#after a particularly difficult time trying to find a quiet place to do her work [before getting her own office]

[meetthegofer]

getting to knowww you getting to know all abouuuut you

[touchtheinvisiblestars]

Imagine going through relationship issues with Spencer and a scare at works sets you both back on the right path

This had been the eighth night in a row you'd slept alone. Opting to sleep in the spare bedroom of the place you and Spencer had bought together. Waking up hurt and sad with your partner was an exhausting way to live, and it was getting to you. The team had been back at the main office for the same amount of time. Having a big bust up on the aftermath of a case meant the journey back on the jet was awkward for everyone involved.

When he hadn't agreed with the way you dealt with the unsub, on top of you both disagreeing on when to start trying for a family. Had left you feeling put down and attacked both in work and in your personal life. Feeling like you couldn't do anything right, and that you were holding him back.

It was made worse by his lack of enthusiasm when you attempted to make amends. Wanting to talk about the issue, but finding it difficult when your boyfriend was a stubborn lump. Shrugging his shoulders and seeming totally disinterested.

After the fourth day of you trying to get through to him. You gave in. Telling yourself that if he wanted to make amends he would. Or he'd realise once it was too late.

Today though, you had a meeting with Garcia, she was going to show you an easier way of accessing some files. The way she does it. Getting yourself up and ready. The house sounded eerily quiet. Spencer did have a habit of impersonating the invisible man when he was home. But still, it was cold and felt empty.

Making your way downstairs, you called out for him, but got no answer.

Realising he wasn't even home. You felt another pang in your chest. Maybe he was done? The thought made your eyes sting. But on checking the time, you would be late to meet Garcia. You grabbed your breakfast out the fridge and grabbed your bag and keys.

Once in the office, you passed the bullring to see Spencer at his desk. Nose deep in some files.

"Hey, what time did you come in? We could have come together." You asked, approaching his desk.

"Early. Didn't want to wake you."

Nodding, you still wanted to push for you both to make up, "did you want to grab lunch somewhere? Would be nice to spend some time with you."

"I'm busy."

"Well I didn't mean right now. Later. When you're free? I'm in Garcias office if you-"

"Y/N, you're here!" Garcia squeaked, "for a moment I thought you were standing me up."

Realising he still wasn't ready to have a decent conversation with you. You gave up, again.

"Never." You smiled at her, before giving Spencer a sad look as he continued to read his papers.

You sat down in Garcias office and fully immersed yourself in the training. Pushing Spencer to the back of your mind.

Around lunchtime you saw Spencer walk past the room and you felt another wave of sadness wash over you.

"So, what's up with you and Sir Smarts-a-lot?" Garcia asked you while you were taking a break.

"There's not really much to tell. We fell out over some serious and not so serious things. I've tried to patch things up. He doesn't want to know. Been trying for like 4 days now."

"I'm sorry. He does seem particularly cranky since you came back from that last case."

"Yeah. Happened while we were out there. I don't even-"

You were interrupted by the sound of shouting from out in the main office. Both you and Garcia looked at each other and wondered who the hell fell out with each other so bad they had to have a screaming match.

Both getting up and wandering down the hall. You just about turned the corner first. But froze in your tracks seeing two people, one with a gun, the other with a briefcase. The woman, with the gun, had the few people that were in the bullring huddled together.

"Shit Garcia go back to your office and lock the door. Call Spence and tell him to stay away. Now!" You whisper shout at her.

"Hey! Put your hands on your head. Get in here Miss now." one of them shouted at you. Not having noticed Garcia as she backed away to her office.

When you didn't move. The seemingly unarmed intruder marched towards you and attempted to grab onto you. As you went to defend yourself. He pulled out a knife and threatened you with it.

"Think very carefully about what you do next." He said lowly.

"What do you guys want. I can help you."

"No you won't. You'll just try and talk me down and I won't let them down again. Get in here or I'm going to make you. And it will hurt."

"What's your name? I'm Y/N. Why are you here? There's no weapons or money stored here. Are you looking for someone?"

"Shut up!" He yelled, you let out a gasp at the sharp pain in your side.

Looking down the blade he was holding embedded in your side. Crumpling down to the floor, you watched as the deep red soaked into your blouse. Spreading across your side.

"What the fuck Darren. You weren't supposed to hurt anyone." A woman came up to the guy and yanked him by his shoulder. "We need to set these charges now and go. Now!"

Charges, that meant explosives.

The pair rushed off and left you bleeding on the floor. Giving you the opportunity to make an escape.

Making it back to Garcias office. You burst through the door, scaring the life out of her.

"Y/N! Oh my god why is there blood. There's a knife hanging out of you."

"Did you speak to Spence?" You asked locking the door behind you.

"Yeah he's in the armory now. They-"

"Call him back! Tell them to abort. Do not come up here!"

"OK, what-why?" She spluttered while calling him back.

"Garcia? Is everything okay. We're just planning how we're going to do this." He answered. You could hear the sound of kevlar being secured. You managed to stumble your way across the room to Garcias desk before your legs gave out.

"Spence, where are you? Do not come up here. And keep people out of the lifts. Do not use them." You panted.

"Y/N are you okay? We haven't left yet. What's going on?"

"I'm fine. I just met the intruders. They're setting charges. Evacuate the rest of the building."

"What? They're going to blow up the building?" Garcia asked, her face paling.

"How big are the explosives?"

"I didn't see. I just managed to get away from them. I did see it was only a small briefcase though."

"That could still be enough to wipe out the whole floor. You need to leave now. Use the far stairwell."

"Garcia, you should go."

"What? I'm not leaving you."

"Both of you go. Now!" Spencer raised his voice.

You shared a look with Garcia, knowing you weren't moving anywhere fast enough.

"We should be okay here," Garcia nodded, "I'll stay with her."

"You're hurt aren't you." Spencer spoke quietly.

"A little bit yeah. Spence, I love you."

"Don't do that. I'm coming to get you."

"No do-" and then the call rang off.

Garcia came and sat next to you. You rested your head on her shoulder.

"I don't get what they were talking about. They said about setting charges. But when the woman saw I'd been stabbed she said they weren't supposed to hurt anyone. How does that make sense." You mutter, starting to feel woozy from the blood loss.

"Unless what they're trying to destroy is paperwork not people," Garcia mused.

"Hotchs office, he keeps loads of important documents in there." You guessed.

"That makes sense. He always takes Sunday's off. So he wouldn't be in there to get hurt."

"Garcia you really should go. Maybe you can get some help." You said quietly. Feeling very lightheaded.

Garcias phone started ringing, answering it she put it on loudspeaker.

"Go ahead. We're just sitting here awaiting our handsome prince's to rescue us."

"Garcia." Spencer answered, "how badly is she hurt? They won't let us get in yet. Not if there's a bomb threat. The whole buildings on lock down. They aren't holding hostages. The other guys from the office have run out already. Are they still there?"

"Woah, woah, woah. One question at a time. Y/N isn't doing great. I don't know what to do Reid. I'm not a doctor. But she's still bleeding."

"What? What happened."

"She got stabbed by one of them. It's still in there but it's-"

"We have to get in there Y/Ns been stabbed. Please. I volunteer to go in. Come on Hotch." He sounded desperate, it made you smile slightly. The irony that it took a near death situation to get him to act like he cared again.

A deafening boom shook the office, jolting you awake.

"Shit was that the-?" You asked.

"I think so." Garcia nodded. "We're okay. Spencer can you hear me?"

You slumped down against Garcias shoulder a bit more. Fighting the urge to fall asleep.

"We saw it. Blown the windows out of Hotch's office as well."

"Tell him..." You trailed off falling into unconsciousness.

Garcia looked at you, panic washing over her. "Y/N? Spencer she's passed out. I don't know what to do- I know I shouldn't take the knife out."

"Is she sat up or laying down?"

"She's sat up, do I lie her down?"

"Yes, don't knock the knife though- I need EMTs with me right now- Garcia, I need you to check if she's breathing." Spencer sounded out of breath, "I'm coming to you as fast as I can."

"Okay, she's laying down. And yes she's breathing."

"You're doing well Garcia. We're seconds away now."

Garcia still let out a scream when the paramedics burst through the door. Stumbling away from your figure, she bumped shoulders with Spencer as the experts dealt with you.

"Do you think she's going to be okay?" Garcia asked him.

"I don't know. But I feel like a prized jackass now. What if she's not? She will have died thinking I was mad at her."

"I don't know what to say Reid. She was trying. She thought you'd stopped trying."

"The argument was stupid. I was more annoyed us arguing had ruined some plans I had."

"Plans? What do you-ohhh." Garcia cut herself off as she clocked onto what Spencer meant.

He quickly pocketed the small jewellery box as the EMT turned to the pair of them.

[aisclosed]

Match Found ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ - 14 . for you

Synopsis: Jungwon is sick of his friends' constant teasing over his lack of gaming skills. Determined to secretly improve and prove enha wrong, Jungwon sets out to learn to play, except he has no clue where to begin. Luckily for him, y/n is a girl with too much time on her hands, a desperate need for distraction and is more than happy to indulge him. Only, things are never that simple and Jungwon soon finds it difficult to explain exactly what the pair have become. college Student! Jungwon x gamer! Reader

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(1.7k) written work + SMAU :: warnings: cursing

Jungwon’s almost buzzing with excitement, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet in the familiar lobby of your building. His midterms were over, and now there was nothing left to do except wait for his scores. That meant that he could finally hang out with you without stressing over exams or studying. 

He can't help but smile at the prospect of finally being able to play games and spend time together. It had been far too long since his last sleepover and Jungwon’s dying to just wrap you tightly in his arms. The thought alone fills Jungwon’s stomach with butterflies and his eyes can't help but flit impatiently at the descending numbers as he waits for the elevator to arrive. 

Steady footsteps approach him, coming to a halt next to him. Unable to keep his curiosity at bay, Jungwon carefully peeks at the person, his eyes widening slightly at his findings. 

The older man is tall, with neat, kempt hair and sharp brows that framed his stoic features. There was something about his eyes that felt oddly familiar but before Jungwon can place it, the elevator doors open with a chime. 

Jungwon shuffles in quickly, pressing the button for your floor and turning politely to the older gentleman, “What floor sir?”

“You’ve already pressed it,” the man answers callously, his eyes raking down Jungwon’s appearance and Jungwon can’t help but feel as if he’s being assessed. Judging by the look in the man’s eyes, he’s not particularly impressed with the results. Jungwon straightens up with an awkward nod, facing back forward. 

It’s hard to avoid the hazy reflection that looks back at him, and the difference in his attire with that of the sharp tailored suit of the businessman next to him is stark. It was just his luck to run into one of your neighbors in a building as big as this, Jungwon curses internally, his fingers fiddling with the edge of his hoodie. 

With how easily you had drawn Jungwon into your life, sometimes it was easy for him to forget how different your backgrounds were. And to your credit you had never once made him feel less than, but in quiet moments like these, without your smile to distract him, Jungwon can’t help but feel like an outsider, that he had invaded a space he never should have had access to. 

The elevator door finally opens, granting Jungwon an escape from the stifling atmosphere. The older man walks briskly ahead and Jungwon follows quietly, his pace coming to an abrupt halt when the stranger stops at your front door, punching in the key code. 

It made all too much sense, the way the man exuded wealth and had the cold discerning eyes that could only belong to a seasoned business man. Eyes that were much icier and sharp yet undeniably had the same shape and angle as your warm ones. Jungwon freezes, trying to gauge if he had enough time to just keep walking and act like he was going to a different door or that maybe he had mistaken the floor.

Before he can reach a decision and hightail it, your father opens the door, looking at Jungwon expectantly, “You’re here to see Y/N right? Come in then.” 

Swallowing harshly, Jungwon nods, stepping in after your dad and slipping off his shoes with trembling fingers. It isn’t until the pair reach the kitchen that he finally faces Jungwon, offering his hand to shake, “I’m Y/N’s father, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Quickly wiping his hand discreetly down the side of his sweatpants, Jungwon shakes your dad’s hand firmly, “Nice to meet you sir, my name is Yang Jungwon. I’m Y/N’s…uh friend.” Your dad smirks slightly at his introduction, and Jungwon can’t help but feel as if he’s the butt of an inside joke he’s painfully unaware of. 

“Wonnie? You here?” you call out, cheerfully bounding into the kitchen, the smile on your face dropping instantly as you take in the odd picture of Jungwon with your father. When you speak again your tone is stony, “Dad? I thought you left? What happened to your flight?”

He drops Jungwon’s hand with a slight chuckle “Don’t look so upset Y/N, I was just introducing myself to your friend. I forgot my wallet, I’ll be on my way now.” Your eyes flash at the slight emphasis your dad places on the word friend, knowing he was letting you know that he had guessed that Jungwon is who you had mentioned in your earlier conversation. 

Schooling your expression into a cordial smile you grab your dad’s wallet off the counter, discreetly positioning yourself between him and Jungwon to hand it to him. “Here it is, have a safe flight Dad.” 

Your actions don’t go unnoticed and your dad gives you an amused glance taking the wallet, “Nice to meet you Yang Jungwon,” he makes his departure only pausing slightly to call out over his shoulder, “Oh and Y/N? I do think you should reconsider what we talked about again. From what I can see, there’s only one best course of action.” Your brow ticks but before you can answer the door is already slamming shut behind him. 

When you face him, Jungwon is looking at you with an apprehensive smile. You step forward,   leaning your forehead on his chest and let out a deep exhale. If Jungwon’s surprised by your movements he gives no indication, instead letting his hand stroke the back of your head soothingly. 

Jungwon doesn’t say anything despite the questions that threaten to tumble from his lips, instead waiting for the tension to melt from your shoulders. You finally lift your head, meeting Jungwon’s gaze with a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s go play some Valo?” you offer quietly, taking his hand in yours when he nods in affirmation and dragging him to your room.

You brighten slightly when you remember the surprise you prepared and you tug him a little more insistently, laughing when Jungwon protests weakly. You plead with Jungwon to cover his eyes and he wearily obliges, letting you lead him into your bedroom. “Surprise!” you exclaim, shoving Jungwon in front of the brand new desk next to your own, fitted with a blue and white PC setup and a matching headset.

Jungwon looks at you dumbly, “You got a new PC? What was wrong with your old one?” 

You scoff in response, pinching his cheek affectionately. “You’re so brainless sometimes, I got this one for you. As a reward for your uni performance and finishing midterms. You can keep it here or take it home. It’s up to you.” You wait eagerly for Jungwon’s response but he merely regards the desk with a blank look on his face. 

“It’s really for my sake more than yours, so I can force you to play more games with me without having to share my computer,” you laugh awkwardly, shuffling awkwardly in place when Jungwon remains silent. You chew on your bottom lip, scolding yourself, maybe the gift was too much. 

When Jungwon finally looks at you, his face is unreadable and you feel a knot growing in the base of your stomach. “Y/N? What did your dad mean by reconsidering what you discussed?” 

Your smile falters, and you blink rapidly at the unexpected question. “Oh. Um, right I also wanted to talk to you about this today.” You take a seat on the edge of your bed, gesturing for Jungwon to join you but he declines with a curt shake of his head. 

“So, you know how we talked about Na Jaemin before? So our dads’ do business in similar circles and recently they decided they would merge companies. Officially, it’ll be announced as a merger but STRLIGHT is going to be sort of a DRM Group subsidiary. That’s making some of the shareholders a bit anxious about the security of the company so our parents suggested something to Jaemin and I.” You look up at Jungwon through your lashes, taking a shaky breath when he wordlessly motions for you to continue. 

“My dad strongly suggested that Jaemin and I date. Which in our world basically means a pipeline to getting engaged and married. I already told him I wouldn’t, because there’s someone else that I’m interested in,” you say carefully. You fidget anxiously as you watch Jungwon mull over your words in his head. 

“What did Jaemin say?” Jungwon asks and you stammer at how easily he had glossed over your confession. 

“Jaemin?” you shake your head in disbelief, “He was fine with it but Jungwon, I don’t think you get what I’m saying. I said no bec-”

“If Jaemin was down to date you, I think you should go for it.” Jungwon says nonchalantly, crossing his arms over his chest. . 

“What?” your voice comes out a choked whisper but Jungwon merely studies you dispassionately. 

He shrugs, “Your dad likes him a lot right? And you said it before he really is as kind and amazing as all the articles make him out to be. I think you’ll make a good fit for each other. You’re not dating anyone right now anyways so why not try?” 

You gape at Jungwon with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, unable to wrap your head around why he was acting this way. “Wonnie please-”

Jungwon’s phone chimes and he pulls it out, inwardly thanking Jay for choosing the perfect time to text him about sweater fabric. “Sorry Y/N, my classmate just reminded me that I have an assignment due today that totally slipped my mind. I gotta go.” 

Jungwon’s heart squeezes painfully when you visibly deflate, nodding mutely at him. It’s almost enough to destroy his resolve so he tears his eyes away from yours, giving you a tight smile and walking out of your room. Something screams at him every step he takes away from you and yet, walking through your glittering marble halls he feels disgustingly out of place. And that’s enough to assure Jungwon that he made the right decision. For you.

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a/n: ,,,,,, pls dont hate me lolz im scared... next chapter up in a day or two hehe, not super proofread so mb for any issues

taglist: open! send me an ask to be added! <3

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[chiss-ticism]

Hi there! I would love to know more about Billie: 12, 14, 15, 25 and 46 if you please 🤗

oh, sure! tysm!!

dividers by @/marquisedegramont

🎨- @/crownedinmarigolds

BILLIE CARUSO

12.) What happened that lead up to their embrace?

Truth be told, this is always the part that I sort of gloss over 🤔 In the ~vaguest~ of terms, I imagine that she was particularly self-righteous and vocal about the her abbey's perceived mishandling of something or another relating to a member of their congregation whereas most were keen to keep their heads down and continue business as usual. In her steadfast refusal to let up in her inquiries, she unknowingly turned the wrong head and drew a Lasombra's fangs down upon her in the quiet of night some months down the line after she had had time enough to appraise her soon-to-be childer.

14.) How did they initially feel after being embraced? Did they like being reborn into something knew or did it take them a while to cope with their new reality?

A prayer of hers that I wrote some time ago, covering exactly that:

Is this a gift, oh Lord, a surefire sign as to where I slot neatly into your grand plan? Or have I truly been forsaken - a sinner so deeply entrenched in the stench of the original sin as to be rendered incapable of repentance? I find myself straddling two worlds, truly belonging to neither… Do you hear me, oh Lord? I would be a blaspheming fool to doubt that you do… I just… I'm not sure what to do - what path have you set before me to follow faithfully… I have no doubt that things will be revealed in time. They always are, exactly when you have planned them to be. And I know in my heart of hearts that you have only my best interests in mind. I'm afraid, oh Lord. Deeply, truly. I recognize that you have afforded me a unique gift - one denied to many of those similarly marked. To feel the sun's warmth upon my cadaverous skin is an experience I will take for granted no longer. I recognize your hand in this. I do. But to bestow a gift upon within the very same breath that casts me out of your flock confounds me deeply… I do not question your judgement, oh Lord, only worry that I may accidentally stray further away from your grace unknowingly. Please grant me the strength so that I may continue to act in accordance to your Will and your Will alone. [she continues for some time]

She is still very much trying to cope.

15.) Are they presumed to be dead or are they still acting as though they are alive to the general public?

She's presumed alive, though her Sisters at Saint Joan's are worried something fierce given that she just up-and-left without saying anything to anyone. Doubly so, given the hunters in their midst who know better than most just how dark the world truly is... Novitiates - let alone earnestly devout former foundlings who had shown a grand total of 0 visible lapses in faith or judgement - seldom just up and leave, y'know? Where would she go? What support system did she have? As it stands, they wouldn't have an overly difficult time tracking her down - the 19 year old sleeping on church pews and other such conspicuous places in nun's robes is hardly subtle - but they haven't thus far.

25.) How often do they cause a masquerade breach? Not often at all, if you can believe it.

She doesn't have access to disciplines or Thin-Blood Alchemy (and, unbeknownst to her, if she did otherwise tried to learn any - she would have to drink from a Full-Blooded Cainite for them to work at all.)

She's immune to True Faith - so Leopoldites and other Hunters wouldn't be able to detect her that way.

She's a daywalker, so the sun hardly ruffles her feathers and she can make a meeting at any time of day.

She's been cautioned about the necessity of the Masquerade and has, thus far, kept things quiet.

The closest thing I can imagine for a ~regular~ masquerade breach would be the wildlife she leaves exsanguinated beyond the fringes of society and, even then, how many folks are poking around animal carcasses on a daily basis. I worry that she's more in danger from Lupines than from any overt breach of the Masquerade on her end. 🐺

46.) What are their ambition(s) if any?

Armed with a tape recorder, she's currently doing her best to:

Taking it one Night Terror at a time, she desperately wants to understand the ""visions"" she's that she's receiving from ""Heaven"" so that she might know what plan they have for her.

In her off time, she tries to interview any ""safe"" Kindred that she can get in contact with, sifting through personal histories and anecdotes to develop a deeper understanding of the Children of Cain [no "e".]

[frostfall-matches]

[ matchmaking... ]

@shadykazama : [ match report ready ]

✧ Iori Utahime

-> [ A relationship that will take some time to flourish. ] Utahime is rather stern and stoic in the way that she presents herself to strangers, especially anyone she interacts with in a professional capacity. With your initial awkwardness and difficulty with contributing to conversations, it takes a while for you two to really start interacting with and learning about each other. Still, Utahime is rather sweet despite her serious exterior, and she’s got a pretty good eye for people - she can tell you’re also sweet and kind even when you haven’t fully opened up.

-> [ While she finds strong scents to be bothersome, she does like having a subtle, relaxing scent permeating a space. ] Utahime tends to prefer the more natural, earthy scents over something overly sweet or sharp. Those candles claiming to be cinnamon bun or blueberry muffin make her nose scrunch. Rose water is a good one, though, and she’s rather fond of lavender. She makes sure to keep a few candles in your favorite scents on hand in her home and allows you to burn them whenever you want. When going over to your place, she likes trying to guess which scent was most recently used.

-> [ Utahime is fond of alcohol and beer… but she’d cut down for you. ] She knows what it’s like for someone you care about to have a vice that you consider distasteful or harmful (such as how she really wishes Shoko would stop smoking). When she learns of your disdain for alcohol, she immediately makes it a point to not drink around you. She normally saves it for when she’s hanging out with Shoko anyway, or when home alone in the evenings after a particularly difficult day, but your comfort and peace of mind are going to come first once you’re part of her life.

-> [ She LOVES dates involving food. ] It doesn’t matter whether you two are going out to eat somewhere, getting takeout and bringing it home, or cooking together at one of your respective homes - if the food is good, she’s all for it. Utahime is really attentive and remembers all your favorites and dislikes. If you have any go-to restaurants or dishes, that’s tucked away in her memory too. While she’s not really a dessert person, she does make sure to order something sweet for you to enjoy afterwards if you’ve got a sweet tooth (she doesn’t understand how you like mint chocolate anything, but you refuse to let her judgment bother you).

-> [ Utahime loves taking walks through Kyoto with you. ] Depending on where you’re typically stationed for work, you may be more accustomed to the busy, bustling city life of Tokyo, used to seeing the urban landscapes. Despite also being a major city, Kyoto has a much different pace, well known for its beautiful scenery. She loves bringing you out to the various scenic trails she knows of, enjoying the act of sharing a quiet, relaxing walk with you. It’s nice to just get away from everything for a while, especially given your hectic, stressful roles as jujutsu sorcerers.

-> [ Definitely a quality time girl, but melts into physical affection too. ] Utahime loves your gifts too, of course (she’s never going to turn down food from you), but sometimes she gets really shy when you gift her something really thoughtful and considerate. If you get her a bow in your favorite color, she’ll wear it all the time. She tends to show her affection by carving time out of her schedule for you, doing things that allow the two of you to focus on each other. She adores light, casual touches - brief hugs, cuddling sessions as you two have a show or movie playing, a quick squeeze to your hand as she passes by you - but is quick to understand if you’re not in the mood to be touched.

-> [ She finds that your cursed technique is quite versatile and works well with hers. ] Utahime’s cursed technique works well with most others, anyway - considering her ability amplifies the cursed energy of her allies - but you’re able to create stronger shadows and control them for much longer thanks to her. As dangerous and strenuous as your jobs can be at times, you find yourself truly enjoying going out on missions with her.

-> [ Though you’re often upset when you underperform, Utahime is here to lift you up. ] She may be stern, holding high standards for herself and those around her, but she’s very good at seeing the effort you’ve put into your skills and work. After all, her students love her and it isn’t hard to see why - her personality and the way she takes her instructing so seriously allows her to flourish in her role as a teacher. You might be overly hard on herself, but she always has genuine, kind praise for you. And if you’re open to advice, just let her know; she’s sure she can help you find a way to improve, even if you’re already good enough in her eyes.

[hannahssimblr]

Lucky Girl - Relationship Analysis

Evie & Marian

We don’t meet Evie’s mother until past the halfway point of part one, during a phone call. Marian serves as a reminder to Evie that reality exists, and she in fact, does not exist in the vacuum of this beach and this summer, there are things to do! School books to be bought! And does she have enough socks to go with her uniform? 

Immediately a dynamic is established here, Marian is a highly organised (and rather anxious) perfectionist, and Evie doesn’t even like to clean her bedroom. During this phone call Marian switches erratically from topic to topic. Do you need a new jumper? Where is the book list? How is Kelly? Is Shane bringing someone to the debs? When are you home? Why haven’t you cleaned your bedroom? The call is a frustrating moment for Evie, who finds it difficult to relax around her mother. 

This dynamic is revisited throughout the remainder of the story, and most explored in Evie’s first therapy session with Helen. She opens up about the relationship, and admits that her mother’s perfectionism and expectations of her have been difficult to cope with since entering her teens. She feels misunderstood and alienated around her, and is unable to find the words to open up to her about the things she has been feeling within herself. It’s likely that Evie has tried to have an open and honest relationship with Marian in the past, only for conversations to fall flat or skew in the wrong direction. She has stopped trying to see eye to eye. 

At the end of part one, Evie asks her mother if she can go to a party in Dublin. She has to pretend she is going to Jen's, as she knows Marian would take issue with her spending the night at a boy’s house. Especially Jude’s, apparently, as Evie told her all about what happened in a vulnerable moment. Oops, she really wishes she hadn’t done that, because this is what happens when Evie is honest. Marian goes off on a rant about Evie staying safe, and insisting that she stay in touch with her at regular intervals throughout the night, otherwise she will send Evie’s father to the address given and have him remove her from the party. Evie agrees, as she knows this is the only way she’ll be allowed to go. 

Marian’s protectiveness comes from a genuine place of concern, and not necessarily an inherent need for control. She’s afraid for her daughter. She’s afraid of her ending up in a bad situation, and as we learn in the second last chapter of the story, she’s really afraid of her ending up like her. She sees her daughter heading in a potentially undesirable direction, and if she’s going to fawn after a boy like that it’s worrying. Evie is too young for this, according to Marian. She shouldn’t be thinking about anything but her studies, and if only she could find a way to keep her on the right track and stop trying to catch up with what all of the other girls are doing. 

Evie’s fear of relationships likely stems from messaging from her mother. She would have been told in childhood to be careful of men, be discerning, don’t settle for just anybody. We know why, by the end of the story. Marian doesn’t want Evie to marry someone like her father, and doesn’t want to condemn her daughter to a life of looking after an incapable, unsupportive husband. Marian felt she was too young to make the decision she did to marry at twenty three. Her biggest fear is to see Evie repeat history. 

Evie mentions her childhood several times in the story, particularly in part three, whose entire focus is on preserving childhood and nostalgia for the past. Evie's childhood was an idyllic time for her, probably because of Marian’s hard work in protecting her from all the badness in the world. Early in part one, Evie references her shock at Kelly and Shane's behaviour and their violence towards one another, as she has always had a peaceful and quiet home life. However, this has a price, as Evie grows up and enters the adult world with no real idea of what to expect from it. She cannot see the signs of Dean’s manipulation nor Marnie and Fiona’s cruelty until it’s too late. She laments later that everyone could see something that she couldn’t, and honestly, she’s right. She was ill-equipped.

She mentions that her childhood went on for longer than most girls, that she still played with dolls until she was fourteen and Kelly found out about it. This was thanks to her mother sheltering her, trying as best she could to preserve her innocence. Evie is also an only child, which is significant, especially as we learn that Marian struggled with infertility issues for years. Evie is her one chance to get it right, so the pressure and focus upon her is multiplied immeasurably. 

It’s also likely that Marian instilled in Evie the importance of holding out for the perfect man. She speaks to Jude about this in 3.26 - she says that as a child her ultimate fantasy was true love. A knight in shining armor type who would save and protect her, and really, up until she loses Jude the first time, Evie hasn’t really settled for less. This is why she won’t date the boys at home that like her, it’s why she’s the last virgin in the group. She’s waiting for something amazing, something perfect to the point of unrealism, just like has been insisted of her. 

Any scenes that take place in Evie’s grandmother's house are the most telling of Evie & Marian’s dynamic. Marian is in an uncomfortable and stressful situation in this house, she is under pressure to prove herself to her mother-in-law, aware that nothing she does will ever be good enough. As an extension, she stresses for Evie too, feeling that perhaps she is being judged as a mother as well as a wife in this situation, and if her daughter is not perfectly behaved then it must reflect on her too. Evie must help in the kitchen. She must prepare the food perfectly, and if she doesn’t then she’ll be met with anger and frustration. Why can't get she get things right at crucial moments?

We don’t really learn about the dynamic between Marian and Evie’s paternal grandmother until the end of the story, when Marian is pleased to share that the family thinks that Evie is just like her. She’s nothing like the Kilbrides, nor does she belong to them, not really. She’s part of Marian, her beautiful daughter. The idea of her mother-in-law being displeased about this fact is of utmost enjoyment to her, and she can’t hide her delight when she tells Evie about it. 

Still, Marian wants Evie to fit into the right boxes. She wants her to be neat, serviceable, polite, intelligent, sober. She is horrified to learn in the Christmas dinner chapter that Evie drinks alcohol. Not only does she drink, but she’s been doing it since she was at least fifteen. (Thanks, Decky) Unbeknownst to Marian, at this point in the story Evie is on a slippery slope and her relationship with alcohol is already very poor. She’s been using it as a coping mechanism and drinking to the point of blackout (in Shane’s bath) sometimes. This is a moment where Marian realises that her control has lapsed. She no longer has any idea what Evie is doing, and now that she lives away from home there is no way to regain that control. Frustrated and angry, she lashes out at Evie and hits her where it hurts with her ‘boys don’t like girls who drink’ rant in the hopes that it might sway her in the right direction. Of course, Evie, recognising this as a deliberate act to hurt her, lashes back with more of the same. At least she’s not enabling an alcoholic husband. 

Mother and daughter don’t have a close relationship for much of the rest of the story. Marian tries to phone Evie several times in part two, and she never answers the phone. She doesn’t even tell her that she’s holidaying in Cyprus, so we can assume they don’t speak often anymore, not because of Marian’s lack of trying. Evie is just tired of being criticized and misunderstood. 

As the story progresses and things begin to become fraught with Jude, Evie realises in horror how like her mother she has become. The way she responds to Jude during arguments is exactly like Marian. She even catches herself cleaning in frustration. What is this? Evie doesn’t clean! And yet when her boyfriend upsets her she does exactly the same thing as her mother does when her father pisses her off. Alarm bells ring for Evie, as this is a telling glimpse into her potential future. Is this really how she wants to end up?

Marian’s obsession with Shane Healy kind of feeds into her relationship with Evie too. Shane, the most perfect boy in town, is her ideal partner for her daughter. Why hasn’t it ever worked out? Marian pins a lot of her own wishes for her life upon Shane, as the failure of her own husband has meant that she can project a lot onto this young man. Evie knows that nobody she ever dates will live up to the perfection of Shane in her mother’s mind, not even Jude, who her mother is suitably unimpressed with. She thinks he’s too ‘fancy’ for Evie, has too many notions and is too much of an outsider. Really, it’s because she knows that a boy like Jude would take Evie away from her protection. Shane is polite where Jude is direct. Shane will always come back to Tullamore, Jude will leave in the end, even Marian can see it.

The final time we meet Marian in the story is the most revealing moment of all. She pours her heart out and admits to Evie that really, she’s proud of her under it all. She doesn’t understand her or her choices, but she’s proud of her bravery. Marian watches her daughter grow up in a world so fundamentally different from hers, and she sees her succeed and thrive and become a stronger person, and she realises that she needn’t have been so protective after all. Evie has opportunities that Marian could never have dreamt of, and now it’s her time to make decisions for herself, to be independent and free and make her dreams come true. There are no rules stopping Evie from doing anything she wants like there were for Marian. Society has changed, her daughter now has freedoms that she couldn’t have ever dreamed of. Evie realises her privilege too. 

This conversation is ultimately what leads to Evie’s final decision. Why would she repeat a pattern when she could break one? Yes, she’s always yearned for the perfect man, yes, she’s always needed to feel safe and protected from the world, and while Jude can give her that, she knows now that she doesn’t need any of the things she believed that she did. She needs to be on her own, she needs to try life as an independent woman and to be brave enough to go it alone. Her mother’s biggest mistake was giving up her dream for her husband and marrying too young. She sacrificed an amazing job and her wonderful friends and now lives in the house she was born in, lonely all day, not working, depressed over her aging body and overly concerned with what the neighbours think about her. She represents true rural Irish misery. The archetype of a woman denied opportunity and the ability to stand out or to be different from her peers. 

In the end Evie is the one to break the mold, representing them both, representing the freedom of the oppressed Irish woman, breaking free from the constraints of their past and proving her capability to grow beyond it all.

[sarah-ankh]

Having some feelings I need to write down, and here is as good a place as any. This is gonna be a bot all over the place...

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I hate going for walks with my family.

I hate walking full stop, but i hate "going for walks" when my family is involved.

So often in the past it's become a *thing* that I can't do it now without reliving all of those past times.

I've always had muscular problems with my legs due to my height, and in recent years this has been compounded by nerve damage in my feet, and injury damage to my knees and hip that mean I can't walk particularly fast or far without a great deal of pain.

This means I almost always get left behind. I can't keep up with them and fall further and further behind them, and when I was younger I would always wind up lost.

Lost and tired and in pain in a strange place until somebody came back for me. They'd always make a joke about it, trying to cheer me up, but that always made it worse when all I wanted was a hug.

So I started refusing to go. As soon as I was old enough to stay home on my own I would politely refuse to go, and that was almost worse.

My mother would always respond in a half-joking way like "aww, you're miserable, you're no good" or "you're no fun, come on" or after my nieces and nephews came alo g shed turn to guilt tripping. "They're only here for a weekend, you have to spend time with them'

My brother would always look so disappointed and try to talk me into it with all the stuff I'd be missing, while I'm sat there knowing I'd probably never see most of it anyway and even if I did I'd be in too much pain to enjoy it.

My sister would just take a snippy tone like "oh. Ok." Then make a point out of how I didn't come later.

So even when I didn't come I'd spend the whole time sat alone at home making myself miserable and feeling guilty for not going.

And then when I do go, I'm in pain, I'm miserable, and I still end up alone half the time and stewing on the whole situation.

These days they at least try to accommodate me, but that just makes me feel like an invalid and burden which makes it all worse.

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

Today I wound up alone again because the others decided to take a cliffside path full of stones and roots that I can't navigate, (literally the nerve damage in my feet means I can't feel the stones and roots, and dont have great balance, not ideal on a cliff...) so I continued alone on the main path with all this stuff running through my head in circles and making me miserable and depressed.

Part of what I was thinking about, I'm on holiday this week, staying with my brother and his family in Kerry. My mum came to join us for the weekend, and this morning his wife commented that I stop doing things when my mum is here. I'm not sure what she meant by that and I was already feeling shitty so I didn't pursue it, but now it's preying on my mind.

My mother is hard work sometimes. She doesn't understand my mental health problems and trying to talk to her about my life is just difficult. It feels like the "never again" meme. Given that his wife broke down in tears the other day worrying about my mum coming to stay, I'm sure she understands.

I tend to shut down when I can't deal with a situation. I go quiet and I find a way to leave for a bit. The more people are here the easier it is for me to get overwhelmed. And I do tend to shut down with my mum even more because I feel like I can't talk to her or make her understand, I feel like I cant get anything right, it'll never be good enough for her, so I just don't bother trying.

For all of my teenage years I felt trapped between the person I was "supposed" to be, and the person I wanted to be, and wound up stuck as neither.

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

A few weeks ago I came out to my brother and his wife as bisexual, and hinted that I might be trans. It went well so i tried to have the same conversation with my mum, and her immediate overreaction made me abort so quickly. She freaked out about me wearing nail polish and was going on about how I was going to be fired from my job and it would ruin my life.

So I decided not to bring any femme clothes on this trip....

Its been hard, I feel wrong. I haven't shaved either and it's started getting to me, and being called "uncle [deadname]!" Every 5 seconds has begun to wear on me. Hence why I was feeling shitty today to begin with.

I don't know how to deal with all that. I don't know how to have the conversation with my family about my gender, or even if I should. I don't know how to talk to them about how my disability and how their attempts to accommodate me make me feel. And once again winding up walking alone brought it all home at once a little bit.

I feel alone. I feel like an outsider in my family, pushed to the edge. Not because that's what they're trying to do, but that just makes it worse because I feel like I'm just making it all up in my head.

They love me and they try, but it feels like they love the fake 'me' that I was expected to be. They don't really know 'me'.

Do I even really know 'me' at this point?

Who even am I?

[syensy-art]

alone, desire, and hate for Monica :)

evil, i like it.

alone: How does your OC deal with loneliness? Have they ever been completely alone before? How do they act when there's no one around to see them?

Pre-Lcorp, Monica probably wasn't alone in a literal sense, but was in a relationship sense; although her family was somewhat overbearing, they mainly were focused on her studies, work, and potential and not actually Monica herself, so she probably felt kind of alone but indifferent about it. She got a habit of keeping to herself and being alright with being alone because of this. Pre-flowers, Monica would probably get anxious when literally alone for long periods of time, but in LCorp she was often working with people so this didn't happen much anyways. Post flowers and transfer, though, being alone happened Often both due to the odd and lone nature of the extraction team and both her and the extraction team's reputation leading to others finding her off putting to be around. That, and not many others would have maybe been fine with her had a reason to be in extraction in the first place outside of the rare errand. Due to the flowers and other issues in LCorp at the time, she didn't really pay much mind to any of this, though. She acted about the same around people and away from people during this, which is to say quiet and unnerving. She wasn't the best with acting "proper" in social situations before, but at this point she would probably casually eat a corpse in front of someone or take notes on them in a journal while talking or shortly after they left.

Post LCorp, although she may be on her own for some errands or jobs, loneliness actually does start to bother her a bit. She doesn't like straying too far from Anthony, and she much prefers taking jobs where she's not alone. She's back to getting somewhat anxious when actually alone. desire: What's one thing your OC wants more than anything in the world? Are they open with that desire? Why or why not? What would they do to fulfill it?

I don't think she particularly would recognize or admit it, at least soon after leaving Lcorp, but she wants connections. Any kind, platonic, romantic, whatever, she just craves connection. She has an iffy relationship with her family she can't even really remember, has a hard time connecting to others especially after the flower situation, has lost relationships from her lack of memory and other changes, and kind of feels like an outcast for all this. She's not particularly open about this mainly because she doesn't recognize exactly what want these feelings Stem from, and if she did, I don't think she would be open with it much either because she wouldn't really know how to go about fulfilling that want.

One of the many reasons Anthony is so important to her.

hate: What does your OC hate? Why? How do they act towards the object of their hatred?

She doesn't particularly have much she hates or even loves post flowers due to the holes they left in her memory. Her focus on her work over herself, at least in lcorp, also made this kind of difficult as she doesn't really feel strongly about anything, good or bad. I suppose in a less literal sense, she hates being stressed so much it resulted in her knowingly risking her memories to avoid it. Even after the flowers, she doesn't like being stressed. Hates trying to think about things she's forgotten because of this too. She also hates seeing Anthony stressed or hurt due to how important he is to her, and she would do anything to protect him. She doesn't like barley tea. Probably can't pin exactly why but think it also reminds her of her family whoops. Also hates black tea just because she doesn't like the taste of it.

[scribbledquillz]

LILOU SHARED THE ASK MEME EVERYBODY REMAIN CALM AND DO NOT MIND THE ALL CAPS.

(Extremely loud, very un-calm breathing)

HI CAN I ASK ABOUT REVKA PLEAS NUMBERS 45, 23, and 25

And ceral if possible 21 and 26

Only whatever you like of course but the mote the better as far as I'm concerned also ALSO can I leave one blank number for a Q you're dying to be asked but nobody asked you yet?? 🤩🤩🤩🤩 have a fantastic day, you coolest of cool beans!!!

Ship Ask Game - The Basics

Plant you are the sweetest, your enthusiasm for OC text walls is infectious and also I love you? Bless and thank you for all the awesome questions!

Revka and Zevran:

23. What are the defining characteristics of their relationship?

I've always looked at Revka and Zevran as individuals that are two sides of the same coin. These are people who were given incredibly difficult starts to life, who were put into circumstances which forced them to grow up far too quickly. They've been molded by said circumstances into people they might not have become otherwise, been forced to make choices and do things in order to survive that they otherwise might not have done. They learned quickly that the only person they can trust and rely on 100% is themselves, and it shapes how they act and who they let in to their lives.

But then their paths cross in the most unexpected of ways, and after the initial friction and misgivings over each other's intent, they find it's actually... oddly nice to spend time together? That they enjoy each other's company, and hold on, this person seems to actually have some idea of what I've gone through? It isn't the exact same, but they don't need me to explain or give more than I'm willing to, and still seem to understand how hard this shit is? What??

It's that slow build of trust, the recognition of having choices taken away from you and clinging dearly to the ones you still have. It's the pair of them letting their walls crumble away for the other piece by piece, and the quiet recognition of grief for what they've lost and had stolen from them. And finally reaching that place where you're ok with being weak in front of them, of letting the other bear some of the weight with you instead of trying to do so on your own.

And most importantly for both of them, reaching that place together where they can say yes, I WANT this, I WANT to be here with you like this because I love you. I don't want to let this end, let me stay with you, let me keep you in my life.

25. Do they share a room/house? If so, what does it look like and how does it compliment their personalities?

They share several, in fact! Post-Orzammar they slowly spend more and more nights in the same tent or tavern room, until they drop the pretense entirely after the Bracillian and just share outright.

During their time in Amaranthine Zevran comes and goes from the city as his work (both for himself and for Revka - she never expects it of him but he's always willing, and not all of them are things she's entirely in the know about), but when he's there he lives in her quarters with her. Usually forgoing the main doors and slipping in through a window for the sake of some subtlety and the fact that he likes to keep Revka on her toes. Neither of them have much say in the decor. It came fully furnished after her taking the role of Warden Commander, and falls firmly into the Ferelden hinterlands meets Grey Warden aesthetic. It's all dark, thick wood beams, grey stonework and furs with a spattering of white and blue accents and a griffin here and there. Nothing offensive, but not anything either of them are particularly attached to either - the exception being the wide fireplace built into the wall and Revka's massive desk. Both of which are put to good use. ;)

Once both find each other again after their separation in Inquisition they share quarters there, which again is fairly spartan with a lot of Ferelden influences.

The first place they're able to live in for any significant amount of time that they're able to make their own is a manor in Antiva that comes into Zevran's possession after his claiming the title of Shadow Prince in the Crows. He doesn't wear the title openly, for obvious reasons, but it does come with perks. Think lots of open breezeways with light, fluttering curtains in rich jewel tones, cushioned loungers and tiled floors with mosaics. Revka takes over a small secondary kitchen for the few times she's able to indulge in some baking, as well as a small sitting room she converts into a study / sewing room. Their bedchamber has wide archways out onto a beautiful balcony on both sides - one facing a courtyard garden and the other facing out to the ocean where they can watch the surf. If they had there way they'd never leave this place.

45. How do they support each other? How do they rely on each others support?

I touched on this a little above - but these two are invaluable to one another. Neither one of them is the type to press for answers they aren't ready to give, while also not being prone to judgement when it comes to things said and done out of a need to survive. They share the role of being the rock and pass it back and forth as the moment requires, and in whatever manner that might be. Whether it's reassurance in a decision made, quiet company on a difficult night or simply being there to offer a hand and a shoulder to lean on when grief hits. BONUS ROUND!

19. Do they wear each other’s clothes/jewelry?

Aside from the earring Zevran gave her? No, not at all, she's got plenty of her own things to wear she doesn't - no you don't need to look under her pillow that's her tunic she doesn't know what you're taking about how should she know why it smells like him?

Zevran keeps the forget-me-not pendant she insisted he carry with him tucked into his shirt at all times when they're separated and has been known to throw on whatever clothes are on the floor beside the bed regardless of who they belong to.

Ceral:

These are going to be a little trickier, just because I've not had the pleasure of doing much ship establishing with Ceral just yet. Mostly because he's so young during origins, but I really need to remedy that for his inquisition era.

21. Do they enjoy domestic life?

Yes - but not permanently. Ceral is young, and regardless of the cause (call it arrogance, call it a calling) he feels greatly compelled to find ways in which he can serve. He genuinely feels as though the Maker intended something greater for him - he only needs to find it first. And he feels the best way to do that is to not set his roots too deeply in any one place. It's why the time in the cabin in the Hinterlands with Revka pre-Inquisition is so confining for him. He wants to be OUT THERE.

That being said, he has a fondness for the comforts of a small home and all the things that that includes. Freshly baked bread, the smell of clean laundry drying on a line, the comfort of sleeping in your own bed. That affection would only grow if he had someone special to share that space with.

26. What sacrifices do they make for the other?

To be honest? I'm not sure just yet. This would depend entirely on his partner, and just what it is that they would need of him. Loyalty is a Tabris family trait, so whatever it is Ceral will inevitably fight tooth and nail to find a way to make it work - be that traveling somewhere different, keeping his magic / relationship with Love hidden for a time, etc. But searching out his purpose, his drive to act as a healer for those most desperate for his help, his loyalty to his family, those are all non-negotiable.

[marysixnumbers]

Xayah/Rakan Tickle Headcanons

-It took a while for the pair to find out they were both ticklish. Rakan made the first move - after trying everything he could to cheer up a particularly sullen Xayah one evening, he eventually resorted to poking Xayah’s sides, and was taken by surprise when she yelped and jumped nearly two feet in the air. Rakan was unfazed by Xayah’s colourful threats, and ended up scooping her into his lap and tickling her until she promised to be less moody for the rest of the night.

-Xayah was on the receiving end of several more tickle attacks before she found an opportunity to get him back, running her fingers under his armpits when he was taunting her by holding her supply bag too high for her to reach. When he half-curled up and skipped away from her, she knew she’d hit the jackpot.

-They tickle each other aaall the time, often on the merest of excuses. Rakan gets Xayah when (he thinks) she gets too serious, or too quiet, or too focussed on their work during their leisure time. Xayah gets Rakan when (she thinks) he’s being too full of himself, or forgetful, or showing off a bit too much (Xayah has found that tickling is a much more entertaining response to Rakan flexing on her than just playfully rolling her eyes. It leaves so many bad spots exposed...).

-Speaking of bad spots: Rakan’s underarms and stomach are particuarly sensitive, as are his neck and shoulderblades. (Xayah’s nails tracing over that area makes his feathers to fluff up in a way she deems “totally adorable”; Rakan is usually giggling too much to reply.) Xayah is really ticklish on her thighs and sides, as well as her birdlike ears (Rakan’s are ticklish too, but the sensation is more like a gentle tingle, whereas Xayah snorts and immediately starts giggling if they’re even lightly touched). They share tickle spots in their ribcage and waist, and a lot of their tickle fights end up with them grabbing at each others’ torsos and hoping the other person folds first. (Xayah has a special “claw technique” she likes to do on Rakan’s ribs that raises the pitch of his laughter by at least one octave.) Tickling over and between their toes is another good way to send them into hysterics.

-Xayah is quite a bit more ticklish than Rakan, and when he was winning some of their earlier tickle fights he would stop before she conceded due to the intensity of her reactions. Of course, this act of kindness only led to Xayah tickling him twice as much as he’d tickled her, to the point that Rakan swore he’d never go easy on her again. So although Xayah is more ticklish, she’s also a much more evil ler - they tend to win the same amount of tickle fights each.

-Xayah is extremely bad at holding back her ticklish reactions. Even the lightest of touches will have her grinning madly and biting her lip, ears and feathers twitching as she tries desperately to stop the giggles from bursting out. Anything more intense than that and she explodes into laughter, grasping whatever’s nearest in a (futile) attempt to make it stop feeling so incredibly ticklish. Her laughter is heavy and pretty constant - she’ll swear at her ler as much as she can between fits of laughter, but tickling her worst areas (such as the death spot around her lower ribs) will put a stop to that.

-Rakan can’t stay still while being tickled. Desperately trying to wriggle away from whatever’s tickling him, grabbing his ler’s hands or tools even if that opens up even more ticklish areas, punching and kicking wildly when his ler then focusses on those ticklish areas. At first he begs/reasons with his ler almost as much as he laughs, but his ability to do that lessens the longer it goes on - prolonged tickling on his worst spots will have him slide into silent laughter.

-Both of them are very difficult to keep in place as lees, good at darting and slipping out of all but the most restrictive holds. In fact, they themselves are some of the only people that can keep each other in place (although the playful nature of their contests means escape attempts are less likely).

-It feels almost negligent to talk about this pair for so long and not mention feathers! Rakan was the first to realise their possibilities, enchanting feathers to automatically target someone’s worst spots, or making their sensation way more ticklish than a regular feather, or simply conjuring a great cloud of them to tickle the lee all over. Xayah was initially dismissive of his efforts, but started taking more interest after being semi-willingly subjected to several of Rakan’s experiments. She still prefers using her hands but will pull out a soft feather on occasion.

-They are utterly terrifying as a ler double-team. Their styles fit together perfectly - Rakan’s slow, teasy, and feather-heavy tickling is perfect at finding his lee’s sensitive areas, which are then subject to Xayah’s horribly tickly nails. As much as they enjoy tickling others, they don’t get a chance to do it that often, so the few people they do get to tickle are often there for a long time.

[cookieofearthbread]

Pure Vanilla could feel his voice failing him when he tried to counter the jester's point that he didn't do anything to help the dying fairy however the Beast of Deceit had a point; what was inaction but the acceptance of circumstances?

That he believed that there was nothing he could truly do?

"No..."

He shouldn't be listening to Shadow Milk; He knew it was dangerous to do so as his words were only serving to make him falter from his path to protect cookiekind and sink him into the darkness that Pure Vanilla so desperately wanted to avoid, however, it was proving difficult to do so when the jester was a master of words.

Particularly when he knew which word would earn a reaction and would upset him considering that the healer was still stung that despite his resolve to help White Lily and do anything to support his old childhood friend...

She was forced to carry all the work and stand against the jester by herself with the two fairies that didn't get caught up in the power of deceit whilst he was stung up like a puppet and used against her; in an attempt to break her.

However even if he utterly failed in his resolve; he couldn't say that he was proud of her and even happy for her! After all, she was able to stand against the odds, finding the resolve she wanted, and picked a option which she wouldn't regret and was happy with despite everything that has happened to her.

"We aren't friends and at this current moment of time; I don't see how we can be friends."

His body tensed up when Shadow Milk's grip tightened against him before a yelp left him when everything suddenly spun before his eyes widened when he was faced with the smile that was the jester.

And before he could respond further; the healer could feel himself tensing up further when he grabbed and the other's arm was placed around him then spun once more whilst the scenery warped and shifted around him which only made him feel nauseous.

After blinking a few times, in hopes of trying to get rid of the nauseous feeling, his attention was brought to the tables brimming with food and the cookies that had gathered around it, His eyes shifting to White Lily and remaining on her whilst an aching feeling formed in him.

He know that he shouldn't be slumbering whilst his friends were celebrating the victory that was earned but how does one celebrate a victory that felt hollow to one?

"It's not their fault... I don't want to ruin their happiness." He responded with somberness, closing his eyes, and breathing in a pattern to hope to ground himself; stiffening when Shadow Milk lean against him.

"As it would be unfair for me to ruin their celebration when they have worked hard for it... Even if it means paying the price to suffer in solitude."

Was it selfishness or selflessness that he was prepared and willing to ruin himself so others didn't have to be burdened by his own pain? That he was prepare for others to be happy whilst he was in misery?

Even when, there was a part of him that believed he would be abandoned if he told them the truth? How he wasn't entirely free from Shadow Milk's influence?

"After all, this is my choice that I'm making regardless of my feeling or thought on the matter."

It was only fair he kept quiet about the matter so that they could be happy and he didn't have to face that reality.

How delicious this all was.

Oh, he found such great amusement in watching Pure Vanilla's mind race. How he thought against the conflicting emotions and thoughts rattling around in his head. And the best of it all?

He was privy to ALL of them.

Pure Vanilla's mind and soul were an open book to Shadow Milk, which made it all the more fun to torment him. His goal? Quite simple.. to break the healer. Even if, by some miracle the seals remained.. He wouldn't go quietly. He would NOT let the curtains fall on him forever!

And if he could break silly, little Vanilly.. well.. The lead actor always needed a supporting cast member.

"You certainly did nothing to help the old, foolish king." His tone took a dangerous dip. That happy, boisterous tone replaced now with one that would worm it's way into your hearing. Dangerous, deceptive.. but at the same time hard to ignore.

"What is inaction, but acceptance to the circumstance, hmm? Not like they need you anymore. Especially how a cookie who's barely anything was able to do what you could not." He chuckled as Pure Vanilla tried to shake off the jesters grasp. Yes, such a splendid memory as he dangled Gingerbrave, his friends and Pure Vanilla in his strings. How HELPLESS they were all when he gave White Lily her choice.

A choice she changed, so.. so- SO UNFAIR!

"Awww come now Vanilly. After all, when your so called 'friends' finally abandon you.. At least one will be around. Little, old me.." He would not be shrugged off, if anything it made his grip tighten as he would spin Pure Vanilla around to face him.

Face to face with Shadow Milk who's face was plastered with that wide, signature smile.

"And I will always be here. Unlike them. Where even are they now? Ooohhh. that's right. While you slumber, they celebrate!" He grabbed hold of Pure Vanilla, one arm around the healers shoulder to spin him around as the scenery warped and shifted around them.

A clearing, the arches and bridges of the Faerie Kingdom. Tables lined with food as Gingerbrave, his friends, even White Lily all celebrated their 'defeat' of Shadow Milk. Having fun, cheering to THEIR victory..

"So.. so so sad. My friends would never do that to me..." He leaned against Pure Vanilla.

"They wouldn't let me suffer.. alone." His tone a deep whisper as he spoke to the healer, side-eying him with each word. "Yet here you are.. suffering in solitude. Saying nothing.. Because you know.. You KNOW they would abandon you if they knew."

[onfreckledwings]

“You know I didn’t mean it, right?” Dean says one night.

Cas squints in that way he does as he looks up at Dean through his lashes across the library table. He tilts his head in question.

“What I said that night. Before you left...after Mom.”

And that’s all it takes for the wind to leave his sails. Deflated. The memory is still fresh in his mind, even after all this time. And despite Cas’s best efforts, yeah. It still stings. He lets his eyes fall to the names scratched into the mahogany of the table. He stares at them: at Jack’s name and his, at Sam and Dean’s initials.

At Mary’s.

Why does that something always seem to be you?

You’re dead to me.

He lets his index finger trace the letters of her name. Grief, guilt, and loss unfurls from behind his rib cage and grips around his heart like tentacles.

He’d said he was sorry. Cas knows he is. Logically, at least. He’d be lying if he said doubt didn’t sometimes reside quietly in the corners of his mind, in the chambers of his heart.

His forefinger is tracing the ‘W’ next to the ‘M’ when he tries to hold his stiff upper lip, tries to conceal the raging inner battle from Dean.

“Of course.”

And it’s the best Cas can do in that moment. He regrets it almost instantly, because it sounds like bullshit, even to him. So he tries to deflect, to end this conversation before it begins. He rises from his seat and takes both of their scotch glasses in hand.

“I’ll go get us some more,” he says, plastering his best attempt at a smile on his face as he starts heading for the kitchen. Dean’s footfalls are quickly behind him.

“Cas,” he calls out, and Cas tries his best to steel himself against the ache in his chest as he continues walking.

Being human sucks sometimes. He used to be able to flip on a proverbial robotic switch whenever he needed to avoid feeling, to avoid emotion, because angels were soldiers first and foremost. And because emotions were always the doorway to doubt, it was important to be able to turn them off in order to preserve the objective of the mission at hand.

Now though, after Jack pulled him out of the Empty, grace left behind, he’s finding it exceedingly more difficult to hide behind a mask. Especially now that his built-in armor is gone.

He feels everything so much more intensely now. And he hates it, particularly in moments like these. Because he doesn’t want to feel insecure, he doesn’t want Dean to feel guilty, he doesn’t want to rock the boat.

When he steps down into the kitchen, he notices how Dean’s footsteps don’t follow his over the threshold. He puts both glasses down on the counter as he reaches for the bottle of Macallan 12 in the cupboard. He unscrews the cap and begins pouring.

“Don’t do that.”

It’s a small, quiet thing. Cas’s hand stills over the rim of the second glass before he glances over his shoulder at Dean.

“You don’t want any?” He tries going for nonchalance. But he can tell with the weight of Dean’s footfalls that it doesn’t work. He rotates on his heel to face the man as he approaches.

“Not the scotch, Cas,” Dean says, low and quiet. He steps down gingerly into the kitchen then, wincing slightly before stopping at the opposite end of the island. His green eyes bore holes into Cas’s, and it feels like he’s staring into his soul.

Maybe he is.

Cas can’t help the worry that cloaks him as he watches Dean move. Can’t help the guilt he feels at not being able to help. He drops his shoulders then as he turns around, pouring the amber liquid into the second glass before capping the bottle and placing it back on the shelf. He feels rooted to the counter, and so he sips his scotch in an elongated pull. Avoiding.

“Look at me,” comes the soft plea. He hates how sad Dean’s voice sounds; how guilty and rough and burdened.

Cas inhales deeply, and turns to place Dean’s glass in front of him on the island. He can’t help but map the freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Whatever Dean sees in Cas’s eyes must be distressing, because he’s looking at him with such pity and sympathy and Cas feels shame creeping up his neck. He looks down at the fabric of his navy blue t-shirt, picking at an invisible piece of lint by way of distracting himself from Dean’s stare. But then he hears soft footsteps before he sees Dean’s feet approaching into his space.

Cas lifts his chin and tries a fake smile again, reaching to take a sip from his glass. He hums softly as the hints of vanilla, butterscotch, and an array of berries flow down his throat.

“It really is astonishing how they’re able to combine so many different flavors in this,” he tries. Because he really is fine. It was almost a year ago, and there’s no use rehashing something that’s already been dealt with. It’s stupid that it still feels like a sharp ache in his chest — because Dean’s already apologized, so it really shouldn’t matter anymore, right? — and so Cas is trying his hardest to brush it off.

But then Dean’s reaching to take his glass out of his hand and placing it on the counter before his hand encircles Cas’s wrist. His eyes shoot up to meet emerald green, and he feels paralyzed, because lying to Dean has never been easy.

“Don’t,” Dean says again. “Don’t do the whole brave-face thing. Not with me.”

Cas shakes his head. “I’m not,” he says with a scoff, more on instinct than anything else. But then Dean’s setting his jaw, eyes piercing, and Cas relents. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve already apologized. It was a long time ago, Dean.”

“It does matter,” Dean grits out through clenched teeth. “The fact that I hurt you...matters. You ain’t a machine, Cas.”

Dean takes a labored breath, taking his free hand to rest it against his chest.

“...it kills me that I ever even said ‘em,” he says, green eyes pleading into blue. “You gotta know that.”

Cas shakes his head, lifting his gaze to the ceiling. His eyes begin to burn, and he sets his jaw as he closes his eyes. He refuses to let Dean see him cry—because he still feels like it’s his job to protect him, grace or no— so he turns his back to Dean to grab his tumbler of scotch and knocks it back.

The smooth burn on his tongue settles into his stomach, and it grounds him, allowing him to bite back the tears that threaten to fall. He braces himself against the counter, and Dean’s hand falls from Cas’s wrist to his side.

“You weren’t wrong,” Cas murmurs in the stillness. “I made some really poor choices over the years that put you and your family in jeopardy.”

He keeps his voice eerily steady and even, sighing heavily as he lifts his chin to look at the ceiling again. “I didn’t blame you then, and I don’t blame you now. It wasn’t like I didn’t deserve it.”

Dean’s hand grips his shoulder and he spins Cas around to face him.

“You didn’t. God—” he says, green eyes ablaze with ferocity. And Cas wants to argue, but then Dean is pulling him towards his chest.

Cas goes rigid and tries to push back against the force of Dean’s embrace. “Dean, your back—”

“Is fine,” Dean bites out and forcefully yanks Cas into him. “Come here.”

Cas’s eyes flutter shut involuntarily as his chest crashes against Dean’s, and he lets his arms encircle Dean’s waist gently, mindful of the still tender wound in the middle of his back. He chokes back a whimper as Dean’s arms envelope him, one hand resting between his shoulders and the other cupping the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry,” Dean whispers against the shell of Cas’s ear, voice thick and gruff. The warm caress of Dean’s breath chases goosebumps across Cas’s skin. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs gently against the line of Dean’s jaw, rubbing circles near the small of his back. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s breath saunters, and Cas can feel a warm wetness trickle down the slope of his neck, seeping into his shirt.

He wishes he could meld Dean into him then, just to envelope him completely, to shield him from everything that could hurt him the way he once could.

But Cas is human; and all he can do now is hold Dean.

So he does.

He buries his nose further into the crook of Dean’s neck and breathes deeply, relishing the scent of his shampoo, scotch, and simply the essence of Dean Winchester.

God, how he loves him.

“I forgive you,” Cas whispers around the tears clinging stubbornly to his throat. He lets one lone tear slip down his cheek as Dean’s fingers curl into Cas’s hair.

He feels the stifled sob before he hears it, and he pulls back gently to search Dean’s eyes as they spill over freckled cheeks.

Cas reaches to cup Dean’s face before resting their foreheads together. “I forgive you.” He drops one hand from Dean’s face to place it over his heart, feeling it thrum beneath his fingertips. “Please try to forgive yourself.”

Dean screws his eyes shut as he clenches his jaw, and Cas knows he wants to protest, wants to berate himself and scoff at the idea of self-compassion. So he lifts his chin to press his lips to Dean’s forehead, letting the kiss linger for only a moment.

He swears Dean leans into it.

“Let me check you,” Cas says quietly, reaching to place his hands gently at Dean’s sides and urging him to turn around.

“‘s fine, Cas,” Dean says, but lets himself be moved so that he’s bracing against the island. Cas reaches for the hem of Dean’s black tee, lifting it up midway to inspect the once-gaping wound in the center of his back.

It’s mostly healed by now; Jack had gotten Dean through the worst of it, but Cas’s stomach churns at how close it could have came to a different outcome entirely.

So he sees to it to check the wound every day, tracking the progress of its healing and closely monitoring Dean’s recovery. The pink, puckered skin is still raised slightly, promising a gruesome scar in the future. But it’s nearly fully closed up, and there’s no sign of infection.

Cas lets his thumb trace a large circle around the wound, and Dean shudders at the soft touch.

“It’s healing well,” Cas confirms. He removes his hands and lets Dean’s shirt fall back down, smoothing the fabric down his ribs. “How does it feel?”

Dean turns in his arms, and Cas starts to step back when Dean’s hands fall to his hips, anchoring him there.

He gets lost in those beautiful forest greens.

“It’s okay,” Dean murmurs. “It just pulls sometimes. Kind of catches when I move too quick.”

Cas nods, and feeling emboldened, reaches to flatten his palms against the planes of Dean’s chest.

He takes a heavy breath, eyes downcast with guilt. “I’m sorry I can’t heal the rest of it.”

He feels Dean shake his head as a finger curls underneath his chin, lifting it to meet their eyes again. Cas’s chest aches when Dean’s palm cups his cheek, grazing the stubble.

“You’re back,” he whispers gravelly. “‘s all that matters.”

Cas nods, and his heart begins to hammer under Dean’s locked gaze. He feels like he should step back in the interest of personal space, but then Dean’s eyes are flicking between his, to his lips, and back again.

Cas freezes as his breathing quickens, and then Dean is slowly leaning in to brush his lips against Cas’s own.

The world stops.

Cas reaches up Dean’s sides to cling to his shoulder blades, and he lets himself fall pliant when Dean presses him against the counter. Dean’s tongue is a butterfly caress against Cas’s mouth, and he opens to let him inside.

It’s a gentle, smoldering thing; not urgent or frenzied, neither panicked nor rushed. Something heavy and ethereal blooms behind Castiel’s ribs and spreads through his limbs, leaving sparks and tingles in its wake. He lets himself sink against the counter, and welcomes all of Dean’s weight as he presses into him.

It feels like grace.

Cas reaches up further, one hand cupping the rough stubble of Dean’s cheek, the other carding through sandy-brown strands of hair that have grown slightly longer in the midst of his recovery.

Cas tries to stifle a whimper as Dean’s tongue flicks languidly against his own, mapping the peaks and valleys of his mouth. His heart aches, aches, because he never thought — ever — that he’d be lucky enough to feel this. To have this.

Tears slip out from behind closed eyes, trailing down his cheeks. The cool air of the bunker chills the warm rivulets on his face.

Dean shifts minutely, dipping his chin slightly to move away for air; but not before he sucks Cas’s bottom lip between his own, gently nipping with his teeth. Claiming.

Ragged breaths fill the kitchen as they both heave for air. Foreheads rest together as Cas drops the hand from Dean’s hair to rest it over his heart.

It’s pounding just as hard as his.

“I love you too,” Dean chokes out around a muffled cry as one hand frames Cas’s jaw, the other falling to grasp against his ribs, fisting into his shirt.

Cas’s legs nearly give out then. He pulls Dean into his chest, cupping the back of his head to bury Dean’s face into his neck. Dean’s arms wrap around him like a vice, and he sobs quietly into his skin.

Castiel kisses Dean’s temple, lips ghosting the shell of his ear. “I love you so much.”

[fruggo]

I’m not gonna lie this would be the first time I requested something so if I do something wrong I’m really sorry,

Can I request Quentin, Leon, Steve, and Frank meeting a female reader who, before the entity took her, had already faced off her own killer?

And this made her kinda tough? Like she knows what she’s doing

oh my gosh thank you so much!! this is my first ever request to fulfill so we’re in this together :DD seriously i really appreciate you!

i decided to do a headcanon kind of format for this, i hope that’s okay! also these are my absolute favorite boys aaahhh this is so fun for a first request

the boys x tough f!reader (part 1) (part 2)

warnings: swearing, reader kicks frank in the shins

word count: ~700-1k each (sorry if it’s too long…i kind of got really excited and uhhh maybe i got carried away,, yeah. sorry)

(also i'll be honest quentin's is not my best. that was the one that got eaten by the tumblr abyss and i had to write all over again, and it just didn't come out the same way that i wanted it to at first :( i did the other boys hoping i'd get some inspiration to fix it afterwards, but i got kind of stuck. so it's not my favorite, but i hope you like it okay! i want to write better stuff for quentin in the future, he is my favorite sleepy boy <3)

𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐇

when you arrived in the realm, everyone thought you would be the same as the others—frightened, confused, and overwhelmed. but you took this nightmarish challenge in stride, adapting to your surroundings quickly and learning far faster than anybody else had.

your past experiences had made you independent and sometimes distrustful, so once you had the gist of things, you didn’t need (or want) anybody to tell you what to do. and nobody was inclined to, either—your instincts naturally told you what to do and when.

the first time you met quentin was a little awkward, i wont lie. you were wary of speaking to the other survivors; you weren’t going to let yourself get hurt again.

it was the beginning of a trial. the nurse’s fatigued shrills could be heard all the way from the edge of the wrecker’s yard, but you immediately started work on a generator, unafraid. a few minutes passed, when soft footsteps indicated someone’s approach. it was quentin—he started to work on the wires without hesitation.

you were a little surprised, only because the other survivors usually left you to your own devices. you got the impression that maybe they were intimidated by you, which you didn’t particularly mind. but you wouldn’t particularly mind some company now and then, either.

it was comfortably silent for a while, before quentin spoke up.

“what’s your name?” he asked, gaze still focused on the wires.

hesitating a little, you told him. then you said, “and you’re quentin, right?” you already knew most everybody’s name just from observation.

“that i am,” he replied.

then it was quiet for a while.

very quiet.

well, what were you supposed to say now?

the silence was deafening and very, very uncomfortable to you. normally you were okay with a quiet atmosphere, but it was the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears, chewed at your stomach, filled the area as if it were something solid. man, what were you supposed to say—

it was then that you realized poor quentin had fallen asleep, his face smooshed onto the generator. his cheek was now covered in grease and grime.

it made you smile—only a little. you finished repairing the generator on your own, causing quentin to wake with a start and bang his head on the pole protruding from the machine. he swore like a sailor until he realized where he was, smiling sheepishly.

“sorry, i wanted you to have your nap. you looked really tired,” you said. you also couldn’t stop admiring the dark grease on his face—it was really quite funny. and no, you weren’t going to say anything about it. it could stay there a little longer.

you spent the rest of the trial running the nurse around the whole wrecker’s yard, only suffering one injury until the end. quentin had no idea how you had been here for such little time and already knew how to outplay the nurse, one of the most difficult killers to survive against. he still didn’t know how to do it well himself, so he was thankful for you.

however, once the exit gates were opened, you found yourself in a bad spot. the nurse had caught you in an empty clearing with nowhere to hide or predict her moves, and she downed you instantly. quentin cringed hearing your agonized scream as you were hooked.

there was no way you were dying on his watch. once he was sure the nurse was gone, he gently lifted you from the hook, pulling out his medical kit to begin patching up your shoulder.

despite the pain, you had enough energy to smile at him and say, “thanks, nap boy.”

quentin feigned offense with a wry grin, pulling out some gauze. “is that all i’m going to be to you? nap boy?”

you hummed, pretending to be deep in thought. “maybe you won’t be if you get me out of here.”

“that won’t be a problem," he smiled, quirking an eyebrow.

“show me the gates and then we’ll talk, nap boy.”

from then on, quentin became your go-to source for supplies and general comfort. you weren't scared of this place, but it was nice to know you had somebody who would really be there for you.

he would often fall asleep on your shoulder at the campfire--he really was a nap boy, and you would never let him live that down.

𝐋𝐄𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃𝐘

leon could not tear his eyes away from you the first time you arrived in the realm. your presence was strong; he could tell you weren’t one to back away from a fight.

most of the survivors had been (rightly) confused and disoriented when they popped into the realm, but you tried to accept it quickly. you didn’t like it, in fact all you wanted was just to go home, but you came to terms with it and jumped into trials headfirst like an insane person.

that was the courageous part about you—maybe you were scared, but you did scary shit anyways. in fact, you did scary shit to spite the fear, to prove to yourself that you were strong enough to overcome it.

and leon couldn’t lie, that was cool as hell.

you had tunnel vision and didn’t pay much notice to the other survivors; you were too focused on learning about this place and getting out of trials. having gone through some real shit, being here hardly came as a surprise to you. if you were going to be here forever, what was the point in mourning? might as well just accept it and try your hardest to survive. maybe someday this sick game would end, but for now, you were prepared to fight for your life and that’s all you could really focus on.

your first trial was not the best. even though you were resourceful, you didn’t know what the objective was yet, so you weren’t sure where to start other than analyzing your surroundings. luckily for you, leon kennedy was one of your teammates.

after being downed immediately by bubba’s chainsaw and tossed onto a hook, you were amazingly resilient to the pain. leon was the one to lift you from the hook, and he took out his medkit to help patch your wound, but you flinched away from him before he could touch you.

he was puzzled. “what’s wrong?” he asked. he didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he wanted to help you.

you hesitated and looked him over before mumbling, “i’m fine.” and you tried to stand on your own, beginning to limp away. you didn’t want or need anyone’s help.

leon sighed, following after you. “let me help, that must hurt a lot.”

“i told you, cop, i’m fine. i don’t want your help, okay?”

leon opened his mouth to insist, but decided against it. if you didn’t want his help, then he shouldn’t butt in. that wouldn’t keep him from watching over you, though.

but then leon called after you (perhaps a little smugly), “do you even know what you’re supposed to do?”

begrudgingly, you stopped walking. no, you didn’t know what to do. “i’ll figure it out,” you said over your shoulder. and you would; you had been through enough to survive any situation thrown at you.

but maybe one pointer couldn’t hurt.

“do a generator,” he told you, giving you a cheeky grin when you turned around to look at him. he was lucky he was cute.

the first part of the trial had been rough, but after that first hook you were doing a lot better. you managed to find your own medkit from a chest, and you learned how to fix a few generators. you found it came pretty naturally, and were satisfied that you hadn’t needed anyone’s help (except leon’s. but you didn’t have to admit that yet). when the killer came near, you skillfully avoided him and stayed hidden as much as you could.

you were also pretending that you didn't notice leon hovering near you. he was not very good at being subtle; he was obviously trying to make sure you didn't get hurt. it was cute. you didn't want to ruin his fun, so you didn't say anything about it.

it wasn’t long before the gates were powered and in the process of being opened. you saw a red glowing light in the distance, and assumed that must be your destination. you put all of your remaining energy into sprinting to the exit, adrenaline pumping through your body.

but then there was a heartbeat. a heartbeat so loud it filled your head, splitting your concentration. it wasn’t your own heartbeat--it was the killer’s.

the sound of the cannibal’s chainsaw roared in your ears and pain tore through your body; you collapsed to the ground with a cry of agony. shit, that really hurt, and you weren't sure you could ever get used to it. eternity sure seemed a lot longer than you had first anticipated. would you really be here forever? doing this over and over?

biting your lip until it bled, you tried to crawl towards the gate, dragging the lower half of your body with much difficulty. it was no use, though--you hardly got anywhere, and you could already feel the killer picking you up. just like that, you were going to die? you had been so close..

but as you were being placed on bubba’s shoulder, you saw a flash of a police uniform and a blinding light, and before you knew it, you had been dropped to the ground, the exit gate looking awfully lovely and much more desirable than a meat hook. you gathered all of your strength and began limping forward, when suddenly you felt an arm firmly wrap around your waist and your own was placed around someone else’s shoulder.

leon. when you looked up at him, all he did was give you a calm smile, which you felt inclined to return. with him supporting you, the two of you made it safely to the exit and began the long traipse back to the campfire, where you would find yourself spending a lot of time together.

from then on, you always remained quite unfazed by the events of the entity’s realm—the only thing that ever made you feel weak was being around leon. he was just so cute :]

𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐎𝐍

you had never met someone so persistent in your life. from the moment the entity stole you here, steve harrington was after you, and there was next to nothing you could do about it. he sure was living up to his self-proclaimed role of babysitter.

you told him you were fine, that you didn’t need him following you around, but the asshole did it anyways.

“how cool do you think you are?” you asked him at some point, to which he simply shrugged with that stupid grin on his lips.

“i can take care of myself.” “i really don’t need you to baby me, steve.” “steve, if you don’t leave me alone i’m going to break your kneecaps.” these were all things that had come from your mouth multiple times recently. you were seriously thinking about that last one now.

you knew you could make it on your own, and you only wished he would give you a chance to prove that to him so he would leave you alone. but it was like he had attached himself to your hip, and for some reason the entity seemed to really enjoy putting you in trials with him. great.

he was a dumbass and a sweetheart, and you weren’t sure which one of those took higher priority. you knew he only meant well, but god, you wanted to be independent for once. why did he think he had to protect you so much? you arrived here after running for your fucking life, fighting off your long-time pursuer, and living in awful, ever-changing conditions. you had seen your closest friends die, right before your eyes. you didn’t need to be sheltered or coddled, but you couldn’t seem to make steve understand that, no matter how much you fought with him.

steve would literally throw himself in front of the killer for you. he clicked his flashlight in the killer’s face if they were after you, and he would swear and cuss until they chased him out of pure annoyance. it got him killed countless times, and you didn’t know whether to call him stupid or selfless. probably both.

eventually you decided to just copy him and see how it worked out. you weren’t scared, you had no reason to be. you wanted to show him you could be just as flashy as him.

as you arrived into a trial, steve right across from you (of course), you smiled to yourself. you had brought your best flashlight, and you were prepared to use it. the two of you began to work on a generator together, making light conversation as usual.

“if the killer comes here, hide. i’ll take him away.” “fuck you, steve harrington.” “sure, if you really want to.” “why don’t you ever leave me alone?” “it’s a mystery, isn’t it?” “i could punch you right now.” “but you won’t. i’m too good to look at.”

you know, the usual friendly stuff.

you purposefully connected the wrong wires, making the generator spark and sputter. “oops. oh no, the killer must be on their way,” you dead-panned. steve gave you an unamused look.

and indeed, only a few moments later, you heard the sound of the hillbilly and his chainsaw roaring in your direction. the two of you split up, and the killer’s weapon collided with the generator, making an awful screeching sound.

and that was when the chaos started.

steve began hollering and flicking his flashlight into the sky as usual, and after a moment’s hesitation, you did the same. steve looked at you in astonishment, pausing, but then he started again, even louder. you tried to outdo him.

“HEY BILLY! FUCK YOU!” you screamed, ignoring steve’s attempts to get you to stop. “COME AFTER ME, SHITHEAD!”

steve started actually yelling, just yelling, while you continued to swear meaninglessly. the poor hillbilly looked confused and overwhelmed, and eventually he couldn’t take the noise anymore--he just left, opting to find the other survivors while the two of you sorted out whatever it is you obviously had against each other.

it was dead silent now that the killer was gone, and you and steve were both out of breath. but as soon as you made eye contact, laughter bubbled up from your chest, causing you to collapse against the tree and slide to the ground. your voice was hoarse from all the screaming.

and then he was laughing too, stumbling over to plop down next to you, and your giggling started up a whole new round.

after the laughter died down, you stared at your hands, ignoring steve’s gaze on the side of your face until you couldn’t anymore.

“what?” you asked, finally looking at him. he was smiling all stupid again. “what?” you insisted, fighting off a grin of your own. you hated when he looked at you like that, because it made you want to smile back at him.

“nothing,” he said coyly, laughing again. you punched his shoulder playfully.

“c’mon harrington, when have you ever held your tongue before? spit it out.”

he nodded, that was true. so he said it. “i just like you, that’s all.”

oh. oh.

realization dawned upon your face. “is that why you always--”

“yes,” he interrupted you. “i thought it was obvious. man, you’re clueless sometimes.”

oh.

huh.

you guessed…maybe…steve harrington wasn’t that annoying. maybe.

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐍

to say you were feisty was an understatement. frank hated your guts at first because you were so good at evading him, which he would never admit. but the thing that made him really mad was that if he ever downed you, you would kick at him and try to trip him over, like actually bruise his shins. it hurt like hell.

this lead to his decision to constantly tunnel you, and he would laugh at you while you were on the hook, too. so you hated his guts just as much as he did yours. it was a mutual guts-hating situation.

your teammates always felt bad for you, but they also thought you were a badass and knew you could handle yourself. you hadn’t told anybody where you’d come from or what had happened to you, but they knew it was something interesting. there was a reason that nothing that happened here really got to you.

sometimes things escalated even further than shin-kicking. there was one time where frank had managed to grab the back of your shirt as you tried to vault a window, and as he pulled you closer to himself, you elbowed him in the neck and squirmed out of his grasp. while he stood stunned and lost for breath, you kicked the back of his locked knee so that he fell to the ground and bonked his forehead on the wall—the classic dead leg.

this was very funny to you.

not to him.

while you ran away, laughing to yourself, frank’s anger built and built. he was tired of letting you make a fool of him, and it was time to be serious about things.

he ignored you for the rest of the trial, forming a plan in his mind. there was something he needed to do after this, so he made sure to kill everybody else to please the entity—he couldn’t get caught up, it would derail his anger train. he also didn’t feel like getting kicked in the balls or some shit, so he let you out without a problem.

frank did some brooding at the ormond lodge before he was ready to go through with his plan. and his shins really, really hurt, so susie helped him ice them before he left.

the masked killer made his way to the survivor camp rather hastily. when he arrived, he saw you pacing around, deep in thought.

so he threw a rock at you.

it was just a pebble, really. maybe it could be considered a rather large pebble, but frank insisted in his mind that it was a pebble.

“ow, what the fuck!” you cursed, rubbing your sore shoulder and looking around to find the culprit. and then your eyes laid on him.

he looked so sultry standing there at the edge of the woods, arms crossed and mask smiling, you could almost laugh at him. he acted so serious, when really, he was just an angry and misbehaving twink.

you put on your best serious face, genuinely trying not to be amused by this, and strode over to the killer.

“what do you want?” you asked confidently, mirroring his body language and crossing your arms.

frank bristled at your approach, as if trying to make himself look bigger. he wished you were scared of him like everyone else, it would really make him feel better.

“i want a truce,” he said.

you almost burst into laughter at that. a truce? what the fuck for?

he said was willing to stop tunneling and camping you if you stopped beating the shit out of him with your sticky little hands. he didn’t say it like that, but you knew that was what he meant. you, a survivor, could beat up frank, a killer, and it upset him and his little ego :(

just to humor him, you agreed. and frank nodded.

“but,” you continued, raising your eyebrows, “you have to give me something else.”

he started to say “no, no way—“ but you interrupted him: “you’re asking me to stop fighting for myself and just give in when you catch me. i think i deserve something other than just not being tunnelled.”

frank glared at you under his mask, thankful that you couldn’t see. “okay. whatever. what do you want?”

“i want to see your face.” you thought this was a good choice, something you could lord over him forever. it was surely only a win for you. his face was something private, and you would be the only survivor to know.

of course you wanted to see his face, frank thought. everyone did; they wanted to find out if he was good-looking. which, according to him, he was. if you ever asked the other members of the legion, susie was the only one to actually respond. she felt obligated to compliment him as she was basically his sister. so she would say frank is handsome in a ruggedy, jess mariano kind of way. you wondered how she knew what gilmore girls was, since that came after her time, but susie would never give away her secret.

so with a sigh, frank agreed to let you see his face. he didn’t really care, all he wanted was to stop having bruises on his shins. it was kind of miserable, and the entity never did anything to help him.

when he said that you couldn’t do it here, and you asked why the fuck not, he said it was because some other survivor might see. you decided he had a fair point, so reluctantly you let him drag you all the way to ormond.

when he took off his mask, your first thought, whether you wanted it to be or not, was “wow! he really does look like jess mariano! but with tattoos! hot!”

you were lost for words. you didn’t really know what you were expecting, but you sure weren’t expecting him to be that attractive.

he could tell your thoughts from the look on your face.

this had been per your request, and you were planning on this being something you could hold over his head, but the situation had turned into something that he could hold over your head.

oh dear. frank morrison now held pretty boy privilege over you.

and soon you would find out that he was going to keep tunnelling you anyways.

listen i've been watching a lot of gilmore girls and i just get jess vibes from frank, except our boy is more of a twinky idk shdjfhsf i love this guy sm

[buckyownsmylife]

Something Just Like This - August Walker smut

The one where August figures out what happened to you.

Warnings: smut, some angst, pregnancy, breastfeeding kink, daddy kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex

A/N: this idea was requested and of course, I had to add in the smut.

August’s P.O.V.

I’d never been a patient man.

That made waiting at her house, with no idea of when she’d arrive, particularly frustrating. Especially considering the reason why I had found myself here in the first place.

I still couldn’t even think about it. Since I found out why it was that she suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth, all I’d done was go, go, go. Search everywhere for even the smallest trace of her. Try to get inside her mind so I could maybe figure out where she’d go to hide.

Of course, I never once considered she wasn’t hiding at all.

“Shh…” I heard her soothe someone, not finding it difficult to figure out who it was. “There you go. Good boy.”

That was when the first wave of panic hit me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had to deal with that emotion. I was usually so in control of everything. I designed my life to make it that way. No surprises.

Until now.

“I see you’ve already made yourself comfortable.” She didn’t even glance my way, seated at the farthest corner of her living room, but I expected as much. She was an incredible agent before she decided to… retire. It was ingrained in our minds to check for the little signs, if we were being followed, if there was someone inside our house.

It’d be pretty irresponsible of her to disregard everything she’d learned. Especially now.

She didn’t pay me any attention as she took off her coat and hung it by the door, taking all the time in the world to do so before, at last, turning to the sleeping infant in the carrier she had deposited on the sofa before me.

At least he wasn’t a fussy child.

“So, how are you?” She sighed, letting herself fall on the couch, finally looking at me. “It took you longer than I imagined. Then again, I wasn’t sure you’d come at all.”

And that’s when the beast inside of me woke up, my nostrils flaring as I inhaled deeply, leaning closer to her so I could speak in a whisper but still have her hear me and take note of every hint of anger in my tone.

“How am I?” I repeated, unbelieving of her chosen words for the encounter. “How am I? You’re MIA for six months, I find out it’s because you got pregnant and you have the nerve to ask me how I am?”

She didn’t look the slightest bit affected, sighing as she turned to look at the boy in the carrier. “Let me go put him in bed so you don’t have to whisper anymore.”

In the time it took her to do that, I grew impatient. ‘How am I’. The hell kinda question is that.

When she came back, she looked different. Well, she was different from the last time I saw her anyway - her frame looked fuller, hips wider. It made me lick my lips in desire, but I had other issues to focus on at the moment.

Like the fact that she looked angry. “How can you ask me how I am when you’re the one who disappeared to have my child?” I almost yelled, still trying to be respectful of the sleeping infant in the other room. “I thought you were kidnapped! Murdered in the line of duty!”

She blinked a few times, seemingly surprised about the direction the discussion was taken, but what the hell was she expecting?

“What do you want me to say?” Was her response. “Can you put yourself in my shoes for a moment? We fucked occasionally and I ended up pregnant. I didn’t even know where you were stationed, and I didn’t know how to explain to our superior officer why I needed to know classified information about one of their best assets.”

I forced myself to take one deep breath, understanding that if she had done so, she could easily be targeted as a spy. When she looked down at her feet, hands on her hips, I knew she was disappointed.

“Have you ever even wanted a family?” She asked me. “I don’t know! I know next to nothing about you, August. All I know was that we fucked and the contraceptive didn’t work and now I have a piece of you with me forever. A piece you didn’t even want to give me.”

I wasn’t egocentric enough to completely miss her point. But still, now that I’d made a fool of myself, the only thing I could think to say was, “You’re not even going to apologize?”

Her head snapped up, fire in her eyes and I knew she was about to tell me off when I grabbed her by the chin and pulled her to meet my lips.

“I think you have a lot to make up for, kitten…” I insisted, pressing kisses all along her shoulder just to hear her mewl for me. “You just assumed I wouldn’t want to have anything to do with my own son, and kept this away from me…”

“I missed your entire pregnancy. God, can’t imagine how these looked…” I whispered, holding her breasts as I pulled away to stare at them. “Did he leave some for me?” I teased, slipping the front of her blouse down so I could rub her nipples, enjoying how her head fell back in bliss. I imagined they were much more sensitive now. “Will you let me try?”

I waited for her nod to lean down and wrap my lips around her nub, sucking lightly, mindful of how she felt now that she was breastfeeding, and I was rewarded by a pleasured gasp, her fingers flying up to my hair to pull at the strands, but keep me attached to her.

“Remember how I made you cream around me?” I teased, running my tongue around her nipple, relishing in the sweet liquid that slowly dripped from her. “Yeah, you loved it, didn’t you?” Her whine had me smirking as I easily manhandled her into resting against the wall, abandoning her breasts momentarily to nuzzle her neck.

“I loved it too,” I admitted, pressing a kiss to her shoulder as I hoisted her leg up to wrap around my waist before working on getting my cock out of my trousers. “God, you have no idea how much I missed this pussy…”

Slipping inside of her was always delicious. The way she instinctively clenched around me, arms tightening around my body to keep me nearby. My name slipped from her lips, and it had my lips twisting up.

“Hmm…” I mused, pulling away to take in her state of ruin. “I think I want you to call me daddy now…” She snickered, but I wasn’t completely joking about it.

A punishing thrust against her sweet spot had the title slipping from her lips without her even noticing it. Smirking, I started to really fuck into her, imagining how sexy she must have looked like, all round with my child.

“You should have told me.” I shook my head before letting it drop against her shoulder, knowing she didn’t know what I was referring to and probably couldn’t even tell while I was fucking her. So I decided to focus on this moment instead, appreciating how it felt to actually have her after thinking I’d never get to see her again.

“Shit, you feel so good,” I cursed right as a loud moan escaped her, and I had to slap my hand over her mouth, trying to quieten her down. “You better be quiet, baby. You don’t want to wake up the other baby, huh?”

She melted in my arms, allowing me to push her further up the wall as I sped up my thrusts, searching for that blissful release I could only truly reach with her.

Her eyes rolled back as my cum spilled deep inside of her, not worried about contraceptives anymore because they’d failed us once, what’s another time?

Besides, I was kind of hoping to be able to experience what I missed this time.

“You’re staying?” She asked when she saw me adjusting my clothing after I made sure to clean her up, and I figured my raised eyebrow was enough of an answer, but I gave her one anyway.

“Someone’s gotta take care of you and the little guy, huh?” I grinned, pulling her into my arms. “Can’t believe you thought you’d ever be able to get rid of me.”

[hb-writes]

The Good in You

Summary: It’s 1925 in the Little Lady Blinderverse. Clara Shelby has been restless all week, desperate for a wild weekend on the lane, though when it arrives she finds herself more eager for a quiet night at home. She doesn't get either of those things, though.

Characters: Arthur Shelby and Clara Shelby

Content Warnings: Angst, Grief, Guilt, Mentions of death, Alcohol as a coping mechanism, Blood, Cleaning wounds. This one hurt.

Here's the AO3 link if you prefer to read over there. Tell me what y'all think! Reviews and comments are always appreciated. 😌❤️

Clara didn’t often stay on Watery Lane. She usually settled there only on the nights when she was looking for an evening out, chasing after a few hours passed in the pub, far away from the docile domesticity and casual bridling she associated with Arrow House. She ran from her older brother’s home when she wanted a little time away to goof off with Finn and Isiah, a rendevous comprised of a small sampling of excitement without any real danger.

Clara often found it to be a nice reprieve.

The drink. The laughs. The company.

It was different than the reprieve she found while out at Arthur and Linda’s. Different than settling at Aunt Polly’s place in Sutton Coldfield for a few days or traveling to Ada’s flat in Primrose Hill.

Coming to Small Heath meant she could let loose in the safety of her family’s pub without fear or pretense or conversation about anything of any real substance. In the snug, Clara allowed the particularly trying weeks to roll off her shoulders while imagining a different sort of life, sampling the freedom Finn tasted almost every night. Clara could fancy herself to be one of the girls with no obligations other than finding a bit of sweet release.

She liked that, basking in the spoils of her twin’s license to do as he pleased. Imagining themselves to be as wild and free as their older siblings had been at her age with no one to get after them except Aunt Polly, who was practically a kid still herself.

Clara indulged in it for a day or so every few weeks, gorging herself on the freedom and nostalgia for a life that had never really been hers, to begin with before something called her back to reality, back to Tommy’s home, back to her nephew and their comforting routines, back to her responsibilities—school, family, the company.

Just that morning she had come into Birmingham feeling desperate for the freedom and release of a Friday evening in Small Heath, running from Warwickshire and Tommy and his rules more than she’d been running to anything on Watery Lane. She’d been eager for the drink and the loosening of her reins most of the week, feeling its call rise up in her no later than Tuesday morning. Something in her had been unsettled for days, restless and melancholy as she went about her days at school and the office, but rather than heading for the pub after Clara finished her hours at the office after school, she ended up passing the evening alone on the lane. She busied herself with tidying the house that only Finn ever stayed in. She tucked herself into bed early with a book, answering to a different call within her, some call to set things right, to put things back in their proper place—to straighten and tidy and repent, all of that removing the dust of time.

For a few hours, she’d been calmed by the simplicity of it all. Cleaning was hard, honest work, but it wasn’t complicated. It didn’t make her mind ache the way that Mr. Bailey’s equations did. Or the way Tommy’s half-explained strategies did.

Quiet moments alone on Watery Lane always reminded Clara of the modesty of her childhood, flooding her with memories long ago sweetened by the veil of nostalgia and softened by the passage of time. Even the hard things seemed easier now, a bit of good found easily enough even in the more difficult of memories.

She supposed it had always been that way though. Clara was always trying to convince herself there was good out there, searching as though her life depended on it for the scraps like autumn leaves in a swirling breeze.

There was a simple truth to that. And those around her called Clara naive. Young. Silly. Their talk about the trait was colored by pity and amazement and frustration all in equal measure, often accompanied by eye rolls that had them justifying their protection. As if by finding the good, she couldn’t possibly understand the reality of things.

But Clara had needed the silver linings of the bad in her life—the absence of her parents, their poor upbringing, the imprisonments, the deaths, the illegal business. Clara forced herself to acknowledge the things that were good. That Esme and John were distant from her, but their family was closer than ever now. That Arthur lived a more gentle existence now than he’d ever done in his life. The families who had lost someone in the throes of Blinder business—the Hancock family, the Ross family, the Owens family, and who knew how many others—they were at least cared for. They didn’t worry about their next meal or money or being bothered. Whatever it was, the Blinders took care of it.

Clara knew it wasn’t enough—the money—but it was something. And she never would have known Mrs. Ross or Mrs. Owens, or their lovely children, had things been different. Clara never would have sat with the kids of either family if the men of their families hadn’t been lost. She knew she was reaching when she thought like that, a part of her certain she was just being selfish in naming that particular silver lining, but Clara hoped her small offer of help had meant something over the years.

Just this week she had been to see the Ross family, bringing with her food fresh from the Arrow House kitchens and a book to read with the little ones. Mrs. Ross had seemed thankful for the break. She’d gone out and Clara had stayed for hours. Surely, there was some good in giving a single mother a break? Surely there was good in the fact that the Ross kids had developed a love of stories? That each of them had a library card? That Mrs. Ross didn’t have to make dinner for a night?

Clara felt certain it was true, or at least she worked to convince herself it was. She went there on a schedule she kept tidy in her mind, every other week, but it was more than ticking off a box, more than crossing a task off her to-do list. Just as tidying number six was more than a task. Clara didn’t do these things for a thank you. She didn’t feel it was deserved from the Ross family or from the Owens family, either. And Clara simply knew better than to expect a thank you from her family or the men in the shop for her work cleaning.

The issuance of goodwill simply meant something to Clara. She certainly imagined it couldn’t hurt things to put a bit of good out into the world, though Clara didn’t often come out completely unscathed.

She’d gladly take a little of the pain if it could ease the burden elsewhere even if she wasn’t quite sure whose burden she was easing in cleaning up the house. Finn’s, she supposed, though no one got after him for keeping it tidy. As she relished the well-earned ache in her muscles, Clara had a nagging thought that maybe it had been her own burden she was trying to ease.

Every bit of her was exhausted from scrubbing and dusting and tidying and reminiscing when she tucked herself into her old bed. Clara expected sleep to come easily after all that. She was certainly tired enough after several nights in a row of tossing and turning.

She could feel the pull of sleep weighing heavy on her bones, but lying there under the covers, Clara felt a familiar restlessness creep in, something prodding at her from the edge of her thoughts. Despite Clara’s wish for rest, she found herself too alert, too attentive to every sound and movement outside her window, too observant to the dark clouds in her mind as well—the silver linings somehow shed in the dark of night.

Clara had grown unused to hearing the sounds of Watery Lane with a sober mind, unused to trying to sleep while the drunks stumbled home with their shouts and hollers, unused to the melodic thrum of the streets, the people loitering about in the back courtyard. She wondered when she had grown unaccustomed to the very customary creaking of the home she’d been brought up in, the settling of number six’s parts she’d once considered familiar as a good friend a stranger to her now. Clara Shelby had become spoiled by the quiet of Arrow House, overindulged by a very different kind of life. Frustration leeched into her at the thought, the sudden dissonance washing over her after an evening of feeling at ease, at home.

When had Clara Shelby become too fussy to sleep on Watery Lane?

Clara tensed at the sound of a crash out the back, the noise originating from just outside her open window. She pulled the covers closer, wishing to herself that Finn and Isiah would make their way back from the pub soon, admonishing herself for not just staying in Warwickshire after all.

In Warwickshire, she’d be tucked under the gentle protection of her soft, downy covers. She wouldn’t be the one to deal with the unexpected sounds and intrusions. Her brother had a history of sending her back to bed whenever she did investigate such late-night matters, putting himself between her and the unknown, but there was no one to protect Clara here on Watery Lane, not from the sounds out in the courtyard or the challenging thoughts in her head. She couldn’t stumble into Tommy’s office for a late-night bit of company, not that she often did so these days anyhow.

Clara pulled her blankets tighter as a fist pounded against the back door with insistence.

“Aunt Pol! Open the bloody door!”

Clara sighed and released her grip on the blankets at the familiar voice, a bit of relief mixed with a bit of frustration at hearing Arthur shouting from the back, probably fumbling in the dark for a spare key that hadn’t been there for close to a decade. Clara didn’t know that there even was a spare anymore, probably not considering the amount of money locked up in the shop’s vault next door, but if there was one, she imagined it was kept down the lane at Uncle Charlie’s house, in a place not so easily accessible to a drunk man on a mission.

Arthur should have had his own key on him somewhere anyway, on the very same ring that he kept the key to the farmhouse he shared out in the country with Linda and Billy, the farmhouse where Clara expected her brother to be passing his Friday evening.

“Polly Gray! Pol-ly! Pol—” Arthur sounded like he’d lost himself in a bottle or two, his words cut off by th sound of something tipping over.

Clara imagined he must’ve been drunk if he was in the city at this time of night looking for their aunt who hadn’t stayed on the lane for years.

“Elizabeth!”

Clara pushed off the covers with a sigh, loathing every drafty second after she got out from under them. She missed the lush carpeting and stoked fires at Arrow House as her bare feet moved over the dusty chilled hardwood. She grumbled to herself as she moved down the staircase, instinctively bypassing the creaky step though she had no need to hide her movements, rolling her eyes as more pounding sounded on the door.

Clara couldn’t remember the last time she’d answered a door in the middle of the night, or at any time at all for that matter. Knocks that arrived in the middle of the night always had Tommy sending her off, to her room or to Charlie’s, his words or his looks getting her out of the way, out of his hair for whatever business had landed on their doorstep.

Clara hadn’t answered a door aside from the one that separated her bedroom from the rest of her brother’s estate in years. And if she hadn’t known it was Arthur on the opposite side of the door, she’d not be answering one now either, not in the dead of night when she was at number six by herself. It was one of those things trained into her when she was small, the idea that anyone who had any sort of business coming through that particular door at this time of night should have their own key, or know easily enough where to find one.

It was a conservative list—the people who held a key to number six—limited only to those who had at one time or another called the building’s four walls home, just seven individuals in total, all of whom bore the name Shelby. A few more had been afforded keys to the shop—Lizzie and Esme, Scudboat and the cousins, Nipper and Henry, Uncle Charlie—but not even Michael had been offered a set of keys to number six. It was just one of those things that Tommy and Polly had decided on with a bit of eye contact and it had never been spoken of again.

As Clara came down the stairs, she could hear the jangle of keys through the heavy wooden door, the original door, the one in the kitchen that the Shelbys had barely updated aside from a few modern additions. The heavy slab of wood still stuck, its maintenance neglected, its general difficulty long ago accepted by the lot of them, and you needed to push the door forward and hold it there while you messed with the key, a whole routine engaged in before the lock would by some miracle unlatch and give way.

And give way it did as Arthur stumbled through the now opened door, a bleary-eyed mess of limbs crashing into his sister, steadied and kept upright only by Clara’s weight pushing back against him, her arms wrapping around Arthur’s middle while he fell over her shoulders, spinning them both around the room once he realized it was Clara he was holding.

“Well, look who it is,” Arthur slurred, pulling himself together just enough to remove his arms from Clara’s shoulders though she still steadied his swaying with her own hands set at his sides. Arthur squeezed her face, cupping both cheeks in his hands. “Our Clara. Where’s Aunt Pol, eh love?”

Dark as it was in the kitchen, Clara didn’t see the blood covering her brother’s hands and clothes, but she could feel something slick against her cheek and she pulled Arthur’s hands away without answering him.

“She’s asleep already, eh?” Arthur laughed to himself as he slid into a chair at the table, somehow finding it without slipping to the floor. Polly hadn’t lived there for years, something Arthur might’ve remembered sober, but it was clear he was anything but.

“That’s where you should be too.”

Clara sighed and went for the light, swallowing hard as she turned back to her brother. She took in the mess of hair that had fallen over his face, sweaty and disheveled from what she would have thought was just the alcohol until she saw his hands and the slick of red covering them, the blood splattered on his shirt collar and face.

Clara reached up to her own face and Arthur sobered for a moment as he watched her, some sort of realization appearing in his crazed eyes, his gaze softening, and Clara caught him swallow just as hard as she had, his adam’s apple bobbing once before he pushed his hair back from his face, forgetting the blood on his hands as he carried it through his hair.

“Clara, I—” Arthur cleared his throat, diverting his eyes for a moment as Clara felt her breath hitch, a wave of nausea hitting her. She swallowed it back down.

“Arthur, what...you’ve got...there’s…there’s blood—” Clara restarted the sentence a few times in her mind, a few times aloud too, unsure of exactly what she wanted to say first, unsure of whether she wanted to stop him from getting the blood anywhere else, or to ask him what had happened or, well—Clara wasn’t certain what else she was thinking on, her mind moving too quick for her to really catch any of it.

Arthur cleared his throat and stood up, taking a step toward her. She hadn’t seen her brother in close to a week. She’d last seen him out at the farm. Arthur had insisted on passing his day fixing fences though they’d looked in fine shape to Clara. She’d spent most of the weekend with Linda and Billy, but they’d gone to church together—Clara and Arthur. It had been Linda’s suggestion, a nice way to end the weekend before they sent Clara back home, she had said. Clara had a long list of things she preferred to a church service, but she couldn’t say she hadn’t enjoyed passing an hour with Arthur seated in a pew.

Clara should’ve known then something was off. She should have recognized the shift in him, the desperation with which he hung on the words being spoken in the front of the room, like he was about to slip away.

They all said Arthur was a changed man now that he had Linda, now that he had God, but some part of Clara knew her brother followed two religions. Attended two churches. When things were good, Arthur read from the bible, but when things were bad…Arthur slipped.

“Clean your face,” Arthur said, gesturing towards the towel on the counter. “Go on,” he prompted with a tilt of his chin when Clara didn’t move, didn’t pull her misty eyes off of him.

Clara shuffled her feet before reaching for the rag, dipping it in the basin she’d left there after getting ready for bed, using it to wipe her face and hands, just a bit of rust-colored smudge coming off onto the fabric as she brought it down over her cheek.

Clara leaned over the basin for a moment longer, collecting herself before she dumped the contents into the sink, watching the dirty water drain.

“We need to clean you up,” she said. “I’ll just go and—” Clara looked toward the door and Arthur nodded once before she hurried out, intent on filling the basin with fresh water, intent on truly gathering herself with the help of the cool air and a moment’s silence, tending to herself so she could tend to her brother.

She was plenty used to seeing blood, familiar enough with her brothers coming home bloodied and bruised after scrapping, but she hadn’t seen it on Arthur in some time. More than seeing him covered in blood, it was something else giving Clara pause. It was something about Arthur’s demeanor, something in her oldest brother’s eyes, some pain that didn’t often show through these days.

Arthur most often seemed content now, able to be soft and slow on the farm, sweet with Billy, seemingly satisfied with the quiet life he and Linda maintained. She hadn’t seen it at the farm or in the church, but here on Watery Lane, the mix of realization and regret on Arthur’s face was like a jolt running through her, reminding her instantly of what she’d forgotten. Clara remembered it all so strongly it was almost as if she had experienced it firsthand, as if the pain of it all was her own to hold.

In a way, the pain had been hers to share, or at least it felt that way, like whatever Arthur had been feeling back then about the Ross boy had merged with whatever Clara had felt about the whole thing, that Tommy telling her to suck it up and get her story straight with Isiah and Finn hadn’t worked one bit, but she had bucked up in Tommy’s presence, played the good little soldier, and then Clara and Arthur had processed it in their own way.

Arthur had been looking for Aunt Polly back then too, on one of the many days when he felt beyond broken and needed someone to put him back together. Clara had always thought it wasn’t necessarily by chance that he’d come across her instead because, in the end, it was Clara who’d helped him through it.

And it was Arthur who’d helped her through when Tommy’d simply washed his hands of it and told her to do the same, to get her story straight and move along, to get back to the books and back to school. Clara had gone back to those things, but she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it back then, couldn’t stop her mind from returning to that day in the ring and to all of the days that boy missed because of what had happened, everything his family lost.

Everything she’d lost, so scared she was of her eldest brother after seeing what he was capable of. Tommy had expected her to simply get over that too. The Shelby men fought in a war. They ran a backstreet gang. Clara was old enough by then to know what they were capable of.

Tommy had been content to give the Ross family money, to make sure they were looked after and provided for in that way, but Clara hadn’t been. And she wasn’t sure that Arthur would ever be content with himself. Back then, Clara could barely remember a time when her brother had been.

And she hated herself for not realizing, for not noticing the change in him over the last week, for not seeing clearly enough or reading her own mood properly. She hated herself for forgetting, for being with the Ross family this week without acknowledging…for the selfishness of ticking off that box without a thought to the date. Without remembering or acknowledging the importance of the day.

Clara braced herself against the back door, struggling with the weight of the basin as she worked to open the door, some part of her unsure if she wanted to manage it, unsure if she could go back inside with the walls of her childhood home resonating with a new set of uncomfortable memories, every part of her taken over, saturated in an ache heavier than the one in her muscles.

She swallowed the burning lump in her throat before pushing the door open, her eyes spotting the bottle of whiskey before she spotted her brother, light glinting off the glass as he tipped the bottle to his lips.

Clara wanted to admonish him, to tell her brother that he’d had enough. That she’d had enough. Clara set down the basin on the table, her mind fighting to find an argument he might listen to.

Arthur slammed the bottle down and took hold of one of the fingers on his right hand, its alignment wonky and swollen beneath a ring. He pushed then pulled on the digit, swearing loudly as the bones of his finger shifted back into place and a wave of sickness came over Clara. She stood rooted to the floor, frozen there as he eyes lingered on his freckled hand.

“Wrap this for me, eh?” Arthur said softly, nodding towards the meager medical supplies Arthur had collected for the purpose.

Clara nodded slowly, shaking herself free as she moved for the strip of cloth and scraps of wood. She’d seen it done several times. She knew exactly what to do, how to place and wrap, but Clara still felt unsure of herself, her limbs shaking as she lifted her hand and got to work, quiet as Arthur lifted the bottle to his lips once again, wincing and hissing as she finally tied off the fabric.

Clara got lost in the blood on Arthur’s face once again. And it was like no time at all had passed, like she was still thirteen, like Arthur had just killed a boy, like Tommy was asking she move on and put it behind them, but here it all was once again banging on the back door demanding entrance.

Arthur dipped a rag into the water, attempting to wring it out before Clara could bring herself back. Clara blinked, pulled back to now by the sound of dripping water. She took the cloth from Arthur and finished wringing with a deliberate focus. Clara started wiping at the blood covering Arthur’s face, moving gently as she could over the places already growing red with bruises and cuts.

“What happened?” Clara shifted her attention to cleaning his knuckles.

The question was barely loud enough for Arthur to hear it and for a moment, Clara wondered if he had since there was no answer. Arthur sat still and quiet while Clara rinsed the blood from his battered hands.

“Arth—” Clara started before he pulled a hand free to clasp the whiskey bottle, once again taking a long swill before taking a second rag from the table and wetting it by tipping the whiskey into it.

“Nothing I don’t deserve,” Arthur said before pressing the cloth into Clara’s hand and pulling both to the cut on the side of his face, hissing as he pressed the cloth and Clara’s hand over the wound. Arthur’s hand returned to the bottle as Clara moved on to the others, dampening the cloth as needed before pressing it to his skin.

Clara moved to the back door when she was finished, dumping the water out the back and leaving the basin and the rag there on the stoop. She struggled with the lock, grateful for something to struggle with other than the thoughts in her head. She nearly had it back in place when the sound of a chair scraping and a body slipping to the floor startled her.

Clara left the door, scurrying across the room to help Arthur to his feet.

“Let's get you to bed, Arthur,” she said, prying the whiskey bottle from his hand and settling it on the table.

Clara pulled Arthur toward the stairs, both of them struggling to get up the narrow passageway. Each step was labor with Clara attempting to shoulder most of her brother’s limp weight, to keep him moving, one foot lifted to the next step and then the other.

She released a frustrated whimper when Arthur started slipping. His weight pulled them both back down to rest on the steps in a matter of seconds. Clara crumpled under his arm, giving in for a moment, listening to Arthur’s sniffling in the dark. He was crying and Clara was close, the frustration thrumming through her as they sat only four steps from the threshold of the second floor, Arthur’s old bedroom mere steps away.

“Come on, Arthur,” she said, a desperate prayer and an order all in one.

Clara set herself under her brother’s arm, heaving once again, lifting his dead weight until they were both upright and she got to prompting him upwards. Part of her mind was stuck on the idea of a fall—just the slightest tip in any direction could have them tumbling back down the stairs. Clara was once again wishing for Finn and Isiah to come back from the pubs, or wishing she’d stayed in Warwickshire and avoided it altogether, but then there was another part of her hating herself for even thinking such a thing because where would Arthur be if she wasn’t there?

Clara finally took a breath when their feet arrived at the second-floor landing and she eased her brother through the doorway of his old bedroom. Arthur flopped down on the empty bed. He was no longer sniffling, whatever wave of emotion that had come over him on the stairs that fleeting. Clara lowered herself to the floor to help with his boots, loosening the laces and easing each foot free as she willed her own emotion to be fleeting.

Arthur’s hand settled on Clara’s head, his fingers settling out over her messy hair like a crown.

“I’m a good man,” Arthur mumbled as he pat her head. “I…”

Clara stilled on the floor in front of him, waiting for Arthur to finish his sentence. She looked up when Arthur pulled his hand away.

“Right, Clara?” Arthur whispered, pushing both hands through his own hair.

Clara nodded once, the movement feeling somehow detached from her. She tapped her brother’s leg, lifting Arthur’s feet as she stood, coaxing him to lie back on the bed.

“There’s good in you, Arthur,” Clara said as she pulled up a blanket from the end of the bed, draping it over him. “I’m gonna go lock up,” she said. “You get some rest, alright?”

Arthur caught Clara’s wrist as she made to step away.

“Thank you.” Arthur pulled Clara’s hand toward his face, aiming to press a kiss there but instead holding it against his cheek. “For not giving up on me.”

“Of course, Arthur.” Clara nodded in the dark, a chill passing through her as she spoke. “Now, get some sleep, alright?” she said, but Arthur had already slipped away, leaving Clara alone with the clenching feeling in her chest.

Clara headed down the stairs in no particular hurry, her mind stuck on her pain and her confusion as she fussed with the stubborn lock, nearly to her breaking point before the rusted metal decided to click into place. Clara reached for the forgotten whiskey bottle before moving back to the stairs, draining the remnants to fill a glass.

Arthur’s snores reached her as she ascended the stairs. He was already so peaceful in his rest and some part of Clara was soothed by seeing him that way. The easy, gentle lines of Arthur’s resting face convinced her that her words held some truth. There was still good left in her brother, good left in all of them. She held onto that even as she grappled with the uncomfortable idea—that both things lived inside of them all—the good and the bad.

Clara had never given up on the idea that her family was good—that despite the look of it, the good outweighed the bad. She didn’t know if she could accept anything else, if she could condemn the lot of them in such a way. If she could condemn herself in such a way.

Was there anything in the world Clara wouldn’t forgive? Anything she wouldn’t eventually accept, or explain away, casting aside the doubts in her mind in order to keep receiving a bit of what passed for love, belonging? Would there ever be a time when Clara would stop believing there was some bit of good in them all?

Clara slipped into the wooden chair beside the door, gulping at the whiskey as she watched her brother sleep. She welcomed the liquid’s burning warmth, her only company as her mind worked through the catalog of her doubts, sifting through the evidence she had filed away over the years, all of the things that left her wondering if the small moments of gentleness and kindness were still enough to tip the scales towards goodness.

To Clara, it seemed a harder balance to keep with every passing day.

Peaky Blinders (Little Lady Blinder) Masterlist

Peaky Blinders (Non-Shelby!Sister) Masterlist

Angst Celebration Masterlist

[river-bottom-nightmare]

i want dick grayson to be annoyingly perfect in the smallest of unimportant ways. and i want it to irritate the living hell out of everyone around him

every now and then, jason and dick will go to different chili dog carts around the city, and dick will sit and nod in agreement as jason nitpicks the food, occasionally offering his own two cents. the conversations are tense and if the topic strays from anything except food jason books it, but it’s progress, and dick’s grateful. but he doesn’t understand why jason always growls at him when he’s preparing his chili dogs, chalking it up to jason’s obsessiveness about that food in particular. dick figures he’s probably doing it wrong. until one day, jason bites out a rough question, asks him how he did that. dick’s confused, until jason points out, “you tear open the top of the ketchup packet in a perfect line every time. and you get all of the ketchup out of the packet in one smooth squeeze, and you never get any on your fingers, and i don’t understand how.”

roy was, arguably, a better archer than ollie. green arrow had been birthed from the island, from the trauma of survival. roy, however, had been practicing since he was a kid, and now that he was well into his twenties, he could safely say he was one of the best shots in the world. he could beat all his friends at darts, shoot an apple off wally’s head, and was generally pretty awesome. or, he would be awesome, if only dick fucking grayson would stop making every single shot of anything he threw in a trash can. no matter what he was throwing away, no matter the angle, no matter the wind or rain, as long as the trashcan was in eyesight, anything dick tossed would inevitably end up inside the garbage. sometimes, dick barely even glanced at the damn thing, just took note of it a threw the trash, expecting it to land in the proper place. and it always did. the worst part was, dick didn’t even seem to notice it. he wasn’t actively trying to make every shot. when asked, dick just shrugged and said “we had some pretty good knife throwers in the circus.”

tim’s memories starting out as robin were a whirlwind, a push-pull of bruce’s mistrust, then bruce’s acceptance, of dick’s fear and hesitation, then of dick’s love. he still remembered dick making the two of them hot chocolate in the kitchen after a day of training, tim’s muscles sore and entire body aching but the feeling of pride, because he was good enough to be robin, he knew he was. he hadn’t expected that to happen anytime soon again, given the way their relationship had fractured after tim had left dick’s batman, a terrified fury in his eyes. yet, he’d been proven wrong when, after a particularly rough arkham breakout, alfred asked both dick and tim to stay instead of returning to their own apartments. just because the manor brought back a feeling of warm nostalgia, however, doesn’t mean it kept the nightmares away. he came down to the kitchen and saw dick already up, moving around the stovetop. with a knowing look in his eyes, dick grabbed another mug to make tim some hot chocolate. tim was washed over with a feeling of relief, of acceptance. dick slid the mug towards him and tim took a sip, letting the rich chocolate warm him up from the inside. it was delicious. his little sigh of pleasure must have been audible, but then he remembered something he noticed. “dick. did you use alfred’s recipe for this?” and dick laughed, responded with, “nah. too much work. i just sort of tried to remember what was in hot chocolate, and eyeballed most of the ingredients. i’m glad it turned out good though. no clumps too, that’s good.”

donna didn’t care how old she got, playing in the park with dick never got old. as one of her oldest friends, the two of them could just walk around the park, in companionable silence, just letting themselves relax and enjoy the moment. so, of course, dick would break the silence and ask if she had any earbuds, because it was getting to quiet for him. donna laughed, and reached inside her pocket, fingered past the keys, and grabbed the headphones. the tangled little ball that came out made her sigh, and she pulled on an earbud to loosen it, only managing to make one of the many knots tighter. then, dick took the headphones out of her hands with a here, i got it, and with a few quick tugs, the tangled monstrosity unraveled easy as breathing. then, completely unaffected, he handed her an earbud, putting the other in his own ear. “i’m the one who’s got a lasso,” she said, ignoring dick’s snort and quip about how earbuds and a lasso are two completely different things, donna.

cass hadn’t expected to enjoy such a gentle, graceful form of athletics, but after a few lessons, it had become apparent that ballet could be far from gentle. it pushed her, made her practice and strengthen herself, and she’d fallen in love with the art quickly. however, the most frustrating part of the entire thing had little to do with actually dancing. the school bruce had helped pick out was prestigious, which meant a strict dress code, which meant her hair had to be in a bun. unfortunately, her hair never seemed to want to cooperate. after her latest attempt, falling into a mess of hair at her nape that had so many locks falling out, cass contemplated how mad the teacher would be if she showed up in a ponytail. at that moment, dick peeked into her room, having heard her frustrated noise, and asked if he could do anything to help. cass pointed to the mess of hair, not even remotely contained by the hair tie, and blew a strand out of her face. dick smiled with understanding, then came into her room, grabbing the comb on her bed and standing behind her in front of the mirror. he smoothed her hair with the comb, then pulled it this way and that, twisting and turning and wrapping until, two minutes later, a picture perfect bun sat atop her head. cass blinked with surprise. “first try,” she said, staring up at him, but he just shrugged and said, “it’s not that hard. you want me to drop you off?”

bruce could admit that he rather enjoyed undercover missions. it was an extended game with high stakes, a test of his own acting skills. with makeup changing his face, an expertly made wig, and a demeanor completely different from both brucie wayne and from batman, he swept through the crowd of greasy men, looking for a specific contact. then, he caught sight of someone specific indeed, though they weren’t his contact. eyebrows raised in a what are you doing here? gesture, he slid onto a barstool. from behind the bar, dick offered him a blinding smile, cleaning a glass. he tapped his wrist twice, a clear message. undercover, same as you. then, dick grabbed a couple bottles from underneath a shelf, flipping them in his hand and pouring with grandeur. bruce noticed he hadn’t put any alcohol in his little mixture, only making it seem as if he had. the flashy moves were entertaining, bruce could give him that. dick slid him the drink and bruce took a sip, eyebrows raising in brief surprise. “this is good. bartending?” dick put the bottles and the lemon away, unimpressed. “it’s not like it’s hard. just mixing a couple ingredients. no biggie.” bruce was fairly certain bartending was more difficult than that, but just then, his target came into view. 

steph understood some of the bats’ frustration with dick, she really could. he hadn’t exactly been a welcome and opening batman, that’s for sure. regardless, as the few masks left in gotham had to work together, and she’d gotten to know the man pretty well. and she enjoyed his company as nightwing much more than batman. she dropped onto his balcony in his bludhaven apartment, announcing her presence in that loud-subtle way. dick was nestled in a couple blankets on the couch, going over a couple files, apparently just back from patrol if the small bandage on his neck and bags under his eyes were any indication. nevertheless, he brightened when he saw her and she nodded when he asked if she wanted to spend the night. he moved some of the papers to make room for her on the couch, but she flitted into his bathroom, going through the nail polish bottles she knew he had, and grabbing a shade of red that caught her eye. she tossed him the bottle and put her fingers in his lap, talking aimlessly about a movie she watched with cass. dick seemed to relax amidst her jabbering, and he shook the bottle a couple times before opening it and focusing on her right hand. but as he started, steph paused her rambling and focused on him instead, holding her hands gently and brushing paint onto her nails. he managed to cover her entire nail in three easy strokes, smooth and glossy, not a hint of paint on her skin. the nail was practically perfect. oh god she was jealous. “got a lot of practice with this, grayson?” she asked, and laughed at dick’s mock-offended of course not!

damian wasn’t one for photography, and he could grudgingly admit drake was far better at that particular skill than he was. however, his art class had promised to cover all types of media, and had upheld that pledge. the next two weeks were dedicated to photography, and their final project for the unit had to be a small collection of photographs. animal photography, of course, was damian’s chosen subject, and the knowledge that animal photography was one of the hardest skills to master only had damian wanting to do it more. days later, however, he could admit that it was trickier than expected. how had he never noticed how active his animals were? they never sat still, and every single picture came out blurry. grayson, upon coming across him in the manor grounds, noticed his futile attempts and asked if he could help. damian acquiesced the camera to grayson, who looked through the lens, finding the right angle and background, adjusting the focus settings slightly. then, he let out a sharp whistle and snapped his fingers. in nothing short of a miracle, damian’s pets pasued to look at him, only for a second, and the shutter clicked furiously. damian flipped through the photos, a good many of them clear and wonderful. damian snapped in irritation when dick ruffled his hair and said, “now you try!” it definitely wasn’t as easy as grayson made it look.

babs didn’t really know what she was expecting when she broke up with dick. there was hurt on both ends, and distance for a while, and she had no idea how much she’d miss him. but after a couple months of working together, of remembering that underneath the romantic tangles, their friendship was strong, she’d gotten to the point of dick randomly dropping by her apartment again. the downside was, dick kept randomly dropping by her apartment again. he stole her snacks and messed up her filing system and was so irritating that barbara almost forgot how relieved she was at having one of her best friends back. fortunately, it did come with benefits, because when he was bored, he did some of her chores for her. pausing in the doorway, she smiled at the sight of dick folding her clothes and putting them away. the gesture was platonic now, but no less appreciated. she pushed her wheelchair forward, and in greeting, dick told her how much he wanted to steal all her patterned socks. babs reminded him they wouldn’t fit, and laughed at his pout. dick grabbed one sock off the top of the laundry basket, then dug his hand into the pile of clothes randomly, coming up with the second sock in an instant. folding them together, he repeated the process for each pair. “that...that was fast. you got all of them?” babs asked in confusion. “yes? why, did you expect some to be missing?” was dick’s reply as he shook the wrinkles out of a sweater.

wally was never surprised. he knew dick better than probably most people in the world. he’d gone from frustrated and jealous of dick’s random talents, to admiring and appreciative, to just accepting them as a fact of life. dick’s phone never cracked if he accidentally he dropped it. dick never buttoned up shirts wrong, aligning each button with the right hole perfectly on the first try. dick could plug in usb ports the right way. dick always remembered which light switch was for which room, no matter whose house they were at. dick could pop a cd out of its case without ever smudging the disk, holding it by the rim perfectly. and dick always seemed to know when wally needed a day off, to just visit their old haunts, grab some ice cream, and spend the day talking away on a rooftop. that was just something his best friend could do. and wally would never tell dick, but underneath his fake irritation at it, but he loved him for it.

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