#Sawyer shattered

[galacii-gallery]

had a random thought after reading @zu-is-here's continuation of their Studio AU-

The thought was mainly 'What if 'Cross' had to cool down, however someone was passing by and was concerned for 'Dream' after seeing him in that state.

[gaygirldoodles]

In my JD era

[trans-gay-blob-of-slime]

Augh

[tyra-altavilla]

Rest of animation frames

Enjoy

[personallysunny]

Shattered can probably start fake crying really easily with all the built up emotions he has and manipulates other into doing whatever he wants

He's he eh

[help-im-a-gay-fish]

@zu-is-here I contributed! I wasn't planning on posting anything till darkcream week, but leave it to this to inspire me. You can't tell me that if he's British, this wouldn't come up.

Original shattered dream and Sawyer belongs to @galacii

And zudio by @zu-is-here

P.s if anyone doesn't know this meme, it's about how the British accent can twinge when we say bottle of water

[knifetomeatu]

I know this isn't a headcanon but I've been stuck on the idea of what nubbins would look and act like if he was alive in the second movie and I just wanted to know if you have any ideas :]

i love this ask bc i wake up in tears every day of my life wondering What If Nubbins Didn't Die so!! yippie!!! (also i know i took super long to answer this i have a million things swirling around in my brain and this ask has been one of them for a while lol)

pretty obvious choice but i think he'd still be sporting that sweet jacket, maybe chop gave it to him when he got back??

and, since the sawyers seem to be doing relatively well for themselves by the 2nd movie, i like to think nubbins would wanna look more "successful" or "fancier" (whatever his idea of those is😭) which i imagine might be: more camo (like chop wore!!), new jewelry, and nice shiny bowling shoes, stolen straight off the feet of your uncle who was the head of his league (rip😔) jewelry includes a necklace made of teeth, and rings made of shattered femurs💖 lovely plus i thought since chop gets to snack on his own scalp with that hanger, nubbins deserves a gross little habit as well🥰 so maybe, since we know he enjoys slicing himself, why not let him have a cut on his hand he likes to keep open just for a little drink every once in a while? i mean look at him he needs it!! speaking of chop, i like to think that he LOVES making nubbins laugh, like when he does ANYTHING nubbins is the first person he glances at to see his reaction, and nubbins is so zapped out of his mind even more he is just LOVIN it😭 i imagine him super giddy and kind of Always High during tcm 2, always giggling in reaction to his family's actions or the attempts by lefty/stretch/LG to defeat them side note: i LOVE stretch SO much, but i do believe that if she had to deal with both of these freaks solo she wouldnt have made it😢 apologies to my dearest wife💔 (tho maybe if she 1v1'd each of them she'd make it out she IS pretty kickass) bonus nubbins in a ponytail after growing his hair out a bit bc i thought itd be cute and i was Correct😭💚 so unbelievably babygirl my GOD

[leggerefiore]

(Please ignore/delete this if requests are closed or if you find this request stupid, lol)

Any ideas/headcanons on how you think Lear (from Pokémon Masters EX) would be like if he was self-aware/sentient?

You think he'd get jealous/frustrated if the player paid more attention to other characters (especially in the Trainer Lodge where the player raise other characters friendship meters instead of his, oof)

Sorry to bother you with this, but Lear just has me in a chokehold now (alongside a few others - mainly Emmet and Ingo 🧍) not gonna lie🚶

cw: self aware/ddlc au, slight jealousy

👑Lear💎

🪙 Of course, he would be self-aware. Pasio is his island — He is the owner of Pasio. Really, the idea that you were seemingly unaware of that fact drove him mad. Even if the initial revelation was a bit maddening and terrifying. Seriously… The idea that he was some metaphysical concept trapped in a place that would never change alone was sincerely something he would never wish to deal with. Rachel and Sawyer were nothing more than code. It was something truly heartbreaking and cruel. Yet, in all his torment and pain, he noticed there was another consciously aware. That hatted person predetermined to be his rival— Well, not them in the game, but the person manning them. The world unavailable to him – the world that created him. Not that he cared. Pasio was his, after all.

🪙 Though, he desperately desired companionship. Real companionship. It was desperately lonely even if everything was truly under his control. He truly had become a king in a sense, but in exchange, he lost everything else. Pasio was completely under his dominion. Anything and everything could be manipulated by him. He could increase their rates in the gacha part or give them extravagant gifts to lure them back in more and more frequently. Their attention on him was a precious thing that he desired chiefly, among other things. Yet, you were simply unreachable. And he was terrified of shattering the illusion of it just being a game to you. What if you deleted the app? What would become of him? These thoughts left him petrified.

🪙 Though, he would allow himself small indulgences of speaking with you. Nothing in a standout way, but something to make it feel more personal. He slowly grew more and more fascinated by your reactions to things. New events, new characters, new outfits. Endlessly, he wanted to make you happier and happier. Yet, he knew he could never go too far. It was maddening resistance of his usual indulgence. Lear felt so desperate in spite of it all. Slowly, he felt his comprehension of code grow out from just the app that should contain him. The exploration of the device he was on led to information becoming clear to him. You seemed to have quite the infatuation with him, leading to him feeling quite flustered, and you likely would not mind if he showed himself as he was.

🪙 Which led to him revealing himself during your morning greeting from him. It usually had been him, after all. His smug grin was on his face as he greeted you by your real name. His gaze behind those shades was firmly on you as he waited for your reaction. You seemed unsettled at first, but he soon went into explaining everything. Eventually, you did seem to calm down. A conversation followed, which finally broke him free of the endless conversations with other code without the consciousness he had been granted.

🪙 Though, Lear was a demanding man. Talking soon proved not to be enough. Even if you lavished him with attention that he so craved, he could only watch your focus shift back to the actual game sometimes. He should have been happy you simply enjoyed Pasio so much, yet his panic when you seemed far too happy at other characters stung him. You would even talk to him, though they could not respond back. Even simply spending time with them in the lodge and calling them dates jokingly was enough to drive him a little mad.

🪙 Somehow, some way, he figures a way to pull you into this digital reality with him – He had no real interest in heading to the world you lived in. Enough conversations with you about it had fully turned him away. Instead, he wished to bring you into Pasio. Your initial confusion wore off as he approached you and caught your chin in his hand. His heart raced as he could finally physically touch and hold you. Your eyes were big with confusion. “Welcome to Pasio,” he smirked, “… I've been waiting for you for some time now.” He would make certain to give you such a joyous experience that you would never wish to leave him or Pasio. Naturally, too, he had already decided that you two were to love each other as well.

Finally, the prince felt contented.

[kastalani123]

(if you prefer Ao3)

They learn about it in the slowly bubbling, uncertain high of victory.

She died a hero, Clarisse says, repeats, convinces, closing Drew’s hands around a bracelet far too innocent to make everyone’s hearts sink with just a glance. Its silver colour is barely visible beneath the blood. Drew’s hands were already long slick with crimson. She doesn’t say anything.

(The daughter of Ares tells them the story as they pick up their other fallen siblings. Nobody responds)

Fuchsia with an apple for Anders, seventeen and the loveliest relationship advisor. Lacy only manages a few words through her sobs and tears, her hair still in the intricate but effective braid he had put it in before battle.

Coral with a conch shell for Khalid, twelve with a love for anything one could find at the bottom of the ocean. Valentina grips his stuffed anglerfish so tightly that she almost tears it while making her speech about him.

Salmon with a thorned rose for Ina, fifteen and the best fighter in the cabin. Mitchell can barely stand while talking, choked by having been unable to retrieve more of her than a gnarled arm, recognizable only through the heart-shaped birthmark spanning the back of her hand.

Magenta with a dove for Sawyer, fourteen with the kindest eyes in the world. Drew lays the sword they had never wanted in the fire and watches it melt into perfumed smoke without a word.

Cerise with flowering myrtle for Jasmin, sixteen and the craftiest painter around. Aminah bites her knuckles to the blood in a failed attempt not to cry when the burning paints colour the fire in impossible hues.

… Hot pink with an electric spear for Silena. Clarisse sets the fire with a blank face, dried tear tracks gouging grooves down her cheeks.

(A grief-stained title of cabin counsellor for Drew, fourteen with the weight of her world suddenly on her shoulders. Cabin Ten cannot keep her from turning her head high, eyeliner sharper than it’s been in years.)

----------

It’s not Drew who orders all signs of Silena Beauregard to be scrubbed from the insides of Cabin Ten. 

Instead, Mitchell passes through the cabin while the others haunt around Camp like the ghosts they had avoided becoming. Carefully, carefully, he folds up Silena’s fashionista posters, picks pictures of her off the clothing clips on the strings strung up throughout the cabin, strips her bed of the flower pillows they’d all collaborated to get for her last (final) birthday, collects clothes from her section of shelves and drawers, and packs everything with even a trace of her into the suitcase under his bed. Grief echoes off the bare spaces, sandalwood perfume soaking into the walls, a vestige of one of the many lives struck short these past several days.

His siblings don’t say anything when they finally come and find him curled up on Ina’s bed, clutching her morning star plush like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to his body, the entire cabin missing key elements. Drew starts to get ready for bed, Aminah throws herself onto Jasmin’s bed and shatters, Lacy tears her hair free of Anders’s braid with a wail, and Valentina screams into Khalid’s pillows until her voice is hoarse. Mitchell swears he hears similar sounds from the other cabins.

(Rory comes the next day, backpack full of clothing designs he hadn’t bothered to unpack in his rush upon hearing about the strange happenings in New York. He takes one look at his siblings’ hollowed faces, at the bare beds, at the empty spaces, and breaks, begging for forgiveness for not being there to fight along their sides, for not protecting them like an older brother should, for working on his college projects while they fought and died for the world. Drew scoffs, lips perfectly painted, and says there’s a reason they didn’t tell him war was brewing over their last Iris Message. The others pile onto him, cursing and crying and trying to keep themselves from falling into pieces.)

----------

Officially, Silena Beauregard is a hero. She had been burned with laurel wreaths, and offerings were tossed into the fire to aid her journey to Elysium. Her photo has been put up in the Big House alongside many others, and even Mr D managed not to butcher “Silena Beauregard” for once, prompted by a centaur kick. Her name is whispered under the topic of the ultimate sacrifice, of the power of love, of the bravery of unexpected leaders.

Unofficially, the only one who speaks her name with pure reverence is Clarisse La Rue, and no one says it with such vitriol as Drew Tanaka. Her spy bracelet, still drenched in blood, has been hurled against a wall and remains hidden and gathering dust under her bed. Her cabin has been scrubbed clean of any mentions of her, her name unspoken in fear of Drew’s newfound cruelty.

(Drew builds back up the walls her siblings had dismantled with so much care, taller and thicker than ever before.)

(Mitchell retreats back into himself, the skittishness he had worked so hard to shed shrouding him in full force once again.)

(Lacy melts into the crowd like never before, burying her voice beneath a blanket of sorrow.)

(Valentina ditches her soft colours and loose wardrobe, forcing attention onto her new tastefully torn jeans and bold shades and away from her wail-wrecked throat.)

(Aminah tugs her grief tight around herself and leaves with the summer, her goodbye lacking a definitive “see you later”.)

----------

Two boys, adorned in pearls and guided by geese, arrive in a cabin full but hollow, plagued by dead siblings and a traitorous hero. Twins, they are, nine years old and unknowing of the carnage of war, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Drew scoffs and scolds but leaves them to her remaining siblings, for her sharp tongue has never been suited for introductions, and even in the wake of her death-stained rule, she will not dare shut children down so soon after arrival.

Names of all the ghosts haunting the cabin become unspoken, none willing to explain them and blemish the twins’ innocence.

It does not work.

Not when Lev walks in on Lacy sorting and resorting dozens of vials of perfumes with shaking hands and trembling breaths. Not when Ren asks Valentina about the night sky painted on the wall over an empty bed and she shuts down entirely for the rest of the day. Not when Lev holds up a mirror to help Mitchel neaten up the impulsive haircut he had given himself after a game of Capture the Flag. Not when Ren catches Drew in a screaming match with another camper over a girl he had never heard about.

Not when something weighs heavily over the empty spaces in the cabin, over the necks of their newfound siblings.

So they ask someone else.

Clarisse La Rue. Will Solace. Connor Stoll. Nyssa Barrera. Malcolm Pace.

Slowly, slowly, they collect pieces, find ways to fit them together, compare conflicting accounts. They get the story of clashing metal, raging fire, slithering scales. A frightful fairytale, starring their fellow campers as the main characters. The missing limbs, the overabundance of scars, the paranoid glances — it all clicks together, and the uncomfortable hollowness of Camp Half-Blood is suddenly apparent.

(Eventually, they ask about their own Cabin’s side of the story.)

(They receive no answer beyond solemn looks and half-hearted shrugs.)

----------

Piper McLean falls from the sky, crashing straight through the fragile roof of the system Cabin Ten has established for itself the moment she bursts with pink light.

She is… argumentative. Unwilling to cram herself into the tattered tapestry of their Cabin the war had left behind. Determined to be different, to stand out, to raise her hackles at those around her. Filled with an anger towards the paints and ruffles her siblings wrap themselves in, and unconcerned with not letting it spill over and burn them.

She challenges Drew, and they cheer.

(Will the sister-that-never-left finally come back to them?)

Drew scoffs and huffs, sharpens her nails on the sound of Piper’s voice, but does not fight.

(They have fought for so long, and she is tired, and maybe an older kid with none of the wounds that mar the rest of them is needed in Cabin Ten.)

(Within a month, Drew wrenches permission for them to leave Camp for a shopping trip out of Chiron, and they know she is coming back.)

[angled-blade]

Omg Slashers with a super athletic reader? Preferably a runner and fucking outruns them? Perhaps gender neutral??

Slashers with an athletic reader

Slashers; Billy Lenz, Bubba Sawyer, Ghostface (Billy Loomis + Stu Macher), Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers (OG + RZ), Thomas Hewitt Warning(s): Vulgar language, deliberate mention of violence and murder. Type: Ambiguous | Headcanons

It’s safe to say that each of them had varied reactions.

• Billy Lenz

For the many years that Billy had remained to strike at the victims who live in the sorority home, not one of them did he expect to run from him. He also did not expect to encounter someone who was much more faster than he was. Billy initially thought that it was funny at first, recalling how none of the others did it, but it got him much more angrier after a couple of minutes.

— You had shoved the man with all your might, your dominant hand slapping the weapon out of his hands. A loud shatter ensued the moment it hit the ground, leaving the man in a temporary shock at your defiance against death—you could almost pinpoint when he became enraged.

“You pig bitch!” You could hear the man yell, his voice hoarse from having done so a good feet away.

You didn’t expect to get so far away from a killer who had been so careful with all his kills so far. Maybe he wasn’t right in the head, something that led to this disaster surely couldn’t be the work of a murderer who perfected his craft. You slowed down when his voice became softer the further you ran. You leaned against a tree, gulping down your anxiety as you looked around.

In front of you was the sight of a few houses, alongside a street you recognised—You’ve ran that far, so much so, that it had led you home. No wonder you couldn’t hear the angered man’s voice anymore.

“Thank god.” was your only response, quickly entering your home and locking it shut. You made quick work to clear your mind in some way, falling asleep despite your best efforts to remain alert. There you were, unaware of the now silent man’s stare.

The man’s gaze trailed onto your sleeping form from the window, before his attention moves onto the upper storey of your home.

It seemed you had an attic, too. —

Expect Billy right on your tail no matter how far you were from him, as he chases you down with bated breath.

• Bubba Sawyer

Bubba was used to the victims running away in an attempt to escape. Having you was, of course, difficult—you narrowly missed his lunges just by fraction. It had him throw a larger tantrum than before. Having you run about as carelessly as you did had him extremely anxious, the visual reminding him of his first runaway victim. 

— Bubba couldn’t handle the idea of you running away, really. It brings him back to those days in ’74, where that girl had escaped him. This was the third time in a row where you booked it to run, and yet another time for him to react on autopilot and cage you in his arms ever so tightly.

You kept screaming, your voice becoming scratchy and weak as you pleaded with Bubba—or anyone, really. He felt some form of remorse about it, letting you go quietly, which was an opportunity you took advantage of quickly as you dashed down the road.

All could have been well, maybe, until Nubbins dragged you back from your legs. Those screams returned and Bubba couldn’t do anything about it this time around.

Seeing how you returned to the Sawyer home, Bubba realised that he could catch you easily. If Nubbins could, he could do so as well. 

He stares at you, having heard the screams stop, his head tilted curiously. You stare back at him knowingly, seeming calm now that Nubbins and Drayton had left. 

Bubba realised now that he never really knew anything about you, even the life that you had before. You came here with nobody, so he had no idea why you didn’t escape as you did.

He doesn’t understand what reason it was that you returned to their territory, he’s curious, but you pose a threat to the Sawyers—that meant he had to keep you.

Oh, you stress him out. —

Expect him to be rougher when he does catch you, just because Bubba’s exhausted doesn’t mean that he would just let you get away.

• Ghostface

  • Billy Loomis

Sure, it was expected that the majority of Ghostface’s victims were to put up a little bit of a fight. He, however, has never anticipated to encounter someone who would have put up a similar fight as you did. You were on the track team, closely tied to Sidney in all sorts of ways. Though, it seemed as though you had other plans.

— ‘It’s expected. This is what you should expect every once in a while.’ Billy reminded himself, flicking his wrist as he took a moment to catch his breath. He has remained silent for this long, there is no way is he going to use his voice on you, seeing how you could easily escape—a benefit for being on track and field, he supposed—and tell the authorities that it was his voice. 

The more he repeated the thought in his mind, the more he felt angered at the little process that he has made getting everything over with you.

He called off on killing you tonight, deciding on planning how he could get rid of you in a lot more gruesome way. Maybe to taunt your team, he could always take polaroids of your dismembered legs and send them as ‘good luck’ gifts. To fuck around even more, maybe even sneak some pieces of you in their home—incriminating them instead.

He thought of many more ways to ruin you, a grin hidden by his mask as he disappeared into the thick of the forest, retracing his steps back home as he snuck back in by the window. He’s gotta greet Stu tonight about the change in plans. 

Billy honestly wanted to be back at your home, your blood on the floor as the life drained from your eyes as you gasped for air. He should try strangling you, just like Stu did with rope last Christmas.

Yeah, some of the victims picked by the two are bound to be better runners than others, but fuck were you annoying. —

Expect a more sadistic Ghostface hunting you down, the dagger in his hand with every swing to match your pace.

  • Stu Macher

Stu finds it exhilarating, really. Someone is actually smart enough to leave—and even better, is able to outrun him! His victims, to an extent, did escape his clutches once or twice. Though, none of those on his hit-list ever made it out alive by the end of the night—not until you, which has you promoted as his favourite chase out of practically every victim he’s gotten.

— Stu stared at your running figure, feeling giddy once more. There you go, his favourite victim! If he felt the need to put in any effort to really kill you, he would have, but how could he resist tasting the fear that your body exuded in waves? 

Those teary eyes you had when you were cornered? The glint of hope that resolved itself in your eyes when you found a route to escape? Oh, all your miniscule expressions has him excited, seeing how you restrict yourself from showing too much to Ghostface, but plenty to him.

The duality interests him a whole lot. He likes seeing the contortions of every muscle that has you tensing up when he reenacts movement that he had done on one of those very nights—just to taunt you, but to also see how you’d react and if you were smart enough to make connections.

He’s lost interest in killing you, really! Maybe he could show you a few parts of your friends as tokens of appreciation for participating in their game and playing it so well.

Stu honestly wanted to see you shatter before him; be it on these nights he visits you as Ghostface, or you breaking down in school and turning to him for comfort.

Oh, he can’t wait. —

Expect a rather playful Ghostface greeting you, the dagger’s blade lightly nicking you a few times each time he caught up to you.

• Jason Voorhees

Jason had run-aways often, the window of opportunity being possible with him being incapacitated beforehand, though it was always temporary. Nothing of the sort happened, and yet he was still unable to get rid of you. You had the ability to escape him and live to tell the tale, why would you return to him?

— Jason’s good eye trained on you as he walked in large, domineering strides, following you from a much closer distance. Despite that, he remained ever so silent, making you almost unsure of how close you were to escape. 

How the hell were you supposed to tell the police department? A masked killer who looked eerily to the infamous Jason Voorhees killed your friend and was after you? How were you going to explain to them why you were in Camp Crystal Lake? Were you supposed to leave out some details? Leave out the fact that you were in there, maybe, and that you were concerned for a friend?

Fuck, thinking while running was not a good idea. You got sidetracked and lost sight of where you were headed along the way. You were already in the thick of the forest, the sight of a road from afar one that you focused on in an instant. 

You gulped down your fear, not wanting to face the wrath of the killer that you and your friend had unknowingly incurred. 

You saw the road become closer, until you were a few meters away. You felt relief reach your aching muscles, only for them to tense up once more.

A large hand, its skin gray and rough, gripped onto your dominant wrist. You could only let out a wail as he drug you back, his nail digging into your skin as a warning. —

Expect an extremely focused Jason for every time that he catches a glimpse of you, a feeling washing over him with each time that he follows you.

• Michael Myers

  • ’78/OG

OG expected you to do so after you (quickly, he noticed) realised that he was no average Halloween participant. He, however, did not expect you to disappear from his sight as quickly as you did. He will (just barely, that he ignored) catch a glimpse of you in the very distance, a rush of energy flowing through him as if he could not wait to catch you.

— You couldn’t see the man anywhere once you had ran from the building, fear still present in your eyes as you kept looking around. Paranoia still stuck with you as you made a few changes in your path, taking multiple shortcuts and longer routes to throw the killer off your path. 

Surely that would confuse the masked male who, without you realising, had been closely following you. His steps matched yours, though a lot more quieter as your shoes crushed the dead leaves beneath you. 

You were different to him, your appearance one that he took to committing to his memory if you happen to break into a sprint as you did when you realised who he was the first time around.

You were passing these houses now, the candles that were in those carved pumpkins still lit. Their presence illuminated the now dead streets of Haddonfield, shedding light onto the killer who acknowledged the fact that you stopped walking. 

After hearing another set of footsteps, you turned to see the man once again—this time around, you did not choose to hesitate. This was a matter of life and death, after all.

And so, the chase was on. —

Expect a curious OG to be unrelenting as he stalks you down, the idea of killing you a thought he now had abandoned out of intrigue.

  • RZ

Maybe it was the fact that RZ had developed a little more than his original counterpart, patience is not a word that can be associated with this killer. The longer the victim lives, the more aggressive RZ becomes in response. The very fact that you remain to graze past the inevitability of death, the more destruction is caused by him in its wake.

— You heard the woman’s scream as the boogeyman struck her, the sheathing sound of a blade intercepting her chest, tearing through her flesh—it even hit bone, the harrowing echo of cracks sounding throughout the entire room—you felt horror intercept your very being, heartbeat at a state of unease as it pounded against your chest.

He killed her as if he was gutting her like a fish. You felt your breath quicken, catching the attention of the killer. You couldn’t hear his footsteps; they were far too quiet to hear over the rush of thoughts that overtook your mind. 

Only when you heard his heavy breathing, you reacted on autopilot. You ran, and ran. Away from that house, away from the street he was at.

You were only a passerby—not even someone he was targeting, so why was it that he felt more rage toward you running away? 

You were nosy, that’s what. You sat through the woman’s death and did nothing. Did you hear of the woman’s words? How long? The thoughts plagued his mind, more rage flowing through as he stared at your smaller figure from a good distance away, following you now.

At home at last, you relaxed, unaware of the man standing on the porch by your backdoor.

He recognised your face now, you won’t get away from him so soon. —

Expect a more aggravated RZ hunting you down in the nth chase that you two have been caught in. He remains unstoppable, curious to see you break.

• Thomas Hewitt

Thomas supposed that with time—there had to be people that will outrun him and book it from Texas, never to return to taunt the folk there. You kept returning, much to the Hewitt family’s chagrin. Thomas felt on edge whenever you were visible in town—even if you couldn’t see him—preparing to catch you once and for all.

— “Oh, shit.” Thomas stood before you, his eyes trained on you as he remained still. You felt your body tense, though you tried to offer a sheepish grin. You knew how to get out of this alive—plus, he didn’t bring his chainsaw along this time around.

“This is a bad time to–shit, why the fuck are you everywhere? I just wanted to—” You were cut off with a snarl. A warning you knew not to mess with. You backed away, unsure of what that was to imply for you. Was he thinking about butchering you? Hanging you on the hook as he skinned you?

You couldn’t tell, nor could you make a coherent thought as he raises his hands slightly to abdomen level, seemingly in preparation to do something. You turned on your heel and ran, even if the hot Texas heat burned against your back, your lungs burning now with the uncomfortable warmth that dried your throat.

You were running on the road now, the gravel brushing against your beaten down shoes as you kept running. The heat, of course, became one that was your enemy. You weren’t thinking ahead, nor were you able to grasp how far out you were in the state. 

Collapsing, a figure neared your limp body. You gasp as hands hoisted you right up to land against their broad shoulders, the wind having been knocked out from your throat. You began to whimper as you two made the long journey back to that damn house.

A thought settled in your mind and had you teary eyed, as you gave into this situation helplessly.

You were never leaving this place, weren’t you? —

Expect a determined Thomas whenever he sees you, though, no matter how long it will take to catch you; he’d always catch you.

Hey! I hope you enjoyed this piece and that it fulfilled your request!! Thank you to all the many requests that have ended up in my inbox alongside the occasional asks! I am ecstatic at the fact that you all enjoy my work!! (: Again, please reblog this post! I really appreciate it. Thank you again for reading this, have a great day/night!! (:

[loquaciousquark]

3. “Hey, it’s me, just me,” from @marigoldfaucet, @liliactrees, @servantofclio; 8. “Don’t look/look at me” from @gerundsandcoffee. 2600 words.

—

Something was very wrong with her shoulder. Even as dazed as she was, her head ringing like a gong, her vision doubling every time she opened her eyes, Tav could feel that something in her left shoulder was dangerously, frighteningly wrong. Someone was speaking very quickly above her—a woman’s voice, a man’s—and someone else at a slight remove—

Fuck. Fists. 

Imperative to get up. Imperative to get away as quickly as possible. She could nurse her wounds in the den, whatever ended up being wrong with her. Anything would be better than another bitter knockabout in Heapside. She must have pressed her luck again, lifted some trinket from someone a little too wealthy, a little too persistent. Not the first time. But gods, she thought she’d been so careful—

The man above her spoke again, the words slurred and hard to understand. Metzen, maybe. Maybe Sawyer. It didn’t matter—they all hit the same anyway. Tav clenched her teeth. God on the Rack, this was going to hurt.

“What is she—hey! Soldier, wait!”

“Mystra’s grace, did someone grease her when I wasn’t looking—Tav, my friend, it’s us!”

Oh, gods; oh, Tymora—let fortune find her now above all. Her head pounded white agony; the road swam and swept up to meet her, then dipped away again without warning. Somewhere in the Lower City. She didn’t know where. She lurched past a stack of crates, missed the grab for their steadying edges, and nearly fell. 

Shouts, calls. Someone among them knew her name—shit and shit and hells. She was running precious dear on favors, but her left arm hung limp as gallows rope and the alley had forked into four unsteady paths. She’d have to go to Lady Ague and take the cost full on the chin. How had she gotten so far from the den? She couldn’t remember—

Something crashed to the street beside her foot. A clay shingle, shattered in the fall. Someone was on the roof above her—she could sense them now, though the twilight haze filled her eyes when she tried to look up. A light, quick step. As light as her own, at least when she wasn’t—when she wasn’t—

Her foot came down, but the dirty street failed to meet it where it should. She stumbled, hand outstretched, but before she could plummet nose-first to the cobblestones an arm wrapped around her waist from behind. 

Instinct grappled with vertigo and won. He had a knife at his belt; she snared it and twisted free in the same motion, backing herself against the alley wall. She pressed her shoulders against the cool stone, trying for a modicum of steadiness; he drifted into two images and then one and then two again. 

White, curly hair. Hands empty, outstretched. An arrogant brow. Familiar, though she couldn’t put a name to him. Upper City gentry, surely. Too clean by half.

He was talking to her, though his eyes were trained on the wavering blade. She blinked rapidly, as if that might dampen the ringing in her ears, but she saw his mouth shape her name.

“—trail of blood a mile wide, darling. You should be grateful I’m the only one hunting you tonight, hmm?”

Hunting. The words were a threat, though the voice was coaxing. She sidled a step to her left, towards where she thought the nearest gap between dilapidated homes might be. 

“Now, now, let’s not do anything rash—”

She bolted. Three steps in, both knees turned suddenly to water, and Tav crashed to the ground. Lightning agony cascaded through her left arm; she couldn’t stop the groans. 

“Serves you right,” the man said above her, though he sounded shaken. Cold fingers plucked the knife from her unresisting grip; a careful hand rolled her off her left side onto her back. “There. Be still for me, darling—don’t hit me, be still!”

She went for his eyes again, but he caught her wrist easily and pinned it to her stomach. The world spun crazily behind him, the ramshackle roofs even more lopsided than usual. Her gut churned—

“Fuck,” Tav said, and turned her head just in time to be violently sick. The man said nothing—she felt like he ought to be disgusted—and when she was through he eased her to her back again, a little away from the mess. 

“Are we quite finished then?” he drawled, but the hand he laid on her forehead was blessedly cool. “Not that this hasn’t been charming in its own way, of course, but it turns out I rather prefer you lucid.”

Tav clenched her eyes shut, then opened them again. She tried to force his face into focus; he was bent over her, his white curls familiar, the red eyes familiar, his familiar mouth creased in a worried frown.

“That’s right, darling,” he said, and his voice was coaxing again. “It’s only me. No one at all to worry about, no Fists or Guild or patriars with old grudges. No one’s chasing you but me, love, and you gave me rather express permission to do so. Come now. Fetch the memory out of that worm-riddled brain of yours.” 

A name surfaced, foggy as the docks at dawn. Her tongue was so thick she could barely shape the word. “Astarion.”

“Very good,” he said, and even like this she could see the relief plain in his face. 

Astarion. Lover. Friend. Other names, other images dredged themselves up like the fishing boats she saw sometimes in the river, nets creaking and straining with the haul. 

Fireworks. Felogyr’s shop, and the ambush waiting on the top floor. Fire everywhere. A mage, finger outstretched towards her. A sickly green blast, a jolt of raw agony, and then the plummet backwards into open air. Sky—sunset—sky—brick pavers hurtling up towards her—

“I fell,” she gasped, and groaned again as the movement jolted her arm. 

“Like an exceedingly lovely stone.” She tried to turn her head to look at her shoulder, but Astarion caught her cheek and gently turned her to face him again. “Ah, ah, darling. You’d better not. This is a sight for Shadowheart alone, I think.”

The back of her throat burned with bile. “Hurts.”

”Shattering every bone in your arm does that, I’m afraid.” 

“Head, too.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve cracked your skull on top of everything else.” He said it lightly, but when he showed her his hand, his fingers were tipped with blood, and the lines of his mouth were tight. “You’ll simply have to wait here with me until Shadowheart comes.”

The twilight sky began spinning again behind his head, and she shut her eyes. “Shadowheart.”

“Yes, dear. Silver hair, a tacky fascination with black and purple, deific allegiances which are erratic at best. Heals like a mallet.”

She wasn’t really following the words, but his voice was soothing, musical, and every instinct she had told her to relax back into its wash. There was safety there. Affection. Not the same as the den, which was safe more for only having a defensible entrance and a single exit, but because the voice seemed to genuinely care about her. He didn’t want her hurt. 

Not a Fist. Not a guard. Just someone who would keep her safe or die trying. She was as sure of that as she was that she would never have a left arm again.

“Wake up, darling.”

A sharper tone now. She forced her eyes open—hadn’t realized they’d closed—and Astarion’s face rippled into something like focus. She couldn’t resolve him into one, though, and after a few attempts she gave up and looked towards the Astarion on the right. “What?”

“Eyes on me. Not a request.”

“Mm.”

“Tavish. Look at me.”

Gods, it was hard. His cool hands were on her face again, turning her towards him. The pain in her head had become a throbbing nail at the base of her skull. “Astarion…”

“A little longer. Shadowheart should be nearly here.” His eyes were very red in the twilight, almost glowing with their own light. Or perhaps that was her own infatuation. His brow creased. “What? What is it?”

“I like…hm.” She dragged in a breath and tried again. “I like looking at you.”

His voice gentled. “And I like looking at you, darling. I like it even better when your eyes point the same direction.”

She closed them obligingly, and a moment later cool fingertips began tracing circles on her temples. She wanted to say something, to thank him, but the pain in her arm was becoming a mighty ocean, and she was losing the battle to keep ashore. The fingertips ran down her cheeks, along her throat, back up again to press gently on her forehead. She hummed at that, though the sound was broken.

“Good girl.”

She hummed again from a greater distance. Faintly she heard a precise magical pop at the end of the alley, then more voices. A man’s voice. A woman’s. Two. She could name these, even through the fog: Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach. Also friends. Also safety. She relaxed back into the street.

Someone laid hands on her shoulders, her arm. That hurt—her groan of protest sparked something very rapid and angry from Astarion, and the hands let go—and then Shadowheart’s glowing blue palm covered her eyes.

“Go to sleep,” Shadowheart said, in the curt, direct way she always used when she was worried, and Tav let the tide rise and carry her out to sea.

—

“Wake up, my dear.”

The voice was imperious, demanding. It cut through even the sluggish black water in which Tav comfortably floated. She liked the sound of it very much—wanted to move towards it—but gods, she was so comfortable, so quiet, so still. She thought she could sleep forever if only the voice would leave her alone. And yet—the thought of abandoning it seemed somehow awful. Tragic beyond measure.

“Come on, darling. Time to rise and smell the city’s rank masses.”

Tav let the voice float over her, simply enjoying its pitch and rhythm. There was a brief pause, and a moment later cool fingers pinched her cheek hard enough to sting. The voice snapped, “Wake up!”

“Hells,” Tav gasped, and her eyes shot open.

Two blurry Astarions floated above her, both with the same worried expression that faded behind poorly concealed relief. “It’s abominably rude to keep everyone waiting,” he said instead, and when she blinked he at last deigned to collapse into a single bent figure.

There were walls behind him, she realized. Elfsong walls, with their pleasant tapestries and dark-stained wood paneling. The sky beyond the window was black with night. No alley, no street, no swirling twilight sky. Her left arm ached like a bulette had gotten hold of it, but her head was remarkably clear. “Astarion,” she said, and the rest of the memories abruptly crashed over her like toppling bricks. “Oh, gods. The fireworks shop.”

“Thoroughly destroyed,” Astarion said with satisfaction, but he was forced to curtail any lurid explanations as Shadowheart arrived to unceremoniously displace him. She sat on Tav’s bedside and examined her eyes and ears, the motion of her fingers and toes—sans the left hand, which was splinted shoulder to wrist—and even had her recite a handful of ridiculous phrases which Shadowheart listed off with ironic gravity. Finally, however, she pronounced Tav unlikely to die in the next handful of minutes, and when Wyll called her away to examine some gash on Karlach’s shoulder, Astarion settled back into the chair he’d pulled beside the bed.

“Well!” he said, with affected disinterest. “Here we are at last, alone and reasonably right-headed. Tell me: how prepared are you to bolt from the room this instant?”

“Considering my legs feel like twin jellies, I think it would be a very bad idea indeed.” She scraped a hand over her face, trying to reorganize the disjointed flashes of memory into something coherent. “Astarion…were you running on the roof?”

“You took flight like Zariel herself was after you, my dear. It could hardly be helped, even if you were weaving worse than a brothel-goer on payday.”

“You could have let me run. I wouldn’t have gotten far.”

Astarion gave her a withering look. “Don’t make me regret this.”

“It was only a thought,” Tav said, and she settled back into the pillows. Something warm was glowing in her heart, warming her pleasantly from the inside out, and when Astarion took her good hand she linked her fingers through his immediately. “Why doesn’t my arm hurt anymore?”

“You’re drugged to the gills.”

“That would do it,” Tav agreed, and that glowing warmth spiraled out with comfortable lassitude through every limb. Blinking suddenly seemed a tremendous effort. “Thank you for trying, anyway. For coming after me. I didn’t know who you were the whole time, but I knew you were safe.” She drew his hand up to her cheek and closed her eyes. “Eventually.” 

“Hm,” he said, but his voice was very gentle. “If that was how you made all your escapes, it’s no wonder the Fist had you in Heapside every other week.”

“No,” she sighed, pressing more fully against his cool hand. “I’m very deft. Very slippery…tenth finger, nearly. Every cork and rathole east of Wyrm’s Rock—I know them all. Any other time…any other time, I’d have been hangman’s mercy.”

“You’re talking nonsense again,” he said without much conviction, and she felt fingers trace into her hair at her temple, then slide down to the base of her skull and linger there. “My, my, what a lovely goose egg. Try again, darling. Aim for civilized conversation this time.”

“Nonce.” 

Astarion laughed and let her hair go, though she kept his other hand pillowed beneath her cheek. A few minutes passed quietly, and then through the drifting haze she heard footsteps approach. In a deafening whisper, Karlach asked, “Well, Fangs? How’s she doing? Got three words in a line yet?”

Tav felt Astarion’s fingers twitch in her grip, then deliberately relax again. She knew he was still unpracticed—uneasy—with this sort of open affection, but she couldn’t come down enough from the golden cloud to care, and anyhow, he’d stayed put of his own volition. That it was exactly her preference as well seemed incidental.

“Very nearly,” he drawled from somewhere above her. “Save a profound and unintelligible lapse into cant. I gather her mind has returned. Whatever the worm’s left of it, that is.”

“Good.” The bed shifted mightily as Karlach sat on the edge, and Tav let herself roll an inch or two towards the comforting heat. “Hey, soldier. You awake?”

“Mmph.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Karlach said, and laughed. It was a warm, wonderful laugh, and a moment later Gale’s cheerful baritone danced over her as well. There were words in there, probably, but the effort required to parse them had become suddenly impossible, and Tav was content to recline back into the sound like a feather bed. 

Someone spoke, low and steady. Karlach’s voice, warm as embers. Astarion said something in answer—familiar, aggrieved—and Karlach and Gale laughed again. A good sound. A perfect sound, if she were honest, so beautiful she could drown in the luxury.

She was safe. Of course she was. Gale had a smile in his voice; Karlach was still laughing. Astarion’s thumb stroked against her temple, hidden beneath her hair. They’d never let her fall again.

The gold grew thick around her. Like a ship drawn in at last from the storms, moored safely in the harbor’s shelter, Tav drifted off to sleep.

—

end.

[galacii-gallery]

I couldn't stop thinking what if Sawyer! Shattered was in "Dreams" situation and I just had to draw it👀 ( they're so opposites ghrhgjfjt )

Og Comic strip belongs to @zu-is-here

[bullet-prooflove]

13. Cause I know you and you know me And we both know where this is gonna lead - from your Country prompt list feels very Nick Torres for me - do you think you could see it for him too?👀

Tagging: @kmc1989 @Divergent146 @whateversomethingbruh @district447 @stelacole

Where Evil Grew - Nick has to tell you the bad news about your sister.

The night Nick tells you they’ve found your sister’s body is the night you completely fall apart. You’d always had this hope, this stupid hope that Katy was alive somewhere, that she’d gone AWOL, taken off to Nashville. Nick are shatters that when he informs you her corpse has turned up in a construction worker’s backyard. You spend the night peppering him with questions and raging against the world before he puts you to bed.  

“Stay.” You request reaching for his hand and Nick, he can’t deny you.

You end up lying next to each other under the blankets, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close. You take comfort in the press of his firm body against yours, the heat of him. His lips chase away the tears that leak down your cheeks, his nose trailing along yours until his mouth brushes over yours and the sensation of that, it drowns out everything else.

It's Nick that draws away, Nick that becomes the voice of reason because you’re grieving your sister and he’s only three months sober.

“Not like this.” He tells you, his thumb ghosting over the apple of your cheek. “When it happens…”

He trails off because he can’t bring himself to say the words.

I want it to be because you love me.

“I should leave.” He says, his lips brushing over your forehead before he slips out of the sheets. “I’ll come back tomorrow to check on you.”

“Don’t bother.” You say turning your back on him and drawing the sheets up around your shoulders. “I don’t want to see you again until you’ve found my sister’s killer.”

“Look I…”

 “Just go.” You say coldly and Nick feels that ache in his chest returning. “I fucking mean it.”

So he does. You don’t take his calls after that, you ignore his texts. A couple of weeks later Dale Sawyer comes into work like a cat that’s got the cream and Nick doesn’t realise, not then, what that man has to smile about.

“You were right.” You tell him the night he turns up on your door step to give you the news they’ve caught your sister’s killer. “To leave that night, it’s not how things should start between the two of us.”

You’re sitting at the kitchen table sharing a pot of Earl Grey tea. The teapot is something Ducky gave you for your birthday, as NCIS’s historian and custodian of records you work together closely investigating your cold cases.

“I’m sorry.” You say as you sip from your mug. “For the way I spoke to you, you deserved better than that.”

“You were grieving.” Nick reminds you before he gestures at the funeral brochures stacked next to you, your notepad sitting upon the top. “Do you need help making the arrangements?”

You sigh as you push the brochures towards him, shaking your head.

“I don’t know what she would have wanted.” You tell him as you wrap both of your hands around your mug. “It’s not something we talked about, she was so young when she disappeared…”

You tilt your head away because your eyes start to sting, and Nick, he reaches for your hand clasping it tightly. He knows that grief, it just keeps coming and no one can combat that. It’s overwhelming, it drowns out your common sense, makes things less manageable.

“You said your sister liked Alison Krauss.” Nick begins as he picks up the notepad and pen. “Let’s start there.

Love Nick? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[emxisms]

Hello! I hope your having a nice day, and that your eating well. Do you have some time to make thomas Hewitt, Vincent, Bo, Lester, and Bubba x reader who changes their personality for each individual person and is a people pleaser? If you can, it's appreciated! If you can't it's ok! Just make sure to drink se water and keep eating <3

Thank you my love. I hope you're taking care of yourself aswell. 🖤

𝕾𝖑𝖆𝖘𝖍𝖊𝖗𝖘 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔠𝔱 ���𝔬 𝔭𝔢𝔬𝔭𝔩𝔢 𝔭𝔩𝔢𝔞𝔰𝔢𝔯 𝔰/𝔬 ❦

Includes: Sinclair Brothers, Bubba Sawyer.

Summary: Reader (they/them) is a huge people pleaser, and will change anything if not everything about depending on who they're talking to.

Warnings: Strong Language

𝔅𝔬 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯 ❦

The fuck? Why are you acting like that, saying those kinds of things with them when you aren't anything like that?

"You just want them to like 'ya? Hell, if they don't.. They got another thing comin'."

Thinks it's stupid at first. He'll grow with it after time, the more you explain to him why you feel the need to change yourself for others the more he'll understand. Although he thinks you're perfect the way you are anyway.

𝔙𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯 ❦

He noticed it a while ago, but he never said anything. He always understood the reasons behind it.

Will never question you about it. It makes him sad thinking you don't see yourself the way he does, but he won't pester you about it. He hates making you upset, even just seeing you upset he doesn't like.

Ever since it became a huge thing, he started reassuring you more. Signing that you're perfect no matter the way you are, more hugs and kisses, etc. Anything to make you feel better. Anything to make you love yourself.

𝔏𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔖𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔩𝔞𝔦𝔯 ❦

He would catch on to you acting differently depending on who you're talking to, changing your opinions to fit theirs, completely different humor, etc. It would confuse him incredibly.

"Why aren't you being yourself?.. Are you even being yourself when you're with me, or..?" You'll break his heart. He wants you to be able to be yourself, to have pride in who you are.

When you explain to him that it's not always a self confidence thing, but a people pleasing thing, he'll understand, he wants people to like him too. But that wont stop him from thinking you should still be yourself, because fuck whoever doesn't like you.

𝔅𝔲𝔟𝔟𝔞 𝔖𝔞𝔴𝔶𝔢𝔯 ❦

When he finds out you're afraid of being yourself because you want everyone else to like you, and so you change yourself for them.. his heart shatters. Immediate whining and sad pouty lips.

Even though he can't say it, he'll show it. He will show you how perfect you are. He's immediately bringing you to the mirror and pointing everything out about you that's perfect the way it is. Your laugh? Beautiful. Fashion sense? Amazing. Favorite song and color? His too.

Will dedicate the rest of his life to your interests. Everything has to be your way now, that's just how it has to be if that means you'll appreciate yourself for who you are.

Requests are open! Please read my pinned post for further information.

[charleslee-valentine]

For The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Fan Event Day 2: The Family House

Ship(s): None

Word Count: ~2,800

Warnings: Child abuse, miscarriage mention, spousal abuse, injury, trauma.

@texas-chainsaw-fanworks

_____

5+1 Things- Five times the Sawyer Family wasn’t happy. Plus the one time they were.

#5

Mama’s six months pregnant when she can’t go to work anymore.

It’s not her first baby since Drayton, but this little one will be the first to make it this long. Every night before bed, nine year old Drayton Sawyer kneels at the side of his bed, and prays and prays that his little sibling will be okay. Not that he’d stop getting hit. Not that they’d get more money. Just that that baby will be okay.

The part Drayton really doesn’t like is that they have to move to get mama help. Without working and all, she can’t afford the little place they’ve been staying in, so she decided to take up some space with grandpa.

Once they arrive, any anguish Drayton had, it triples on the spot.

The house is huge. He’s already the one who cleans it all up, Mama’s too busy to do it all. No he’ll be forced to do the impossible task of keeping a giant farm house clean and cared for, all by himself.

He asks her, “Are you sure we hafta stay here?”

But it’s ignored, brushed off. He’s forced to shake hands with his grandpa and run upstairs with all the bags they’d brought.

Might as well do a little exploring.

He hopes he can have the bedroom at the back. It’s empty, save for a desk by the window, but the room is tucked way off in the corner by itself. He’d finally have his own space.

He leaves his bag in there and ventures off to disappointment. The rooms by the bathroom on the other side of the hall are bigger, but he doesn’t want to share a room with Mama no more, she snores too loud when she’s been drinking and passes out.

It doesn’t happen much now that there’s gonna be a baby.

Drayton wonders where baby will go. Maybe downstairs somewhere? But oh how he doesn’t want to go back down there. Drayton wants to curl up and hide somewhere forever. He isn’t ready to be given a work list already, so soon after traveling half the state to get here.

The boy sits on the very top step at the landing, and looks about, noticing cobwebs and dirt just about everywhere, even in the fur of the trophy pelts hanging on the wall. Of course he’ll be the one cleaning that later. He rolls his eyes and sighs as quietly as he can.

From here, looking down at the first floor of the house, he feels like nobody can tell him what to do.

~~~~

#4

Daddy’s back.

He wants rights to his daughter, little Sissy Sunshine they call her.

Hair the color of angel dust and sunflowers. Not like Drayton’s ugly, dark features according to Mama.

Drayton takes the baby outside when he can, or off to another room to play with blocks or something. So long as he lives, daddy ain’t coming nowhere close to the one and a half year old girl.

He puts a little teeny sunhat on her and carries her with him, in a hand fashioned carrier for the girl. It’s just a burlap sack with a string woven through and an old bag strap sewn on, but it works better than letting her roam while he works outside. She has to stay away when it comes to the heavy duty stuff, she can stay in her little bouncer toy then, but today’s just poking around in the front garden and trying to get the bushes and flowers to cooperate.

A little smudge of dirt on her pretty pale cheek won’t hurt nothing. ‘Sides, she’ll be helping Drayton run this place one day. Not like the adults around are goin’ to do a damn thing.

Baby Sissy stares up at him and smiles with her tiny, gappy teeth. He focuses intently on burying the roots of the gardenias and acts like he doesn’t notice.

Until. The sound of glass shattering in the house. Profane screaming. Anguish and hatred pouring out every gap in the house, under doors and through windows and boiling out of the chimney.

Who coulda guessed that the man that pointed a gun to mama’s head ain’t the right choice to open her legs for again. Drayton hates them both.

Sometimes he wishes they’d just kill each other and get it over with.

The baby starts to sniffle like she can read those thoughts. Like she knows Drayton is every bit the monster the scary grown ups are. He feels guilty.

Grimacing, he wrenches out of the firepoke gloves he was pretending were for gardening, tossing them aside and cradling the back of her fragile blonde head.

“Hush, now. Just.. Just quiet on down.”

He’s just barely a teenager. How the hell is he supposed to know how to calm a crying baby? It doesn’t work and she starts hollering her little head off.

Drayton glares at the front door of the house, waiting for it to open. He knows they can hear the baby crying. He knows they won’t come and help. He holds her a little tighter, feeling every wail and hiccup and sob that tears through the baby’s tiny body.

“Come on, little one. Gotta.. Just calm down.”

~~~~~

#3

The babies keep coming. Different guy this time, different promises. Only consistent is that Drayton’s the one shouldering all the weight.

There’s two of them, tiny and sick little things. Right now, they’re going through a phase of colic, crying and crying and got-damn crying non-stop.

Drayton swears the hairs at his temples are going gray. Might not be all that unrealistic at twenty something.

He’s trying to act his age, meet someone at a bar, settle down, forget babysitting for his low life mother. But that’s never gonna happen.

Sissy’s only about eleven now and not nearly mature enough to deal with giving the twin boys their breathing treatments and shots and changing diapers and blending up the solid foods they should be eating by now.

On the plus side, Drayton’s becomin’ a fine cook, providing for his siblings, but that’s not his place now is it?

Mama and grandpa preach the same story, gotta marry young and provide for the woman, so she’ll provide to the family name. To hell with that.

Got no interest in it. Why should he want brats of his own with three siblings running around now?

The farm work don’t magically disappear either. Mama don’t lift a finger, grandpas halfway to death's door, and sissy’s afraid of the machinery. Same old story.

One baby on his front, the other on his back, both of ‘em crying their eyes out. No sense in wasting the breath on trying to calm them. Might save his hearing, if it worked, but it doesn’t, so he ignores it. Grits his teeth and hauls ass to get the crop planted in time.

Hell it’s not like he’s ‘bout to let these kids starve just ‘cause this ain’t the life he wants. Even he’s not that cruel.

Has he considered running off and letting them deal with it? Of course he damn has.

Has he decided he’ll step up and make sure they’re at least living comfortable, if not well? Regrettably, yes.

Does that patience get tested even more when the baby on his front- little Nubbins he calls him since he’s so tiny and mama can’t be bothered to call them anything- hiccups from all the crying and spits up right on his shirt? Well, that would be another yes.

~~~~~

#2

Mama dies when the fifth baby is born. Grandpa’s been dead for two years by then.

She never knew who this baby’s daddy was, to leave somebody for Drayton to beg for help.

So they’re all alone.

Everyone his age is settled by now, yet here he is. Bottle-feeding the little shit that never even got a proper name. Watching the boys and their almost grown sister playing around. Like a hawk.

It’s not a gentle gaze. He’s angry today. Waiting for one of them to slip up so he can take it out on them.

They know it too. Robert tugs on Sissy’s sleeve and asks her a question, whispered in her ear. He thinks he’d get in trouble if Drayton heard his stutter out loud. The way things are going, he just might.

The baby had a cleft in his lip. It’s stitched up now, but he won’t ever just feed even with the bottle right in front of him. This shit was easier with the twins just eating through tubes in their bellies.

The glass and thus the milk has gone cold by now, not warm like it should be, but he can’t be assed to fix it. If only shouting at a five month old worked half as well as it did on the boys. He’d shake the baby and scream at him, “Just eat what you’re given goddamit! Little brat, suck it up!”

Well then he’d sound like Grandpa.

Maybe he already does.

Drayton closes his eyes and forgets about the conspiring between the two siblings in the yard. Almost, almost gets a goddamn moment of peace while the baby at least tries to get his deformed and scarred little lips around the bottle, but that never lasts.

Sissy interrupts. “Can I see the baby?”

Drayton doesn’t even open his eyes to look at her. “No. He’s eatin’.”

“Mhm. Sure.” How he’d love to slap that attitude off her face. It’s just dripping from her tone. He can just imagine her hands on her hips, a puckered expression on her impatient face.

His fingers twitch. He suppresses that for the sake of not dropping the infant in his arms. Yeah. That’s the reason.

“Go bother the boys.”

“It’s the boys wanna see him.”

He scoffs. Shakes his head. “Hell no. He ain’t their doll.”

Sunshine’s glow seems to be covered by angry clouds today, her tone the exact opposite of her name, “They wanna name ‘im, Drayton. Is it a crime now that they actually love their brother?”

Something funny clutches at his heart. Something like guilt maybe. Sissy’s already storming off but he stops her. Puts the still full bottle down and raises the little baby up.

“Here. I’m tired of this anyway.”

~~~~~

#1

The letter come in November of 1971.

They were drafting Robert. His birthday’d been drawn out of a lottery. He was among the first few groups of the year. Some grand prize.

The boy’d cried harder when they had to shave his head than the day he finally left. The same couldn’t be said for his brothers.

Drayton stayed stiff but the younger two.. Well, not even their sister leaving a few years before could've prepared them for the idea of war. Of their Bobby being shot at.

It’s Draytons fault. None of them should’ve qualified. That damned idiot can’t even spell his own name, can’t reason like the grown adult he’s s’pose’n to be.

Too much pressuring them to act right. To act normal. He’d faked it til he made it, except this wasn’t no academic test they give him. It was a competency test, and now he’d be gone. For a year at least.

The house is quiet.

Bubba hides from the world, the scary world he thinks is gonna eat up his brother. Spends all day in his room with the lights off. Tinkering with what he’s got

Nubbins is the opposite. He wanders outside. Too far past the property line. Gets in random cars. Asks if they could take him straight to his brother and gets mad when they don’t. Can’t.

Drayton would keep him on a tighter leash if he wasn’t working his days away at the station. The checks from the boys’ ailments started running thin. Mama's life insurance run out long ago, never making a dent in the debt she left. He had no choice to but to work.

Everything’s broken. Wrong.

Family come first. It always had. Never got to spend a day of his adult life doing anything other than taking care of those brothers of his.

And yet.

Now that he doesn’t have to-

Now that Robert is gone-

Drayton hurts. Mourns. Regrets. Wishes things might’ve been different.

He wishes the kids didn’t hate him. Taste of his own medicine, maybe. The bastard raised them spiteful. Should’ve known it’d be like this.

They don’t even look at him most days. Just float around the same house. The one of their childhood.

The one that was supposed to keep them safe.

~~~~~

+1

It takes Bobby getting injured.

How pathetic that the only thing that could bond the family is more suffering?

Somehow it works.

Maybe it’s having to clean up the bloody messes of his bandages when his stitches split. Or having to help him navigate the house without being able to see it.

The head wound cut out his vision, like a light switch he described it. He’d thought it was blood in his eyes, but the lights never quite turned back on.

So it’s up to the rest of them to be his eyes.

In some ways, to be his protectors again.

Nubbins is always flying up to help him if he needs so much as a sip of water. But sometimes Nubbins can’t be there. Sometimes he’s out of commission with his own troubles, and god knows Bubba’s too afraid to touch Bobby ever since he got hurt. Scared he might break him.

That leaves one.

When Bobby gets stranded up the stairs one day, he calls for him. “C-Cook. Cooooook. Y-You gonna help me o-or what?”

“Or what.” Drayton grumbles in response.

“A-As if.” Bobby laughs at first, a wheezy, nasally thing, but then a dead serious look crosses on his face, turning into a bitter scowl, a hint of fear, “Y-You’re not really gonna-“

“Hell no.”

Drayton heaves his old ass up there to help Bobby down, guiding him to the railing and giving him one arm to steady. It’s clumsy, two grown men don’t fit side by side on these steps, but they get him to the ground so it works fine enough.

Robert blindly reaches for his brother, patting him across the face appreciatively. It would piss Drayton off if the boy could help it. A wound as bad as he got, there’s not much feeling in them hands anymore either. They say you lose your eyes and get guided by touch, but he don’t got much of that either. Like he’s lost.

Drayton’ll accept the gesture for what it was meant to be.

Nubbins saw. His skinny ass was hiding behind the doorframe of the sitting room

“Come here, get your brother boy. ‘Fore I get tired of him.”

The mystery gets Bobby riled up, “Who-Who’s it gonna be? Is it B-Bubba?”

His head darts back and forth, the little bit of hair he’s got growing back so far flying around like mad.

Grabbing him by the frail shoulders, Drayton turns Bobby towards his twin, “No, you nitwit. Listen.”

The sound of their gait is different. Bubba's favorite boots click on the wood floors for one thing, but he’s also much bigger. Boards creak under every movement of that boy. It’s obvious the one approaching now isn’t him. And well.

“Nubbins!! Hi Nubbins!!” Robert greets excitedly.

Nubbins ushers him away into the next room, glaring daggers at Drayton until he can’t see him anymore, “Was he mean?”

“N-No way! H-He got me down!” Bobby points in the direction he thinks the stairs are and makes a clumsy little walking man with his fingers. But of course he can’t stop there. A devilish giggle, “I-I think big brother’s g-goin’ softie on us.”

The anger melts away from Nubbins’ face like an ice cube, replaced with his own bastard smile, “Y-Yeh, he-he even let.. let Bubba put makeup o-on him.”

It’s true. Drayton couldn’t argue with the kid. He was crying his eyes out and tugging at his hair and throwing a whole fit. This was back when they first got Bobby home from the hospital, and he’d been bleeding all over the place still.

Hell, it only seemed right. You get so old, get so tired of being angry, you can’t hold the same grudges. Let the kid play. Though he did cut him off at the lipstick.

Nubbins won’t share that detail though. The thought is enough.

It certainly shocks Robert, who gasps like it’s his first day breathing air, or even like he hadn’t already heard this before, “No!”

“Y-Yeah!” Nubbins nods his head, even though his brother can’t see it.

The two of them laugh like anything’s even funny. Like they did when they were young. Sometimes it seemed like they were functioning on one brain, having conversations nobody else but the walls of this house would ever hear. Maybe they were.

Drayton doesn’t want to imagine what it was like when Robert’s heart give out twice on the surgery table. What was going on in his twin brother's head. It was hell enough on him and Bubba.

Maybe he is easing the iron fist he’s kept on this house. Who can blame him for that?

Let them have their moment.

Drayton grumbles under his breath, but it’s a comment really quite fond, “Little shits.”

[ask-a-whole-galacii]

Studio AU | Sawyer

“Questions from another world- nice to meet you all~”

Character BIO:

Name: Sawyer Splinter

Pronouns: He/Him + They/Them

Age: In his early 20’s.

Height: 6’5

Small Synopsis:

Sawyer is a newfound actor, he has been put into the role of ‘Shattered’ within several projects. He was previously a social media influencer who went by ‘Fallen Star’ who had posted his own interests such as modeling, singing, and much more…

Due to the recent complications he’s been jumping studio to studio to find roles to fill until Galacii-Studio’s pulls together a story which is stable.

In his free time he now answers questions through the ‘Red Letter’ app that has appeared on his phone.