#but I do know one thing

[snikkts]

ALICENT HIGHTOWER — House of the Dragon , 1.07 (2022)

[latibvles]

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON).

I have ... no explanation for this. this is technically a "three times dick thought Charlie was beautiful, and one time he said it" which also meets ... boxer! Charlie x former boxer! Dick universe. And it's in 90s New York for the visuals. And Harry is a boxing trainer. I don't know what happened here but I like it. Yes I know her main fic isn't even published. Everyone stop looking at me like that. I am also now well-acquainted with boxer jargon I otherwise would not have known.

I.

Just one match,  Harry bargained, just one and I’ll leave you alone.

So here Dick sat, as close to the ring as Nixon money could buy, the man sat right next to him, and the final round’s timer shaving down precious seconds.

This girl, “Chuckles” as Harry calls her, is light on her feet and hard to keep track of. Her shaggy black crop falls into her eyes and he can’t get a good look at her face as she hops from one foot to the other, bobbing and weaving with almost dancer-like grace.

It’s a little hypnotizing.

It’s either gonna be a knockout, or she’s gonna run this clock down.

Parry, cross, feint, corkscrew — it’s dizzying trying to keep up with her. There’s no pattern to it, but somehow she maintains a rhythm that he can’t hear. The crowd around them is in an uproar, the only thing he can hear is cheering and heckling in his ears. Across the ring, Harry’s face is lit up with the same fire he’s had since they were in the ring themselves. Dick’s own heart is pounding a little harder.

Her head snaps to the right as her opponent lands a decisive blow to her cheek. She stumbles, knocked off her balance, and takes another blow to the opposing cheek.

Dick holds his breath.

Lead right.

Another uproar, Harry shouting something unintelligible, drowned out by the din of the people around them. She shifts her weight. She winds up the fist.

Haymaker.

It’s a decisive, heavy, sharp blow to her opponent’s jaw that almost sends the other woman spinning. She stumbles, then crumples to the floor.

It’s the longest eight count Dick’s ever seen. Then the ring of the bell, cheering, and “Chuckles” turns around to face them entirely, face him, as the other woman is brought to her feet, and moved to a seat on the outside of the ring. Harry quickly slides in to grab her wrist and thrust it upright with a smile.

She pops out the mouth guard, with the free hand, looks out with a wicked grin — all bloody teeth and sweat and pointy canines. There’s a cut on her swelling cheek, dark hair sticking to her forehead, chest rising and falling as she takes labored breaths. Pride oozes from those red-stained lips, and now that he’s got a better look at her face he sees that fire in her eyes. It stirs something in him and he feels a flush creeping up his neck like he’s just gone the distance himself.

She wears that pride and those bruises like a starlet’s gown — and it looks gorgeous on her.

II.

The rain casts a hazy glow on the street outside, and makes this diner that much warmer in comparison. He watches for a moment, lip twitching into a grin as she dunks a fry into the Oreo shake. Feeling his eyes, she looks up and raises a brow.

“See something you like?”

And he could say a lot of things to that. The burger in front of him. The coke and fries. The rain droplets clinging to her hoodie (and in that respect, the hoodie itself, how cozy it looks, how it almost swallows her frame, and the bright red RICHMOND on the front).

Instead, he gestures to the fry.

“You get that one from Harry?”

“He’s persuasive when he wants to be.”

There’s a fond annoyance to the way she says it, coupled with an eye roll and a ghost of the smirk she always wears, be it for self-gratification or pride or the secret third thing Dick hasn’t been able to discern yet. Dick chuckles a little, bowing his head for a moment to take a bite out of his own burger, watching through his lashes and trying not to grin as she plucks pickles from her own with a look like they’d just insulted her.

Evidently, he fails at that.

“Winters, whatever pickle-related remark you’re about to make, I’d keep it to myself if I were you.”

“I didn’t have any remark. Should I?” he tries, teasing. But Dick watches as Charlie’s smile drops immediately, her face becoming deathly serious.

“Pickles took out my mother, Dick.” The way she says it, with no room for laughter, knocks him off his own balance. He stares at her, lips parted, in the midst of confusion and trying to discern if this is a joke or not.

“You’re messing with me.” He throws back, and the corner of her lip twitches as she tries to maintain that serious expression. But it cracks and Charlie ducks her head as she snorts.

“Caught me — but if I wasn’t you wouldn’t be living that one down, so we’re clear.” Dick rolls his eyes. When she looks back up the smile is softer, less challenging — he doesn’t know this expression of hers very well. Amusement brimming at the surface, but softer edges, less deprecating, more playful like a kid who might’ve told a knock-knock joke.

Her smile’s pretty, even when she’s not baring her teeth.

“Of course I wouldn’t.” is what he settles on, with another fond roll of his eyes.

III.

Dick has half a mind to turn back.

He doesn’t know when, during his visit, that he became Harry’s stand-in but he suspects it had something to do with last week, when Harry came back, and when his eyes lingered on Charlie for a moment too long at the gym and his smile grew and Harry, ever the perceptive one, refused to let him live it down.

Well I already told her you were coming, Harry defended, and it’s just a cabinet, Dick.

One day, he and Harry will sit down and have a chat about his friend volunteering him for things, but that’s a discussion for a later time.

The sweet old lady two doors down directed him here, to the right apartment number, and outwardly wondered about “Charlotte never mentioning a boyfriend,” to which Dick had to speedily correct her.

Now he’s staring at the door with the peeling paint and the peephole and the golden “6D” on the front, trying to surmise the courage to knock on the door, as if this is anything more than what it is. It’s just a cabinet, Dick, Harry’s voice is an annoyingly correct echo in his skull — and he wraps his knuckle on the door, cringing when he thinks it’s too heavy-handed.

There’s some shuffling, a hushed swear, and then the door opens, just enough to see the chain, and a pair of dark eyes meeting his.

“Oh! Dick just — give me a second,” The door slams, there’s a clicking of a lock, and then it opens again, Charlie in the doorway in a dark blue crewneck sweater and faded jeans. “Alright, come in. Pretend you don’t see the mess.”

He steps into the apartment, recognizing that scene from Dirty Dancing playing on the small TV, the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and a handful of children’s toys littering the floor. Barbies with their clothes strewn about, a discarded teddy bear, and an unfinished game of Candyland — the blue gingerbread man is, evidently, the winner. Dick grins a little bit, looking over to her — and the way her cheeks almost seem to flush is a sight to see.

“Do I need to cover your eyes or something?” The thought of her hands on his face is… not an unwelcome one. Less in the light of covering his eyes, but a hand on his cheek, maybe. He gestures to the TV, to Patrick Swayze laid out on the floor.

“It’s Annie’s favorite scene.” He offers, and that gets a smile out of her.

“Should get her in contact with Hazel then. She has me watching this once a week,” She guides him into the kitchen, with the toolbox on the countertop, and sure enough, an old cabinet door with broken hinges. He looks back, at the flush returning to her cheeks. “I’d do it myself but…” she waves her hand, flippantly, at the two bandaged fingers that she’d ended up with after that heavy apartment door slammed on them.

She came to the gym fuming and Dick wrapped those fingers himself — they took a rain check on training, which she begrudgingly agreed to.

“I don’t mind.” Dick affirms, with what he hopes to be a reassuring smile. Charlie nods at that, leaning against the small table. She went through the work of buying new hinges and the right sized screws, it was just a matter of fixing it now. He’s a little grateful for his father’s refusal to ever call a repairman and his insistence on showing Dick how to do this stuff in his teens.

They lapse into comfortable silence — Charlie pours apple juice into mismatched cups. Real high-society stuff here, trust me, she drawls as she tucks the Motts bottle back into the fridge beside him. He’ll catch her staring every now and again, as she works around him with the sort of precision he can only assume comes from living in a seven-person household. Sometimes her gaze is on his arm, or his face, the screw he’s holding in his teeth, and they won’t say anything of it but her cheeks will flush scarlet and something in Dick will stir. He doesn’t know if it’s pride or nerves. He doesn’t care.

He… likes seeing her that way — the one blushing, instead of him. And the color is lovely when it’s dusted on her cheeks like that.

IV.

There’s a lot of things about New York that make his head spin.

The way people will scurry across crosswalks even during the greenlight, the impossible parking, the way she draws her curtains at night to keep the bright lights of the city out (and even then, cars will honk all through the night regardless). It’s busy and it’s loud and it’s nothing like rural Pennsylvania.

But there’s a welcomed quiet here, in her bathroom of all places. She’s propped up on the sink, one of his flannels tucked tastefully into faded jeans, her fingers grazing his skin. He swears this is the only place where his routines get disrupted, and one of the few places where he doesn’t actually mind it. So if he forgoes shaving a couple of times — getting her like this just makes it worth it.

She’s doing away with the beginnings of his beard in slow strokes, lips pulled into a pout, her fingers tilting his chin for a better look at what she’s doing.

Dick likes the feeling of her hands on his face. She likes knowing that her touch is still gentle — even with the scabbed knuckles and the callouses. It’s a win-win, really.

“So what’s the plan for today?” he asks, because she doesn’t hit the gym until six, and she has the day off today, too. She looks at him through her long dark lashes.

“Paulina wants to do ax-throwing in Brooklyn. She invited us — I think Alice might be going too, if you wanna give Lew some incentive. But Joe should be there anyways and if there’s Joe there’s gonna be Bill and so on and so forth,” Dick has to do his best not to shudder and break her concentration, but Charlie still snorts nonetheless. “It’s a birthday thing. Could be fun.”

“Can you guarantee I won’t get axed?” Dick poses, teasing.

“No but I can put a band-aid on it and kiss it better.”

“Mm. You may have to talk to Alby about that. He takes those Rugrats band-aids very seriously.”

At that, she pauses and laughs, tilting her head back for a moment and setting the razor to the side. Dick turns his half-shaven face to look at her — at the mark on her collarbone peaking just past his shirt, at the amused look in her eye, the smile stretching across her face. When she looks at him again, he reaches out to let his fingers graze the curve of her cheek.

“What is it?” She raises a brow at him, curious. Dick shakes his head.

“Nothing, just…” he lets his hand drop, leaning fully on the counter to bump their noses once. “You’re beautiful, y’know that?” It tumbles from his lips clumsily and unapologetically — he’s never been much of a smooth talker, but apparently it’s endearing.

Charlie smiles, and her face flushes, and it just further proves his point as she runs her hand down the shaved side of his face, and mutters a quiet thank you.

[butchfalin]

the funniest meltdown ive ever had was in college when i got so overstimulated that i could Not speak, including over text. one of my friends was trying to talk me through it but i was solely using emojis because they were easier than trying to come up with words so he started using primarily emojis as well just to make things feel balanced. this was not the Most effective strategy... until. he tried to ask me "you okay?" but the way he chose to do that was by sending "👉🏼👌🏼❓" and i was so shocked by suddenly being asked if i was dtf that i was like WHAT???? WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????????? and thus was verbal again

[thelaurenshippen]

watching bridgerton and obviously there were a lot of things wrong with the way socializing has worked in the past, but honestly the idea of a "calling hour" is so appealing. office hours for friendship. you can show up unannounced at my home between 1 and 3pm. you must leave by 3pm. I may give you a pastry. lets bring that back

[lazylittledragon]

some domestic shadowlachs <33

[hinamie]

10 years later

[greykolla-art]

My blog has become infested with angst goblins, and they must be fed with some hypothetical scenarios!🙏💚

[krysmcscience]

I have some questions about karaoke night, Alex Hirsch. Very Important Questions. Which I will happily scream at a poor hapless baby triangle who can have no answers for me, and possibly also does not have object permanence yet.

Follow-up that is I guess suggestive, but let's be real here, Bill's a fucking triangle:

Dude slipped right into his birthday suit, lmao

this is so stupid :D

Anyway, I don't care what anyone says, this brilliant individual knows what's up - Bill is absolutely way more of a monsterfucker than Ford could or ever will be, full stop.

[malenjoyer]

WE'RE SO BACK

[artkaninchenbau]

A h-heartfelt reunion..?

Bonus

[jaylynx1412]

taiyaki is so overrated it drives me insane

[hansoeii]

crowley

[inkskinned]

because sometimes there are invisible tests and invisible rules and you're just supposed to ... know the rule. someone you thought of as a friend asks you for book recommendations, so you give her a list of like 30 books, each with a brief blurb and why you like it. later, you find out she screenshotted the list and send it out to a group chat with the note: what an absolute freak can you believe this. you saw the responses: emojis where people are rolling over laughing. too much and obsessive and actually kind of creepy in the comments. you thought you'd been doing the right thing. she'd asked, right? an invisible rule: this is what happens when you get too excited.

you aren't supposed to laugh at your own jokes, so you don't, but then you're too serious. you're not supposed to be too loud, but then people say you're too quiet. you aren't supposed to get passionate about things, but then you're shy, boring. you aren't supposed to talk too much, but then people are mad when you're not good at replying.

you fold yourself into a prettier paper crane. since you never know what is "selfish" and what is "charity," you give yourself over, fully. you'd rather be empty and over-generous - you'd rather eat your own boundaries than have even one person believe that you're mean. since you don't know what the thing is that will make them hate you, you simply scrub yourself clean of any form of roughness. if you are perfect and smiling and funny, they can love you. if you are always there for them and never admit what's happening and never mention your past and never make them uncomfortable - you can make up for it. you can earn it.

don't fuck up. they're all testing you, always. they're tolerating you. whatever secret club happened, over a summer somewhere - during some activity you didn't get to attend - everyone else just... figured it out. like they got some kind of award or examination that allowed them to know how-to-be-normal. how to fit. and for the rest of your life, you've been playing catch-up. you've been trying to prove that - haha! you get it! that the joke they're telling, the people they are, the manual they got- yeah, you've totally read it.

if you can just divide yourself in two - the lovable one, and the one that is you - you can do this. you can walk the line. they can laugh and accept you. if you are always-balanced, never burdensome, a delight to have in class, champagne and glittering and never gawky or florescent or god-forbid cringe: you can get away with it.

you stare at your therapist, whom you can make jokes with, and who laughs at your jokes, because you are so fucking good at people-pleasing. you smile at her, and she asks you how you're doing, and you automatically say i'm good, thanks, how are you? while the answer swims somewhere in your little lizard brain:

how long have you been doing this now? mastering the art of your body and mind like you're piloting a puppet. has it worked? what do you mean that all you feel is... just exhausted. pick yourself up, the tightrope has no net. after all, you're cheating, somehow, but nobody seems to know you actually flunked the test. it's working!

aren't you happy yet?

[spitblaze]

I guess Chilchuck has brought us right back to 'adults who are short are child-coded and if you like them you're a pedophile' discourse huh

[chloesimaginationthings]

"They call it the MANGLE" - FNAF 2 phone guy

[cozylittleartblog]

"content creator" is a corporate word.

we are artists.