was.

While Mr. Flower had certainly seen Thorn, Stag and Leo struggling up the driveway, to see Thorn up close was a different matter.

Mr. Flower's ear petals closed up tightly against his head. Simultaneously, Thorn in his half alert state seemed a little startled to see Mr. Flower there with everyone else and Mr. Flower knew it was because Thorn had no intentions of letting Mr. Flower see this.

Much as it irked and confused the floral creature.

As Thorn was being held up by two different people, it was clear Thorn was unsteady for the moment. But he seemed well enough to flash Mr. Flower one of his typical toothy grins.

"Sorry I'm home so late babe, there's a- was an accident." He slurred, before completely slumping over unconscious.

Anything Mr. Flower was about to say was gone. His stomach dropped almost in tandem with Thorn's battered body. His expression had instantly gone from stern to scared.

Wordlessly, Mr. Flower rushed towards Thorn, along with the private nurses who had been notified a little earlier to be on stand by.

Nothing was said in that moment, aside from shortly phrased and direct instructions from the head nurse to promptly get Thorn to the medical wing and start treating his wounds.

It was a bit of a blur from there for Mr. Flower, all he could do was try to keep up. Admittedly he did feel somewhat under foot the entire transition from the foyer to the medical wing, but he didn't want to leave Thorn's side.

For a mercy, it seemed like most people in the manor understood that now. Especially when Mr. Flower was allowed to linger when so many times before he'd always be gently escorted out.

He wasn't sure if it was because the nurses were distracted as things were, or if everyone was aware of the nature of Mr. Flower's involvement with Thorn.

It wasn't exactly a secret, the budding romance that had grown between the two, but it wasn't something that was outwardly broadcasted either.

At least not on Mr. Flower's part. There was never any doubt of interest on Thorn's end and as such, their relationship always held a kind of ambiguity among manor staff.

But of course, folk gossiped.

Mr. Flower sighed, sitting stiffly in a chair in Thorn's room, off to the side but where he could watch the nurses as they worked.

According to one of them, Thorn had lost quite a bit of blood and on top of it was going to need to have some of his wounds stitched shut. But it seemed his private set up here in his own home was well equipped to deal with that.

No doubt that was a detail that was among the many, myiard questions Mr. Flower had for Thorn.

For now though, the rose monster was still very out cold on his hospital bed, hooked up to an IV and carefully patched up.

All that was left was to wait.

And wait Mr. Flower did- Or at least he tried.

It was already late into the night as things were and somewhere along the way, Mr. Flower had drifted off in his seat. But when he had awoken, things had quieted down considerably.

It was just him and Thorn for now, though no doubt someone would be in and out periodically to keep tabs on Thorn's vitals.

Mr. Flower yawned, quietly stretching his arms and legs out in his chair.

He scanned the room for a clock and then patted himself down to see if he had his phone on him.

Thankfully he did, flipping it open to read, "2:33 am".

Seemed Mr. Flower had been out for at least an hour, a fact backed up by the stiffness in his neck which he tried for a moment to fruitlessly massage out with his free hand.

The creature snapped his phone shut, tucking it into his back pocket as he rose to his feet.

His eyes fell upon the still unconscious form of his poor monster.

Mr. Flower approached, with almost careful steps, as if the state Thorn were in were fragile enough to be disturbed by one wrong move.

Mr. Flower knew Thorn better than that of course, but it was still difficult to see him in such bad shape.

It had been one of the worst conditions Thorn had ever come home in since Mr. Flower began working with him months ago. Every time Mr. Flower struggled to extract details from Thorn and every time Mr. Flower was met with insistence that he needn't be so concerned over the incidents.

"It was just a minor scuffle! Don't you worry your pretty little petals over it, alright?" Thorn's voice rang through Mr. Flower's head as he recalled a conversation they had had during the first few weeks of Mr. Flower's employment with Thorn.

"Well these minor scuffles seem to be happening more often. Just this week you've gone through two different vehicles because one was covered in bullet holes and the other was almost completely shredded!" Mr. Flower replied, his voice raised slightly, "it was like a beast had sunk its claws into it! What on earth are you doing out there?" Mr. Flower demanded, arms crossed as he stood before Thorn's desk.

The rose monster scoffed, flashing Mr. Flower an unbothered grin as he shrugged in response.

"What can I say, Void's a wild place." Thorn said, all too casually, reaching into one of the side drawers of his desk and retrieving a pack of smokes.

Mr. Flower was not the least bit amused.

He watched with a frown and knitted brows as Thorn lit a cigarette for himself, taking a long drag as he remained reclined in his large leather office chair, bandaged and bruised for the fourth time in almost a month.

"You'd think by now you'd learn to at least be a bit more careful." Mr. Flower muttered, the intensity of his gaze barely waning.

Thorn's however expression however, did soften from an almost teasing grin to a much more empathetic smile as he happily gazed back at his fiery flower.

"C'mere..." Thorn said, sitting upright in his chair as he beckoned Mr. Flower over.

Mr. Flower hesitated for a moment before he dropped his arms and made his way around Thorn's desk to stand before him.

Without warning, Thorn reached for Mr. Flower's hands, gripping them in his own gloved ones as he looked him in the eyes with such a reassuring smile.

"I promise you love, if it there was anything you needed to be concerned about you'd be the first to know."

That was what he had the gall to tell Mr. Flower all those months prior to this moment, but as Mr. Flower looked on the unconscious Thorn, one hand gripping his other arm nervously, he felt ill.

Whatever was driving Thorn to keep putting himself in these dangerous situations felt like something Mr. Flower should already know about.

"So much for that promise..." Mr. Flower said under his breath, his petals falling slightly just as his shoulders did.

It was late enough as it was, and it seemed to Mr. Flower that Thorn was likely going to stay out for the rest of the night.

Seeing as Mr. Flower was confident the nurses had things in order the tired creature felt he had no further reason to stick around.

Thorn was for the moment safe and that was all Mr. Flower could ask for but, just as he turned to make his exit he felt a firm, warm grip encompass the wrist closest to Thorn's bed.

Mr. Flower's ear petals perked and he jumped slightly, but quickly composed himself as he turned to face Thorn who still lay with his eyes closed.

His chest rose and fell steadily, then expanded in one big inhale as the wound riddled monster took a deep breath, as if he were just waking up from a harmless nap.

Thorn turned his head towards Mr. Flower, his spiral eyes fluttering open and he dared to greet Mr. Flower with such a soft smile.

It was of course, quite irksome for the creature then to find himself responding with such an overwhelming wave of affection and of course, true relief to see the rose monster awake again.

"How long was I out..?" Thorn asked, yawning as he spoke.

So annoyingly casual as usual, but perhaps that was a good thing in this case.

"Couple of hours." Said Mr. Flower. He looked at Thorn's blood bag, roughly a quarter of the way gone. "A nurse will probably be in soon to check in on you."

"Great. What time is it?" Thorn asked, head lolling back onto the bed as his eyes fluttered shut. Drowsy most likely.

"Almost three in the morning." Said Mr. Flower.

A thoughtful and affirming "hm" left Thorn's chest as the hand that rested on Mr. Flower's wrist gently and ever so slightly, worked its way up and down the creature's forearm.

Mr. Flower's ear petals twitched at the warm sensation of Thorn's hand on him. He almost wanted to grab the stupid thing and intertwine those fingers with his own.

But he had his priorities.

"It's late. You should be resting." Thorn mumbled.

Mr. Flower tensed lightly at that. "Can't. Needed to be here to make sure you were okay." He said. His voice still soft, quiet, but there was a subtle bite to the statement.

Thorn's eyes opened again, his hand stopping but still lingering on Mr. Flower's wrist as he met with Mr. Flower's sullen gaze.

Thorn seemed to contemplate something for a moment and for that moment, Mr. Flower braced himself for Thorn to make light of the situation as he normally did.

"I'm sorry." Were the unexpected words to leave Thorn's mouth, leaving Mr. Flower noticeably stunned for a second.

He quirked a brow as if questioning the validity of the simple claim or to wait for some sort of addendum. But nothing of the sort came.

Thorn sighed as a sad half smile brushed across his face and he shrugged somewhat.

"Well don't look so surprised, sweetheart." He said, "Look, I know I put you through a lot, and maybe things seem hard to understand right now, but I promise it'll all make sense." Thorn said, trying to adjust himself in his bed so that he might be able to sit upright, but was impeded by the sudden sharp and searing pain of his wounds.

Thorn grunted in pain and Mr. Flower grimaced along with him, as he sighed and shook his head.

"I don't understand why you can't just tell me what you're doing." He said in exasperation. "Do you not trust me? Have I not been good enough for you in all of this?" He went on, sounding more desperate as he spoke.

Thorn wanted to stop him, but struggled to get his voice out over the pain as he tried to settle back down in his bed.

He was forced to sit and listen, his hand leaving Mr. Flower's wrist to rest on his stomach.

"It's been almost two years since I met you, and almost a year since I started getting involved in your 'work'", Mr. Flower spat, "...but the only thing I've understood is that you don't want to tell me the full story of what it is you're actually doing around here! What is it all for!?" Mr. Flower went on. "And is it really worth all this?" Mr. Flower desperately questioned, motioning to the entirety of Thorn's bruised and tattered form as the rose monster sighed pathetically in place.

Thorn winced, finally finding a comfortable position, then looked up at his angry flower and simply smiled through knitted brows.

"Well, I think you make a lot of things worth it honestly" He said simply, and Mr. Flower's frown deepened.

"Don't. Don't make this out like this is all for me." He said bitingly, shaking his head as he spoke.

A soft breathy single laugh left Thorn's lips as he barely had to think about it.

"In a sense." He said, his gaze wandering to the floor for a bit, "I would have given up a long time ago if I hadn't met you." Said Thorn thoughtfully, fondly even.

Mr. Flower's frown softened and while his crown of petals drooped sadly, his ear petals had perked ever so slightly.

He was already feeling the creeping, annoying defeat crawling up his back as he looked at Thorn, who looked back with sudden unwavering enthusiasm.

"Maybe it was better we never met then." Mr. Flower tried to say, but the horribly optimistic look in his monster's spiral eyes ignited that terrible, comforting warmth inside of Mr. Flower. Like for a second, he could believe that maybe things would be okay.

"Can't really imagine things without you love." Thorn had the gall to say. "And that's why I need you to trust me." He said so boldly, so confidently. That ambition that fuelled Thorn constantly day in and day out was hardly obstructed by the state he was in and by whatever encounter had put him in it.

The way Thorn always looked at Mr. Flower made him wonder if he really was somehow at fault for that awful inextinguishable flame.

"I-... You're not giving me a lot to work with." Mr. Flower sighed, "not when you constantly leave me in the dark and leave me wondering if the next time I'm going to see you is in a body bag." He said with a heavy sigh, crossing his arms as his shoulders fell.

"Ha! you're not getting rid of me that easy." Thorn said as his usual sharp toothed grin returned to him in full.

Mr. Flower took a moment to take it in, feeling some tension leave him as he did. And still...

"I wish I could believe that."

Thorn's grin softened to a warm smile as he reached out for Mr. Flower's hand, who acquiesced after a moment's hesitation, ear petals pulled back yet still fanned out slightly.

"Well sweetheart, I haven't died yet," Thorn said matter-of-factly, "and I promise I have no intentions of dying before my plans are through." He finished with a grin, ending the claim with an assuring squeeze to Mr. Flower's hand.

The creature sighed and allowed himself to give way to a soft smile, still adorned with knitted brows but he smiled all the same. To the best of his ability.

"Fine, but that's a promise." Said Mr. Flower, and as Thorn planted a kiss on his hand he replied, "That's a promise."

Just as their conversation had come to an end, one of the nurses entered the room, her heels clicking steadily against the tile floor.

She came to an abrupt and slightly startled halt when she saw Mr. Flower with a very awake and seemingly alert Thorn.

"Oh-! I hope I'm not interrupting." She said, her eyes flicking between the two lovers. "I just came in to check up on things.

"Oh of course. I was just leaving." Mr. Flower said with a polite smile.

"It's probably for the best. It's late and you should get some rest." Thorn added, "I'll see you in the morning?" He went onto question, still holding onto Mr. Flower's hand, caressing it with his thumb.

"Yeah, of course. Good night." He said gently, giving Thorn one last affectionate gaze. But Thorn wasn't entirely satisfied with that, not until he abruptly pulled Mr. Flower forward and down enough for a quick kiss and a quiet "I love you" between them, knowing Mr. Flower wasn't always the fondest of open displays of affection.

So Thorn kept it brief and chuckled a little when he watched his flower exit the room a little bit flustered as the border collie nurse looked on with a stoic face but a wagging tail.

No doubt she'd have a lot to tell the other nurses later.

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