#again i wrote this at work

[airplanelanding]

r/tifu

u/scrapgege • 21h

TIFU by planning a wedding for myself, my husband, and our "fiancé"

(L)

I know the title sounds weird, but I promise it gets worse.

For a little bit of background and context: I (32M) am married to my incredibly doting, amazing husband (26M) and have been for 5 years as of last month. We have both been engaged to Fiancé (24M), an old friend of his, for just about half a year now. We'd been dating for a year prior to our engagement, making our relationship a year and a half in total.

Since we got engaged about 6 months ago, I've been diligently planning the wedding.

My husband has been stressed as of recent, so I took it upon myself to handle all the details, hoping to surprise him with a day that would make his heart sing — just like he did for me on our wedding.

I've picked a venue, drafted invites for our closest friends, and even coordinated with my husband's personal assistant to develop the menu for the reception. It's been a long, arduous task, but I'm devoted to making this the best day of their lives.

The problem?

Last night, my husband pulled me aside to have a "very serious" conversation with him. I was concerned, of course, because he's seemed increasingly restless as of late. So, we sat down with some warm tea and after a little hesitating and a lot of reassurances he loves me...

My husband suggested the idea of inviting Fiancé into our relationship.

That's right. You read that right.

Our fiancé? NOT our fiancé.

In fact, come to find out, we haven't even been dating!

My husband hasn't been stressed because of wedding planning, contrary to my belief. No, he's been stressed because he didn't know how to approach the topic without it coming across the wrong way.

Apparently, I'm the only one who thought we were already together!

In the end, my husband got a good laugh out of it, deeply amused by the whole situation.

I, on the other hand, am mortified.

Looking back on it all, I really should've known sooner. However, it's not as if I was hiding my planning!

We went cake tasting! I took them (individually) to the tailor! I can't even begin to imagine what my husband and our (Not) Fiancé thought was going on.

And to top if all off, his personal assistant — the one who was helping me plan? Apparently, he knew everything the entire time and was just waiting for us to figure it out. (He is now very conveniently busy with work my husband did not assign him whenever I try to speak with him.)

I don't think I'll ever be able to live this down.

TL;DR - I planned an entire wedding for myself, my husband and our fiancé, come to find out we weren't even dating said fiancé, and my husband has actually been trying to figure out how to ask if we can be, the whole time.

edit: we are asking him out this evening.

⬆ 8.2k | ⇩ 💬 934 🏅 ➥ 492

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u/forthenight 20h

OP, how do you imagine an entire relationship?

••• ⤶ ⬆ 641 ⇩

u/deleted 20h

deleted

••• ⤶ ⇧ -234 ⬇

u/scrapgege OP • 20h

I do understand your perspective, if you

are coming from a place of actual care.

However, my husband and I are very

happy and deeply in love.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 302 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 19h

WAIT omg hold on is this abt who i think it is???

••• ⤶ ⬆ 37 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP 19h

Oh, oops. Forgot you have Reddit.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 19h

TEXTING YOU.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/carefulplanner 17h

edit: we are asking him out this evening

OP!!!! Don't leave us hanging, we need to know what he says!!

••• ⤶ ⬆ 529 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 4h

we are dating :-]

••• ⤶ ⬆ 797 ⇩

u/eternal_sleeper 16h

I took them cake tasting! I took them (individually) to the tailor!

Okay but what DID they think was going on?

Also props to the PA for having the chance to clear this all up & instead choosing to watch it all devolve.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 281 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 15h

According to my husband, he thought

the cake was me hinting that I wanted

more sweets while simultaneously

treating out Not-Fiancé, 2 birds 1 stone

style. As for the tailor, he says, and I

quote, "I had no idea what you were

planning, I was just happy to indulge

your whims." So...

edit: Not-Fiancé (now actual boyfriend)

was apparently "just along for the ride

and free food."

••• ⤶ ⬆ 440 ⇩

u/oneman-army2 12h

"just along for the ride and free

food"

he is so real for that tbh.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 24 ⇩

u/west-south17 10h

I think we're all ignoring the fact that this presumed relationship went on for 1.5 YEARS.

Our fiancé? NOT our fiancé.

How do you do that? Genuinely, how? What about the proposal? How does one make this error???

••• ⤶ ⬆ 127 ⇩

u/covermyblow 7h

No way this is legit. Did you just not think there was anything weird about your relationship? Like, did you kiss "as buddies" or something?

If not, how do you go 1.5 years without thinking it's weird or there's something strange about the fact that your partner has never been physically affectionate with you?

OP is either a liar or wayyyy oblivious.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 71 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 2h

Well first, kissing isn't by any means

a requirement for a relationship. But, I

just figured we were moving slow. He's

not always a very touchy-feely person,

and my husband and I respect his

boundaries. In fact, it would have been

fine even if we weren't just moving slow

and he simply didn't want any of that. As

long as he's by our sides, we'll be happy.

That's all that matters, really, is knowing

we love and care for each other, and will

always be there. Kissing is a bonus, not

a necessity.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 94 ⇩

u/masterofthewinds 1h

AWWWWWWW!!!!!!

••• ⤶ ⬆ 4 ⇩

u/fallingtree 23m

this is nauseatingly sweet i hate

couples

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/fu--yao 2h

My husband has been stressed as of recent, so I took it upon myself to handle all the details, hoping to surprise him with a day that would make his heart sing — just like he did for me on our wedding.

this is sickening I'm never speaking to you again.

In fact, come to find out, we haven't even been dating!

I HAD TO LISTEN TO YOUR LOVESTRUCK RAMBLINGS FOR NOTHING???

I planned an entire wedding for myself, my husband and our fiancé, come to find out we weren't even dating said fiancé, and my husband has actually been trying to figure out how to ask if we can be, the whole time.

Do you just not talk??? HOW DID YOU DO THIS???? I'm never talking to you again.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 64 ⇩

u/nanfengfeng 1h

I told you.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 5 ⇩

u/scrapgege OP • 49m

??? You helped me pick the venue.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 2 ⇩

u/fu--yao 43m

why didn't you ask me.

••• ⤶ ⬆ 1 ⇩

[Read More...]

u/northern-general 11m

OP, when's the wedding?

••• ⤶ ⬆ 9 ⇩

[choccy-milky]

seb and clora working on baby #1 👶 🔞🔞!! NSFW !!🔞🔞

[poipiku]

[twitter]

[thebiscuitlabryinth]

(ep8 spoilers ahead!)

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a king who honoured Truth.

He was as gentle as a lamb, as pure as driven snow, as warm as sunlight, and his citizens revered him for these qualities. His Truth was his kindness and his hope, and he was said to be able to heal a Cookie of all their woes and pain with a single touch, so blessed by the heavens he was.

Unfortunately, his Truth was no armour, and eventually it became a blade that turned against him. His soft heart failed to protect his kingdom when disaster fell like a fog over it, thick with malice, and those citizens who once revered him came to despise those very same traits they once praised.

The king of Truth, as gentle as a coward, as pure as a martyr, as warm as the remnants of his burning kingdom. The king, dismayed by his Truth failing him, had little idea of what to do as his citizens abandoned him, one by one until only he remained.

One day, a wise scholar happened upon the shell of that kingdom and, curious to know its story, he went to visit the king. The king, still at a loss for what to do and hoping the scholar may impart some of his knowledge, freely shared the tale of the kingdom's downfall with a deep sorrow in his voice.

The wise scholar, taking pity on the king, stepped up to the weary silhouette curled in that old throne and said, "Is it not obvious? You should let go of your Truth."

"My Truth?" The king murmured, disbelieving. "I certainly must have misheard you. I have dedicated my life to Truth. I cannot possibly part with it."

"Whyever not? Look at where Truth has lead your life – to complete ruins, hasn't it?" The wise scholar explained, oh so patiently. "It has paid your dedication back with anguish and despair. Why should you live like that? Deceit would be far more merciful to you, and it would surely soothe your poor heart, if you'd let it."

The wise scholar had offered this morsel of Knowledge out of the goodness of his heart, and for a blissful moment, the king considered it. Sadly, the king could not see it as the act of goodwill that it was, too blinded by his own petty pride, restrained by his years of stubborn devotion to the false idol of 'Truth'.

"No, what you have said is a lie meant to mislead me. I can tell, because Deceit drips from your tongue like poison." The king foolishly declares, his face hardening with misplaced determination. "This must be a test sent to me from the Witches, to test my strength, and I will not fail so easi––"

—No, that's not quite right. Let's try again.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a great hero.

This great hero was benevolent, noble and self-righteous, known as a friend and ally to all, but he harboured a dark secret. His Soul Jam, the source of all of his awe-inspiring power, was not wholly his.

Indeed, it had once belonged to an illustrious sorceror, a manifestation of his very soul. But this sorceror had suffered a great injustice under the hands of the fickleminded Witches, and his Soul Jam had been torn asunder. While he had clung fiercely to one half, the other had slipped out of his grasp and fell into the hands of our great hero, the unwitting thief.

Of course, the sorceror came to confront the hero, to claim back what was rightfully his and reunite with the full extent of his power. But the hero was unwilling to give it up, and after much consideration, the sorceror decided to be gracious. He allowed the hero to keep his half of the Soul Jam, granted that he never stray from the sorceror's side.

For a blissful moment, it seemed like this compromise would work well for the both of them. One day, however, the hero approached the sorceror, fidgeting with his long sleeves.

"My Soul Jam calls for yours," The hero admits, soft and careful, "and so too does my soul. Even though I am by your side, it is not enough."

The sorceror smiled, flashing teeth, pleased by the admittance because it proved his emerging hypothesis correct. That the other half of the Soul Jam could not have landed in anyone else's hands but the hero's, for they were meant for each other.

"Then come closer." The sorceror goads, reaching for the hero. "Unite our two halves and become one with me, as it should be."

The hero does, pressing into the sorceror's arms, pushing the softened middles of their Soul Jams together until they begin to merge, light melting into the dark of the sorceror's tight embrace. Truth into the comfort of Deceit.

For a blissful moment, they are together and whole and one.

Then pain bursts through the sorceror's back and he screeches as the hero pushes and stumbles out of his twitching arms. The sorceror's wide, blurry eyes catch on the icy glint of a dagger in the hero's hand, sticky with jam.

The sorceror heaves as his hand scrambles to his own back, finding an open wound weeping thick jam that seeps through his clothes. He starts to taste it, sour on the back of his tongue. Sure enough, the hero had stabbed him in the back with a blade he had hidden in his long sleeves.

The hero stares down at him passively, unremorseful. The sorceror's back burns with gouging pain, and his chest burns with boiling rage, coming up through his teeth in a mighty growl. Jam leaks through his clenched fingers as he curls into himself, his Soul Jam crying in the hollow of his throat, calling for its traitorous other half, ringing, ringing, ringing, RINGING. "YOU--"

—NO! No, no, no, that's not right either, absolutely not. Let's take it from the top, one more time.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a humble shepard.

The shepard was sweet and languid as honey, content in spending his days tending to his vulnerable flock. He had no interest in the world at large, though he welcomed any travellers that passed through with friendliness, making peace in his little meadow.

One day, another shepard, hooded and pale, arrived at the meadow with a single sheep trailing sadly at his heels. He asked for a place to stay for the night, as he had recently lost the rest of the flock to a wolf and, in his grief, took to wandering the lands as a nomad.

The shepard, sweet as he was, agreed. He led the hooded shepard to his flock, where the hooded shepard settled his sheep in for the night. Then, he led the hooded shepard to his little cottage, where the hooded shepard settled himself in for the night, right beside the shepard in his small wooden bed.

Little did the shepard know, the hooded shepard laying beside him was, in reality, a wolfherd. Little did the shepard know, the sheep he had allowed to rest in the comfort of his poor flock was, in reality, a wolf bundled in sheep's wool, trained to behave mildly in the presence of Cookies.

When morning came, the shepard was horrified to find that his flock, which he had dutifully nutured since young, had been eaten whole. The wolfherd's wolf, smeared in red with its woolen disguise hanging off it in sticky clumps, trotted up to its master lazily as the shepard helplessly fell to his knees.

For a blissful moment, there was just the shepard's sobs as his world crumbled around him, ready to be remade.

Then, the wolfherd came up to the miserable shepard and lunged.

He pinned the teary shepard to the damp grass, bathing him in lamb blood as the wolfherd bared his fangs and dug his claws into dough, shedding a disguise of his own.

A thin throat gave way under the wolfherd's teeth, and he discoverd that the shepard really was as sweet as honey, all the way through, as jam spilled into his mouth. He made cracks as the shepard weakly tried to struggle, tearing into his dough in reprimand, in retribution. The shepard deserved it.

He dug into his chest with his wet teeth, pulling out his jammy heart, his pulsing Soul Jam, his writhing soul. He savoured it as he swallowed it whole, as the shepard went obediently still beneath him, because he deserves it, this is his, he is his, and the shepard deserves it too. He deserves it, he DESERVES it, HE DESERVES IT--

—HE DOES, he does, but not quite like that. No, no, something's still off. Maybe a change of angle is needed. A change of perspective.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a liar.

He was beautiful, magnificent in his dark robes and rough around the edges in a captivating way. He watched the world from the top of a spire, looking down on Cookiekind from above with dozens of golden eyes, turning his back on Truth.

The liar was not alone. At his side, and he at his, was the beast that strung the world in shimmering strings, playing the universe like a grand orchestra to seranade his companion. Their power did not just blend harmoniously; it was a singular one, feeding into an endless cycle between the two of them, driven by the thrum of their Soul Jam.

For a blissful forever, they stood together, casting the veil of Deceit over the world, dampening the blistering light of Truth until it coalesced into the shadow of Deceit, becoming what it always should have been. The two of them were unstoppable, bowing to nothing and nobody, rising above it all. They were unstoppable, they could have been, they would have been unstoppable-- IF--

—IF THOSE GNATS HADN'T– IF HE HADN'T–

(Stupid, traitorous, weak fool!)

—No, no, enough, enough, enough. This still isn't getting anywhere. How about this?

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived a saint of Truth.

He was blindingly bright, too bright, and he could drive the shadow monsters away with a single swipe of his staff, so radiant was he. And yet, for all his shining power, he was also a complete idiot, driven by his soft, squishy heart.

For instead he cleaved the monster out of the shadow, held out a hand and said, "Let me be your...friend."

Friend. Friend. How ridiculous! Laughable, really, in its absolute stupidity. The saint's eyes were so soft, gentle in contrast to the harsh edge of the light, gooey like melted chocolate, like the saint was doing the monster a favour even though it was the other way around, it was SUPPOSED to be the OTHER WAY AROUND--

—NOPE, no, that's no good either. Come on, what else, what else, what else– aha!

Once upon a time, in a land far away, there lived an angel.

This angel was once a shepard, once a king, once a hero, once a saint before he ascended to the light of the heavens. He was beautiful and benevolent, warm as sunlight, sweet as honey, blindingly bright and infuriatingly beloved. Until he wasn't.

You see, when the angel had ascended, he had thought that he had risen from the rock bottom of the river. He had foolishly believed that he now knew everything, that he had captured the essence of Knowledge through a brief meeting of two halves of a single Soul Jam.

He hadn't realised that a new rock bottom can always be created – all you need to do is dig.

And so, the demon did, dragging the angel down from the picturesque heavens and back to him, backed by a symphony of screams.

The angel tried to reason with him, with his faulty logic. The angel tried to fight but wouldn't risk crumbling him for good. The angel tried to reach out to him, like he really, truly believed it would work.

In the end, the angel lays crumpled at the demon's feet in a heap, cheeks wet with tears but eyes tired and wild. His painful light dims into something bearable, close to snuffing out entirely, flickering weakly like a candle in the wind.

"You were right." The angel whispers, about his hope, about his kindness, about anything, about everything. "You were right. It was always going to end like this."

And when the angel looks up, it is as if he is giving all of himself to the demon. Properly, this time, no clever tricks even passing his mind. His life and soul forfeit.

There. Perfect.

Shadow Milk sighs, a heavy sound that thickens the air. He is not quite satisfied, because he cannot be, not with his dough crawling with restless viciousness, but he is satisfied enough. With the story, of course. Not with anything else.

Just thinking of that, Shadow Milk scowls, finally looking back down at his hands. He had forgotten about the little plush doll he was holding. It's a cute little replica of Pure Vanilla, small enough to fit neatly into the palms of his hands. He had been fiddling with it for no reason in particular, mostly agitated boredom.

In the midst of his storycrafting, he must have tightened his grip too hard. His claws have ripped its chest in half, stuffing bubbling out of the wound like sea foam.

He stares at it blankly for a moment, claws idly toying with the fluff. Then he narrows his eyes, growls, and twists his claws deeper into the tear.

Lonely, Pure Vanilla had said, with the absolute gall to act like he could read him perfectly. Like he could understand him.

As if! There was no way he understood him, and his new little light show only proved that. Whatever understanding Pure Vanilla thought he had was conjured by his own mind, his poor little heart's attempt to find a peaceful solution. It's like Shadow Milk had told them – in the face of the unknown, Cookies tend to fill in the gaps with whatever fits best with their existing belief system, and what they want to believe is true.

Shadow Milk huffs, finally pulling his claws out of the Pure Vanilla doll. It's a sad looking thing, droopy with the lost stuffing. He considers it for a moment, before gingerly beginning to push the stuffing back in, tuft by tuft.

There is one thing Pure Vanilla got right, though. He really is the only one with the potential to truly understand Shadow Milk. He was close to it, even, tantalisingly close before he pulled himself back out again, but he hadn't gotten there yet.

Shadow Milk knows that he hasn't. Because Shadow Milk knows what it will take to get him there, and it involves tearing him to shreds–

Shadow Milk summons old marionette strings, now mostly unused, and begins to sew up the open chest of the doll with lazy flicks of his finger. Despite the casual movement, the stitches are precise and perfect. Once he's done, the doll looks almost as good as new, but inarguably altered.

—before fixing him back up in Shadow Milk's design.

Only then would Pure Vanilla really be able to understand Shadow Milk. Only then would Shadow Milk believe it.

Shadow Milk rubs his thumb over the doll's cheek, something ugly twisting in his chest. His claws twitch, eager to tear the doll apart again, to have an outlet, but he refrains because he does have self-control and he just fixed it.

Instead, he lifts the doll up and presses a kiss to the little stitched star on its forehead. No, not a kiss. It's more like a curse, a harsh press of lips with the slightest snarl of teeth, with enough pressure to create a dent in its soft head.

Yes, this isn't the end. They have eternity, after all. The wait may be agonising, but eventually, he'll understand him. Shadow Milk will make sure of it.

The something in his chest loosens just slightly, as if relieved.

[feelo-fick]

it can't be too hard right?

it's easy not to think about things, he tells me i don't think all the time! wait...

—

a scene from a fic that i have no clue if ill finish, let alone post, but look i made fanart of my own thing that doesnt even exist :D

[merumis]

do you know how many days it's been since kuroo last saw you?

he hasn't been counting—doesn't know it off the top of his head, or even what the exact date was, and today, he's not even sure he could tell you if it's april 7th or 9th—but if he does the math, he can get a ballpark answer.

around four years—365 days multiplied by 4, add in a leap year, you land with one thousand-four hundred-and-sixty-one days. give or take a few, for your situation.

but maybe he should've expected to see you here, all things considered.

(one night, a few weeks before graduation, maybe? you had mentioned you were going to grad school in edinburgh—he leaned down so you could yell it into his ear over the music of the bar. you were tinted a sweet shade of purple in the light—your friends were busy playing an arcade game that kuroo couldn't name anymore.

something died in kuroo's throat that night. he went to tell you congratulations—if a little halfhearted—but never quite made it there. a friend came over to swipe a game token you were holding, and you laughed and shooed him off. kuroo's roommate's hand landed on his shoulder, and then there was a shot in his hand. not much room for deliberation there, he supposes).

somehow, it seems, he'd forgotten those details until now. he'd been ducking from awning to awning to avoid the rain; he'd forgotten to pack a raincoat; he'd been in such a rush—last minute business trips be damned—that he didn't think to check the weather even when he decided to schedule a later return flight. a friday night, a full saturday, a sunday morning all to himself in a city that wasn't his—one that he felt a misplaced affection for despite never visiting prior to wednesday at 3:53pm.

and now, you're standing at the awning just ahead of him—facing out towards the street, watching the rain while you tear at the bready pastry in your hands.

(your hair has grown out from your college-age bob. it sweeps down past your shoulders, though he can't see where it disappears to. you must be twenty-six now. he recalls you complaining about hairstylists who cut your hair too short—about bad haircuts that lasted for months for you and moments for him. he thinks you always knew how to fix things).

he forgets there's a gap between your awning and his, so he doesn't move quite fast enough. his hair is a little more soaked than he would've hoped by the time he gets to you.

you turn your head to look at him before he reaches you—a piece of your pastry hanging by your fingers, waiting to be placed between your teeth. your brows are furrowed, your gaze a little hard, until you reach his face.

"tetsurou," you breathe, and he smiles down at you for a brief moment before you've pulled him down to wrap your arms around his neck. you pull back, placing just the heels of your palms on his cheeks to avoid scraping him with the crust of your pastry. "oh my god- what are you- why are you here?"

"business trip," he replies, "it was last minute. didn't think to reach out."

"god," you say, and pull him in again. "it's been years," you mumble into his shoulder, "you've gotten so old."

there's a moment when he wants to know everything you've done for the past four years—what you celebrated, what you never dared to tell anyone about, the food you've eaten, the drinks you drank until you made yourself sick. have you smoked recently? he wants to ask, if so, please let me breathe it in.

"how are you?" he asks instead.

(he feels twenty-one again. he's on the perimeter of a house party with you. he won't ask you about last week—when he kissed you and you dug your nails into his back. he won't leave your side either, and you keep leaning into him, but you're both making vague observations about the people who pass in front of you. do you ever think about it? he wants to ask. he never does).

"good!" you say, "yeah, no, busy, but- you know. good." you've leaned your shoulder into the brick wall now, and he mirrors you. you've both got your heads leaned in so close, he thinks he can smell the soap off your body.

you've always had a strong nose. maybe you can smell his.

do you ever think about it? did you ever?

"if it weren't such a downpour, i'd invite you to coffee at my place," you say, with a half-smile pulling at your lips. you speak with an exasperated breathiness now, one that he only heard in early winter and spring. he wonders if old habits die hard.

"it's okay," he says, "i like the rain."

you smile now, fully. warm. "i know."

(he's twenty-two. you're a few months from graduation and one of your friends insisted you all buy cheap tickets to some concert. he stepped outside to breathe and watch the rain—you followed. you wore his rain-soaked jacket for the rest of the night, and he thought about the way you pressed your lips into his shoulder in that absent-minded sort-of-way for the rest of the week. you both went on dates with different people the following thursday).

do you remember the poems you used to write? he wants to ask. the ones where i never knew if you talking about me or not. i used to keep myself up over them, would read them once, twice, a third time under the light from a lamp that was bound to go out the next night, but never did. do you remember that stupid dumpster outside my apartment? he wants to say. where it was always too windy to light anything, so we sat outside in the cold and talked for hours, looking over our shoulders whenever we mentioned someone by name.

on the road next to you, a small girl in a big raincoat and galoshes speeds down the road, her father carted behind her by the hand. he desperately tries to slow her down. kuroo looks down at his shoes and kicks a loose rock, then looks up again at you. you lean past him, tossing what's left of your pastry into the trash can next to him.

"i think you would like it here," you say. he smiles.

are you different? he wants to ask. are you the same girl i thought i might've been in love with? do you still hum when you cook? do you still refuse to use a recipe? do you still bite at the edges of your lips until they bleed?

"yeah?" he asks, with a smile that takes up more of his face than he'd like to admit. he leans over you as he rocks against the wall. "what about it?" it sounds less like a question, and more like a challenge—he's not sure how he intended it to be.

"it's slower here," you reply. you reach your hand out towards the road, waving five spread fingers out across a landscape you can see painted across your eyes. "removed, but not boring," you settle on, and smile up at him.

"you think i like slow?" he asks.

"i know you need it," you reply.

back then? no. now?

maybe.

"when i first moved here," you start. he looks over at you, but you're not watching him. you're looking out at the street again, eyes fixed on something that he can't place. "i swear i saw you everywhere. anyone over six feet, anyone running along the coast. sometimes, i'd think i heard your voice and i'd just stop- listen for a second, waiting to hear more of it." you look over at him, "of you," you clarify with a laugh.

"there were these guys in some of my classes, i don't know, they used to use your cologne, or your soap or something it would just-" you laugh again, "it would drive me insane."

(he's twenty-two. you keep a toothbrush at his apartment—just in case. when you're here, he sleeps on the couch).

"you know," you laugh again, and you watch him, carefully. your eyes keep flitting over his face—quickly, from one place to the next, like you're not quite sure where will tell you what you want to know. "i think i was in love with you back then."

(he's twenty. he wants to know you. he thinks about you for an entire day after you whisper an exaggerated thank you to him during class and laugh at his offhanded joke).

"yeah," he replies. "i think i was in love you too, you know."

he smiles down at you, and then he knocks his shoulder into yours. when you laugh, you curl into him, letting his body's warmth radiate into you where your arms touch.

your laugh sounds wet, a little shaky.

if he spoke, he's sure his would too.

"when the rain lightens up," you start, "would you like to come back to mine?"

he clears his throat, a soft, breathy sort of thing escaping him when he speaks.

"yeah. i'd like that," he replies.

[sforzesco]

it's time for spartacus :)

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

if JGYs song of evil in poorly drawn MDZS is titled "evil penis music" then is Wangxian "good penis music"?

There exists penis music, which is neither good or bad, it simply is!

It is only through compounding it with 'evil' music that JGY creates his dastardly aural poison.

[nikkashidashipper]

you guys. in the czech dub of the game, henry calls hans nicknames and more importantly, diminutives during the scramble after they get ambushed on their way to nabákov. im. soft

[hyruling]

hello 👀♥️ for prompts, free choice out of the following (can be combined too): 3, 67, 68, 70

3. “Could you be happy, here, with me?” & 67. “Don’t look at me like that.”

—

The sun hangs low in the sky, rays throwing shadows across the trees and vegetation in the field beyond the house. Buck’s beer sweats in the heat, condensation running from palm to elbow and staining the wood under his arm.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice in the thick Texas heat, sweltering even this late in the day. Even better, Eddie is next to him, the two of them swaying on an actual porch swing that Buck helped him install only a few hours ago. He’d spent all day teasing him for being a cliche, but he can’t find it in himself to poke fun at him now. It’s nice, sitting on the porch after a hard days work, watching the sun set in shades of soft orange and brilliant pink — taking in the sounds of humming cicadas, the whoosh of cars passing by. The occasional horn blaring from the train a few miles from Eddie’s house.

And then there’s Eddie himself, lit up golden and beautiful in the sun, a contented smile curled on his face. If this were a movie, and if Buck wasn’t already painfully aware of his feelings for him, this would certainly seal his fate. The sight of Eddie at dusk is devastating, otherworldly.

Or maybe he’s just in love.

“Gotta say,” Buck says, breaking the comfortable silence at last. “I see the appeal now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, smiling over his shoulder at Buck. He lifts his bottle to his lips, and Buck holds his breath watching him take a long pull.

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “The splinters and bashed thumbnail were all worth it for this. Good old southern porch-sittin’.”

Eddie hums and glances down at Buck’s left hand. Buck watches him reach over and brush his own thumb over Buck’s bruised finger, and Buck has to remind himself to exhale.

“Still hurt?” Eddie asks, eyes fixed on his thumb pressing gently against Buck’s.

“Nah,” Buck says. He wonders if Eddie would keep touching him if he said yes. “Not so much anymore, the ice did the trick.”

“Don’t know why I assumed you’d be able to handle a hammer. Should’ve known after the bathroom sink incident,” Eddie teases, taking his hand away at last.

“That was a wrench, and it got the job done, didn’t it?” Buck says.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “If you say so. We’ll see how well it works when Chris brushes his teeth later.”

Buck snorts, and they share a look — of mingled relief and joy — that Chris is where he belongs, back in a familiar routine that they both helped establish.

Buck had booked a ticket almost the minute that Eddie told him he was back home — when it no longer felt like overstepping, when Chris had not-so-subtly hinted at missing him and Eddie had not-so-subtly mentioned that Southwest was having a sale. And Chris throwing himself into Buck’s arms at the airport after nearly a year apart definitely ranks among the top ten moments of his life.

“Sucks that tomorrow is my last day,” Buck says with a heavy sigh and a sip of beer. “Should’ve put this up day one. I’ll be missing out on some major porch time back home.”

“You could stay longer,” Eddie suggests with a half-smile aimed at his lap. He twirls his bottle around, presses it into the knee of his jeans until a ring of water appears in the fabric. “You’re welcome for as long as you want.”

“Yeah,” Buck says noncommittally.

He feels Eddie’s eyes on him, burning into his temple like a brand, and keeps his own trained on the horizon. He’s spent three perfect days here, full of home repairs and dinners and exploration of Eddie’s hometown; of movies and video games and a trip to the planetarium. He hasn’t wasted a moment, soaking up every second he has with Eddie and Chris while he can. The idea of having to board a plane roughly forty hours from now and leave them again makes him nauseous. Makes him want to fuse himself into the very foundations of the house so he can’t leave.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buck says, eyes still fixed on the sky.

“Like what?” Eddie asks. Buck can feel him still looking.

Buck squints against the light of the dying sun, against the tears pricking at his eyes. “The way you’ve been looking all weekend. Like — like you want me to…”

“Want you to what?” Eddie asks, so soft he almost can’t hear him over the cicadas.

Buck drinks, to buy himself time. It isn’t enough.

“To stay.”

It stretches, the silence — taut like a rubber band ready to snap. Eddie watches him, and Buck watches the sun. He blinks and the imprint of light is still there, burning and blotting out Eddie from his peripheral, but he can still feel him.

It’s the way he’s looked at him since he arrived — he can feel it in the way his skin prickles with it. He’s felt Eddie’s eyes on him the entire weekend, and while Buck usually craves Eddie’s undivided attention, there’s something different about the way he does it now. A longing Buck recognizes from the mirror, from photos — the way he looks at Eddie reflected back at him. A curve to his smile that Buck rarely sees directed at anyone else; a warmth in his eyes that sets his blood on fire.

“I always want you to stay,” Eddie admits, hushed in the thick silence.

Buck swallows hard and doesn’t reply. He takes another sip of beer, lukewarm now and bitter on his tongue.

“Buck. Look at me?”

Buck sighs. He closes his eyes briefly, and the light sticks behind his eyelids. It’s still there when he looks at Eddie, distorting his features into something unreadable.

“Hi,” Eddie says when their eyes meet, and Buck smiles despite himself.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Eddie’s mouth twists, then relaxes. He asks, “What are you thinking?”

Buck’s eyes clear, and he can see the same smile that he has privately come to think of as his. A piece of Eddie that belonged only to him. The one that sparks a dangerous flicker of hope in his chest.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Eddie says, knocking his bare shoulder against Buck’s. He keeps it there, presses their over-warm skin together. It sticks slightly in the humidity, and he has the insane urge to superglue himself to Eddie’s side.

“I’m thinking it’s hot as shit out here,” Buck says, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“It’s only April, this is nothing. You’ve been in Cali too long.”

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Eddie nudges him again as he speaks and takes a swig of his beer. Buck watches his throat as he swallows, watches the droplets drip down his fingers and feels too warm. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple and Eddie’s eyes catch it, follow it down until it disappears in the neck of Buck’s tank.

“I’m thinking I don’t want to leave,” Buck admits, and Eddie’s eyes snap back up to his. “I’m thinking none of this is fucking fair, and that I must have pissed someone important off.”

Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. They’re not too happy with me either, I think.”

Eddie looks down at their laps, hand reaching out to touch Buck’s injured finger. He wraps his fingers around the digit, pushes gently at the bruise, barely enough to hurt. The throb of it ricochets up his arm and into his ribs anyway, makes him reckless.

“And I’m thinking — I’m thinking about how badly I want to kiss you.”

Eddie pauses, goes completely still. He glances up, eyes falling to Buck’s mouth for a split second before meeting his eye, and Buck knows he isn’t misreading this. His heart sits like a stone in his throat anyway.

“But I’m also thinking that I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You won’t lose me,” Eddie is quick to say. His fingers twine with Buck’s, squeeze hard. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

“For now.”

Eddie exhales shakily, the warmth of it hitting Buck’s cheek, and he just looks at Buck — the same way he has all weekend, the same way he has for years. The same way that Buck knows he looks at him, has always looked at him. The way that they were both too scared or too deep in denial to face until separation forced their hand.

“Buck are you,” Eddie starts, stops. He lifts his chin and looks Buck square in the eye. “Could you be happy, here? With me?”

“That’s — Eddie, I can’t,” Buck says. It feels like gravel in an open wound, like razors in his throat. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why? You don’t have a monopoly on big sweeping confessions, you know.”

“Is that what this is?” Buck asks. He’s dizzy, even sitting down — lightheaded from the heat and the alcohol and Eddie, always Eddie.

In response, Eddie tilts forward and brushes his lips over Buck’s. A ghost of a kiss, the briefest taste of tangy sweat and beer and skin before Eddie pulls away, too soon for Buck’s heart to even finish skipping in his chest.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says softly, still close enough Buck can almost feel the vibration of it against his mouth.

Buck drops his chin, presses forehead against Eddie’s. He tucks the empty beer bottle between his legs and cradles Eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs skating along his jaw. Eddie shivers at the shock of his cold fingertips, slants his chin up, and then Buck is kissing him properly.

He takes his time, savoring each drag of Eddie’s lips, the way he twists closer and brushes their noses together. Eddie lifts his own chilled hand to Buck’s neck, sends a cold shock into his heated skin, then trails it down to fist in Buck’s shirt. Buck nips at his lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue, and Eddie makes a soft sound that Buck knows he’ll hear in his dreams.

Buck pulls away to breathe before they end up flipping the swing over — he’s not sure he trusts his handiwork well enough to support climbing into Eddie’s lap. Eddie has a faint flush on his cheeks, eyes tracking over Buck’s face before meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” Buck answers him. Eddie furrows his brows, question long forgotten, and Buck can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Eddie. I could be happy with you anywhere.”

Eddie smiles and tucks his hand back in Buck’s. “But.”

“But,” Buck echoes, and says nothing else. Eddie already knows.

Eddie nods and rests his head on Buck’s shoulder, a comforting weight that settles his racing heart. They watch the sun sink lower, Eddie’s thumb tracing patterns on the inside of Buck’s wrist. His hair sticks to Buck’s sweaty neck, and they listen to the music of the fading day.

“I can’t promise anything,” Eddie says when the sun has almost disappeared. “It’s — it’s delicate, right now. With Chris. I think he’s ready to come home, but until he says something…”

El Paso is beautiful in twilight; the heat starts to give way to the evening chill at last. Buck shivers and presses a kiss to Eddie’s hair. “I know. I can’t either.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Eddie looks up, and Buck swears his heart stops at the way Eddie smiles at him — arresting even from the weird angle.

“Buck, I—”

“Don’t say it back,” Buck says. Eddie frowns and straightens up to face him properly, and then Buck is laughing at the look on his face.

“Don’t say it back yet,” Buck corrects, smoothing over a frown line with his thumb. “Not until — until this can be real.”

“But I do,” Eddie says, a bit petulant, and Buck gets honest to god butterflies about it. “And this is real. To me, anyway. You’re not just — some fling.”

“I know. It is to me too, baby, trust me,” Buck says, and Eddie visibly softens. “But I’ve wanted you for so long, I just — I can’t have you halfway. You’re forever for me, and I want — I have to do this right. And if you can’t come to me, if this place is your new forever, then — then wait for me. Please.”

Eddie stares for a long time, expression unreadable. Buck’s heart beats wildly, irregular enough that he might need Eddie’s defibrillator to shock it back into rhythm.

And then Eddie sighs and drops his forehead to Buck’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Of course. As long as it takes, I — yes.”

“Okay,” Buck says, and drops a kiss to Eddie’s brow.

“I do, though.”

Buck huffs, smiling against Eddie’s skin. “I know.”

“Don’t make me wait forever, Buckley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eddie lifts his head, presses a soft kiss to Buck’s mouth, and says, “We still have tomorrow.”

Eddie settles back into the crook of his neck, and Buck wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugs him close.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

—

prompts ❣️

[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || part 9 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) I also know nothing about Cyril's personal life so I've gifted him a hot French wife and a fancy house, as he deserves.

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here.

Max had almost forgotten about Cyril's invitation to dinner. About Bastiaan's invitation too. Bastiaan's never been invited anywhere. This is his first time. So many firsts. Such a little baby and such a lot left to experience.

Part 9

Daniel suggests they walk to Cyril's for dinner. It's only five minutes away, he explains. It's why he booked this hotel instead of one closer to the Renault offices. "Cyril always has the good wine." Daniel looks hopefully in Max's direction.

Max had almost forgotten about Cyril's invitation to dinner. About Bastiaan's invitation too. Bastiaan's never been invited anywhere. This is his first time. So many firsts. Such a little baby and such a lot left to experience.

"We could test out the new carrycot," Daniel says.

Max is changing Bastiaan's nappy on the changing mat laid out on the floor. Bastiaan never particularly likes nappy changes but for once he's not complaining too much. Daniel's kneeling down next to them, booping Bastiaan on the nose with his new pink rabbit, and Bastiaan is too confused to be concerned about having his nappy changed. He doesn't even pee on Max, which has been his little trick the past few days and one Max grew tired of after the first time.

"Okay," Max says. Walking is good, because it means he can leave and bring Bastiaan back if it turns out he doesn't like dinner invitations. "I haven't got anything to give them." He knows the rules of dinners. You take a gift. Wine. Flowers. He wants Cyril to work with him. He wants a contract. A way back into racing.

"Cyril won't mind," Daniel says, shifting from booping Bastiaan on the nose to stroking the rabbit's soft nose over Bastiaan's cheek. Bastiaan likes that. His mouth curves up at the edges. He kicks his little feet. "But I just picked up some wine and chocolates for Sephine. They can be from both of us."

"I'll give you some money for them," Max says stoutly. He leans in and kisses Bastiaan's little knees before putting him in a clean babygro. He has a little blue cardigan with flowers on for Bastiaan to wear over the top. One of the ladies in Celine's book club gave Celine a bag of baby clothes for him, hand-me-downs from her grandchildren. Max thinks the baby was probably a girl, but flowers are nice and it doesn't matter. Bastiaan deserves nice things like flowers. Max had bought a newborn baby starter kit of six little stretch suits and six vests and two cardigans like his leaflet about preparing for his baby had said to. He doesn't have a washing machine at home so he has to walk to the communal ones, and Bastiaan isn't very good at staying clean and dry all day long, so the bag of clothes has been very helpful. They're for different ages too so Max doesn't have to worry so much about finding the money for new clothes when Bastiaan grows out of these.

"Sure," Daniel says easily. "We can sort it out later."

Max nods. He concentrates on getting Bastiaan ready to go out. It might be cold outside, but his little suit has mittens that fold down over his hands, and Max has a little stretchy hat for him too. The new giraffe sleeping bag doesn't have sleeves, so it's good about the cardigan and the mittens. He can put Bastiaan in it and then into the carrycot pram. He puts Bastiaan's three toys into his backpack, and the new pack of wipes into his changing bag. His baby blanket is already in the backpack. All Max has to do is go to the toilet and brush his teeth and put his shoes on and he's ready to go.

"Will you look after him?" he asks Daniel, once Bastiaan is installed in his brand new carrycot. "I'll only be a minute."

"Uncle Daniel to the rescue," Daniel grins. He leans over the pram. "Hi baby. What chaos are we going to cause while your dad's away?"

"Don't cause chaos," Max says. "I won't be long."

"Take as long as you need," Daniel says airily. He's put a corduroy tote bag in the tray under the pram with Bastiaan's changing bag. Max heard the clink of wine bottles as he put it there.

He hears Bastiaan start to cry as he's sitting on the toilet.

"Don't hurry up," Daniel calls. "Me and Bastiaan are hanging out."

"He's crying," Max calls back. "Of course I will hurry."

"We're good," Daniel reiterates. "We're just getting used to each other. See, no more crying already."

Max hurries up anyway. He speed brushes his teeth. Splashes water on his face. But when he comes out, Daniel's holding a bemused Bastiaan. He's not crying.

"Look who's back," Daniel says. "Is it your daddy? Is your daddy back?"

Bastiaan's little mouth curves up into a smile.

Max thinks: You are lovely. He holds his hands out for his baby, and kisses both Bastiaan's cheeks as he takes him from Daniel and tucks him into his chest. "I was only a little way away," he says. "Was it strange being in your new carrycot? We all have to get used to new things sometimes, but you're being very brave." Bastiaan curls his hand into Max's t-shirt. Daniel's folded back his little mittens. Max lets Bastiaan hold on to his finger instead. "Is Daniel your new friend? Is it nice? Having a friend?"

When Max looks up, Daniel's expression is strange again. Almost sad. Max doesn't understand that.

"Let's try again, little baby," Max says, not looking at Daniel anymore. He tucks the mittens over Bastiaan's hands. Pulls the sleeves of his cardigan down. Straightens his little hat. He puts Bastiaan down into the carrycot, and reattaches the cover. Bastiaan scrunches his face up, thinking, then decides not to cry, which Max appreciates. He puts his hoodie on, then grabs his jacket. Laces up his shoes. "We can go now."

"Okay," Daniel says. He's got a hoodie and a coat on too. He sounds a little weird. Max is very tired. He's too tired to understand. Everything's been strange for a long time now anyway, like Max has been underwater and everything's muffled and a long way away.

He can hear Bastiaan, though, and that's all he needs.

&&&

Cyril's house really is less than five minutes away, and it's not too cold out. Bastiaan stays awake the whole time they're walking, his bottom lip jutting out, his eyes wide. He blinks up at Max, even though it's mostly dark out and Daniel has to keep checking the way on his phone. Max's phone doesn't have much data on it. He can't afford it. He's probably still paying for his old contract, for a destroyed sim card, from a bank account he doesn't have access to anymore. But it's okay. It doesn't matter. He's got Bastiaan and Bastiaan is safe, so this is better than the alternative. Nobody is trying to hurt either of them anymore.

"Cyril's wife is Josephine," Daniel says as Max pushes the pram up Cyril's driveway. "Sephine. She's cool. Very French."

"She's French," Max says. "That will be why."

"Well, yes," Daniel says, ringing the doorbell. "Look, tell me if you want to go back to the hotel, and I'll come with you."

"I can walk by myself," Max says, but then the door opens, and it's both Cyril and his lovely, beautiful, dark haired wife. They kiss Max on both cheeks as they help him inside with Bastiaan's pram. Bastiaan is still awake, so Max gets him out of the carrycot and out of his little hat and baby sleeping bag as Daniel presents the tote bag of wine and chocolates as gifts from them both.

"We're having steak," Cyril tells him. "Daniel said you liked steak?"

"Yes," Max says. Sephine wants to hold his baby. Max also wants to hold his baby but he holds Bastiaan all the time, and Bastiaan deserves more friends. He's also a very lovely little baby, so it is of course very normal that Sephine and Cyril both want to hold him. Sephine cradles Bastiaan in her arms. She tells Max that her and Cyril have never had children, but they have nephews and nieces and they love having babies visit.

Bastiaan won't know if he has cousins. He doesn't have another daddy, and Max's family is somewhere else. It's okay. Max will be enough for him. He's promised.

Cyril takes Daniel off to get drinks, leaving Sephine with Max.

"We're very happy to have you here," Sephine says. "It must have been very difficult to travel with a baby this little."

"He's a very good baby," Max says. "But everything is of course very new to him which must be very scary."

"Yes," Sephine says. "I'd probably cry too. But you must be very tired after such a big change in your life."

Max has been very tired for a very long time. He doesn't remember not feeling tired. He hasn't felt properly awake since the last time he was in a Formula 1 car. "I can do it," he says. "I can look after Bastiaan."

"I know," Sephine says. She smiles at him. Rocks Max's baby, who is quietly taking it all in. "Cyril's ecstatic you're going to be coming on board. Thinks you're a real talent."

"I won't let him down," Max says. He can't. This is the only chance he has, and he won't fuck it up. He'll have to figure out how to get to racing fitness again with Bastiaan in tow. That's another thing he hasn't thought enough about. He doesn't have to figure it out tonight, but he doesn't know how it's going to happen.

Cyril and Daniel come back in bearing wine glasses and bottles of red wine.

"You're not drinking alcohol, I don't think," Cyril says to Max.

"I don't think the baby will like wine very much," Max says. Daniel's got a bottle of iced water in one hand. He winks at Max.

"There's coconut water too," Daniel says. "I picked some up for you. You used to like that, right? Water first?"

Max did. He nods. "Thank you, Daniel."

"Any time," Daniel says. He pours the water for Max as Cyril pours three glasses of wine for the rest of them. Sephine is still cooing at Bastiaan, and Daniel comes to join her on the sofa. Cyril gets a folder of papers from the bag by the door.

"Your contract," Cyril says. "Get your lawyer to look over it. Your manager. Whoever you need. I think you'll find it's very fair but I know you will have comments. Legal will send a copy to your inbox too now the paper copy's been delivered."

Max holds the papers in his hand. "I don't have a lawyer," he says. "Or a manager. I'll look at it." He can't afford either a new lawyer or a manager and he's not going back to anyone who has contact with his dad. He sees Cyril and Daniel exchange glances, but Max refuses to go red.

"You can use my lawyer," Daniel says. "I've got contracted hours with him I'm not using because this guy's treating me too good." He tips his thumb in Cyril's direction. "Bit of contract negotiation will give him something to do."

Max looks at him.

Daniel shrugs. "Going to waste otherwise. I'll text him now." He looks at Cyril. "Might as well send him the contract direct. He can start looking at it tonight."

Nobody asks why Max doesn't have a lawyer anymore. A manager. A team. Why he's not going back to Red Bull. Why his dad's not here. Why Max is alone. Why Bastiaan has nobody in his life but his daddy.

If anyone knew where to look, they'd find out that Max's pile of secrets is way too fucking high.

"How about a tour first for Max and this little one?" Sephine suggests. "Before we get stuck into talking about racing."

Daniel laughs. "We can talk about something other than racing."

"Can we?" Sephine grins. She lets Max take Bastiaan back, and Max tucks Bastiaan in against his chest. He positions him so that he can still see what's happening and make friends, but he can do it from the comfort of his daddy's arms, which both Bastiaan and Max prefer. "We haven't yet."

"Ehhh," Daniel says. "Come on, Bastiaan, you're going to love what Cyril's done with his office."

"Oh, a wallpaper aficionado," Cyril says, getting to his feet. "I see how it is."

Bastiaan rubs his cheek over Max's hoodie like he's enjoying himself too. Max's lovely little brave baby.

"He's a big wallpaper fan," Max glances at Daniel. He bites his lip, waiting to see if Daniel will laugh with him.

When Daniel does, Max can't help it; he laughs too.

"Tour," Sephine says. She hooks her hand through Max's elbow. She confides, "It really is nice wallpaper."

"Of course," Max agrees. When he looks over, Daniel winks at him.

Max hides his smile in a kiss to Bastiaan's head.

[phonification]

ive been thinking about taco and balloon forming a little alliance post s1/ pre s2 where they'd (begrudgingly) work together planning on how to break into hotel OJ to steal stuff to take back to their makeshift camp like food, blankets, pillows, etc,,, anything that could be useful to them

[macksartblock]

beware of burnout it's so real i'm afraid

also bc ended up making my writing into a font to avoid killing my hand as much and bc I saw Caden do this, I thought it would be fun to see who y'all think it suits lol

[arsenicflame]

It's a time-honoured tradition- every time Sam comes across Izzy (and Ed) in their travels, he asks Izzy to marry him. And every time, Izzy turns him down.

At this point, Sam is asking more for the sake of it than any belief Izzy will ever say yes, a remnant of childhood dedication touched with 30 years of heartbreak and regret- though even now, a small part of him still holds out hope. Sam's promises have only got more extravagant over the years, from a job as his first mate, to a captaincy, a fleet at his command, a whole fucking island if that's what Izzy wants- but he knows it isn't though, not really. If Izzy was ever going to agree to marry him, to leave his life and go with Sam, it wouldn't be for anything Sam could offer him. Izzy never did care for flashy shows of wealth, for a ship or to be captain. The only thing that ever mattered to him was loyalty given, and loyalty shown in return. 

It all comes to a head after Stede left and came back, after Izzy lost a toe, lost his leg. Sam hasn't seen him since before things with Ed started to really slide off the rails, before stress permanently set into the lines of Izzy’s face. So, when he sees a dishevelled man with a hoof for a leg in a no-name port, he doesn't even consider the idea that he might know him. It's only when he turns towards him, and Sam catches a glance at those oh too familiar tattoos, he realises this is Izzy, his Izzy, that stands before him.

Knowing Izzy's discomfort with pity, he doesn't treat him any differently than he would in years gone by, positioning himself in Izzy's line of sight before approaching and sweeping him up into a bone crushing hug. 

“Israel-goddamn-Hands!” he exclaims, as Izzy grumbles back a begrudging “Samuel-fucking-Bellamy”, a tradition almost as old as their friendship itself. Izzy might not hug him back, but he can’t keep the corner of his mouth from twitching, just for a second.

(If Sam holds Izzy a little tighter and a little longer than usual, well. That's his business)

By the time Sam lets go, most of the crew has appeared in the town square, drawn in by the commotion. They may have given Izzy his leg and welcomed him as one of them, but still there’s an underlying tension, with nobody quite ready to set aside everything that happened before the Kraken. Seeing him cosying up to an unknown man sets everyone on edge, unsure whether to come to their first mate’s aid, or to assume that they've been betrayed once again.

When Ed sees that the yelling was Sam, his hand goes tense where it's held in Stede's. He knows the routine, has seen it more times than he can count, but as he watches them part he realises that this is the first time in a long time he's unsure of what Izzy's response will be.

Knowing that something’s different, knowing that Izzy's feeling vulnerable already, Sam doesn't go for the same flashy proposal he’s been giving for years. He doesn't promise Izzy the world, he doesn't cause a scene (or, any more of a scene than he already has, anyway). He looks at the fractured man in front of him, takes his face in his hands, and says the exact same thing to him he said when they were little more than boys. “Israel, I have to ask you. I know what you'll say, but I have to try. Come with me. Marry me and sail away with me. I'll keep you safe”

And Izzy… hesitates. He glances over at Ed, at Stede, and says to Sam “...We’re staying in port for a week. Ask me again then”

That's the moment Sam knows there is something deeply, horribly, wrong. He's not just looking at an Izzy who got seriously injured in a fight and is struggling to cope, this is something so much bigger than that- and that Ed has something to do with it. Izzy wouldn't even be considering leaving if he didn't. Whether it was negligence or something more sinister, Sam doesn't yet know, but he intends to find out.

[deoidesign]

"what do hands mean about a character?"

Their hands mean they love eachother

(webcomic)

[sorrowfulsidekick]

joked Chronos put's Kit's ears up when he plays outside or else they'll be all up in the dirt or sand anytime he knelt down lmao

[radioroxx]

ok posting some silly. martlet from that one sketch but i coloured her 👍 and bonus doodle cuz. i need yall to. i need yall to see the vision ok. do do you see it do you