#Skinned a rat to cope

[cemeteryhound]

Poor fellow lost one foot

[crimeronan]

Hmm. Belos being Weird and Bad towards Hunter so in his need to control the children he continues to be possessive over Hunter and uses this against Luz like 'he is only yours because I gave him to you, I can take him away'... and Luz knows this is a real threat because Belos continually Takes Hunter Away to do Bad Things so her fear that he won't come back is SO real but she also hates objectifying him like that and wants to respect hunters autonomy...

you know, if you WANT to interpret it this way.... you COULD probably make an argument that it's AU canon-compliant if something like this did happen. bc i reread the luz POV fic recently and i was like "good GOD. how many Deeply Upsetting Implications could i cram into one novella. girl what were you processing here" (i know what i was processing here)

like. it's true that luz doesn't realize hunter is being physically abused and that she thinks she's had a pretty well-adjusted upbringing, BUT.

1) even before the grimwalker horror, she acknowledges that she and hunter are both considered "eccentric" because they have no other peers;

2) she keeps insisting that belos is doing all of his worst, creepiest, most manipulative bullshit "because he's a good father and he loves her" (LEAVE HER ALONE);

3) she somehow intuitively KNOWS that acting possessive and imperious about hunter will get her what she wants. "he's mine" indeed!

and there's some separation already baked into their day-to-day lives -- luz has private lessons with belos that hunter isn't present for, hunter CLEARLY has had time alone with belos that luz isn't present for. luz doesn't know hunter is being physically hurt but she Does textually know that being around belos makes him stressed/upset. and that belos hates him. for no fucking reason. she and hunter both acknowledge that she's the favorite without any bitterness or jealousy between them, because it's just.... how things are. a fact of life.

like. belos probably never told her explicitly "i gave him to you and i can take him away," that Would be a slight AU of the AU -- it would make her a lot quieter and more fearful of punishment than she is in the text. but being told that hunter Belongs to her and she can do whatever she wants to him and if he fusses about it, she can come to belos to set him straight....?

that is like. Very Much a conversation they could have had.

[jollyhunter]

Beau!Dean x hunter!reader - The Broken Circle

Feedback and reblogs are highly appreciated! ♡

Characters: (mostly) Beau Arlen / (flashbacks, for now) Dean Winchester x hunter!reader, also Denise and Cassie AU: "Supernatural" x "Big Sky" crossover, set after S15 of SPN

One Shot (???)

Warnings: - Major MC death mentioned (end of SPN spoiler), implied panic attack, angst and just buckets of tears (I'm coping with a certain someone's death here) - No use of Y/N - English is not my native language

Words: ~4,050

Setup: "Winchester" - That's the name you applied with at the police department, when you started a new life in Big Sky, Montana, 4 years ago. It's your deceased husband's name. Or rather, meant-to-be husband, since Dean died 2 weeks before he got to propose to you. Today you return from your one month time-out. But a lot has changed since you went to visit Sam; You've got a new sheriff.

And he's the same man you thought you'd never see again.

The Broken Circle

Cold.

In one word, that's your last memory of when you gingerly cupped Dean’s face. How your tender fingers caressed his bruised cheeks and wiped away the dirt from his battered skin. Shakily combed out the rubble from his damp brown hair and scrubbed the dry blood off his fingers.

The last time you squeezed Dean's lifeless hand before it slipped from your trembling fingers. Cold and busted lips scraped against yours when you gently kissed him goodbye for the last time in this life.

...Or so you hoped. Who knew what heaven had in stock for you two.

You just wished you could have been there, in that damn barn. Been with him in his last minutes. Could have held his hand next to Sam. Could have told him how much you loved him. Reassure him that you'd give up the hunting life like you both had planned. That you'd try and live a good life for him... and that you were sure you'd see each other again.

But instead you had to take leave of Dean's lifeless body. Hollow. Drained of everything that made him the man you loved and had planned to spend the rest of your life with.

Dean gave his life for so many innocent people – hell, for the entire world. But he never got to have his own life. Never got to live it the way he wished to.

It just seemed so damn unfair. You had so much planned for your future. Have yourself some rug rats, a dog maybe, a house, a garden with those ridiculous white picket fences. You’d live a cherry pie life once you’d leave the hunting life behind you.

Or so you liked to picture it in your heads. On those rare, peaceful nights where you'd rest in each others arms like an old couple. His fingers combing your hair while your thumb carefully stroked his battered knuckles. Whispers of daring dreams filling the silence.

But reality was cold. Bloody. Like an animal put down. With a last effort, put to rest on his bed in the bunker by Sam and you.

This image will haunt you for the rest of your life, you know it. It already did for the past 5 years. If only you could have —

"Winchester?"

You blink rapidly, your mind thrown off for a moment when you snap out of your spiraling thoughts.

Denise waves with a paper in front of you to get your attention back. "She was mutilated. And it wasn't a bear. Her heart had been cut out."

"Jesus," Cassie breathes with a look of shock and disgust, shifting uncomfortably next to you.

"Yeah," Denise's face grimaces into a painful one. Her eyes are darting from Cassie, down to the report and back up to your still slightly absent gaze. "What do you make of it, Winchester?"

"Sounds like a werewolf." Damn it. The words slipped your lips before you could fully snap out of your memories. “I mean, sounds like a bit far-fetched but I’ll let Sheriff Tubbs know.” You force a wry smile when you grab the piece of paper from Denise’s hands, ready to head out of this messed up conversation.

“Sheriff Arlen,” Cassie calls after you and you stop in your tracks to look back at them with arched eyebrows.

“Sheriff who?” You inquire with a puzzled look. How the hell could you have missed this much in just one month off duty?

“Sheriff Beau Arlen,” Cassie repeats and Denise quickly adds with a teasing hum, “And his ass is just- mmmh-” she makes a chef’s kiss hand gesture while Cassie rolls her eyes with an amused chuckle.

You let out a huff in mock-annoyance but can’t help the faint grin on your face. Maybe, one day you’d dare to befriend them. Maybe, whenever you’d feel ready for letting people into your life again. But not today.

Ready to pick up your work at the police department, your eyes immediately land on the new name on what used to be Sheriff Tubbs office. ‘Sheriff Beau Arlen’ is written in an arched, golden text across the door’s glass.

You raise a sceptical eyebrow at the name. “Beau” you spit out the name under your breath, already feeling a distaste for this new sheriff.

In your defence, it wasn’t personal. It is just in your nature to feel sceptical towards anything new, especially people. Perhaps you gave up your hunting life. But any hunter will tell you between a swig of whiskey and a loaded shotgun that you’ll never lose your hunter instincts, no matter how hard you try. That’s not how it works. You don’t end this business by walking out the door.

It ends you.

In some way you were like trained bloodhounds. Always one chase away of your next kill. Unable to ignore the smell of blood. You were painfully aware of that fact. You could never live a fully normal life without the occasional hunch or a nervous look over your shoulder.

But you’d learned to accept it and make the best of it.

Here you can still help people. Save people. And once in a while nudge the sheriff into the right direction when you suspected something more than a suicide. Or you’d discreetly plant anti-possession charms on people when you had a hunch that demons were involved in a case.

Yet Sam believes you had retired fully from hunting like he did. And you liked to belief so, too. But on some days you weren’t so sure whether you even wanted to.

In some twisted way, hunting will always connect you with Dean. And at the same time it pains you, like a slow poison. Because you know it’s what he hated and never wanted for you.

And what took him from you.

It is a walk on a tight rope, really.

With a little huff of defiance you push the door to the sheriff’s office open. Your eyes dart around the empty room as you lean slightly forward, “Sheriff Arlen?”

Nothing. Oh well. With a quick glance over your shoulder you decide to take the chance and just drop off the report. You step inside, your fingers tracing the edge of the paper as your mind is instinctively drawn back to the case. I’ll have to look into this… bloody werewolf —

“Ah, Deputy Winchester, ain’t it?”

You freeze in mid motion.

And so does time. The paper slowly slides from between your trembling fingers and flutters to the floor. The unmistakable voice jolting through your mind and body like a lightning bolt. Your breath is caught in your throat, your mind and body paralysed.

The world holds its breath.

This is impossible.

“...Winchester, innit?” he repeats as he steps into the office and casually walks up to you, a wide smile spread across his face.

It can’t – NO.

You don’t dare to turn around.

Not that your body would be capable of any movement anyway. Every muscle is tense, your spine’s gone completely rigid. And your heart’s hammering against your ribs like it’ll crack your chest open from the inside.

You stand there like a deer caught in headlights. Headlights of a ‘67 Chevy Impala called Baby.

It has to be my imagination.

“Ya got somethin’ for me there? Oh-” You feel his elbow briefly brush your side as he bends down to pick up the paper next to your foot.

You don’t move an inch and stare ahead.

He straightens up again and steps around you to place it down on his desk. When he finally moves into your view and turns around to face you with his warm smile – your heart stops.

Emerald green eyes look back at you. Deep and sparkling green oceans. Alive.

Your brain freezes. Your mind scrambling for an explanation but failing to come up with anything.

This can’t be.

After a moment of tense silence, the tremors of your bottom lip make way for what your mind refuses to believe in.

“Dean?”

His name slips you in a mere breathless murmur. Afraid that whatever this is, will shatter the moment you dare to breath again.

Beau raises a brow. “Dean?”

He repeats the name with such nonchalance, such valuelessness, like it’s just some random clerk who he’s got no business with. As if that name didn’t mean the world to you once. Still would. Still does.

But the way his name dropped from his lips…

It clogs your airways. And the question mark at the end was him ramming a dagger into your heart and twisting it, without him even realising.

“Uh, no ain’t that.” He gently shakes his head and his lips melt into a cheeky smile as if that would make his next words any less painful.

“I’m Beau.”

Silence. Once again you feel like the air’s sucked out of your lungs. Like someone had pushed you off a cliff.

Someone who is an imposter of your deceased husband.

Beau. Your jaw clenches. And the name bounces off your mind. Your initial reaction being immediate rejection. No, you’re not... Beau.

Your eyes flicker across the man in front of you.

He might look quite… changed. He’s got a beard, neatly trimmed even. His hair is longer and… soft. Gone was the rugged and calloused man you loved. But it is still him. His eyes with their hidden secrets lingering behind those intense glinting, emerald green pools. His bow legs you’d recognize out of a hundred. His voice, his features, his – everything. Everything on him seems much softer but still… in your eyes, it’s Dean. No doubt.

“Why are ya lookin’ like you saw a ghost?” Beau questions with a tilt of his head, leaning back against the edge of his desk.

His voice snaps you out of your intense gaze. Your mouth opens, but no words make it past your quivering lips. All words drowned out in a flood of a million questions. Your focus drifts off, your eyes darting around the office like you’re expecting Gabriel to pop up any second and laugh at you.

But the room stays reduced to the two of you.

You feel like you’re on a tipping point.

Hands clenched, one subtly moves back to your hidden silver dagger – you do what you were trained to do in situations like these; Your mind grips for the lifeline and kicks into hunter mode. You rattle off the list of possible monsters; Shapeshifter? Ghoul? Am I dreaming? Is it some sick game of a trickster God? —

“Darlin’? You alright?” he asks, his voice now more concerned. You look terrified. As pale as a sheet, the blood drained from your face. Close to a panic attack, he guesses by your rapid breaths. Beau reaches out with his hand, gently patting your arm to get your attention. “Hey… Easy, just breathe.”

At his touch you jolt and finally snap out of your state of shock. The hand hovering over the concealed weapon falters. His worried eyes lock with yours.

The life-line snaps. Your mind tips over. Enough to make your stomach twist and turn, about to throw up. With only one shared look, everything’s back; The pain, the poignant grief, the cold skin under your fingertips, Dean’s lifeless expression, emerald eyes gone dull, the stench of decay, of old blood and dirt and his burning flesh and-- it all crashes down on you. All the emotions and memories you had buried in the depths of your mind, now laid open.

Fresh and hungry. Slowly swallowing you whole. Again.

“I- I don’t feel so… good – sorry,” you sputter, your hand clutching your chest in an effort to keep it together. The same second you spin around on your heels and storm out of the office without looking back once.

Beau. His mere presence was suffocating.

You remember the moment you and Sam cleaned up Dean’s lifeless body. How your fingers brushed against a folded paper, carefully tucked away in his jacket’s inside pocket.

Sam’s face had contorted the moment you pulled it out. Clearly, he had known what secret the paper held and before you got to question his knowing look, he suddenly got up. While walking out, he said he’d give you some time alone with his brother.

Once you unfolded the notepaper halfway, your breath stopped. Your eyes slowly shifted from one scribbled word to the next, each of them hitting harder than the next, each of them taking more of your breath. You swallowed past the lump in your throat when the realization of what you’d been holding in your hand slowly set in.

They were notes of Dean. Notes for your upcoming anniversary in two weeks.

You unfolded the rest of it and your eyes widened. The paper began to crumple in your shaking hands while wet stains swallowed some of his jotted down keywords. When your burning eyes reached the last four words, it had felt like whatever was left of your broken heart had just been ripped out entirely.

The raw emotions rolled down your cheeks, your tears mixing with his last unspoken words…

“Will you marry me?”

Beau was left back staring at the slammed door in bewilderment and a little stunned. After a moment, he sighs and pushes off the desk to follow after you.

“Winchester!” He calls down the corridor, watching you stumble out the front door into the outside. He jogs after you, slightly panting, while his eyes dart around the parking lot in search for you.

The rain crashes down on him the moment he steps outside. His head briefly tilts up to face the grey sky with an annoyed groan. The raindrops are pattering against his creased forehead, running down his cheeks to pool at the tip of his beard.

But then he hears a muffled sniffle next to him. Strands of his soaked hair fall into his face when he whirls his head around, spotting you leaned against the wall.

“No- no – it can’t be you – Damn it – it can’t…” you mutter under your rapid breaths, somehow trying to fight your scrunched up, stinging eyes with words of common sense. Your chest feels constricted. Your heart’s hammering in your ears and your breath’s clipped, feeling like you might faint any moment of lack of oxygen.

Leaning back against the wet wall for some support, your mind’s on the brink of a breakdown. There’s no explanation for this. This can’t be happening.

Beau suddenly appears in front of you and before you get to react, he places a hand on your shoulder. You flinch but don’t pull away. His hand feels heavy against your soaked jacket, grounding, gentle – but casual, like you would with a stranger. You are strangers.

“Hey, hey take it easy. You’re gonna give yourself a panic attack. You’ll be okay.” He says as he crouches down to your level. He glances over your trembling body and how your eyes try to avoid his, your expression like you’d just witnessed a murder in slow-motion.

“Look at me, deep breaths.” Beau speaks in a firmer, yet gentle tone, trying to break through your panicked state.

When you refuse to look up, he tilts his head down to meet your eyes behind some soaked stray hair that sticks to your skin. He pushes them out of your face, his intense gaze searching your contorted face for some form of hint for what’s got you so spooked.

He gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. While his soothing words just keep coming, his voice now a lower whisper as he’s desperately trying to understand what is going on in that head of yours, “Hey, c’mon… talk to me, Winchester…”

Your eyes are burning from the tears that have been building up until now. Eyelashes heavy and clumped together by the droplets of the rain. And his intense eyes staring into yours, the very same eyes you fell in love with over 10 years ago, do nothing to ease your pain.

You try to tear your gaze away from his, but find yourself caught in them. It’s like you’re staring into a beautiful forest after years of living in a desert. They pull you in, and you feel like you are right back where you’d always longed to be. Home.

But a home that isn’t yours any more. The soul behind those eyes looks familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. You thought you’d never see those eyes again – but those very same eyes hold no memory of you.

The same question keeps repeating in your head, ripping at your heart and soul like a Hellhound.

Dean… is this you?

His voice cuts through your thoughts like a soft knife. “Take deep breaths darlin’, it’s oka-”

“Please- just-” you cut him short, a painful, shaky breath rippling through your voice, “Just stop talking.” Beau’s voice is like a dagger to your heart, twisting it whenever he speaks up. Mocking your memories with that uncanny tone of his.

I’m just tired. You hear Dean’s voice in your head and just like him, you wished you didn’t feel a damn thing.

Beau raises a brow and tilts his head forward, studying your face. For a moment he opens his mouth about to speak again, but when he sees you flinch, he forces himself to shut it closed.

His jaw’s clenched from fighting the urge to talk and feeling a bit overwhelmed with the entire situation. Not knowing where to go with himself or what to do without making things worse. He isn’t sure what it is, but something about you tugs at his heart in a way he can’t quite understand. But he quickly dismisses it, for now.

His eyes snap up to the sky when the rain starts to increase. Heavy drops splatter off the both of you, coaxing a single tear to let go of the corner of your eye. It was like the sky cried for you. Eyes that parched exactly 5 years ago.

Without a word he moves closer, gently wrapping his free arm around your waist. But you stop him before his palm touches your side. Your hand's shaking as it clings to his wrist like a lifeline.

Beau’s eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t comment on it. His expression grows pensive and his eyebrows slightly furrow, watching your trembling form. Your chest's heaving heavily, like you’re struggling for air. And your eyes are out of focus, like they're reliving some nightmare.

He suddenly feels a strong protectiveness - decides to hold himself back, though, afraid he might make things worse. But it pains him terribly to see you this way, even if he might not know you, yet.

You don’t say anything. Unable to form the right words as nothing could express the storm of contradicting emotions you are trapped in. The wavering grip on his arm is clenching and unclenching subtly as if unsure whether you want to push him away or pull him in.

“Sorry,” you finally croak between shuddering breaths, unsure what you were even apologizing for, “I’m sorry…”

Why were you apologizing? A strange feeling settles in his guts, one of this being a lot bigger than he could comprehend.

Next moment you know, you’re pulled into a tight hug. Both his arms wrapping around you to pull you close and hold you together.

At first you stiffen. Standing there like a fragile, shaking tree. Your arms pressed against your sides, unable to comprehend any more what is happening.

But he keeps you in his embrace, murmuring soothing words, muffled by your hair and the heavy rain. You lift your head slightly, just enough for your wavering eyes to meet his again.

That’s when the realization hits you. He looks so whole. So unbroken. His skin and his hair was smooth and tender beneath that thin layer of rain. He lacks any form of scar, any edges or any memory of the horrors you and he had faced and committed. Your heart twists; This isn’t what a scarred hunter looks like. And at the same time you feel your heart sink at the next conclusion… Beau would have been Dean’s idea of a perfect life, without ever having been born into the hunting business.

And it makes you wonder whether he was granted that alternate life.

Beau feels your trembling body against him and how your gaze is searching his face for something he doesn't know. Why are you looking at him like that? A lump forms in his throat. His hand gently caresses your back in a circle motion, while his other keeps stroking your hair.

“It’s alright, s’okay. You’re okay.” Beau says in a soothing, comforting tone and he tugs you a little closer, allowing you to rest against him.

Your wet hair falls into your face once more when your head drops to his chest. You both stay still, the only sound being the pitter-patter from the raindrops against the hood of his truck and the puddles around you. Your ragged breath’s nearly drowned out by the rain. The world seems to have shrunk to the beat of his heart softly thudding against your ear.

And that breaks the dam. Tears it down as the floods of emotions search their way out. Your shoulders rise and buckle against his chest. The tears finally break free, streaming down your face, mixing with the rain soaking your clothings. Your body wracked with sobs – raw, desperate, painful. Liberating.

You begin to shake uncontrollably, the sobs growing more and more powerful. They start to rack through every fibre of your body. Your legs grow unsteady beneath you, daring to crumble from the weight of every emotion you had buried in the past 5 years released and unloading all at once.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll stay right here as long as ya need me to. C’mere…” He reassures you, and pulls you even closer. His chin comes to rest on top of your head, his facial hair brushing against your scalp and his warm breath wafting down at you. “Just let it out… you’re gonna be okay… you’re not alone, ‘kay?”

You clutch at his jacket tightly, holding onto him like you’re drowning. Like you’re afraid he might be a dream after all. Might disappear from your grasp at any moment. Everything spills out of you, incoherent words bubbling from your wet lips. “Y-y-you’re alive- you’re alive- a-alive- I missed you so much, Dean- so so much-”

Beau can’t exactly make out the words that are tumbling from your mouth, but he can feel you shaking against him terribly. He quickly takes his big jacket off to drape it over you, to try and keep the rain and cold off you.

His heart tightens at the sight of your curled-up body, clinging to him while shivering badly and breaking apart in his arms. He slowly begins to speak again, a hint of an encouraging smile on his face, “Hey, ‘m gonna pick ya up. Ya ain’t gonna stand that cold and rain. Ya’ll get sick.” He then places his arms on your back and under your thighs, before lifting you up off the ground in one smooth motion.

He holds you close against his chest, wrapping his jacket over you for extra warmth. The rain patters against the concrete floor while his boots splash through the puddles, carrying you over to his truck.

You don’t protest as your body was giving in at this point. Like a run down shed in a storm.

Your fingers slowly going numb from the death grip, the wet and cold. You choke on your sobs while the tears keep rolling down your reddened cheeks.

But from joy.

You don’t know whether he is Dean or not. Whether this is real or you finally lost it.

But in this very moment you didn’t care.

You let yourself drift back to the happiest place in your mind. One you hadn’t dared to visit for many years. Locked up and keys buried along your husband. Deep down in your broken heart.

When you close your eyes and press the side of your face against his chest, you can hear his heart pounding. When he speaks, you hear Dean’s voice above you, soft and peaceful.

And you feel his body through the drenched pieces of clothings between you.

He feels warm. Warm.

A/N: it was meant to be a drabble IT WAS MEANT TO BE A DRABBLE

I'M NOT CRYIN'- OKAY FINE I'm still coping with his death - I haven't even watched it since I'm still catching up with the seasons. GAWD I HTE THIS - I JUST NEEDED CLOSURE DAMN IT

Anyway, I just had to get this story off my chest before next year. I don’t know yet whether it deserves more parts but do let me know if you think so!

Tags:

@aylacavebear

[bunni-v1]

Aventurine Relationship Headcannons

🍓Hello gang! I've decided to write for Aven next, because he is literally my pretty princess. I really hope you like them... I did my best and he means a lot to me. I feel like a rat rummaging through trash posting this, so I do hope you enjoy for my sake.

TW: Aventurine has very unhealthy coping mechanisms; Aventurine exhibits manipulative behaviors

Info: Aventurine x Reader; Gn!Reader; Angst; Fluff

-Ah, Mr. Aventurine. Senior manager of the IPC Strategic Investment Department. One of the Ten Stonehearts. Luckiest man alive. Ruthless gambler. That’s a lot of titles for one guy.

-You’d think someone as important as him wouldn’t have the time to fall in love, and he wouldn’t argue with you if you said that. He was a very busy person, after all, and he had so many important things to do.

-Love was a ploy made to waste your time and energy – a marketing scheme for hopeless romantics and saps, a gamble not worth taking nine times out of ten. Aventurine wasn’t stupid enough to invest in such a hopeless concept, not with the life he leads.

-Maybe if things had played out differently. If life was simpler and happier he could see a younger version of himself falling fool to the wonders of affection and sweet words. 

-Unfortunately, he was not that imaginary boy. He was Aventurine of the IPC, and his time was money that he couldn’t waste on frivolous things like love.

-Affections and gifts were tools of manipulation to be used to gain what you wanted. A pretty smile, a few honeyed words, and an expensive set of earrings were nothing more than tactics to further whatever plan he’s cooked up for the week.

-That’s just how the world was. Cold and uncaring, who was he to deny the natural processes of his business line?

-So, no, Aventurine was not interested in romance.

-...Kakavasha though… Kakavasha was still that little starry-eyed boy who craved love. A boy who fantasized about someone who understood him, who would love him for him, scars and all.

-Kakavasha wanted a partner to waste all his time, to be an excuse to spend the excess of money he didn’t know what to do with, to hold him and whisper sweet words into his ears in the quiet of his luxury apartment.

-He was not a hopeless romantic, at least, he didn’t think he was. He just craved love that he hadn’t felt since he was a little boy. He wanted to love and be loved more than anything else in the world.

-Unfortunately for Kakavasha, Aventurine was the one in control. He didn’t get to have a say in what he wanted, because Aventurine knew what was best for himself even if it was miserable.

-He couldn’t fall in love in the way he wanted, so he simply wouldn’t ever fall in love so long as he jaded his views and ignored others' affections that were anything more than skin deep. No soft spots, nothing.

-Ah, but then there was you. Blinking at him with those pretty eyes, Aventurine felt like he needed to slam his head through a few walls to get the image out of his head.

-Sweet, playful, funny, pretty, perfect you. You made his head all fuzzy and his chest impossibly tight. 

-It was sickening, the effect you had on him. Not that you had a clue, with the masterful poker face he puts on around you.

-He tried avoiding you for a week, which was miserable for him because all he could think about was how much he wished he could see you again. What the hell had you done to him? He’s never one to fold so easily, and will stronger than any other person in the planetary system. Yet you…

-Ugh, and when you came to his office with that pout asking why he was avoiding you. Your jutted little lip was so distracting that he almost couldn’t come up with a proper lie to smooth the situation over.

-He was so obsessed, but he could not be obsessed. Not to this degree. He couldn’t let another person in and lose them, he couldn’t get hurt again.

-Still, he can’t stop himself from teasing you. The playful replies to anything you say are genuine and full of affection. The light touches, the brushing of your fingers against him. The thoughtful gifts with too gentle words attached to them.

-That was Kakavasha, certainly so. He couldn’t help himself but indulge in you. Not with how tempting you were, with how he could so easily see that you wanted him too. He wanted to live in a fantasy just a little longer.

-The feeling literally haunts his dreams. Wholesome, romantic dates interrupted by horrible night terrors of you dying in his arms. All because you were connected to him.

-After nightmares like that, he pulls away again. Aventurine remembers why he can’t take the plunge, for both of your sakes. He couldn’t possibly share himself with someone, not in the way you would want him to. He couldn’t possibly stomach the idea of putting a target on your back just by calling you his.

-So, he refuses to let it happen until you warm him up and melt his heart again.

-It’s a brutal cycle of push and pull with him, and it could go on and on and on if you allow it to. He certainly was content with it, because it was the easiest way to go about things like this.

-You can’t tell what the hell is going on in his head, but you know that it isn’t healthy. It’s very clear that he feels the same way you do, but he always slams the door in your face just before you step into the warmth waiting inside.

-You’ll have to confront him if you want anything to get done, and it isn’t pretty. He does not take well to sudden confrontations over things that he so carefully crafted. He doesn’t like it when the world that he built up so painstakingly collapses and reveals the reality around him.

-He’ll pull away fully from you, avoiding you like the plague because Aventurine cannot allow himself to fall in love. He wouldn’t be capable of loving someone as wonderful as you, not the way you deserve. 

-Show patience, be steadfast, and don’t give up on him no matter how many times he pushes you to the side. It’s hard for him to pretend like you don’t exist, it hurts him more than it hurts you.

-Eventually… he’ll break. He’ll show up unannounced, looking far more disheveled than you’ve ever seen him, and he’ll apologize. It’s so out of character for him, it even startles him a bit, but he couldn’t live without your warmth. 

-And so begins your relationship with Aventurine.

-It is not an easy relationship to have, and I’m not going to delude anyone into thinking anything other than that. There are highs and lows with him, like waves on a beach he’ll push you out just to pull you back in.

-To start, let's talk about the lows because they’re hard but they’re so important to get through with him.

-He has such a difficult time accepting that he’s worthy of being loved, and it manifests as him shutting you out. If he treats you poorly, if he makes you hate him, he doesn’t have to live with the guilt of fooling you into loving someone like him.

-He’ll ghost you for days, won’t answer his phone, or if he does it’s short and cold. You’ll be alone worrying about his wellbeing, what’s wrong with him, why is he so upset at you all of a sudden. 

-Then he’ll show up and act like nothing is wrong because he really cannot live without you. If you ask, he won’t answer and instead dance around the subject. 

-It’s another thing you’ll have to be patient about. Just handle it with care and show that you aren’t leaving, despite his very self-destructive behavior, and it’ll melt away at his cold exterior like usual.

-He’ll come to you after another long period where he wasn’t speaking to you, no apology flowers, no sly smile, no intent to woo you again. Just him, vulnerable and honest. He asks you why? Why do you stay, why do you still care, why do you let him treat you like that?

-Once you explain it’s because you love him, and you know he’s struggling so hard, and you want to help him be better… he cries. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him do so, and it’s such a horrible expression that just does not belong on his face.

-To his credit, after your heart-to-heart, he steadily improves this behavior. It still happens occasionally, but it’s shorter, and he’s more receptive to you if you reach out to him during these low periods.

-They never truly go away, but they lessen and lessen and turn into a period where he doesn’t avoid you, but he tells you he just needs time.

-That’s the key point in your relationship that he struggles with communicating. Once you start to break through that barrier and he tells you how he’s feeling, things get so much better for both of you. 

-He realizes through your patience that he is someone that someone sees is worth loving, and it makes it easier for him to share his love with you.

-The highs aren’t exactly good either. He’s usually manic when he’s at these high points, and he’s very much love-bombing you the whole time.

-Lavish gifts that you wouldn’t even think to ask for, ones that you absolutely could not turn down – he wouldn’t let you, or else he’d get upset and make you feel bad.

-Constant compliments and flirting, most of which didn’t feel genuine. It’s like he’s faking affection, copying things he saw in movies and on the streets in hopes that you’ll believe he means them.

-He’s selling you on loving him in these highs. Like a business venture, going all in all at once and hoping you’ll take the deal. Hoping you’ll be satisfied with what he’s trying to portray himself as.

-It’s not a sustainable model, it’s rather exhausting to constantly put up walls around someone who he so desperately wanted to know. You get tired of it quickly, and he has to shake it up to keep you happy and interested.

-Despite how he acts, he couldn’t bear it if you left him.

-Once you get through to him with communication, his walls slowly come down, and you get to see the real Aventurine – you get to see Kakavasha. Get to feel how he wants to love you, how he wants to be loved by you.

-It’s not all at once, of course, because he could never let someone in so easily. But over some time, you see more and more glimpses of who he is behind all the glitz and glam and smirks. Let's get into that, shall we?

-He is a gift giver, I don’t think there’s any world where he isn’t. The gifts now, though, are so heartfelt and thoughtful. He quite literally slaves over them, spending hours of his precious time ensuring everything is exactly as you might want it.

-I’m talking about extremely rare limited edition copies of your favorite books, custom-made sets of anything you want, and so many clothes. Most of which have some kind of motif of his, because he quite likes seeing you in things that show off that you are his. 

-By the way, he’s a very jealous person, which is another big issue in the relationship. He doesn’t like sharing your attention with other people, at all. He gets jealous of his friends.

-People he otherwise wouldn’t have an issue with become the subject of his ire so long as you’re giving them more attention than him. 

-Oh, and he’s so incredibly insufferable about it too. He’ll sidle up to you, pulling you in close by your hip, and smirk at whoever the offender is. Amps up the pet names to an annoying degree, making it very clear that he’s not pleased.

-He expects you to be very apologetic (not really), and give him a million apology kisses once you’re alone together again. If you don’t he’ll pout.

-That’s on the harmless side of things. On the… less pleasant side he’ll probably make their life miserable until he chases them away from you – how miserable depends on just how… affectionate he takes them to be with you.

-Aventurine is also a nickname giver, and 90% of them are inconsistent and don’t stick. The ones he seems to like the most are doll, dollface, dearest (when he’s being an annoying little shit), and my heart. 

-Unfortunately, PDA isn’t an option for him, as much as he’d love it to be. He’s a celebrity, essentially, and people would be very interested in you if they saw you at his side. He’s keeping you safe from prying eyes by keeping PDA to a minimum.

-He can get away with it in casinos because having a pretty thing sit on your lap as a ‘good luck charm’ isn’t uncommon, but in most public areas the most he can do is stand close to you. 

-It’s to protect you, of course, because he does have targets on his back. As such a high-standing member of the IPC, it’s no shock that he does. However, he knows that people will try and use you to get to him, and he’s trying to nip that in the bud before it can become an issue.

-You and work are very separate parts of his life, and he likes it that way. Very few people within the IPC are aware he’s in a relationship, the only ones being those who caught him being affectionate with you around his office – who he very happily dealt with to keep them quiet. Or… are Topaz and inevitably Jade.

-Other than that, though, you are part of his personal life, and work has nothing to do with you. At all. 

-Ah, but he is so endlessly affectionate with you in private. He loves to just hold you, feel you against him, and assure himself that you are there. You are real and you love him like he loves you.

-He loves to litter your face with kisses after a long day of work, the way you fluster and try to run from his persistent lips is enough to make his heart race. 

-His favorite thing, though, is slow dancing with you. It doesn’t matter if you’re clumsy, there is something so wholly domestic and soft about swaying to music in the soft glow of the kitchen light.

-Once he learns to accept love from you, he becomes addicted to it like a drug. He’ll sit there and pout at you until you give him kisses or love on him to his satisfaction. He can’t help it, he loves your attention.

-He’s so very attentive, even when he has other things he needs to do. If he needs to work, he’ll hold you in his lap while he works, and if you distract him a little that's okay too. He doesn’t mind so long as it’s you.

-He treats you like royalty, honestly. You are so very important to him, and he’s very desperate to prove that to you. If you felt unloved (after he improves upon himself, of course) by him, it would kill him. You are one of the very few things in the world that are unequivocally his, he wants to treat you like you are so you know it.

-He reveals a vulnerability to you that no one else gets to see. A soft side that isn’t hiding behind smirks and sly comments. He is the closest to being just Kakavasha when he is with you.

-Now, it will take him a long time to share his past with you. Even after he learns to trust you, it’s a piece of him that he cradles close to his chest, terrified it would change your view of him.

-When he does share it with you, though, it’s the most vulnerable he will ever be with you. His hand is clenched tightly behind his back, and he is shaking with eyes that can’t quite find a place to land. The only thing that calms him is the warm touch of your hand on his shaking one.

-He’ll tell you details little by little because they’re horrifying, and dumping them all on you at once would be too much for both of you. But you learn about him over time, and you see him warm up more and more to you the more he tells you.

-Goodness, though, the first time you call him Kakavasha, he cries. He cries so very hard because he hasn’t heard that name said with love and affection in such a long time, and it’s hard to imagine that it could be real.

-But it is and you’re holding his face and kissing away his tears, and it’s then that he realizes that he is truly loved by you. He is a person who is worth loving and capable of giving love to someone as wonderful as you.

-It is a kindness he has never been afforded before, and he would fight to his last breath to protect it. 

-Despite the rocky start to your relationship, he grows and changes and learns how to love and be loved. It is the kind of love that Kakavasha has always wanted, and Aventurine finally understood why.

[qin-qin16]

cw.: Dream x Reader, hurt/comfort, gn!reader, reader has a bad coping mechanism, depressive thoughts, Dream is here to comfort you, he is just a sweet and good boy, comfort end, but the beginning is kinda angst… 

note: I ask for suggestions and decide to write one of them! Thank you @emeraldhazeidentity for the ideas! And sorry for the delay!  

Your body has always been at odds with itself, whether mentally or emotionally; this time, the problem was your feelings. They were vile and unwanted, creeping into your chest like rats and gnawing away any desire you normally had to get out of bed. And just like those rats, your body only huddled further into the nest that was your sheets on the mattress, a pile of shame and crumbs left from your last meal.

And even though you wanted to stop feeling all of this — this inadequacy at being competent in anything, the constant envy of never being among the best despite your efforts… All of this simply wore your body out, leaving it in a state of inactive exhaustion that began as mental fatigue and spread like a plague throughout.

However, it wasn’t because of your static figure or turbulent mind that you wanted to stop feeling all of this, no. It was because of Dream.

Oh Dream, he was a true angel sent from heaven into your life — and like any angel, you wanted him to stay untainted; your rotten feelings would only taint him, hurting his kind, golden soul. He had already suffered enough at the hands of others; you didn’t want to be just another person to take advantage of his kindness and heroic aura.

You didn’t deserve that — being wrapped in such warm energy — much less to be so selfish as to want Dream all to yourself, even though the thought of holding him in your arms during these lonely times was a recurring one. 

No, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers, Remember what Ink said once? That anything negative could hurt Dream? This weak mindset of yours only draws more and more of those bad, toxic feelings towards him,  and just like every time you found yourself hiding under the covers, the voice was right — was it your subconscious trying to bring some reason to you? Or was it just some kind of dissociation episode?

Truth be told, you didn’t care. That voice was usually right in the end, so why question its existence or purpose? Gradually, your fingertips grew numb, as if your body was sinking deeper into this spiral of feelings, while your chest felt so empty — a contradiction you had long stopped questioning.

Your mind goes blank from the sudden warmth resting on you, like a cozy blanket you didn’t realize you needed after covering yourself with all the ones on your bed.

The mattress dips slightly near your body; someone must have sat down next to you and probably covered you with an extra blanket. You flinch for a moment as you feel a gentle touch on your shoulder through the covers in a back-and-forth motion.

Someone calls your name, but it sounds so distant, muffled; as if softly guiding your mind back to your body.

“What happened, dear?” Oh, it’s him.

In a faint, flickering glow, your soul shimmers beneath your skin, casting a dim, cold light — and you can’t help but hear the soft, distant laughter coming from the other side of your hiding place.

“Oh, dear…” Dream, your cherished Dream, coos, momentarily pausing his gentle touch on your shoulder.

Close to your face, you see Dream’s fingers tentatively emerging from beneath the blanket, inching closer to you — until they lift the blanket just enough for Dream’s face to come into view, with a smile that, though small, radiated the light of the most beautiful stars you’ve ever seen.

"Hello, my darling." he whispers, sliding under the covers, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." 

You don’t need to apologize for anything, but you can’t find the strength to say it; your body remains curled up, still numb from the deep sadness — even the presence of your angel wasn’t enough to chase away those dreadful feelings.

"I shouldn’t have left you alone." The hand that was holding the blanket over both of you moves to your face, gently caressing your cheek as the blanket falls over you two.

"I didn’t…" you start to speak, your throat tightening, "I didn’t mean to upset you." you finally admit.

Dream shushed you, leaning in slowly to press his face against yours in a tender gesture, "You could never upset me, never."

And then you feel that warmth again, the same warmth that had settled on you moments before — realizing that this gentle, comforting warmth was simply Dream’s presence close to you, wrapping your body in a warm embrace.

For a moment, you let yourself be carried away by the wave of tranquility that radiated from him, closing your eyes and feeling Dream relax even more against you — leaving a lingering kiss on your cheek before moving down to your jaw, placing another kiss before returning to his gentle nuzzle on your face.

“There’s a world out there waiting for you…” you murmur, hoping that his presence isn’t just a fleeting dream.

“The world can wait a bit longer.” he responds.

And as clichéd as it may sound, it was enough to bring a small smile back to your lips and to help your body finally emerge from its state of inertia. One of your hands strokes the back of Dream’s neck, drawing him closer into your tender embrace.

Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish and hold him in your arms for as long as you needed.

[thegreatyin]

On heartbreak, homunculi, and the small yet very awkward matter of shooting one's girlfriend in the neck over your ex

OR: How The Doomed Scientist has been coping in the aftermath of his ambition (Badly. The answer is very very badly indeed.)

OR: A loosely abridged summary of an RP between myself and @superoffbatter, posted on Tumblr for OC lore purposes.

OR: Major spoilers for the entirety of the Nemesis ambition, as well as minor spoilers for Bag a Legend and a brief spot of blog-typical spoilers for a certain "powerful" ending of Heart's Desire.

OR: What The Plutonian Shadow's deal actually is.

So.

In order to explain this long and complicated tale, we're going to need to set a good bit of groundwork first. For some, this will effectively be a recap. For others, it will be important new lore that will harm us later.

Let's dive right in, shall we?

The Doomed Scientist- also known by his real name, Caeru- has a long and storied history of obsessing over serving others. He's always had this concept in his head that he needs to help, he needs to give himself up for the good of everyone around him, and if he's not doing that then he barely deserves to live at all.

This is the mindset that drove his quest to kill Mr Cups. He wasn't doing it for himself. He was doing it for everyone Cups has hurt, everyone Cups has murdered, every other victim that died so it could fulfill its need for stories of vengeance and misery. During his ambition, he very much saw himself as nothing more than a tool and a weapon to be pointed and used as the dead saw fit.

His own emotions didn't matter. His own grief, all-consuming as it was, didn't matter. Cups needed to die.

Cups- Cups needed to-

Oh, fuck.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't take it. He had an obligation towards those that died, towards his lover, towards everyone who ever wanted the beast dead. He couldn't take it. He just couldn't.

No matter how much he desperately, desperately wanted to.

For the first few weeks after his ambition concluded, Caeru was inconsolable. He was wracked with guilt over ""failing"" to save his former paramour, even more than he was already- for god's sake, the man could've been revived! He could've lived again! He deserved to live again!

And Caeru failed him. He failed to serve him. To be useful. To be good. To be worthy of living.

He... lost it, just a little bit. He became obsessed with fixing this perceived flaw in himself. This perceived flaw in everything. He couldn't sleep yet, he couldn't die yet, not when his love deserved to live.

Deserved to come back.

And. I mean. Well.

How hard could it be, really?

Cups was a Master, yes, and the Masters are lying conniving tyrants- but this was a promise it staked its life upon. A promise it gave on its deathbed. It clearly knew that Caeru could kill it, will kill it, and thus it had no reason to lie-

Cups could have brought his lover back. The Scientist knew that, intimately.

What he didn't know was how. But... well, that's alright, isn't it? He's created life before.

Lenses are arranged, corpses are arranged in a circle, their skin parted carefully with a knife. When the lenses are aligned correctly, the flesh will coalesce into the correct shape.

There are some venge-rats that dedicate themselves to a vengeance so thoroughly that there is nothing left of them but this one desire. When they die, their corpses are saturated with this emotion- but nothing else. When the Academic's machinery leaps to life (more slowly then the one at Station VIII, of course) it drains this, and leaves only withered shells in its wake. Perfect vessels.

Soon, the Knot of Tails reappears in the mirror. In its little coils of many paws, shimmering lights rest- memories. Reflections of rays of light long forgotten by the waking world.

And the false-Noman twists.

It turns.

Second by second, it looks more and more like a person.

When it looks up and smiles a shaky smile, its face is human- and two delicate flowers adorn its hair. The snow lacing its body curls like silk, the nails on its hands delicate and precise and perfect

It doesn't move, for a second. Two. Three.

And then the Rosette Yearner opens her eyes.

All he has to do is perfect the process.

The Yearner reaches a trembling hand up to her head, pursuing her lips in thoughtful silence. She blinks, slowly- once, twice. The silence is finally broken when she speaks, a trembling lilt, her words falling like petals from their stem.

"I'm alive.”

It's cold, unfeeling, distant. Like she's only talking about the weather.

Caeru's first attempt at artificial life, The False Yearner- she who would later be dubbed The Vake Yearner- is a complicated figure. Born out of an insanely long RP exchange with @superoffbatter, she is a ghost in all but name. A failed attempt to replicate a certain Scoundrel's past self, all while her makers were unaware that her and the Scoundrel were one in the same.

Except while the Scoundrel pursued ambitions of power, glory, and transformation, the Yearner ultimately took a different path. A darker path.

The Yearner stumbles over the mirror as they both exit through the window of the Royal Bethlehem. She sighs. "Where to go, now?" she whispers. "I can't stay here. I don't want to stay like this. I want to... do something."

The Silverer shrugs. "It's up to you. I suppose you could hunt the Vake if all else fails?" It's an offhandedly thrown joke, but the Yearner stops moving.

She considers it in her head. She takes a deep breath.

The Vake, huh. The Vake.

She became an avid hunter of the Neath's most infamous monster.

Her relationship with her creator is strained at best. For the most part, they've refused to acknowledge each other- they've hardly even spoken since the incident of her creation, save for a brief yet notable encounter at the Captivating Princess' last masquerade ball.

Someone steps closer to the Scientist, staring him in the eyes. The atmosphere grows colder.

It's a woman in a large fur-trimmed overcoat, with thick gloves and a staggeringly realistically furred marsh-wolf mask. The cosmogone shade of her eyes reveals her identity- the False Yearner- or, as some have taken to call her, the Vake-Yearner. The mask, now that the Scientist gives it a better look, is very obviously made from a real marsh-wolf, but the expert skill behind it... it's Snuffer-made.

The Yearner got a Snuffer to pull off a wolf's face for her. How curious.

"My other self's fianc��." she says, in a monotone. "And their pet Drownie. How curious. How droll."

The Scientist's face may be hidden behind a mask, but nothing could ever hope to conceal his alarmed blanch, the widening of his eyes, the shift of his stance- distinctly defensive, like a prey animal ready to flee at any moment.

"Yearner." his tone is one of forced detachment. "I never took you as someone who'd.. enjoy this sort of thing."

A glance to the side, where violant eyes (albeit from a distance) still gleam amidst the other invitees. Their mask is smiling, even if their lips are pulled into a wickedly fanged frown.

His mask tips downward. He doesn't retract this statement.

It ended... well. Shall we say. Poorly.

He is allowed in the scene- and witnesses the frozen corpses.

Dead, for sure, though how permanent it will be is yet to be tested. A thin layer of frost clings to their skin, and the scene is obviously filled with signs of struggle. Eight bodies, all trying to leave the room as they were cut down- all trying to escape.

Signs of a blunt instrument. Some of them were smashed against the walls, against the ground- one had both arms torn off. Frozen splatters of blood cover the walls.

The Yearner is nowhere to be seen.

The Yearner, after all, is what can best be described as an immortal and unmelting Noman, sustaining herself off of nothing but sorrow and human hearts. Her very existence is built upon blood and misery. She thrives off it. Needs it to survive, to live, to flourish.

Nobody deserves that kind of existence. Not even the Scoundrel's very own doppelganger.

But she's alive. And she did come back from some sort of death, hellish and ironic and false as it may be. It can be done.

The Scientist has done it before.

He can do it again.

He will do it again.

And so Caeru works. And works. And works.

To serve. To fix. To help. Finally, he's going to rectify his mistake, going to make everything better, going to give his lover the life he knows they deserve. This is a noble service. A noble obligation. The last attempt may have failed, but this- this cannot fail- he will not let himself fail, not again, not ever.

And nothing can stand in his way. Nothing except-

"Caeru?" a voice can be heard, knocking on the door to the Scientist's laboratory. "Are you there?"

Were one to look through the one-way glass window, they would see the Silverer, looking worried. "Where were you?" she says. "I haven't seen you all week. What has got you locked in there?" she taps again, more hurried-

-His current paramour, The Snowswept Silverer.

A loud crash echoes at the Silverer's sixth knock. Someone curses. The door slams open harsh enough to send her flinching back, the Scientist standing in the doorway with a look of pure vitriol- then, far slower than his typical reaction speed, his fury ebbs.

"Louise." his voice is gratingly hoarse, his hair tied in a half-hazard bun via a thoroughly exhausted ribbon struggling to keep the strands together (it would be a cute look, if not for the blue hue in his cheeks and the blood and dirt caking his arms). His laboratory is- cold. Blisteringly cold. He's barely even shivering, but- surely it can't be healthy, staying in there for so long-?

"I'm... working." he stresses the word as though it's an obvious and irrefutable explanation. "Can we talk in-" he looks back, "A month?" he has the audacity to pause thoughtfully. "Two?"

And thus the preamble concludes, and the pieces and players of our play all finally fall into place.

"...Caeru, I’m not stupid." Louise replies, giving him a throughly unimpressed look. "Is this yet another Yearner situation?"

The accompanying dumbfounded expression that her paramour produces would cause her some amount of delight, were this any other situation. As it is, she is simply more worried- and a fair bit annoyed, as well. "Yes, I know you were involved with her creation, somehow. You and the Academic were rather obvious about it. Whatever you've been doing inside this laboratory, Caeru, it's not nearly as discreet as you think it is. You have a budget, and whenever you ask for it to be extended or spend carelessly on a new batch of supplies, people see it happen-”

Her paramour squirms uncomfortably. She continues her rant unabated.

“-The GHR is in fact a major supplier of experimental materials for the University. As long as it's an import from the Hinterlands, I know what comes in here and what comes out. And I know for sure a certain Yearner has also been looking around your laboratory. I would have left you to your devices, but this will lead to a disaster if I don't interfere."

Her hand- which he notices is clawed- is putting quite a lot of pressure on his shoulder. "Tell me, Caeru. What have you been doing?"

He gulps. The look in her eyes is... serpentine in its wrath, even. Like a Knot who's just caught a scout from the Court of Cats intruding into its home. It's a look that demands an account.

His expression twists- regret, guilt, frustration, desperation. "Louise," he says softly, "Please, just- just give me more time. A week or two more, and- and this will all be done and over with. You'll never have to hear about it again. Please."

He tries to shy away from her hand and take a step back- it's not exactly successful, given his strength relative to hers. His hands tremble. His arms are slick and ruby red- weeping scars, never bandaged-

"I don't want to fight you." a rustle, as one hand drifts down to his pocket, so quiet as to be barely noticeable. "Please." he begs again. "Please don't make me fight you. It's not like the Yearner, it's- it's important, I can't just- please don't make me. Please."

Needless to say, things quickly go from bad to worse.

"Go ahead. Fight her." another voice, intensely recognizable, echoes through the corridor. The Scoundrel's voice- but colder. Less shrill. Less amused. "She won't leave you alone, and neither will I."

The Yearner stands there. Her feathery black dress is covered in blood- fresh. Going by the faint gurgling sounds, someone tried to block her way- and she reacted as she often does.

"I could feel something happening down here. I didn't know what it was, but it felt... important. Thank you for the confirmation that it was very important indeed." she steps forward. In her hand is a large spike of ice, the size of a sword. "Will you let me see it, Caeru? Or shall I tell your husband of what you’ve done? Of how I came to be? I still have that to hold over you, at least. I wonder if they would like to know what happened to that cufflink." the word is hissed, and she smiles in delight at the way he flinches.

(It's... so recognizable, Caeru realizes, and yet so twisted. They sound completely identical. If one were to ignore the face made of ice, they would even be able to identify the similarities- and the sharp differences. It's a little bit disquieting, to see her face. The Scoundrel does... does not make this kind of expression, even at their worst. The only kind of person who does is a certain Mr Veils. It's the sort of look only someone who delights in misery shows.)

He has no other options. No other way out.

He will not fail again. He will never let himself fail again.

A thousand possibilities run through his mind, all at once, before he can even so much as blink. The window- no. The door- terrifyingly fragile. The mirrors- if they weren't already swarming with serpents, he'd be shocked. No solution comes without violence, without- he can't lose again, he can't leave again, he-

The Scientist draws fast as a lightning bolt and shoots his paramour square in the chest, flipping the pistol and shooting a second time for good measure. The desperate scream of his apology can barely be heard over the slam of the door, the clicking of several dozen locks, the mad dash to retrieve something before what little safety he has inevitably gives way.

His prize is bundled in rags, apocyan soaking through the white cloth, pieces of shattered diamond and wood clippings scattered half-hazardly all over the floor-

Run. Run.

Thus the infamous girlfriend shooting incident. Don't worry, she gets better. For the most part.

Everyone else, well... they get substantially worse.

The Scientist acts on instinct, cradling his experiment against his chest. Not again. Never again. He turns when the door inevitably gives way and fires again, futile as it may be.

The bullet does not do much- not when the door is promptly kicked off its hinges, the locks snapping and shattering as the sheer force of the Yearner's kick propels it forward. In that moment, Caeru realizes that while the door was very secure, the frame is nothing but a few planks of wood. It wouldn't hold.

On the floor, bleeding profusely through the wound in her neck (though the ambery growths around it show it will be closing soon, whether it wants to or not), is the Silverer- who stares at the Yearner in horror. "This was not our deal." she hisses.

The Yearner shrugs. "I don't care."

And then she lunges for her prize like a woman possessed. Her eyes gleam, staring fixedly at the bundle in the Scientist's arms. "Either you tell me what that bundle is and why I feel so intensely that I need to see it, or I'll make you tell me." she purrs. "Make the choice, my dear creator.”

He desperately curls around the bundle, hugging it close enough for it to nearly bend under his grip- nearly. Whatever it is, it's sturdier than it looks.

"You can't take him." he gasps without thinking. "You can't- you can't take him, you can't hurt him, you can't-" he backs up against the wall and trembles. The weight makes him stagger with every step. When the Yearner approaches, he flinches. "You can't hurt him."

A delirious sob. The room is freezing. His skin is tinted such a vibrant shade of blue. It's a miracle he isn't already dead from hypothermia. Slowly, carefully, still keeping his gun aimed at the Yearner, his other hand pulls back part of the cloth- and the hand that dangles free is clawed and formed almost entirely from lacre.

Just like her.

"He's mine." Caeru whispers, pressing his head to the apocyan stains with equal parts guilt and adoration. "He's mine. And nobody will ever take him again."

The Silverer stumbles into the room, a gun in hand. The Yearner waves dismissively- and fractal spikes of ice erupt from the ground to block her advance. From the mirrors in the room, Fingerkings hiss and spit in fury- the Yearner should probably stay away from Parabola for a few weeks. She turns to look at the Scientist in disdain.

"Bringing back the dead." she spits. "Once again. You should know it gets you nowhere. Look at what you did before. You tried to return me to the world, when I wasn't ever real at all!" she yells. "An illusion. A dream! Delusions of high society and bohemian dreams of a waif that was never anything but a facade!" she roars, coming closer. "Who was it this time?! Tell me! Who was-”

She pauses, before smiling. It is not a nice smile. "Your lover, wasn't it? The seventh victim. Did you realize that killing Mr Cups would never return what you lost!?"

The words sting. They sting, because she doesn't know, how could she know. Her eyes are wild and mad. "Drop it. Let it go. You don't deserve to have them back.”

The Scientist chokes on a sob. He doesn't deny a word. His knees buckle- he slides down to the floor, holding the bundle like a lifeline and a precious piece of treasure, all rolled into one. "I know." his voice is calm, even with the tears sliding down his cheeks. "I don't deserve him."

He's- the Silverer recognizes the look in his eyes. He's never been more confident about anything else in the world.

"I'm not doing this for myself," the words ring slightly hollow when he's clinging to his creation on the floor, "I'm doing it for him. When Cups died, it-" his tone wavers. Caeru swallows. The despair and guilt in his voice is intoxicating, especially to a Noman standing so very close indeed.

"It begged for its life. It gave me an offer. It could bring him back, if I spared it." he looks beyond the Yearner- staring intently at a shadow on the wall, as though somehow it could stare back. "I couldn't- I couldn't, for everyone else it murdered, I couldn't-" he chokes. "I failed him. I failed him. He deserved to live, he deserved to come back- and I failed, and-"

He kicks at a spare diamond on the floor, watching it twist and freeze into place within moments of making contact with the Yearner. "I'm fixing it. I'm fixing him."

A kiss to his prize. To his magnum opus. His eyes stay fixed on it- nothing matters so long as it is in his arms. "I'm serving him. I'm fixing him."

🐈💙🐺

"No." the Yearner snarls. "No, you're not fixing him. I'll be the one doing that. Give him to me!"

She moves before he can say a word. Only a Licenciate's instincts save his head from being separated from its shoulders by a sharpened spike of ice. He dives out of the way of a furious flurry of stabs, and stumbles to keep hold of his prize- only to see the Yearner tear off her dress in front of him.

He blinks in disbelief before seeing it- connected to her body are numerous pulsating hearts. The blood vessels tear holes in the thin shirt she wore underneath, and wet the fabric in frozen blood. Nourishing her as they draw ever closer to death. How many people have been killed- perhaps permanently- to sustain her existence?

She grins wickedly, cosmogone eyes shining with Parabolan light. "You won't bring him back. Cups wouldn't have done it either, I'm sure. The Masters have experience with bringing the dead back- done it five times now. But it never works, not really, does it?" she spits out the words. "You don't know what it's like. To live knowing you are a failure. A failed attempt to bring someone ELSE back!? Do you want him to live like this, you bastard?! Give him to me. I'll give him life- his own life! He doesn't deserve to be the monument to your vanity!”

🐈💙🐺 🔫⛄

“You barely know how-" the Scientist curses and ducks around another flurry, flailing in a desperate attempt to keep his 'lover' close. He ducks and weaves around the room with expert precision- but his movements are more than slightly hindered by the weight of a corpse larger than he is tall. That... no, that can't be right-

"He won't be a failure." Caeru spits back, pressed against the spikes still binding the Silverer- can't she hear, some part of his mind wonders? What does she think of him? Of what he's done?

He gasps for air that comes stiff and frozen solid. His pistol is long-since discarded- useless, now, but he can't help looking at it and swallowing down his guilt. All the more reason to throw himself down the nearest well, really. At least it's worth it. At least he's worth it. At least it'll all be over soon.

"He's not finished, he's not fixed yet-" he dives away from yet another attempt to spear him in the head. "Do you really think I'd attempt the same experiment twice without learning from my mistakes?! He'll be better. He'll be- he'll be different. He'll be everything." he sounds utterly delirious. "He'll be everything you were meant to be."

The Yearner hisses- and her blade moves for the Scientist's neck with unbelievable speed. There will be no dodging this one. Encumbered as he is, he has to drop the bundle if he wants to dodge- and that he will never do. He closes his eyes-

And only opens them a second later, after the sound of flesh being cleaved resounds. He is- he is not on the slow boat. He sees the Silverer before him, blocking the Yearner's blade with her own arm. A steady trickle of blood is falling from the grievous-looking wound- the cut was such that it exposed the bone.

"Oh, hello. Does it hurt?" the Yearner remarks.

"Not... at all." the Silverer scoffs.

"What if I do this?"

The Noman wriggles her arm and the blade twitches on the spot it's stuck on. The Silverer yelps and wrenches herself free, before falling. There are holes torn all over her legs- even the Shapeling Arts couldn't hold back the blood loss indefinitely. She collapses, overwhelmed by pain. The sound that emerges from the Scientist's throat is one of near-inhuman agony.

For no reason in particular: Did you know Caeru's biggest fear is watching his loved ones die in front of him (especially while he's unable to save them?)

The Yearner laughs. "Guess it's just the two of us again. Now, hand it over. Or I'll tear your arms off.”

Caeru drops the bundle without thinking, kneeling over the Silverer and cradling her in his arms, barely acknowledging the Yearner's presence. Louise's name is all but chanted under his breath- he struggles to breathe. Blood soaks through his coat. Her head is held close against his heart. His hands scramble to stop the bleeding, to fix her, to save her, to- to-

His head darts up as the Yearner takes a step towards the bundle. His eyes are wide. An utterly distraught sob. He doesn't stop her. He only turns back to his (still living) paramour and desperately tries to keep her that way.

"Idiot." he mumbles into the Silverer's hair, still on the verge of delirium. "You didn't need to- you didn't-"

And thus, the Yearner wins this round. But the story isn't over quite yet.

He looks back just long enough to glare up at the Yearner. He spits. "I should've fed you to the Knot of Tails when I had the chance."

"You should have." the Yearner nods. "I agree on that, now."

She kicks the Scientist square in the jaw. Her delicate shoe goes flying off into the distance, and she leaps for the bundle. Before the Scientist can recover from his daze, she rips the cloth around it, and then her arm moves for one of the hearts in her chest- tearing it off in one clean motion. Blood- deathly cold- sprays everywhere. She shoves the heart into the chest of the Scientist's project, and it- horror of horrors- twitches. It opens its eyes, and gasps- before once again falling into utter silence.

"It worked." she grins. "That's what it needs, right? Life. You've been working with mountain-sherds, trying to breathe life into it- but you don't know anything. You don't know what you are doing, you've been getting nowhere. Your love needs life to come back. Life has to come from somewhere."

The many hearts on her body twitch and wriggle as she turns to leave, the body still in her hands, bathing her in apocyan light. "Don't worry. I have a lot of life to give."

She runs off, and Caeru can see-

The body is half-lacre, half-skeletal, and all mannequin. A horror of sable wood casings enveloping the lacre beneath like a shield, virtually impossible to separate without ripping it all apart. His chest is exposed just enough to betray the underlying array of cracked ribs, and inside lays a diamond shining brilliant apocyan. The light floods his body and leaks freely out of an exposed, half-finished eyesocket.

He's sturdier than the Yearner, clearly. Built to last. Built to survive. Not an accident, like she was, but something else entirely. He shudders, white hair flowing in waves down to her feet- his hands dig into her shoulders on instinct.

He meets Caeru’s eyes. He doesn't say a word.

Caeru watches them go, and tries not to scream. He fails spectacularly.

He stumbles to his feet, still cradling his paramour- he takes one step after them, then sobs. The Silverer twitches in his arms. His mind races.

If he leaves her, if he fails again, if he-

He turns tail and shoves coils of hissing Fingerkings aside, ducking into Parabola as the Yearner escapes. He'll regroup, he swears, he'll come back, he'll fix this, he'll fix everything, he'll-

He sets his paramour down and frantically sets about bandaging her wounds. The past can wait. He only has one Louise.

"I love you." he whispers uselessly. "I'm sorry. I love you. I'm so sorry-"

The Scientist's involvement in this tale ends here- left with many regrets, many things to answer for, and many wounds to try and heal.

Some, he succeeds at. Others, he does not.

But this was never about him in particular.

Far away is the Yearner, retreating to a lair in the swamps. A knock on the door, two knocks- and the Scarred Naturalist looks at her in disbelief. "What on earth is that?"

She enters, and places the body on the dining table without a word, knocking wooden plates and silverware (a strange contrast, indeed) aside. The body twitches, the sole heart connected to its chest pulsating madly as it slowly but surely withers into nothing. Her hand hovers over a cracked rib.

"We'll have to find replacements." she whispers.

The Naturalist shrugs. He doesn't know what this is all about, but he supports her interests, as always. He finds the Yearner is a surprisingly good influence on his master. Why, the master of silks has been startingly cheery since they've started their rivalry. "The swamp will provide," he notes. "Plenty of bodies around.

The Yearner nods. "Tell Veils I'm calling in that favour, too. It can provide far better materials than that fool of a scientist could. Ask it for wood- sturdy. Elder Continent- something that soaks in the light of the Mountain." she pauses. "Keep him safe. The box of hearts is under my bed- feed one to him every hour. I'll be leaving. I believe Fires had a shipment of apocyan lanterns sent over to Varchas? Surely nobody will notice if I take one..”

She takes a heavy coat, and steps out of the shack. She has a mission.

-

The body does not move for... quite some time. It merely stares up at the ceiling in idle bafflement, digging its claws into the table. It opens its mouth. All that emerges is a sickening click-

He closes his mouth. The heart shudders, and he goes with it. He rolls to his left and spends minutes on end staring at his hands in open fascination- another click.

He twists the joints on his fingers. He lifts his head, and while he may not have proper eyes- the empty stare of his eyesocket and the sickening glow of the apocyan leaking from his face is nothing short of disturbing.

He watches at the Naturalist for a long moment. Another click, as he opens his mouth, and then closes it. A claw unwisely pokes around the heart on his chest, another hand gesturing vaguely to the house around it. Finally, it manages to croak in a low rumble, like an oncoming storm- "Where?"

The Naturalist raises an eyebrow. "Bugsby's Marshes." at the confused look he gets back, he raises it further. "Watchmaker's Hill?" a pause. "The Fifth City, Fallen London? The Neath?" he chuckles. "My my. You're quite uninformed. I suppose it's just fair..."

He walks over to a cabinet, and takes out- is that skin? Human skin. A face. "You've just been born, haven't you?" He offers the face. It's fair-skinned and pudgy. He grins devilishly. "Perhaps a trip to the city would alert your senses."

(The Yearner didn't say he had to stay in the cabin. Just that he had to be kept safe- and that he needed the hearts.)

The Naturalist looks at the homunculus in front of him expectantly, and smiles again. It's not a nice smile.

The body's own face is carved from wood, and thus, cannot blanch- but its face certainly does scrunch up in noticeable revulsion. "No thank you." he says quickly, practically shoving it away. "I'm," he pauses, "Not, hungry?"

He reaches up- the heart beats faster. His finger dips into his eye. He could swallow, if he knew how. He sits up and stares down at his own body in obvious bafflement.

London. He's in London. In... what was it? Bugsby's Hill? This must be a dream.

He slides off the table, trips over his own hair, and falls facefirst onto the ground with a loud thud. A very strange dream indeed.

"...a trip would be appreciated, thank you..." oddly polite, for a newborn homunculus. If a bit laughable.

"My, you're clearly not fine." the Naturalist says. "And you can't go out like this, either way. I'll find you a suit. I have... one." the fact it belonged to someone the Yearner had hunted and killed probably doesn't matter. "Hm. But it's not your size. Maybe..."

He leaves the room to fetch something while the homunculus twitches on the ground. The body practically claws his way up to the wall as he tries once more to get his footing. 'Practically', of course, meaning 'leaves stark grooves in the wallpaper as though he was a particularly rambunctious kitten'.

Finally, the Naturalist returns with a cloak- torn in several places and repaired with careful carelessness. A trophy of war, a legendarily expensive article of clothing torn from the body of a Master and carefully, extensively defaced. Reworked and remade. He offers it.

"Thank you." a stiff sigh as he wraps the cloak around himself, tugging the hood over his head without a second thought. The illusion of anonymity is only slightly marred by the apocyan glow and uncomfortable resemblance to a Master of the Bazaar.

One hesitant step, then another. One more, for good measure. The homunculus looms above the Naturalist, voice rattling like gravel. "Who did you say you were..?" he looks at the door. "You and that- ah. Ice...? Ice. Woman. With the. Eyes." his tone reeks of disbelief.

"Quite tall..." the Scarred Naturalist mutters. "Ah, well. I am a Scarred Naturalist, just a humble scholar living here after my... let us call it an involuntary exile from academia. Unfortunately, prejudice tends to get in the way of scientific advancement... no matter." he coughs. "My associate is the Yearner, a hunter living on the marshes in search of a particularly elusive beast. She brought you here. Given by your state you must have been in quite a situation! Do you remember anything in particular? Have you an address to return to, perhaps?"

The body tilts his head roughly 45 degrees and ponders for a moment. "I run an inn," he looks up, vain as it may be, "Quite far from here. My, ahem, business partner- last I recall, I was bidding him farewell for the morning..."

He trails off and stares into space, not lost in any specific memory, but simply caught in a wave of utter bafflement at the holes in his own mind. "Next I remember, I was carried here by the Yearner. And now I look like-"

He stops, and raises a hand once again. The lacre coats his palms- fresh, vulnerable spots where his mannequin-like casing has not yet been applied. The apocyan dims. "-Like, this." he stands in silence for a long minute. His gaze, though unreadable, is inevitably drawn back to the face- the. Face.

He takes a step back. "Well! Now that I think about it! I really must be going!" he spins on his feet and twists the doorknob with forced cheer, barely able to keep the tremors out of his voice. "It was lovely meeting you, I'm quite grateful for your assistance, tell your associate she's a delight, but if you can just direct me to the nearest path back upwards-?"

He smiles. His mouth is full of uneven, half-formed teeth. "I'd hate to take up too much of your time. I'm sure you're busy doing... busy marsh things."

"Upwards...?" the Naturalist mutters. There's a grudge here. "Never been upwards." he says, too low for the homunculus to hear at all. "Not like they'd take us. The sun hates us more then Stone does. No, no path upwards for me…”

He composes himself, and gives his conversation partner an amused look. "I am loath to inform you, but there is no path upwards. Have you seen yourself, young man? The sun would scour you utterly. To ashes. It does not take kindly to Neathy things- and perhaps you should take a look at yourself? Thoroughly Neathy, that body of yours."

He reveals a mirror, and on it, the cloaked shadow can finally see his face. He tugs down his hood and stares. He's quiet for a time. A trembling hand caresses his cheek (hollow and wooden and false), then scratches at his beard (snow-white and soft as silk), then traces along his scars (carved deliberately and carefully into his face, as though replicating something that was already there).

The Naturalist continues, regardless of his guest's confusion. He sounds quite amused by the whole affair. "Do not worry. I am sure my roommate could not let you go without a shelter for the night- and when you wake up, Penstock's Land Agency will be ready and waiting. We could find you a home here- and perhaps arrange for mail to the Cumaean Canal? I'm sure that ‘business partner’ of yours might have explanations for what happened- and for these apparent gaps in your memory."

A soft sound escapes the body's mouth, indecipherable. He brings a hand up to the apocyan-lit hole in his left eye- and flinches on instinct when his claws dip into it with ease. "Thoroughly..."

There's awe, yes. Horror, most certainly. A hint of amazement. Most of all, complete and utter bafflement.

"But- I have people to get back to, I can't just-" he blinks. "Mail... that. Would be appreciated, yes. Thank you kindly." he looks back at the door. Without speaking, he steps outside- and stops, staring up at the false stars in open awe.

One tentative step, then another. He marvels at the world like a newborn babe.

"What is this?" he doesn't particularly expect an answer. "What... am I?"

The city is alive. Even at this hour, Watchmaker's Hill bustles with activity.

The Starved Embassy's ambered glow and the visitors from the Roof who walk the streets, the Clay Men who pass in stoic silence- the hawkers, the conmen offering rostygold for whoever beats them at arm-wrestling (hiding brass tacks between their fingers as they brag about their prowess), the marksmanship competitions for prizes of jade! The scholars debating the nature of the stars, taking blind steps towards the observatories. The criers announce Feducci's fighting rings, the chittering of surprisingly articulate insects and the growling of the marsh-beasts.

Fallen London stands before the Shadow in all its glory, this strange and wild city of a thousand stories. It gazes at him with mirth.

The Shadow gazes back.

He tugs up his hood and strolls along in absolute wonder- his hand dwarfs a wrestler's own as he pins their arm with ease, barely noticing tacks against wooden 'skin'. His voice is eager and enthralled as astronomers entertain each and every one of his questions about the 'stars' in the 'sky'. A sorrow spider creeps up his elbow- he plucks it by the leg and dangles it in front of his eyes. A half-hearted smile. It disappears into his cloak, and does not return.

Everyone gives him a wide berth, but if this bothers him, he doesn't voice it. This must be a dream- it is a dream, surely, but even so, there's no harm in enjoying it while it lasts.

He'll wake up eventually. He'll see his partner eventually.

Anxiety dies as he stops on the edge of a hill and gazes up at the firmament. London's invitation is easy to accept- after all, in a city of a thousand stories, surely an explanation lies within one.

Barely glancing at the Naturalist behind him, he wanders off into London's heart. Lacre trails in his wake.

It's a beautiful day to be alive.

[notawomanimagod]

Today I realised the reason I love Silco so much is because maybe I relate to him in an uncanny way? ( And that I unintentionally have a Silco+Jinx tattoo?)

Some backstory first

I'd gone to college with my childhood best friend/partner and we had a whole plan for our futures and I was a big dreamer. I got us into all the schools/opportunities we wanted to purely by planning a lot. By constantly making sure we had a way out. By keeping us moving. By being the one that put their head down and planned. They had fire initially, which made us bond, but later they sort of showed up and came along for the ride.

Our campus was on the outskirts of a city which coincidentally had a polluted river flowing through it, where dead bodies were found. The water contained so many chemicals, it foamed unnaturally and your skin could feel it.

We would sit on the shores of this river and plan how we'd make it out of here and move to a better place. How we'd break the cycle. How we'd live in a nice house, eat good food and simply live a peaceful life. Away from the violence and chaos of the families we came from.

But things started falling apart, and both of us had vastly different ideologies. We didn't fit like perfect puzzle pieces anymore.

After months of tension, an ongoing fight blew up to the extent they choked me and shoved me down while I clawed at them to get away.

I grew so bitter and felt so betrayed.

This was my best friend. Young, hopeful me considered them my other half in every sense. This was the person I grew up with, we'd gotten each other through so much trauma in our lives and we'd barely survived everything together.

We've both stopped each other from early deaths and yet, there they were, throwing our future away, while I tried my best to acquire it.

I always felt like I didn't resent them for abusing me, I hated them for giving up. On our dream, on our future.

Suddenly I was thrown away.

That dynamic felt eerily similar to Silco/Vander, down to the size difference.

Around that time the only way I knew how to cope was to imagine myself reborn. I became a new person, being betrayed changed me so fundamentally, I had to change.

I viewed everything as pre-incident and after. Pre-betrayal, post-betrayal.

My younger self had no means of understanding why I'd been left behind to rot. While they got a comfortable life. Got to keep our friends. They got the better end of the deal. They got everything.

And I was absolutely alone, isolated. Driven to the point of insanity by everything they'd done to me.

I swore to only trust in myself after that.

I got this tattoo to symbolise my "rebirth" and how to find strength solely in myself.

My younger self had a lot in common with Silco/Jinx and it's a funny coincidence that my tattoo ended up having both their motifs.

Anyways, I didn't understand how much of my own life I saw in Silco's until my brother pointed this out recently. But it helped me process some of the feelings I felt when I began to read more on Silco/Vander's dynamic and why I was drawn to it.

I have always been that dirty little thing, scraping it together and clawing my way out.

No wonder I loved Silco's Rebirth narrative. It truly is the realest arc anyone who experiences trauma/ abuse/betrayal goes through.

And now years later, even though I have a peaceful life, my own apartment, sometimes I get reminded of how I could be hurt and that little part of me that is always on the run comes back in ropes of rage. I need to be in control.I have tried to harden myself and yet, I am still soft. I would often think my caring for others was my biggest weakness, though now I treasure it.

No wonder I love this little rat man. I am what he is. (Down to the black hair and scribbling in journals and leather jackets and cigarettes and being fruity lmfaoo)

No wonder I absolutely love everything about his characterization in season one.

[visceravalentines]

the driver

it turns out I am chewing on them every moment of every day. I'm sure this fic will permanently satisfy the hunger of course ✨🌷🙃

2.3k words. character study happy ending post-credits type beat where everyone lives and drives off into the sunset together. pre-slash but Randy is so down bad he doesn't know how to cope. nobody do the math on mileage or drive time I made it all up Minnesota isn't even real

They’re about 50 miles over the Missouri border when Benson asks him. 

“You think you could drive, man?” 

Randy looks at him sharply, not sure he heard him right. He must not have heard him right. 

Benson glances over and his eyes are bloodshot beyond belief, the skin beneath them dark and hollow. His crow’s feet have multiplied. “I gotta sleep, Randy, or we’re gonna end up in a ditch.” 

After a beat of careful consideration, Randy nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I could–I can drive.” 

The car lurches to the right as Benson pulls over immediately, puts it in park and slumps in his seat. His head falls back against the headrest and he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck.” 

Randy watches him with an intent he can feel but can’t parse, hasn’t been able to parse all day and the night before and the day before that. He stopped being scared, really scared, a while ago. Fear still gnaws at the edges of him, jittery and mean like rats in the walls, but it’s not the same.

He’s no longer afraid Benson might kill him. He’s afraid he might decide he doesn’t need him anymore. And those are different things. 

Benson’s big hands drop into his lap. He stares blankly through the windshield at the half-set sun, exhausted.

Randy has the urge to touch him. To clap a hand on his shoulder, give it a little shake. He plays it out in his head. Yeah, man. I’ll drive for a while. Don’t worry about it. Get some rest.

His hands stay clasped between his thighs. 

“Don’t really know where we’re goin’, so I guess you can just pick a direction,” Benson says. “Anywhere but back that way.” He shoots Randy a pointed look, but the point is dull and bleary. 

Randy nods. “North. I got it.” You can trust me. I know that sounds like bullshit, but it’s not.

Benson pours out of the car like his bones are dissolving. He stretches mightily, arches his back and groans loudly, and Randy flinches and doesn’t know why. 

He gets out and the breeze hits his face, smells a little like home and a little bit different. He gazes down the highway, tracks it all the way to where it disappears beyond a sun-washed hill. He’s never been this far north before, never been out of Louisiana except for a family reunion in Florida one time. 

He wonders, for a second, if maybe they could see them all. All fifty states. Benson’s car might not make it that many miles. But it would be something. It would be cool. 

“You sure you’re good?” 

Randy turns, squints into the sun. Benson is lit from behind, face in shadow, but Randy can feel his eyes, the way they probe like fingers at his mouth, his neck. 

“I’m good.” 

Benson taps his fist against the roof of the car. “Super.” 

They trade sides, cross paths in front of the bumper. Randy slides into the seat and it’s still warm from Benson’s body. He feels like he's sitting in his shadow. He's been wearing his shirt for two days now, the smell of stale cigarette smoke working itself into his skin. It's like he's being assimilated, wrapped in a cocoon of brash words and an army green jacket. He presses his spine against the backrest and folds his arms around himself without thinking about it. 

Benson yanks open the door and snaps him out of it. He sits forward and feels under the seat for the lever to slide it up a few inches, touches something sticky, makes a face. Benson’s got longer legs than he does, even though they're about the same height. Benson is big in Randy's mind. Or maybe Randy is small. Does Benson think he's small?

Like he can read his mind, or thinks he can, Benson shoves his seat way back. “Jesus, Randy, you’re allowed to take up space,” he mutters as he pushes the backrest almost horizontal. 

No one’s ever told him that before. Does Benson know no one’s told him that before? 

“Don’t wreck my fucking car.” 

“I won’t.” 

“And don’t get pulled over.” 

“I won’t.” 

Benson nods once like a punctuation mark. “Good boy.” 

Randy exhales heavily. 

He buckles up, hesitates as he sets his hands on the wheel. Ten and two. He slides them together to meet at twelve, where Benson always grips the wheel with half a hand, pointing at things, eyes anywhere but the road, talking with his whole body. Then he slides them back to ten and two, at least for now. One thing at a time.

He signals before he pulls back onto the road even though there’s not another car in sight. He presses the gas gently, like he’s wiping a smudge off someone’s cheek. And just like that, they're back on their way.

Benson’s car is old as shit and runs like it’s doing him a favor. It takes Randy a minute to get used to it, the resistance of the pedals and the way the wheel is about as sensitive as the bottom of a work boot. He’s careful with it, not because it’s old or unreliable, but because it’s his. Because he’s trusting him with it. 

He’s the driver now. 

Benson moves in his periphery, fast and sudden like he does, and without meaning to Randy jerks, jerks the wheel. Benson gives him a look, reaching around for something in the backseat. “Sorry,” Randy mumbles. 

“Just be cool,” Benson says with his jacket in his hands. He balls it up to use as a pillow, shifts around, settles in and shuts his eyes. 

Be cool, Randy repeats to himself. Be cool, be cool. 

“Are you…going to buckle your seatbelt?” he asks. He’s been waiting to ask. Now seems like the last opportune moment. 

Benson opens his eyes and looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What are you, a fuckin’ cop?” 

Randy feels his face flush. He looks away. “Sorry. Do whatever you want.” 

“You know if you slam on the brakes and I’m layin’ down like this I’m goin’ through the windshield, seatbelt or no.” 

“Do whatever you want,” Randy says again. “I’m just…trying to be safe.” 

Benson grabs the seatbelt, yanks it across his chest, clicks it into place with attitude. “Happy?” 

Randy glances at him and away, almost smiles in spite of himself. Yeah. “Yeah.” For once, he thinks he might really mean it. 

Benson grumbles and closes his eyes. He fidgets for a while, bullies the jacket into a different shape, but soon he falls still and quiet. Randy figures he has nothing left in the tank after the events of the last thirty-six hours, nothing more to give to Randy or anybody else.

He drives like the backseat is full of fine china, nice and easy, until Benson starts to snore. It's a cute snore, kind of nasally and pitched higher than his voice. He slams the door on that thought the moment it arrives, shoos it away and casts a guilty look over at Benson.

He’s never seen him look so at peace. There's a tension missing from his face, a furrow between his brows that Randy only registers in its absence. He wonders if he has nightmares like Randy has nightmares. Probably. Probably worse. But there’s no sign of them now; he’s too wiped out. 

Now that he’s not waving a gun around and yelling, he resembles the old Benson. The guy who greeted him at the start of each shift with a casual wave and nothing to say. The man who moved like he was in a dream, seemed checked out completely until you caught his eye and realized he hadn't missed a second of what was going on around him. Not even the little things. Not even Randy.

As the miles wear on, he wonders which Benson is more real, the quiet one or the loud one. Maybe they’re two sides of the same coin. Maybe everyone has someone else inside of them, raw and bright, harder to swallow. Randy always figured he was the only one slumming around with that particular burden–the monster of his guilt, his anger, feelings too big to unbottle lest they rip him in half–but maybe he was wrong. He's been wrong a lot the last couple days. 

It doesn’t probably matter which is more real because he likes them both:  the Benson who once followed him out the back door under the guise of a smoke break to make sure he was okay after a particularly egregious run-in with Chris, and the Benson who beat the shit out of his own personal boogeyman in the parking lot of an elementary school until his hands bled. Randy understands both of them. Feels a connection to both of them. Knows he can count on both of them when it matters. 

Randy leans back and feels it then, feels it all, the world shrinking behind them, the past pinned to it like a poster on a corkboard, the dying sun to his left and the man on his right and Benson’s fingerprints worn into the leather of the steering wheel. And it's exhilarating, it's amazing. It's freedom and possibility. Hope, even.

And he desperately, deep in his bones, wants to be someone Benson can count on. When it matters or doesn't. He knows he isn’t a fighter or a talker, but he cares. He cares so fucking much sometimes he wants to bite through his own tongue. Maybe that could be worth something. For the first time, sitting in the driver's seat on the run from the law, he thinks maybe that might be enough. He might be enough. 

He has Benson to thank for that, too.

He hasn't felt like this since he was a kid. Maybe ever. Light. Free. The way the highway unfolds in front of him forever makes him feel like maybe he could fly. He kind of wishes it would rain and he can't say why. Only that he wants the air to smell like wet asphalt, like dirt. 

And he wants to thank Benson. He doesn’t think he can, like, he can’t just say it. Thanks for killing all those people. It really opened my eyes. Thanks for scaring me shitless, I needed that. No way. He’s gotta be cool. Find some other way.

He reads the names of towns he’s never heard of on the highway sign. They’ll have to stop somewhere eventually, right? Get a motel room or something. Benson deserves to sleep in a real bed. Randy would love to sleep in a real bed. Probably they’ve got to lay low a little while longer. Probably two states north isn’t far enough. 

Benson drives like a grandma. Randy hasn’t said anything, but he figures they could be at least to the border of Iowa by now if Benson wasn’t so hung up on driving three miles under the speed limit and calling it “flying under the radar,” even as cars peeled by them on all sides. 

But he’s the driver now. 

He realizes this is something he can do. A way to repay him, just a little bit. Randy didn’t get them into this mess, not exactly, but he can get them far, far away from it. Safety, serenity. A place where no one knows their faces. He can find that for Benson. He can take him there. He can make sure he wakes up somewhere better than the shithole behind them.

He eases his foot down on the gas, coaxes the needle on the speedometer up and over 80. The car huffs a protest, but it obeys. 

Good boy, he thinks, and he smiles. 

Benson stirs just after they leave Iowa. It’s still dark out, but the horizon is starting to bleed pink. He sits up slowly, stretches, nearly elbows Randy in the face. “Fuck,” he groans, “what time is it?” 

“Breakfast time, almost,” Randy says. “Just looking for somewhere to stop.” 

Benson blinks around the sleep in his eyes, peers through the window into the dark rushing by. “Where are we?” 

“Wisconsin. Or maybe Minnesota. I’m not…a hundred percent sure.” 

Benson furrows his brow. “Jesus Christ, Randy. You break the fuckin' sound barrier?”

“No,” Randy says calmly. “Everyone speeds on the interstate. You just keep an eye on it, it's fine.”

Benson gives him a long look and for a second, Randy thinks he might be mad. But then he breaks into a grin, chuckles, shakes his head and stretches again. His shirt rides up and in the dark of the dawn Randy can just make out the triangle of hair on his stomach. He bites his cheek. 

“Speed Demon Bradley. Who’d’ve thought.” Benson yanks the backrest up, sits back and looks out with fresh eyes on new scenery. “You got a destination in mind, captain?”

Randy does. Has for the last few hundred miles. “Yeah. I was thinking…maybe Lake Superior?”

“What's so superior about it?”

“I don't know, it's…really big. Like…huge. I just thought…it would probably be pretty. I’d–I’d like to see it.” With you. I'd like you to be there too.

He glances over and Benson is staring at him with an odd look on his face. 

“...what?” Randy says. 

Benson starts nodding, frowning thoughtfully, then reaches over and thumps Randy on the chest. “Then let's go see it.”

The impact echoes through his heart and lungs. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah. Randy makin’ decisions.” Benson claps his hands once, loud. “I like it. You wanna go see some big fuckin’ lake? I'm all for it.”

Randy fights a grin and doesn't know why, so he stops, lets it come, feels the stretch of it across his face. “Cool.”

Randy looks over and thinks he’s beautiful. Bloody knuckles, bad attitude, and all. He lets that thought linger for one, two, three seconds before it blows out the window like a wayward receipt.

“Cool.”

Benson rolls down the window and sticks his head out like a dog. The air whipping into the car smells nothing like home. His hair blows back and he squints into the wind, the early sun kissing his cheeks pink. 

“I can take over,” Benson offers over his shoulder. “I’m guessin' you need a break.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Randy squeezes his hands on the wheel at ten and two. “I got it. I'm good.”

And he really means it.

[explosionshark]

in mourning tat my saturday ritual is over so dropping by to share random lore about the current lol/lor version of Vi (shes pathetic) to cope further:

genuinely kind of a fucking loser LMFAO. she has a dig she makes at jayce being a lab rat in the cardgame, and he basically just counters being like "WOW YOU FINALLY GOT A FUCKING JOB HUH"

theres a little yordle dude, veteran investigator, in lor whose lines basically indicate that one of his job roles is "try to get vi to actually do her work and keep her out of trouble". he literally threatens to report her to caitlyn if she keeps fucking around and vi is just like 'but sheriff cupcake cant be mad at me!!!' in that 'im just a little guy' tone

she immediately gets mad when another enforcer card is like "i have orders for you from the sheriff". god forbid her girlfriend make her actually do her job

one of her 'entering the field' lines in lor is from league ("im doing this my way"). cait, if on the field already, responds with the most exasperated "WE are doing this OUR way" like. she is sooo over her shit

any time jinx is played on either enemy or ally side, she gets so angry its so funny. shes so pissed her sister is there she is sooo annoyed. patrol warden is another enforcer card (where jinx has clearly vandalized their splash art) and when they tell vi there's been a vandalism at the docks, shes SO MAD because its jinx ("WHY THAT LITTLE-").

to say nothing of her "EVERYTHING REMINDS ME OF HERRR (eats cupcakes on the ground sobbing)" joke line they added in her brawler skin in lol. she is such a fucking loser. my god

like, modern Game Vi has the exact same energy as "your lesbian friend's loser GF who she very graciously gets a job at the same place as her, except now half of her time is spent trying to keep her GF from getting fired." she has all the energy of 'im just here bc my gf is here and sometimes i get to punch bad guys.' its such a funny direction for her that shes absolutely not good at anything besides the punching part of her job (and the repariing hextech per her old lore, but thats it). im coping so hard right now im coping im coping i love Vi LegOfLeg

This is so funny, I love all of this. Arcane Vi is such a lightning rod for torture and despair which is certainly entertaining in its own way but this also seems like such her vibe. She deserves to be a hot slacker trophy butch for Caitlyn that everyone else puts up with and/or mildly resents bc of the obvious favoritism going on

Also "WE are doing this OUR way" is so fucking funny.

[deedala]

🎇 Happy New Year Friends!! 🎇

From the Diary of Virginia Woolf: January 2, 1931: Here are my resolutions for the next 3 months; the next lap of the year. To have none. Not to be tied. To be free & kindly with myself, not goading it to parties: to sit rather privately reading in the studio. Sometimes to read, sometimes not to read. To go out yes—but stay at home in spite of being asked. As for clothes, to buy good ones.

For today's return to WTW, i thought it might be fun to celebrate the ways in which we survive and manage to find peace and happiness in our one precious life here on Earth. And so...

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

✨W e e k l y 🌟 T a g 🌟 W e d n e s d a y✨

Name: Deanna 🌱

Location: oHIo🌽

Astrological Sign: Scorpio 🦂

What's a TV show or movie you plan to re-watch this year? obvi i'm in a constant state of re-watching shameless but otherwise right now im thinking maybe some bob's burgers, some futurama, austenland...

Whats a book or fic you will probably re-read this year? ooohh you know...the usual suspects tbh: cooperative gameplay, itqd, faffy, love is a ballfield, none the wiser, the menagerie... AND...*IF* DA4 is gonna actually come out soon I'll probably re-read my fav stories from Tevinter Nights!!!

What is a song you will likely continue to play on repeat? uuhh right now its still chappell roan's whole album and hozier's unreal unearth. im sorry for cheating on my own question and basically naming like 30 songs lol

What's a tasty treat you look forward to eating more of this year? i dont think i managed to eat enough chocolate chip cookies last year, i should eat more. also i haven't had an andes mint in forever??? need some of those STAT. oh my god i totally missed out on girl scout cookies last year too!!!

What's a time sink that you will continue to sink time into this year? scrolling tumblr ofc!!!

Did you pick up any habits in 2023 that you plan to continue? not really?? maybe kind of reblogging my own posts more and trying not to feel bad about it??

What's your toxic trait? leaving petty little thoughts in my friends DMs while they're sleeping 😛

What is a coping mechanism you will continue to indulge in this year? ✨disassociation✨

Tell me something you like about how you look! my skin has been pretty nice lately, good job skin. (do you guys remember that old vine of the broken toy that would just say "sssskkiiiiinnnn" when squeezed?? i remember lolol)

Give me at least three adjectives describing things you like about yourself. loyal, generous, thoughtful

----------------------------------- Now for tagging nuggets: additionally I want to thank @mybrainismelted and @jrooc for helping me with this post!! @michellemisfit @mmmichyyy @darlingian @too-schoolforcool @juliakayyy @gardenerian @heymrspatel @heymacy @gallawitchxx @metalheadmickey @mickeysgaymom @thisdivorce @transmickey @tanktopgallavich @lingy910y @suchagallabitch @shippergirl121fic @the-rat-wins @thepupperino @energievie @callivich @lee-ow @purplemagpie @sleepyfacetoughguy @softmick @vintagelacerosette @sam-loves-seb @crossmydna @creepkinginc @suzy-queued @rereadanon @iansw0rld @milkmaidovich @sickness-health-all-that-shit @palepinkgoat @auds-and-evens @ardent-fox 💖

[jaylienpotter]

Peter Pettigrew headcanons!!

Has heterochromia, one eye brown and another green, big round eyeshape

Sandy blond hair

Round chubby face, plus sized, the shortest out of all the boys (including the Slytherin Skittles)

Gets some freckles during the summer

Has a gap tooth and button nose

Had a lot of acne in his early teenage years but stopped drinking milk and his skin got a lot better, eventually very soft (apparently he was lactose intolerant)

Bites his nails since he was a kid

Eats as a coping mechanism for his (somewhat high) anxiety

Had body issues for a while but through talking about it to Lily, both of them learned to love who they are and how they look, as well as to be kind to themselves

Asexual and in the aromantic spectrum (completely aro and repulsed by romance / demiromantic who had a crush on James and then on Benjamin Fenwick, depending on the fic)

Has no patience for the stupidity of his friends (yet does nothing to help the situation, finding it entertaining) but is very patient with their struggles

During pranks, he's usually the distraction or lookout, since he's very attentive and sneaky, able to go anywhere unnoticed as a rat animagus

Knows everything that happens in that castle. E v e r y t h i n g

Detail-oriented

Gossips a lot with the girls (especially Mary)

Never loses a bet, nor a game of chess

Smarter than people think, he's simply uninterested in academics and dyslexic

Comics enthusiast, has a collection (favourites are Marvel)

Funniest of the Marauders

Plant dad, his favourite subjects are Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures

Friends with Prof. Sprout and Hagrid

Has a love for frogs, gets a toad during Hogwarts

Terrible alcohol tolerance and gets awful hangovers (usually involves puking), always says he'll never drink again and never goes through with it

Despises the smell of tobacco

James's neighbour and childhood friend, looks up to him

Will let others step over him yet jumps ahead to defend Remus or Sirius if they're getting made fun of or insulted

Hates horror movies that are unrealistic, pays more attention to the characters' dumb bad choices than the scary parts (will complain about it)

Has an okay relationship with his parents however claims they're overprotective

Gets along with his sister even though she's a squib (will fight anyone who speaks badly of her)

[oursistheday]

You know that feeling, when the first idea of your story lands?

Best feeling ever. You fly on the clouds like a little bird, while at the same time there's lava boiling under your skin. You have a vision of Voldemort playing a sadistic game with Severus Snape:

"I don't trust you, you grimy dungeon bat."

"My Lord, I am your loyal servant."

"Prove it to me."

"I'll do anything for your dark majesty."

"Seduce Harry Potter's mudblood pet."

And then darling Sev is like "NO, I WILL NOT DO IT. YOU CANNOT FORCE ME, DUMBLEDORE, I HAVE A RIGHT NOT TO DO THIS!"

And Albus is popping a lemon drop into his mouth. "Put out the flame under your cauldron and stop heralding the end of the world, Severus. It's not like we ask you to gut out a thousand rats. You have both your masters' blessing to take a young and pretty virgin to your bed, and instead of thanking us, you moan and grumble about how unfair it all is and how Lily would disapprove if she was still alive."

And then your brain explodes, because you need need need need to put this into writing. But the thing is, you have two more stories half-posted and waiting patiently to be finished, while behind your back, one of your shortfics has birthed a whole sequel about destroying Horcruxes. How can you refuse an Albus/OFC story where they destroy horcruxes, I mean, come on.

And yet, your first Snamione beckons you invitingly.... You cannot refuse, not when you are finally writing something that people other than you seem to find interesting :''3

You've never written Snamione before, and now you have a somewhat interesting premise. You've posted the first chapter, you get lots of positive feedback, Severus and Hermione get stuck in your mind, dancing a frenzy waltz all over your synapses.

You have a plot for the Snamione now. It's a tight plot; it feels like a good plot. You play with it for a while, as if you're letting the characters decide. You say, if one of them feels they don't want to proceed with this, I will not write a second chapter. I will leave the one I posted as it is, to remain forever a lonely little one-shot, a spinster on the figurative shelf, the poor dear.

I started writing fics to help me cope with my anxiety. I thought it would be soothing, relaxing, not unlike a mother's embrace that always shelters you from the evils of the world.

Three years later, relaxed is NOT how I feel.

Come join me in Ao3, to read all about Severus' latest ordeal!! How will he proceed with this peculiar task? And how about Hermione, his intended victim? What has she to say for herself?

[hazbincalifornia]

Ghostfuckers: Surprise

Another entry in the 'episodes but blitzpreg' fic collection!

Summary: Blitz buries his sorrows- and something else- in junk food.

Ao3 link

He was fine. He was fine! He was peachy-fucking-keen, he was Coping with a capital C, he hadn’t snuck back into the palace and yanked all the fancy silk curtains out of the rods or pissed all over them, so really, he was the picture of restraint.

The ice cream helped. Gallons of it, some of it half-melted so it had to be chugged by the time he actually got to it since sometimes he had multiple containers at once, but it helped soothe his heart and his stomach, and he’d count soothing anything as a victory, especially as heartbreak apparently came with a sore back and occasional upchucking when he let his brain marinate on feathers too much. 

(Fuck, he still saw that cockbag with the douchey haircut when he closed his eyes too long, so he cranked up the volume on the tv.)

Granted, the ice cream wasn’t exactly helping his waistline, but it wasn’t like he needed abs right now, considering there wasn’t an owl anywhere in the vicinity to ogle over them. Who cared if his pants were a little tight for a few hours days weeks, he needed the sugar and the spice and the sweetness, even if that creamy goodness wasn’t the same as the sticky white-

(Blitz reached for the spray cheese instead and funneled it directly into his mouth, the tangy chemicals mixing with the distilled peppers that were blended in with the cream. It satisfied something deep in his gut, and that was good. He’d take it, even though sometimes the mixing of flavors and emotions knotted things up and forced them right back up again.)

He found himself rutting against the underside of the carton, hormones oozing restlessly throughout his bloodstream as Millie stepped around the chain. As he flicked away the empty container and reached for some chocolate instead, he heard ‘ghost’ and something in his brain went ping.

(The rest of the day did not go as well as his brain had wanted it to, belly aching from the excessive movement after weeks of barely hauling his ass off the blankets and pillows to piss and the Bethany costume not fitting quite right. Even giving some grace with his food baby, the pricks must have undersized it.)

_____

He squirmed in the seat, feeling newly-materialized fingers trail along the bump in his middle that had for some reason decided to hitch along for the ride. When the chains tightened, something in him squirmed like a trapped rat even before the highlight reel of every insecurity he had was pinned down and flayed open.

The fire, Dad, Fizz, Verosika, M+M, Stolas, Stolas, Stolas-

“Oh, this is delicious,” the parasite purred, slipping around the spikes on Blitz’s chair to plant a foot on his bloated middle. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know wha…” The tears poured hot and thick, but he attempted to blink them away as the screen fluttered, the images flashing through at a rapid pace. Some were the same- Loona in LA, Barbie at the human camp, Stolas offering up the Crystal like it was a fucking ring- but some were different. Burning Chaz’s rental jacket when he got home because of how vile it had smelled, barfing into one of the empty ice cream cartons, curling up in the blankets and pillows, a strip of white and red skin exposed from the bottom of his too-tight shirt-

No.

No.

“Yes, yes,” The infestor practically sang as his heel traced down to the side of his stomach, and the bile in Blitz’s stomach bubbled into acid as he realized just how firm that little bump actually was. “Surprise, Daddy. Who could have thought you’d manage to ruin someone’s life before they even hit the starting gate?”

“You- I-”

“I didn’t do shit. I just got here! This mess was all on you.” His toe of his shoe hooked the bottom of Blitz’s shirt and tugged it upwards, exposing the bump as a pulsing heartbeat pounded the walls of the theater, and Blitz found himself unable to look away as the screen flashed faster and faster. A lifetime of regrets, broken chances, fuckups, fuckups, fuckups-

“Blitz? Blitz!” The screen shuddered before cutting to Millie, and he tugged at the chains but couldn’t pull far enough to escape his own head.

Insults spat from his mouth while his body writhed around like a fish on a hook, shit he’d never say to her but she just might believe because he’s such a piece of shit, and every time he tried to pull back to reality he could feel the exposed skin of his stomach growing damp from the clammy brain-room.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, how didn’t he notice, what would he do, he had no time to fucking think-

He felt his arms ache as she manhandled them, and oh, Millie, that beautiful, wonderful bitch, she wasn’t falling for it. Thank Satan, she was smarter than-

Oh fuck.

She slammed him into the wall and oh fuck no, no, no no no, they couldn’t go like this, not when he hadn’t even gotten the chance to-

A glow flashed on the screen as the infestor rubbed at his sore cheek with a snarl, and Blitz’s stolen eyes dropped down to see Millie’s fist hit air, magic blooming around his middle. Her eyes widened for a moment before flicking up and socking him in the chest again, and the crunch that echoed combined with a pained moan was the sweetest sound he’d heard all day.

_______

“…So how long have you known about the baby?” Millie’s voice was careful as she shifted on the van’s roof.

“About twenty seconds before you did,” Blitz said. “Figured it was just…y’know…”

“Eating your emotions?”

“Yeah. That.”

“I’m glad I didn’t hurt it, at least. Thank fuck for that magic thingamajiggy that popped up.” She reached over and intertwined her fingers with hers, giving a quick squeeze. “You know what you wanna do with it?”

“I found out I was pregnant when he was Clockwork Oranging me, I need to think on it for a few minutes first,” Blitz said, tail twisting against the metal.

There was quiet for a moment as wind whispered through the gravestones. 

“It’s his, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I told the shark he had to go in wrapped from my stash or I wasn’t playing. Besides, I doubt anybody else would have some kinda built-in magic shield to keep them from getting pummeled.” Her hand was nice. Warm and comfortable, but rough enough from a life of work that it didn’t feel like his scars were too much, didn’t feel like he was going to scrape her skin off with the contact as their palms brushed together. “Maybe birds just… take a while to show.”

“Maybe.” Her tail curled around his, lightly pinning it down from where it was anxiously twitching. Steady weight.

Tomorrow, he’d have to figure out where the fuck to go from here. Tomorrow, he’d have to figure out if he wanted to keep the nest in his office. Tomorrow, he’d decide on the future.

Today, he leaned into Millie and watched the sunrise.

[sandcobangevent]

The Whole of the Moon

by rabid'n'cheese and @ratinavan

Being a lycanthrope in the war was rather… unique. Both in terms of being rare and also not at all a simple feat. The origins of the ‘disease’ were said to have spawned sometime around Ancient Rome,  most likely deriving from the myth of Romulus and Remus. From there, it slowly spread throughout the globe, making its way to the United Kingdom just before the Black Plague hit in the mid-1300s. During that time, it was believed that Lycans were just another animal capable of spreading the plague - similar to the beliefs of rats, cats, and dogs. This caused the culling and ostracisation of Lycans in most major cities, forcing them to seek shelter in the north and other countryside towns. Due to the thinning of their numbers, it is now far rarer to meet a full Lycan in the modern day - even if you did, they may not disclose it to you.

The superstition around Lycans had not entirely faded from modern beliefs, causing somewhat of a stigma to form around them; ‘Dirty, unhygienic, and aggressive’ was the most popular opinion. The one thing that the media never seemed to get right though was which parts of the wolf mentality would transfer over into the human body, and how little of the human mind would be lost when in lupine form.  

Doctor John Watson was many things (a medic, a soldier,  a son) but, currently, he was a rather large dusky-blond wolf stalking the perimeter of his regiment's camp. He knew how to be kind, he knew how to behave like a normal human and, most importantly, he knew how important it was that he protected his brothers in arms - his ‘pack’ . They had accepted him despite his differences, which was more than he could say for almost anyone back at home. The only notable exception was Stamford ( ‘Stammo’ as he insisted his friends call him), and yet that was only because his cousins were also Lycans. Still, better than nothing John supposed. Being an only child with a single mum was never going to be easy, but this was only made more evident when his father - Harry Watson - was KIA. His dad was his only full-Lycan relative and he was killed before he could ever teach John how to cope with the other half of himself.

Lycan heritage worked like any other phenotype, John presumed. Two Lycans would have a child that was also a full Lycan; A Lycan and a human would have a half-Lycan, and the chance of producing a full Lycan just deteriorated. The primary difference between a Lycan and a half-Lycan was the transformation. Half-Lycans got it significantly easier - only gaining the enhanced senses and heightened aggression levels on full moons - whereas Lycans went through the shift to lupine form. This process could be delayed or mitigated so that no physical change would occur, but this was only possible for a couple of months before a forced shift would take place.

John hadn’t missed a shift since he was young, the first full moon without his dad. It was always a bonding activity for them and doing it without him felt wrong and made his skin crawl. The wolf mourned for the loss of their father, but John would not let himself shift. It wasn’t until around three cycles later when young John was taken ill in the run-up to the full moon; a fever, a cough, and the worst muscle cramps he had ever dealt with. By the time the moon began to rise, John seriously considered asking his mum to take him to the hospital. Before he could crawl his way out of bed, he felt it: the slow grinding shifting of his skeleton trying to rearrange itself inside of his skin. The transformation . He tried his best to stop it, to hold it back, but he had prolonged the wait for too long already and the wolf wanted out .

So lost in reminiscing, John had failed to sense the presence approaching him until a cold hand fell upon his flank. In an instant he spun to meet the threat - teeth bared and hackles raised, ready to pounce until the sight of a familiar uniform caught his eye. 

“Woah, woah, Watson! Sorry to startle you mate, but it's the end of your watch.” One of John's comrades, of course, who else would it be? He dipped his head low and butted against the man's thigh in apology before trotting back off to his tent. ‘Not a great look for you mate, snapping at your team.’ John thought to himself as he padded onto his cot, ‘You don’t want to give them any more reasons not to trust you.’

As the dew shone on the grass and a low fog settled in the air come morning, the regiment began to move out. John was left scrambling to get his kit back on whilst only half awake from the previous night. ‘God,’ he thought, ‘I really am getting too old to be doing this shit all the time.’ A sentiment he had held since the first time he shifted during deployment. The toll that the shift took on a Lycan’s body could take them anywhere from a couple of hours to a couple of weeks to recover from. For John, it mainly resulted in bad muscle aches which were easily able to be brushed off as general army strain.

The explosion was true devastation. Pain. Blinding pain shot through every limb. The wolf screamed along with him. Somebody help them. Please. Help him.

When John awoke an unknown amount of time later, it was to the clinical sounds, smells, and sights of a hospital. With how raw all of his senses were, it was overwhelming. He struggled to hold down the bile that was trying to creep up through his throat. He had always hated going to hospitals, not because he was ‘too tough’ to get treated - his dad had taught him better than that - but because of the sheer overstimulation they caused him with his heightened senses. The lights were too bright and they buzzed; everything smelt of bleach; alarms were going off everywhere all the time and never in harmony. You might wonder why he became a doctor if hospitals affected John so violently. Well, for one, army and field hospitals are infinitely less overstimulating. Far less equipment means far less noise, and there’s not much you can do to sanitise a war ground, especially not bleaching the floors. The primary reason, though, was John’s inability to stand by and watch others get hurt. He was a very empathetic man and it showed in his actions.

The next couple of months whilst John recovered were horrific. Not only was he in pain from the injuries, but he was also honourably discharged from the army, he had to deal with the nurses and their endless pitying gazes, his long-time girlfriend broke it off with him, and all of this whilst repressing the urge to shift in a bloody hospital. To say John Watson was stressed was an understatement of grand proportions.

When the day came that he was finally released from the hospital, a whole new wave of issues came to the forefront. Now that he was single, he was no longer living with his ex, meaning he needed to find somewhere to stay and fast . The other thing on his mind was that John Watson, ex-captain of the Northumberland Fusiliers, was in desperate need of a pint. All of this stress had been piling up for almost three months at this point and the only cure was going to be a pint or three down at the Volunteer - doctor’s orders (it’s him. He’s the doctor. It’s his orders).

As he entered the pub, John was hit with a wall of noise - ‘The footie must be on…’ he thought, ‘wonder if it’s Swindon.’ His lack of usual enthusiasm over his favourite team could most likely be attributed to having spent the past however long in Ukraine, followed by being blown up, followed by three mind-numbing months in the hospital. However, just as he was scouting for somewhere to sit, a pair of eyes locked with him and a booming voice met his ears with an excitable “Watson!”

Stammo, right there in the flesh, just as he was about to resort to drinking his solace away. “Ayy, Stammo! What’re you doing here?” 

“What am I doing here? Mate, what’re you doing here? I thought you were off fighting in Ukraine?” Stammo pushed his way over and clapped John on the shoulder. It hurt, but he managed to not let it show too badly.

John really didn’t want to rehash any of the past few months, “Well, I’m not anymore, walking wounded nowadays. Currently crashing on Lukas’ couch but I’d much rather find a place to stay on an Army pension - a cheap flashare or something, but it’s turning out to be impossible. Plus, y’know, I’ve got more than enough reasons for people to not want me as a flatmate.” 

“Oh really? Actually, mate, you’re the second person to say that to me today; I reckon you two might be perfect for flatmates,” he says casually as if he hadn’t just dropped a massive bomb on John’s head. Well, at least this one wasn’t real…

“What? Like, another…” John gives Stamford a look, being a Lycan is still not really something you want to admit to, especially not in a pub.

“Well… Why don’t you meet him, c’mon, I’ll take you there.” Little did John know that this would be the starting point for a whole new him.

“Sherls?” John shouted across the flat. It’d been almost a whole month since 221B had become his new home and John had never been happier. Not only did he gain two new friends in Sherlock and Mariana, but he also had a safe place to live and a new job that he loved. Currently, John was harassing Sherlock to get ready as they were supposed to be heading out to the moors - investigating a so-called ‘hound’ in the middle of the night during the cold winter was not exactly something John was looking forward to, but this was going to pay their bills for months.

“I’m not going, Watson. This case is not worth our time, especially not for your podcast.” The detective was sprawled across the sofa under his weighted blanket looking rather reminiscent of a sickly Victorian child. Sherlock had been rather unimpressed with this case since its conception. ‘Why would we go all that way, Watson, when it is simply the delusions of a man.’ John thought that sounded rather insensitive, but Sherlock never had been one to save face over opinions.

“C’mon Sherls, if it’s really that simple, we won’t even have to spend the night.” He had wandered back into their sitting room, attempting to bodily move the limp detective from his nest. “I don’t particularly want to go either, but we can’t leave a man in that state without even trying to help him.” John’s legs had been aching throughout the past couple of days, and he thought he might have been coming down with a fever that morning but it seemed to have passed.

“You care far too much for your own good, Watson.” Ouch. That hurt. But he wasn’t wrong. “Fine, we’ll go, just so it can clear your conscience. Don’t expect anything too interesting, if I were you, I wouldn’t even bring the mic.” Well, it was as good as he was going to get. John hummed in agreement and went back to trying to get his shoes on without hurting his legs any more than they already were.

“Why are you so insistent that we go if you’re clearly in pain? Aren’t you always the one making sure I don’t exacerbate any injuries?” Any hope of hiding these things from the detective truly was futile. Some small wince or twitch of his facial muscles must have given him away.

“Because, Sherlock, all I have is some sore muscles - practically nothing compared to the stress-induced frenzy that Henry was in when we were introduced.” With slightly more effort than was usually needed, John rose from tying his shoes and headed for the door. “Now c’mon, Sherls, we’ve got a train to catch!”

As much as John didn’t want to admit it, Sherlock may have been right when he said not to bother with this case; it had been nothing but dull so far. Now, despite the setting sun, they were both still out following Mr Baskerville around his estate as he pointed out the prints of what looked to be any large dog.

“Do you have a groundskeeper, Mr Baskerville?” Sherlock probed, although considering he had his ear defenders on, he most likely wouldn’t hear the reply.

“Just- Just Henry’s fine, Mr Holmes.” The poor man had been trying to convince Sherlock to call him Henry pretty much since we arrived at his front door. Not sure why he was still trying to do so, but I had to give the man props for his persistence.

“That doesn’t answer my question, Mr Baskerville.”

Henry let out a rather large sigh, “Yes, Mr Holmes, I do have a groundskeeper. But!” He exclaimed, which I thought might have been the most passionate he’d sounded all evening, “My groundsman doesn’t keep a dog this big, just his beagle, Maxwell.”

“Yes. Quite.” Sherlock looked displeased, “I could’ve guessed that by all of the racket it makes.”

“As I was going to ask, are you aware of the genetic traits of your staff, especially the groundsman?” What the bloody hell was this madman getting at now? Did he forget that Henry is a billionaire, not a biologist?

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, Sherlock,” he gave a hum in recognition, “but why on Earth would Mr Baskerville know that? God, why would the staff themselves even know that!” As the question left my mouth I was secretly hoping that Sherlock would have some big, convoluted answer; partially so I could witness those amazing deductions again, but mainly so I wasn’t made to look a fool… again.

Sherlock gives me a look, the one he always uses when something should have been ‘obvious’, “Because, Watson, some of the people in Mr Baskerville’s employ may well be Lycans .” Fuck. “Well, if they are, we should be able to find this mystery hound by the night's end if my calendar is correct.” Fuck. Sherlock’s calendar is always correct. Sherlock’s everything is always correct.

Fuck. Shit. Bollocks.

He forgot, he can’t believe he forgot.

The full moon, the most important day of every month for his entire life and he forgot. This month marks the third in a row of him not shifting - longer than he’d let it get before, longer than doctors would recommend. Now not only did he have a new roommate who he’d known for less than a month, but he also had no idea how said roommate would react to the knowledge that John was a Lycan.

It’s fine. It’s all fine. He’ll simply not change this month either and deal with the consequences once they’re back at Baker Street with his own room and a door that locks. Simple. All John has to do is pretend that he’s human and not even consider the option that he might be forced to change regardless of his wants.

Oh God, why did he have to think about that?

So what if he changes unwillingly? They’re already out in the middle of nowhere, surely he can manage to sneak away without anyone - mainly Sherlock - noticing. He’ll just hide out in the moors until the morning before heading back to the Baskerville estate. Simple.

Simple? Yeah right. This investigation was turning out to be anything but simple.

It was now approaching midnight and Sherlock still had them out in the grounds looking for traces of Lycan activity. “It shouldn’t take too long, Watson. If you’re that bored, you can head back now and I’ll continue on my own.” Now, if you were any sane, normal person in John’s situation, you would have seized that opportunity with both hands and left to find somewhere secluded for your transformation. However, as John Watson was more protective than any man his size had a right to be, he refused to leave Sherlock alone in the middle of nowhere when there could be an enemy around any corner.

Lycans can be classed as “Humans, but with a bit extra.” according to John. They had all the same features and behaviours as humans, just with some additional Lupine ones. This meant that you could still get serial killers, drug lords, and other assorted criminals within Lycan communities. 

Knowing that, there was no way that John’s pack instincts would allow him to leave Sherlock unguarded with a possibly dangerous Lycan on the loose. That didn’t mean that John perceived Sherlock as unable to defend himself, no - he had seen the man’s boxing skills, he believed he was capable - but Lycans had an undeniable advantage when transformed. Their teeth could render flesh from bone, true predators at heart. So, John stayed.

Now that John understood what was happening, he didn’t understand how he missed the signs earlier: the fever, the aching muscles, the sore legs. They were all the same signs he experienced when he was younger, the month after his father passed. With the moon beginning to gleam over the tops of the trees, John could feel the beginnings of his transformation taking over. As Sherlock was busy listing off deductions faster than John could string a coherent thought together, he managed to slip a hand out of his jacket pocket, only to see that his claws were growing and a layer of fur was spreading down to his hand from under the jacket sleeve. This was not good. He needed to find a way to hide his transformation from Sherlock whilst also ensuring the lanky man’s safety.

“John?” the voice of the detective made him jump, unaware that the deductions had stopped and Sherlock was staring at him with concern.

“Y-Yes? Sherlock?” John managed to choke out around a cough.

“Are you…alright? You seem rather distracted. Do you need a high-five ?” Oh, the detective thought John was upset with still being out at night. In his rush to reassure him, John nearly went to acknowledge the gesture before remembering his partial transformation.

“Oh, uh, yeah mate. I’m fine.” He tried to put on a genuine enough smile that Sherlock wouldn’t get too concerned. “Actually, I think I’m gonna go take a leak in the trees. Henry won’t mind… will he? I mean, animals probably piss in the trees all the time and there’s no way-”

“It’s fine, Watson. Stop rambling before you have an accident.” Sherlock cut him off. “Do you want me to wait here, or will you catch up?”

“I- uh, I’ll catch up, mate. No need to stop your investigation for me!” With that, John scampered away into the forest with as much dignity as you can have when you’ve just told your best friend that you’re going to go piss in the forest.

After making sure that Sherlock had continued on his way, John made quick work of removing his top half of clothing: jacket, hoodie, shirt, and vest. Hey, don’t judge - you try being self-conscious about your body and living in the UK - cold times, man, cold times. It was clear from then that there would be no stopping this transformation, his claws were already fully formed, and the hair that he had spotted covering the backs of his hands was also covering his entire upper half and dipping down below his waistband. John was a pretty hairy guy to begin with, but there was a definite difference here and he was more than surprised that Sherlock hadn’t noticed it earlier.

After stripping down, John stuffed his clothes into the backpack he had brought with him. As much as he didn’t like transforming out in public - especially not in the nude - he had no other choice if he wanted to have any clothes left to wear once the night was over. Once that was done, the night turned into a waiting game. The relationship between the human side and the lupine side was what dictated the length of time it took to fully transform; the better your relationship, the longer the transformation would take to cause the least amount of pain, but if you ignored the wolf, it would want to take hold as fast as possible. A bad relationship is usually found in those who undergo the transformation as little as possible - something that John is guilty of recently - so he was expecting this to be a short but painful next few minutes.

He was correct, the next several minutes were complete agony for John, only managing to keep his groans and grunts at bay by sheer force of will. He couldn’t let Sherlock hear him, otherwise he’d come looking. By the time he could see straight again, he was back to that big dusky-blond wolf that hadn’t seen the light of the moon since they were back in Ukraine. 

Both John and his wolf both shared the same pack devotion and fierce loyalty which was the main reason John didn’t have to put much effort in to convince the wolf to track Sherlock. They both recognised him as ‘pack’ and knew they needed to protect him if there was supposed to be another possibly dangerous Lycan on the loose.

Catching back up to Sherlock was easy enough, the detective’s scent was well known to the both of them. It was only slightly disheartening to see that the detective didn’t appear to be worried at how long John had been gone for. John supposed he probably hadn’t noticed as Sherlock was prone to spending hours in his own head.

A couple of hours passed like this, Sherlock looking for something seemingly only he knew, and John following behind in the treeline. Nothing terribly interesting happened, John even had time to let his wolf do some hunting of the local wildlife whilst the detective was thoroughly distracted - chasing deer, rabbits, and other small game. Once the wolf had taken its fill, it pushed John back to the forefront of their mind as they approached Sherlock once more.

As they lazed about, waiting for the detective to move along, John heard a noise from the other copse of trees across from the detective. His ears immediately perked up and he was on high alert - this could be the Lycan they were looking for. Another noise and this time Sherlock was looking in that direction as well, good, hopefully he will get the hell out of there. If that Lycan has been terrorising Henry, then there’s nothing suggesting he wouldn’t possibly attack Sherlock as well.

As expected, Sherlock did nothing of the sort and instead decided to approach the noise. How can the smartest man John had ever known also be so stupid? Now John was in a difficult situation: Stay where he is and keep his identity secret, hoping that the noise was just a stray squirrel; or charge over to the other side, scare away any potential threats, but risk Sherlock finding out about his Lycan nature.

The choice was taken away from him - though there was never really any choice, it was clear which option he would choose - as a low warning growl emanated from that same area that the detective was approaching. Right, now or never, Watson. You’re not about to let someone ruin this life that you’ve only just made for yourself. So, without letting himself contemplate what the consequences might be, John lunged. He shot himself straight over the gap between the trees and prepared to bite down on the neck of whatever was getting ready to fight Sherlock.

The aforementioned detective let out a rather loud yelp as Watson dove past him, but he had no time to take in anything else before his jaws clamped down tight on the scruff of- wait. This isn’t a scruff. Scruffs aren’t made of metal. So what is this? John dropped the metal contraption onto the floor and sniffed it. It smelled of nothing but his own saliva and the forest.

“Watson!” Sherlock cried. Bollocks, now he was trying to call for backup, probably mistaking John for the mystery Lycan. So John had no choice other than to take off once more.

“Watson! Wat- John! ” Sherlock was giving chase, how funny it was that finally Sherlock was the one trailing behind John for a change. If only it was under better circumstances.

John continued running, jumping over fallen trees and trying to take refuge in small spaces. None of it worked. Sure, it slowed the detective down a bit, but he would not relent. Even when John had managed to find a new hiding spot, Sherlock was still slowly approaching, calling for backup the whole time.

“John, please!” Sherlock sounded… distressed? Was he finally realising just how long John had been gone since answering nature’s call? “I know it’s you, John! I know you’re the wolf!” Bollocks. Shit fuck bollocks and piss. How had John given himself away? Had Sherlock circled back during his transformation and seen him? No, the wolf was too smart to get them caught like that.

Seeing no other option, and hating the distress in the detective’s voice, John slowly emerged from his newest hiding spot and plodded back over to Sherlock. His head was hung low, his expectations were even lower.

“There you are, Watson! Why on Earth did you run?” The detective was panting, evidently exhausted from the chase. “You silly wolf, are you hurt?” Sherlock approached John, arms reaching towards him with open palms. John shook his head, it would have to do for communication until he changed back in an hour's time. 

“That’s good, well, at least you managed to solve the case!” John’s ears perked up. Him? Solve the case? But all he did was sit by whilst Sherlock was deducing.

“I can see the disbelief in your eyes, but you did! I had a suspicion that you may have been a Lycan ever since you became shifty once I mentioned the idea to Mr Baskerville-” I huffed at him, “Ugh, fine, since I mentioned the idea to Henry . Better?” I nodded in approval.

“Then it was simple really, once you left for your supposed toilet break, I continued down the path and noticed many paw print tracks from the ‘hound’ which were certainly too big for most domestic dogs. The issue was that I had never met a Lycan in person before, and information about them is rather scarce so, once I deduced that you were a Lycan, I figured I would wait until you re-emerged to use you for reference.” John was sure that he probably shouldn’t feel so amazed when he had just been told that his one secret had been exposed far before he wanted it to be, but he just couldn’t help it. The detective- no, Sherlock was just so brilliant at what he did.

“But before that could happen, you must have heard that growl coming from the bushes next to me. By the time I had heard them and turned to investigate, you were already pouncing upon the supposed threat. Which, in the end, turned out to be this .” Sherlock held out the metal box that John had chomped down on - you could still see the bite marks.

“An reinforced portable speaker.” John visibly deflated. There was no danger afterall, although he supposed his secret was spilled even without that appearance. “Don’t look so down, John, you have thoroughly cemented your camaraderie with me, jumping to save me from danger without even a second thought.”

John butted his head against Sherlock’s waist to encourage him to continue. “Yes, yes, Watson, I’m getting there. So, with the evidence mounting up, I could finally decipher the true culprit: nobody. Well, nobody with an intention to hurt Mr Baskerville.” John barked at him, astounded. “Let me finish, John. You see, once I saw you pounce at the speaker, I could see that your paws were far too big to make these prints. So then comes the question of what did make the prints? Well, if you look to the North-East of the Baskerville estate, you will find a sheep farm that Henry” he sneered at the name, “has given a portion of his land to. What does that have to do with this? Well, the most often companion of any farmer is a canine, a work dog. What do most working dogs have in common? Big paws. I’m going to guess based on size that the farmer owns an Irish Wolfhound, but I may be wrong.” Astounding as ever.

“But then what about the speaker and the growling? Well, as the farm has livestock, there would need to be some defence against predators, hence the speaker. I bet that we would find several more of the same ones if we were to walk the rest of the perimeter. Evidently, the farmer forgot to mention to Henry that he was adding these features, therefore causing the man to get scared when hearing the growls.” John was practically bursting at the seams to shower praise on the detective, but without human form, it would have to wait until later. He butts against Sherlock again and begins heading back in the direction of the manor. 

“Oh, and John?” He turned back to face the detective, “Your secret’s safe with me.” 

________

Check it on AO3 too!

[endofradio]

MEET THE OC: SYLVIA “SYLVIE” HALFORD

Adam turned around to face the direction of the voice before he looked back at Sylvie. “Nighty-night, jailbird.”

Sylvie didn’t even respond to him directly, instead quietly muttering a “fuck off” as she heard his footsteps leaving. Fucking finally — she could be alone.

But at the same time… she didn’t like being alone.

ABIGAIL OC • INFP • SHE/HER • 27 Y/O • RAT PACK ALIAS: AVA

———————————————————————

a tortured soul — that is probably the most accurate way to describe sylvie. it seems that she was doomed from the start — an unwanted child, she was given up by her poor excuses for parents and placed into foster care as a toddler. she spent most of her childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home, each experience being just as miserable as the next. love. that was an unfamiliar word to her.

art, literature, and music became sylvie’s forms of escapism. drawing, writing, and painting were her ways of releasing her thoughts and feelings into the world. her sketchbooks and journals became her only friends. when nobody listened to her, her journals did.

if there was a specific point in time where sylvie’s life really went downhill, it started when she was 12 years old. she was finally adopted. at first, she had hope. everything seemed to be going well — was she finally being given a taste of what it felt like to be loved?

well, that was what she thought. the longer sylvie stayed, the more her adoptive parents began to regret their decision. just like that, she was taunted with the idea of love. when she reached out for it, it was yanked right out of her grasp. sylvie was confused. what had she done? what was wrong with her?

high school — she did well academically, and it almost became somewhat of an escape from home… but she didn’t feel safe there, either. she was the “weird loner.” she had a few friends, but they turned out to be fake. they all left her once she started experimenting with drinking alcohol to cope. she was lucky enough to get a scholarship to get into the art school of her dreams in new york, and once she graduated, she left her home in chicago, hoping to finally start a new life. well… she was wrong.

the college party scene sucked her in — especially because, hell, this was the 80s. hard drugs and alcohol left and right, it was a temptation she couldn’t resist.

that was how she met frank, or as he was known at the time, “adam.”

he just happened to be sent to “investigate” a particularly unhinged party at the college, all because one of the students, charlie, happened to be an associate of kristof lazar, infamous new york crime-lord. charlie and sylvie had grown to know each other, and became what you could consider “drug buddies.” little did sylvie know that lazar was very much aware of her, and this “adam” was a corrupt detective who had decided to flirt with lawlessness. lazar was fascinating to him.

after the party, sylvie made the mistake of attempting to drive herself home. adam happened to spot her and arrested her for driving under the influence. honestly? if he hadn’t found her attractive, he would’ve just let her carry on. and so, adam became sylvie’s worst enemy. he’d taunt her and flirt with her, finding enjoyment out of getting under her skin and figuring out what made her tick. when she was finally able to go home, perhaps adam was a little… upset.

sylvie soon moved to massachusetts after graduating college and spent the next few years trying to forget about him and turn her life around. things genuinely seemed to be getting better for her, but then one night, she woke up in a mansion. “adam” was now “frank,” no longer a detective but a full-blown criminal. sylvie thought she’d never have to see his face again, but lambert had wanted him to hunt her down and bring her to this particular mansion, realizing that she, along with the rest of the “rat pack,” was needed for a particular kidnapping scheme. unfortunately for sylvie, she’d soon learn that this was all the doing of lazar’s daughter, abigail. abigail wanted sylvie there for a very particular reason… actually two reasons — she fucked with charlie, and her connection to frank. she figured forcing frank and sylvie to be in each other’s vicinity again would be interesting, and she was right. playing matchmaker was the last thing she expected she’d be doing, though.

after succumbing to his lust for power and allowing lambert to turn him into a vampire, frank betrayed the bit of trust that sylvie allowed herself to give to him. she had come to the unfortunate realization she was falling for him, and he only happened to hurt her again — in fact, he beat her up quite badly when she tried to defend joey from him. joey told her to run, and so she did, running into a forest. frank hunted her down, and out of a combination of realizing he didn’t want to lose her and pure bloodthirst, he bit her. if she was a vampire, then they’d be together forever, right? he just so happened to be falling for her too, but he didn’t want to admit that. no, he could never. after nearly killing her due to sheer bloodlust, the little humanity that was left in frank told him to save her.

he was realizing he needed her, and it was scaring him.

[verdemoun]

You’ve already done how the gang acts at the beach but how would they act at the pool (sorry John for being excluded somewhat)

it would have to be an amazing pool because i suspect at least 50% of them would not cope with chlorine and have very bad skin reactions to it. those who can swim grew up swimming in lakes, mucky ponds, creeks and the ocean they would go to the beach over a pool every time

someone shoves john in at least once because it's hilarious watching the teenage lifeguard have to save his panicked ass

jack, who also can't swim, only gets in the water when riding waterslides with isaac and isaac, who is extremely aware of the fact jack can't swim, always makes sure his little buddy has found his feet and is standing in the shallow crash pool before he lets go of him

abigail does talk john into at least trying the heated spa because there's seats and he ascends just sitting there head back eyes closed marinading like a happy little dumpling

hosea and bessie are on grandparent duty watching abigail jr who took like a duck to water and is a very confident swimmer. they are also making sure she doesn't get the pool evacuated with a fake poop prank (arthur will never admit he took her to swimming lessons when she time warped before the other marstons)

in the most tense truce ever created bill micah javier and kieran are all in the sauna. in obvious talking about the others to their face fashion kieran uses asl and javier replies in spanish. bill, who is making an effort to learn asl because he is very actively trying to be less of an ass towards kieran, is guilty of laughing aloud and then blurting kieran's comments about micah out to said rat. despite all of them being in towels javier still found a way to bring a knife and will threaten to wet the rocks with micah's blood if he so much as twitches in retaliation

lenny and sean doting fathers playing with maeve which is mostly maeve attempting to cannonball onto them and lenny forgetting he was meant to be encouraging healthy competition as he races her to collect rings off the bottom of the pool and actually getting very, very slightly annoyed when she wins