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netherfeildren · 1 year

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FEAR OF GOD: Chapter VII: For: Before

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: Fate and irony make for strange bedfellows.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: canon typical violence; explicit descriptions of injuries; gore; PTSD

A/N: Art is Cupid Making His Bow (detail) by Parmigianino (c. 1533-1535)

Word Count: 5.3K

Read on AO3

CHAPTER VII: For: Before

Grief is an amputation, but hope is an incurable hemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed. -David Mitchell, Slade House

You come to in increments, taking stock of your body, each limb, slowly, as consciousness re-enters your mind. The taste of iron sits heavy on your tongue, thick and viscous in your mouth, and your side is on fucking fire. Your breath starts to wheedle in and out of you quickly, each gulp a stoking of the flames, but you can’t control it – can’t seem to hold onto composure as you regain your senses. Your left shoulder is a sharp throbbing mangle of searing agony, and you can immediately tell from the way you’re laying on it that it’s been dislocated from your fall. You try to shift your legs, make sure you haven’t hurt your back, and yes, yes there, they’re moving, thank God. You stretch your left knee, shift your ankles slowly. Not broken, that’s good.

Your eyes flutter open – you’re laying in a small pool of your own blood, and the woman from the forest is sitting directly across from you; rifle propped up on her bent knee and pointed straight at you. Her abdomen is ripped open, savaged, the gleam of her entrails peeking through her clutching fingers, the edges of torn skin shredded as if hacked at with a serrated knife. The sight makes your stomach turn.

“Fucking finally,” she spits. Her voice is a guttural whisper.

You swallow several times, try to find your voice again. “Where’s Noah? Vero?” You tilt your head up, searching for them, only to be met with Vero’s open, empty stare inches away from you. You jerk back, scream caught in your throat, the abruptness of your movement makes your injuries howl in protest. A hoarse, mangled sound, half groan, half scream claws its way out of your throat.

“Yeah, she’s dead,” the woman deadpans. “You’re the girl from last night, aren’t you? From the woods?” You can’t answer, your voice is gone. The sight of Vero’s empty eyes – what will you tell the others? She clicks her fingers at you. “Hey,” she snaps, “Boy here said you’re a doctor. That true?” The gaping hole in her head – there’s chunks of her brain and skull splattered in the trajectory of the bullet behind her prone body. What will you tell the others? What will you tell the others? You should have never asked them to come out here. This is all your fault. “Noah. Where’s Noah?” You move to sit up fully.

“I asked you a fucking question,” she spits. “Is it true you’re a doctor?” There’s a small trickle of blood coming from her mouth. Her color, gray and ashen, breaths coming in short, gulping pants.

“You killed my friend…” your voice is hoarse and grating “You killed her.”

“Answer me!”

“I– yes, yes– I have some training. Where is he?” She jerks her chin behind you.

“I thought you all were with that group from last night – the ones that attacked us. Didn’t know it was you. And look what the boy’s done to me,” she looks down at her savaged abdomen, there’s such resigned disappointment in her voice. As if this is the greatest inconvenience in the world. You shift to turn, but she snaps, “Don’t even think about moving. My daughter – she’s six months old. I need you to take her.” Noah’s lying face down a few feet away from you. From here you can see that there’s a large laceration to his scalp, the flap of skin hanging grotesquely – exposing the slick bone of his skull beneath – bleeding profusely, a bullet wound to his left shoulder and his left leg is bent at a sickening angle. What the fuck did this woman do to him? But you can see the small, subtle rise and fall of his back, and there are no protruding bones from his leg, a good thing. The pool of blood beneath him is significant, but not a call for hopelessness. At least, you think so, from here, from what you can tell with just your eyes. But then her words penetrate the haze of your mind, the small grasp of concentration you’re tenuously hanging on to snaps to attention – the baby, the baby she had with her.

You turn back to her. “Where is she?”

“I’m –” she gasps, her words pain her – she’s losing time, “I’m not going to last much longer.” She lifts her arm, looks down at the brutal wound marring her belly, and a gush of dark red streams from her. “Seems to be more than just a little scratch, huh?” She lets out a small hysterical huff of laughter.

“Where is she?” you say again, more forcefully.

“There’s an abandoned cabin – about fifty yards in that direction,” she jerks her chin, “I hid her there.” The rifle is starting to slip off her knee.

“Alone? You left her alone?”

“Didn’t have much of a choice, did I? Her father was killed. Those fucking animals last night, they found us – killed him. Couldn’t wait around like a sitting duck, couldn’t hunt with h– her on me. Doesn’t matter–” Her words are starting to slur. “But if you’re a doctor y’can take her. No one she’d be– be better off with. Please, please, you have to take her.”

“You don’t even know me. What I do means nothing–”

“I saw your face last night. I recognized you…”

“Recognized me? What do you mean you recognized me?” A terrible sense of premonition begins to churn deep in your gut, and the words out of your mouth are hysterical because she’s right, and you know exactly what she means. Somehow, somehow, it was like you’d known her, even though you’d never laid eyes on this woman or her child before in your life. But there was something, some sort of preternatural call you’d heard from her. As insane as it sounded, you’d recognized her also.

“Don’t know… just– just did…” her head lolls over the hill of her shoulder, and you watch her glazed eyes stare off into the distance. She mumbles something else you can’t make out.

Your mind feels broken, your body just as mangled. You have enough foresight left to register that if you don’t stop the bleeding in your side soon, reset your shoulder – restore the blood flow you can tell is disrupted by the tingling numbness that’s starting in your fingertips – that things are going to get very bad and very complicated for you, very soon.

“Her name is Kate,” she says with the last of her strength. That snaps you back into focus.

Kate.

“Yes– yes, I’ll take her.” Because there is nothing else to say. Because there is nothing else to do – no other choice. You’d known, since last night, since you’d heard that high pitched cry of terror, that this was what you were moving towards. Perhaps that was why it was so easy to leave this morning, despite everything else. Perhaps that was why there was no doubt, no thought for the concern you’d leave behind because you knew, somehow, in some preternatural way, that this was what was waiting for you. She seems to almost deflate at your agreement. All the urgency and fight leaving her eyes like you’d just pulled the string of a lamp. “That– that’s good,” her eyes flutter shut, finally resting. “That’s good,” she whispers.

You begin to shift, get ready to move, pushing Vero’s dead body from your mind, you can’t dwell on that right now – shoulder first, you think. “Knew – knew last night,” her words are stuttered, almost incoherent. You sit more firmly on your bottom and bend your knees to find purchase with your feet spread apart on the hard ground – slowly you begin to slide your jacket from your back. “S– Some– something in your ey– eyes.”

You keep your sight on her as you fold the sleeve of your jacket into your mouth to bite down on. She’s going to die soon – minutes, seconds, is all she has left. The pool of her blood surrounds her completely now, a macabre barricade for the place of her death. You lay back, flat on the ground, shoulders level, feet planted, knees bent, and slowly start to pull your left arm up with your right one – it really, really fucking hurts, and your stomach heaves, bile stinging in your throat, vision wavering, tears burning. You swallow a cry, bear down harder on the jacket, press your feet hard into the ground, as you straighten the arm with your other hand. Slowly, slowly, you can feel the joint making the painful shift. You can’t pass out, you can’t pass out, please, please, you can’t. You hear Joel’s soothing voice in your mind, my brave girl, the feel of his palm enveloping your cheek. You have to be brave now. Noah needs you, there’s a baby waiting for you. Kate. You focus your mind on the thought of her, what she might look like, trying to dissociate from the feel of the rotating ball of your bone shifting back into place – muscles screaming with fire, your flesh shooting bolts of pain down the lines of your back and up into your neck and head. Your movements are gentle but firm, and you feel the joint settle in place. You open your clenched eyes, she’s staring in your direction, eyes starting to take on the far away look of death, like a small light being snuffed out.

“Good job,” she whispers it like she’d laugh a little if she still had it in her. “I really loved her…” A single tear makes a slow track down the side of her face. You watch her hand laying on the ground twitch, “My name’s An– Anna.” And then she’s dead. That feeling of premonition comes to a screeching head, makes your heart drop into your stomach.

Fucking irony. If you had it in you right now, you’d cry for them all. Anna.

You find that Noah has another bullet wound low to the right side of his abdomen, besides the one through his shoulder. Both seem to be bleeding steadily, but thankfully, slowly. The one in his belly, low and lateral enough for you to guess, based on your approximated path of trajectory, is not life threateningly concerning, at this moment, if you can get them closed soon. His head is bleeding much more profusely, and poses the greater concern. You quickly realize that the leg is pulseless and will need to be reduced as soon as possible. You need to get out of the open before you do anything, though. You’re too vulnerable here.

You manage to coax one of the horses down to the ground for you to pull him onto its back. Doing it one handed is difficult, but you have to avoid using your hurt arm as much as possible. If you make it worse you run the risk of losing function in the limb forever. The pain and exertion is making you delusional. You keep hearing Joel’s voice through the trees. Beth’s dying screams. Fucking concerning that you’re already hallucinating. Vero’s body will have to be left, there’s no other option. You need to get to the baby and tend to Noah as soon as possible. A constant litany of prayer is running through your exhausted mind, that she’s still in the cabin, that you’re even able to find the goddamn cabin, that she’s okay, that no one’s found her, that no one else finds you, that you can save Noah, that you don’t pass out. You wish Joel was here so badly.

But he’s not. The only one here right now to help Noah and that baby is you.

You start to move.

You find her in the cabin, exactly where her mother said she’d be. And as you take her into your exhausted embrace, as you take in her little face, the big blue eyes, dark lashes, wet and clumped together, the little cherub mouth, it’s like everything around you is screaming: the wind, the trees, your heart.

Your choice to leave, your choice to go after this baby, your choice to walk away from him, even when you would rather die than do such a thing, to risk the tragedy of him not following – it feels worth it in this second. You’d thought once that nothing would ever be able to take you away from him, but as you look down at Kate’s little face, you realize, she is worth it. Coming out into this hell alone, if only to find her, this is worth the possible loss of everything else. This is what I was meant to do, you realize.

Anna had left a pack of supplies with her, fairly well stocked. Shockingly, with several canisters of formula, God knows where she’d found those. You set water to boil while you prep your supplies.

Stitching the slash of the bullet wound to your side proves more difficult one handed, than you’d imagined, but you manage it – thanking every higher power you’ve ever heard of for the fact that it’s only a flesh wound. The blood loss you’ve experienced will pose a problem soon, you need to work fast before it catches up to you and the adrenaline wears off. You inspect your butchered stitch job once you’re done, not your best work, but at least it’s closed and doused in the alcohol you’d packed in your kit – albeit minimally. Noah needs it more.

You reduce his leg first, which restores pulses to his foot – good sign. The muscles are malleable, the color of his skin normal, another good sign. You’ll have to watch for stiffness, though. You say a silent prayer of thanks that the fracture hadn’t pierced the skin. That would’ve been something you’d worry you’d not be able to save him from. Next are the two bullet holes. Both are through and through, and the trajectory of both are optimistically positioned. You douse both in alcohol and stitch them up. Then you shoot the both of you up with penicillin from your pack. Over-preparedness is truly the gift that keeps on giving. You give your past self a metaphorical pat on the back. The laceration to his scalp is closed quickly, as well. No obvious fracture to the bone underneath.

He mumbles a few slurred words, but other than that, he remains unconscious. Kate is sleeping peacefully after her bottle, and you know you need to rest too. Although, it would be incredibly shortsighted to fall asleep right now, your body isn’t giving you much choice. Your aches and pains and the blood loss are all catching up to you, and you’re fading incredibly fast. You fashion yourself a makeshift sling, and then pull the lone table in the room in front of the door, barricading yourselves in. If anyone tries to break in, you hope you’ll hear the jostling of the piece of furniture, and then you drag Noah’s body to the farthest corner of the room and place Kate’s little bundle between the two of you. You lay down between the two of them and the door. You’ll just rest your eyes for a while, rest your body, you won’t fall asleep. You only need to lay still for a few moments, you’ll feel better after that.

You told Maria you’d be back tonight, promised not to be gone after dark. When she sees the three of you haven’t returned she’ll send someone out. As soon as Joel realized you’d gone, he’d probably come out to search. You hope. His words from last night ring in your ears, but you can’t think of that now. Despite what he’d said, despite wanting you to go, he can’t have wanted this for you. You hope last night’s damage isn’t irreparable. That he hasn’t decided to be completely done with you. And that thought jump starts your anger. If that’s what he’s decided, well then fuck him. You feel the small warm press of Kate’s little body up against your back, and despite the position you now find yourself in, you can’t regret your decision to come out here, to come find her. You have bigger things to consider now. You press your hand to your belly, to the fear you’ve carried with you these past few weeks. Much, much bigger things to worry about now.

You dream of him. Over and over. His face swimming through the dark lake of your unconscious mind. There’s a house somewhere, shrouded by trees. You know somehow that there’s water near, and you think that this must be his home. You know he’s somewhere near, but as you walk through the lonely house, you can’t seem to catch up to him. He stands just outside the scope of your dream vision. You want to ask why he’s here, if this is his house, if you live here with him too. But he won’t answer your questions. His omniscient voice keeps telling you to not forget, over and over, he repeats it. Don’t forget, Birdie, don’t forget, don’t forget. And you want to scream that you don’t know what he’s talking about, that you don’t know what it is you’re not supposed to forget, but suddenly your voice won’t work anymore. All you can do is continue to follow the possibility of him, around another and another corner of the house.

You come to a room suddenly, with an old couple within. They sit alone, side by side, looking out a window that faces upon a wide, green field. You wonder if perhaps they’re his parents, but something tells you that’s wrong. His parents? No – they’re someone else. Someone you know but can’t place in your mind just yet. You’ll think on it, you’re sure it’ll come to you eventually. They sit quietly, holding hands. You can ask them no questions either, so you sit on the floor, knees pressed to your chest, slightly behind them, watching them look out the window. Their silence is so comforting, as if they’ve been sitting here their entire lives, as if they will always be sitting here.

You pass out for longer than you’d intended. Startling awake out of a dead sleep, scrambling on the cold ground at the sound of Kate’s sharp, piercing cries. You can feel her little wiggling form at your side, and you wrap an arm around her to pull her up onto your chest, her squirming settling as your warmth seeps into her. The inside of the cabin is freezing, and your mind is so hazy, your entire body screaming in pain. The sun coming through the murky window is bright with the light of afternoon. Fuck, you’d slept much, much longer than you’d intended, it’s probably the next day now. You turn your head towards Noah, passed out, but still breathing.

“Noah,” you croak, and his head shifts a tiny bit at your voice, eyelids fluttering. You need to move, need to get up and feed the baby. Try and get the three of you home. You need to find the strength to do so.

You manage to force your body into moving, slow and painful. You give her another bottle and examine Noah one last time before leaving. His wounds are holding up well, pulses still present in his leg. He’s strong, you know he’ll survive. You force yourself to eat something small from your pack and load the horses. The exertion of doing everything with half of your dexterity compromised is excruciating, but you manage it.

The real issue now’ll be finding your way back. Plagued by a lifelong poor sense of direction, you’re hopelessly turned around after last night’s struggle, but you think that if you keep east you’ll find your way eventually. If someone else doesn’t find you first.

Dawn creeps over the horizon, the sky a meld of pinks and blues, orange streaked, as if smeared by the fingers of a child. Your rational mind seems to have abandoned you miles back. Your blood a bread crumb trail leading back to the site of death, of catastrophe, you’d left behind. Vero, Vero, I’m so sorry. Your haphazard stitches popped a ways back with the exertion of getting Noah’s unconscious form draped onto the back of his horse again and yourself on to yours. Your body sways with the cadence of the horse's pace. You’ve tied your left hand loosely to the pommel, in case you lose consciousness and fall off again. But despite all this, the baby is tucked into the front of your jacket up against your breast, sleeping and warm, and Noah is still breathing. You’re still breathing. That’s all you can care about, all you can focus on now. You pray no one you don’t want finding you comes upon the three of you. You’re certain there’s nothing left within you to fight anyone if you need to. You keep hoping you’ll miraculously come upon Joel. That he’ll find you somehow. That whatever connects the two of you, whatever has always prevented the two of you from staying away, leads him to you now.

For the first time in years you’re able to recall the exact cadence of your mothers voice. Keep going, sweet girl. Just a little longer, you can do it. She was always gentle and understanding of your sensitive nature. Always understood that you were the child who liked to color inside the lines, follow the rules. That your heart was soft and easily hurt, but that there was strength and steel within you, as well. It only needed a little coaxing to be lured out. Sometimes Beth and your father, for all he liked to exploit your obedience, made it seem like this was a weakness, but not your mother. Never her. She always reassured you that it was your greatest strength, your greatest asset. That a soft heart never meant weakness, if anything a wealth of patience, of tenacity, of understanding and care for the world around you could only ever bring you good things. She always encouraged you to push that heart to greater lengths, greater realms of understanding, but to never let anyone take advantage of it. You hoped you’d done as she wanted, so far. That she’d be proud.

The mountains in the distance look so terrifying. They whisper at you that you’ll never make your way back. That the three of you are going to die out here. That you’re not strong enough to find your way home. That you’ll never see him again.

Your mind flits from place to place, like a butterfly nursing on the nectar of a sea of flowers. You think of your mother, the feel of her soft hair. The years of study – you’d tried for so long to be perfect, you’re sure you never achieved it. Connie’s familiar scent of peppermint and mothballs and paper. I would not like to see your choices taken from you once again. Beth, your last night together. Your shared childhood room, the drawings of stars you’d glued to the ceiling. The two of you would lie on the floor of that room with the soft pink walls and look up at your pictures, imagine constellations connected between the lines of your made-up heavens. That last night she was alive, lying together under the open sky, you’d connected the real stars in the hanging darkness, mapped the constellations out. Planned for a future together you’d never have.

Why do non-reasons sometimes feel so much more urgent than actual reasons? Like the things you really want, the things that are truly important to you, get pushed to the back burner in favor of things that never really mattered in the first place. Joel. The two of you should have just figured it out. Been more open, more honest, less afraid. The feel of his hands on your skin – you wish you had them now. You can’t help but wonder if you’d done anything different, even a single thing, if the outcome would have changed. If you could have eased his fears, if you could have helped him be a little braver. If you had been braver, if you’d had the courage to just ask for what you wanted out loud, if he’d have readily given it to you then. You’re terrified you’ll never see him again, never make it back, never hear his voice again, never get the chance to tell him all the things you need to.

You think you get lost several times. Too delirious to properly navigate your way back home with any real sense of direction, the sun sets and rises more times than you have a mind to pay attention to, it seems like. You feel like the three of you ride aimlessly for days, years. You get to a point where you can’t even soothe Kate’s desperate, hungry cries, and eventually the only thing keeping you balanced on the horse is your sheer force of will, the thought that if you fall, you’ll crush her.

Eventually, you assume it’s her cries that draws them near, that helps them find you. Because suddenly, out of the dead quiet of night, you hear shouts of what you think you remember your name to be. It’s a little lost to you now. Who you are. You don’t know if Noah’s still alive – haven’t had the mind or strength to even turn your head back to check if his chest still moves. The only thing that exists anymore is the sway of the horse beneath you, Kate’s wailing.

And then your name, being shouted out of the yawning darkness, and you think you hear him. The deep cadence of his voice, so familiar to you. You think you could recognize it even if you weren’t yourself anymore – through anything, time, space, death. The sound of his voice is like the sound of your own beating heart – it lives inside of you now.

You hear a pounding, pounding, pounding – the sounds of war, and you flinch away, curl your screaming arm around the baby. Even if you’re dead, you still have to protect her. And then there are lights and movement surrounding you, and it’s too much for your broken and exhausted mind, and you’re falling, melting off the side of the earth.

Gravity overtakes your body, takes you away with it, and you brace yourself for the agony of your injuries screaming against the hard earth, but then he’s there. You recognize the strength of him immediately – his scent, the pressure of his touch, before you hear his voice pressed against your ear. The precious bundle clutched protectively in your arms screams at being jostled, stolen, starved, frozen, traumatized, and the wound in your side writhes with fire. You could howl into the frigid night air if your voice still worked. You grit your teeth together, jaw clenched so tight it feels on the verge of fracture.

You press the baby tighter to your breast as you feel Joel’s arms lower you slowly to the ground. Your head is a two ton weight, unbearable to sustain. You’re bleeding heavily. You can feel the hot, slick warmth of your blood pool and mingle with the cold, wet grime of your clothes and the dirt beneath you as he settles you between his legs. You’re fading fast, and you have the sudden, jarring thought that if you die, this little girl will be alone. You promised her mother you’d take care of her, and now you’re bleeding, and your body won’t fucking listen to you, won’t get up and do what it needs to – to take care of her, protect her. Joel’s voice is a panicked buzz in your ears, you can hear your name on his lips. His hands gripping and pressing along your body checking for injuries. You cry out in pain as he comes into contact with your wound, and you’re gasping out his name then – a pleading litany you need him to recognize. His horrified gasp comes as his hands find the dark vermillion of your blood. “Come on, baby, please.” Your moans are high and pleading, and his panic answers yours, clashes and twines with it. “I know, baby, I know.” He clutches you tighter against his body, and you want to say that you’re sorry. That you didn’t mean for this to happen. That you never meant to make him go through a hurt like this again.

“I know it hurts – you’re gonna be okay. Listen to me, I gotta get you up. I gotta get you up, alright?” he says over and over again in your ear. You wish you could just be quiet together for a moment. That you never had to move again. Just the two of you here together, just for a little bit.

“Tommy, help me!” He’s shouting. He’s afraid again. You can hear it. You wish you could open your eyes, look at him one more time.

Birdie, I love you. Birdie, Birdie, my Birdie.

No other words matter in this moment. The encroaching darkness echoes with his confession, soothes your blistering agony. You will hold on to that, you decide, hold on to him telling you he loves you. That will anchor you.

He’s been here before. His panic is full blown, screeching in his ears, his heart a fist punching against his chest, his worst nightmares come to fruition again. Searching for you for days without success. It didn’t make sense, he was always supposed to be able to find you, always, always, no matter what. The most terrible, gripping fear he’s ever experienced in his entire life. And now finally, here you are, he’s found you, but your blood covers his hands. The sight so abhorrent to him it drives all sound, thought, understanding from his mind. Sarah, dead in his arms, again and again and again. The sick fucking vision of the person he loves slipping away from him eternally. Her big brown eyes, vacant, and her purple t-shirt, the one he never forgot, made dark with the gruesome sight of her blood. Never being able to stop it. Your head lolls back at a sick angle, your eyes flutter behind your closed lids. The skin tinged blue with the hue of your veins, stark against your shockingly pale skin. And then he sees the baby – tucked inside the zipper of your jacket, her wails not having registered in his mind until the moment his eyes meet her big, wet blue ones – and he freezes. “Birdie, who is that?” he whispers, tries to grip your jaw, but his fingers are slippery with your blood, leaving horrifying streaks of rust in their wake across your pale, frigid skin. It’s a baby.

“Joel… please,” you can’t open your eyes even though you so badly need to look at him, to reassure him, you don’t know if he can even hear you, “I promised her mother…” Your voice feels invisible, broken. You think of Ellie, what she must have been like as a little girl, her face comes into your mind. She’d told you once her mother’s name was Anna.

Anna, Anna, Anna.

Fucking irony. You want to laugh or cry or scream, but all you feel is the slide of a tear track back into your hair. The universe has a sick and twisted sense of humor. You think of how hard it is now for you to recall your own mother’s face some days. You hope she and Joel can forgive each other. You think about how fate robbed you of a sister but gave you Ellie, gave you Connie, Joel. You hope the world can gift Kate someone like that one day.

He’s still there, his voice begging you to come back to him. You don’t want to fail him. He loves you.

And then nothing. Darkness.

Chapter VIII

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

#FoG fic #joel miller #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fic #Pedro pascal #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller/reader #joel miller/you #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fic #joel miller imagine #Joel Miller smut #joel miller x female reader

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anexistingexistence · 1 year

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Angel, Asher, Darlin, Damien, and Elliott are the "scary and threatening and very very very intimidating" blankie monster that hides under the blanket and you can only see their face from the nose upward and half of a hand while they refuse to leave bed.

David and Sunshine are the insistent type who will get their partner out of bed one way or another.

Baabe and Sam know it will take some time to get their grumpy/lazy mate out of bed, so they leave and come back to tempt them with food ten minutes later.

Huxley just straight up gives in and cuddles with Damien until he realizes that his lying and hiding in bed has made him late for something and has him jump out from under his blanket cave and rush through the house to get ready.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted headcanons #redacted angel #redacted asher #redacted darlin #redacted damien #redacted elliott #redacted david #redacted sunshine #redacted babe #redacted sam #redacted huxley

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allastoredeer · 4 months

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Heyo so I have no idea if this is anything interesting for you so feel free to delete BUT

I've seen some radioapple family!Coraline fanart recently (the idea of the Beldam taking Alastors form is terrifying <3)

And it inspired a mostly canon compliant Alastor-as-Coraline AU which adds some complicated layers to his and Husks relationship, seeing as the only comfort Alastor had against the Beldam was a black cat also voiced by Keith David, and so Alastor both associates Husk with comfort and constantly reminded of that realllyyyyy traumatic part of his life

The only reason he was tempted by the Beldam was because she didn't try to play his mother but rather offered him a place for her to live without prejudice (just straight up lying to him) as long as he stayed as well (so she can eat his soul slowly but you know, details)

(The Beldam/the other world/the door beasty would probably be some kind of left over Thing from before Eve ate the apple, seeing as they're kind of an in-between space)

Anyway I thought you might enjoy it ┐⁠(⁠ ⁠∵⁠ ⁠)⁠┌ it could easily mix and match with radioapple, I love traumatising my boys!

I only watched Coraline once in my entire life, so I understood, like, half of this. But YO! I didn't know that Keith David voiced the black cat in it! That's so cool!

From what I remember about the movie, I can totally see Alastor being the "Other Mother." Especially with her setting up all those challenges and riddles for Coraline toward the end.

I'd love to see the art you came across if you find it again!! That sounds awesome!

#coraline!au #OtherMother!Alastor #he'd make a wonderful mother #wouldn't you guys agree?#you know #if Alastor were to be a parent #in my fanon and how I see him #I think he would honestly prefer to go by “mother” other than “father”#I actually have a wip/concept that uses that :3 #one day I will get to all my wips #one day #mark my words #asks #rabb-te

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llynwen · 6 months

Note

hey I saw your tags abt reading the MM book too and I desperately need to hear abt it from more ppl that also shoved it up their ass. Thoughts?

oh brother you have no idea just how many thoughts i have about it.

i really didn't wanna read the book because i knew it was going to make me go insane, but then a friend of mine who i'm trying to force to watch the show (i beg of you martyna. it's so good) decided to get it for me for my birthday.

from the very first few fucking pages i was Perplexed, to put it lightly. i was expecting a light and breezy autobiography with some silly childhood anecdotes and maybe behind the scenes tea about the hollywood crowd. Instead i was served almost 300 pages of trauma dumping, philosophical ruminations and some very TMI info that i wish i never read. i rated this book 5/5 on goodreads btw.

the first thing that really knocked me on my ass was this (i'm ignoring the ketchup story i DON'T want to think about that)

this should've given me an idea about that kind of book this was gonna be. yet i continued on, blindly, thinking, okay maybe he just wanted to get that out there. more power to him. whatever. (not really).

then the motherfuckers starts explaining his little philosophy, the titular green lights, right? and i'm like, yeah. i agree. you're correct. but why did it take you 50 years to figure this out? i'm 24 and i've been living by this very logic for years. Anyways. i continue reading.

now, bro spends half the book trying to convince us his parents were NOT abusive. i disagree. i think he has stockholm syndrome. i hope he's in therapy. i don't wanna think about this either.

now, this is where i started catching on that he was lying to me. i know it took me an embarrassingly long time, but i was giving him the benefit of the doubt. the undead parrot and the 13 story tree house, however, was what made me go Wait A Damn Minute.

yeah, turns out this book isn't a memoir, it's a mix between a magical realism novel, a self help handbook and a philosophical treaty. served to you on really nice paper (i mean Really nice. i appreciate that) with important words in bold, italics or even sometimes in green (which i appreciate even more, since i am tragically dyslexic).

after establishing that all men do is, in fact, lie, i gained a different outlook on the whole thing (i swear i need to read it again, this time in full englit major mode, make some notes and dissect this thing like it's shakespeare).

i like how candid he is about kind of getting lucky with the whole famous thing. he really took that slutty slutty waist and peculiar bone structure of his and said I'm Gonna Make A Career Out Of This. good for him.

he is, however, just a man, and at the end of the day, you can really tell he sees the world through his privilege. the white straight cis christian rich and famous thing kinda sways him into obnoxious territory in some parts, and it had me seething with rage. like, i too would love to go hike through south america because it came to me in a dream. i'd looooove to go visit my favorite unknown artist in a country on the other side of the world. i was half hoping to read about a piranha biting his shlong off when he went skinny dipping in the motherfucking amazon. (un)fortunately, no dice.

the david and goliath story made me chuckle out loud. he makes it Just believable enough to make you think about it. i like being made to think.

the philosophics continue in the form of the single most cursed wall of chicken scratches i ever did see. i sat there, straining my eyes, trying to decipher this shit, and i'm pretty sure he was on something when he wrote it because all of this

could be summed up with "you've gotta leave your comfort zone to learn more about yourself and the world." suck my cock dude.

i Really like how he talks about his wife. but then again, when you look at her, there really isn't any other way of talking about her.

i mean. how the Fuck did his stinky ass pull this goddess. lucky bastard.

now, the 3ish pages where he talks about filming the show (which was the whole reason i even started reading) are criminally underwhelming. i was hoping for a sneak peak into that elusive 450 page manuscript (i will Steal your laptop matthew. watch out), but instead i got a one liner of him being like i wanna play rusty because he's the specialest little girl in the whole entire world and the producers going yeah fine. THAT'S IT. still mad about this, especially because after that he hits you with the love letter to new orleans. i mean be serious. he should Not be allowed to write shit like that.

to summarize, i think he might be a genius, or he might be insane. he is probably both. i want to shove this book up his ass for many reasons, for example him making me learn the names of his kids (i hate knowing things about celebrity kids. leave them out of this) or for making me agree with him. because i do. agree. I don't appreciate his continued efforts to convert me to christianity and i think he's disgustingly obnoxious in some places, but the truth is he has a real cool outlook on a lot of things and i'm very mad that i now respect this bastard for more than his acting skills. i would like to buy him a six pack and listen to him talk about it. i'd love to argue with him, too. i can recommend this book to everybody who feels like they need to experience some psychic damage and maybe an existentialist crisis alongside it. on Very Nice Paper.

#i can never think about lord byron the same #damn you matthew #banger of a read for realsies #ask #matthew mcconaughey

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player1064 · 6 months

Note

Thought I was being clever saying june 04 por favor however it has been posted already 😬🤣 1997 if u please ?

WIP asks but it's just the various sections of my happy (???) beville (/angsty carraville) WIP

this section's not Completely finished yet but I do like what I've got so far so sure I'll post it...

---

March, 1997.

Two of the Spice Girls are at Old Trafford. Gary wishes they weren’t, and not just because it’s got the Boss grumbling about unnecessary press attention. No, he wishes they weren’t because they’re meant to be lining up in the tunnel any second now but all anyone in the dressing room is talking about is the fucking Spice Girls. Never mind the match they need to go out and win.

See that posh one, there, echoes David’s voice in his head, even out on the pitch. At one point he makes the mistake of looking up at the stands, at the box that half the match photographers have their cameras pointed at. I could marry her, Gaz.

The clean sheet he gets does little to keep his mind off it.

Once they’re done with press and have all showered and changed, the team starts to filter into the player’s lounge, most of them heading straight to the bar to claim the single beer they’re permitted after a win. Gary finds he doesn’t have the stomach for it, though, when he realises that even here isn’t safe - Posh and Sporty Spice enter soon after the players do, to a round of cheers and a dozen footballers crowding around them making bids for their attention.

Worse still, the posh one extracts herself from the throng and makes a beeline to the corner where he and Becks are sitting, perches herself on the arm of David’s chair and sticks a hand out in greeting.

“You’re David Beckham,” she says, and Gary has to hold himself back from rolling his eyes. How many beers can such a tiny body process, anyway?

David shakes her hand and looks her up and down with a grin. “And you’re Posh Spice. You a United fan, then?”

“Something like that,” she says. “Call me Victoria, by the way. I was there when you scored that goal against Chelsea last month, very impressive.”

Gary quickly excuses himself, though neither of them seem to have remembered he’s there, and he heads out the longue and back to the dressing room, lies down across one of the benches and waits.

Fuck. He’s fucked.

He’s got his eyes closed and is starting to let himself doze off a bit when he hears steps coming into the dressing room and David’s voice saying “what’re you doing hiding in ‘ere, Gaz?”

Becks comes over to the bench he’s lying on and sits down, lifts Gary’s legs up to place them in his lap. Gary props himself up on one elbow and squints at him; according to the clock on the wall, it’s only been twenty minutes since he came down.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs flirting with the Spice Girls?” he asks.

David gives his shin a light slap at that. “Thought I’d best leave that to the experts,” he says with a wink. “So Giggsy’s taken over for me.”

“Twat, he’ll just scare them off,” Gary mumbles. Then, speaking up a bit: “Didn’t want more time with the future Mrs Beckham, then?”

“Huh?” David blinks dumbly. “What, you mean Victoria? Christ, Gaz, she’s a nice girl but she was a bit too tipsy to hold up much of a conversation. ‘sides, I told her when she tried to give me her number that I’m already with someone. Have been for two years now, actually.”

“Oh yeah? Anyone I might know?”

“Hmm, maybe. He can be a bit of a jealous prick, though, so I’d watch yourself.”

“He sounds awful.”

“He’s an absolute nightmare. I love him to bits.”

“Enough to turn down a Spice Girl?”

“Enough to turn down all five Spice Girls, if I ‘ave to.”

They’re still kissing lazily a while later when the door opens and Scholesy walks in with a scowl, muttering to himself ‘what even is a Spice Girl, anyway’. As soon as they hear him they spring apart, try to get some space between them, but by then it’s too late. Scholesy is stood frozen in the doorway, wide eyes staring at the two of them.

“Scholesy,” Gary breathes, at the same time as Becks is saying “Paul –”

Becks glances sideways at Gary and nods, as if to say you take this one.

“Scholesy, we –” he starts, then realises he has no idea what the hell he’s meant to say. We weren’t doing anything? That would be a blatant fucking lie. We were just celebrating the win? The game’s been over for an hour now. “We – I – please don’t tell anyone.”

He stares down at the ground, shuffles back towards David on the bench now that there’s no point trying to hide anything. He presses against his side, shifts his hand so he can link their pinkies together.

Scholesy huffs, then says “how long’ve we been friends, Gaz? Not fucked you over yet, have I?”

#ohhhh gary. oh gary. baby boy.#beville #wip asks

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vicvinegarandhughhoney · 7 months

Text

the harder the rain, honey the sweeter the sun

Fandom: AP Bio

Pairing: Jack Griffin/Lynette Hofstadter

Prompt: Motion Sickness

Jack gets motion sick. That's it.

(TW for vomit)

Read here or below the cut

“Ralph, if you do not let me sit at the front of this goddamn bus I swear I’m going home right now.”

Jack’s late to the school trip, because of course he is, and Lynette watches him from her window seat at the back of the bus with a bemused smile on her face. He's stood outside directly facing Durbin, arms crossed like an army staff sergeant even as his entitled behaviour spills over into brat territory. He apparently wants to sit at the front. Bad.

“I’m sorry, Jack, but you arrived nearly-” Durbin checks his watch. “Half an hour after you were supposed to get here- if you'd been here on time, I might have been able to get you a seat near the front, but I'm afraid there's nothing I can do now.”

Jack huffs exasperatedly, turning to glare at his front-seated opponents. “Half the kids up there could easily swap seats to somewhere further up the bus. It's ridiculous.”

Durbin shrugs. “Maybe, but they're all settled now. You’ll cause commotion if you try to change them all around like that. You know how many rivalries there are in high school, Jack? Hundreds.”

“I don't care whether they declare world war three because of me, Ralph! Just move them around!”

But for once, Durbin is putting his foot down. He shakes his head, and gestures to the door of the bus.

“Not possible. Now c’mon, man. Go sit down before you make things harder than they have to be.”

Lynette can tell Jack is pissed- he has that same vein popping in his neck which appears when someone criticises Henry David Thoreau. Still, he seems to consider admitting defeat on the bus front preferable to embarrassing himself by pushing it further, so with flaming cheeks he storms up the steps and down the aisle towards her. The moment he flops into the seat next to her, she arches a brow.

“Is it so bad sitting next to me?”

He sighs. Shakes his head gently, even as tension remains in every limb. “It’s not that, Lyns. I would’ve got you to sit next to me wherever in the bus we ended up.”

She frowns. “So? What's the big deal with sitting back here then?”

There's a split second where Jack’s cheeks flush even redder, right before he composes himself and shrugs.

“It’s… it’s nothing. Just- you get a better view from the front, s’all.”

A better view? She’s not about to press it, but God is he particularly bad at lying today.

The engine soon starts to rumble, and Durbin stands at the front of the bus to begin his spiel about seatbelts and behaviour. They’re going to the Toledo Museum of Art, not MOMA, but evidently the future reputation of Whitlock is at stake here. Durbin means business.

Jack seems a little distanced during the speech, which is to be expected. Lynette catches him fiddling with his buckle for a while, shifting in his seat to get comfortable, rummaging around in his bag, etc etc. At one point, she reaches out a hand to catch his, hovering as it is over a bracelet on his other arm that he's been slingshotting against his skin for a minute straight.

“Hey, you’re gonna hurt yourself if you're not careful.” She chides gently.

Jack doesn't say anything, merely rouges a little further and pulls his sweater secretively over his wrist so the bracelet is no longer visible. Huh. Odd.

“Alright,” Durbin finishes, clapping his hands together. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

He swings round to sit down, and almost immediately the bus lurches forward. Lynette doesn't miss the way Jack’s hands leap out to grab hold of the edges of his seat (even if he does pull them away again almost as soon as they find purchase).

She raises an eyebrow in silent question, but he keeps his gaze forwards, Adam's apple bobbing. If she were a betting woman, she'd wager that something's bothering him.

If only she knew what it was.

The first ten minutes of the journey Jack spends with his eyes shut, hands fidgeting in his lap. He flinches at the occasional bump in the road but other than that? He's still as a statue.

Things take a turn around the twenty minute mark, though. He opens his eyes, and there's a slight flash of panic in them- one that he conceals well except when they roll over yet another speed bump, at which point his pupils dilate with obvious fear and his hands reach down again to grip at his seat. His moments of stillness are over, too. Now, he’s shifting uncomfortably in his seat like no position is bearable for his old bones. Lynette grins.

“These Toledo roads too juddery for you, old man? You look like you're worried you're gonna step off with bruises.”

Jack wears an unbelievably fake smile for a second, until another pothole wipes it clean off his face- as well as, apparently, every ounce of colour.

The flush on his cheeks has completely disappeared, replaced by an uncanny pallor that Lynette has only seen on him once, when he was so sick with the flu he couldn't even hold his own head up. She frowns.

“You alright?”

He nods, too quick to be sincere, then hurriedly leans down to rummage through the bag at his feet. From it he withdraws a little orange pill bottle, pours a few into his hand, and tips them back shakily. Follows it up with a meagre sip of water.

Lynette spies the label just before he shoves the bottle right back down into the bag.

Dramamine.

Oh. Oh.

He must notice her expression change, because he suddenly looks at her imploringly. Desperately. She expects him to tell her they need to pull over, but instead he swallows, appearing more nauseated by the second, and murmurs,

“Please- please don't tell anyone.”

Lynette's heart breaks a little.

“Oh, hon, you know that I’d never tell anybody something you didn't want them to know… still, do you want me to go see if Durbin can get a seat change?” Jack’s eyes widen, and she puts a reassuring hand on his arm. “Look, I know you don't want him to know, but I’m sure that if he understood the reasoning behind you wanting a seat near the front, he might… Jack?”

She realises far too late that his eyes widening was not in fact a response to her suggestion, but instead a far more dire warning.

Now, he closes them entirely, trembling a little as he breathes rhythmically. There's sweat beading on the back of his neck.

“M… think I’m gonna be sick…” he murmurs weakly.

It's hardly a surprise. He's so pale now that it's even clear to some kids across the aisle that Mr Griffin? He isn't feeling so hot.

Lynette swears under her breath. Unbuckles her belt.

“Alright, hold on, Jack, just hold on- I’m gonna go tell the driver to stop, okay?”

As she stands, he gropes shakily about the air for her arm, before finding and clutching it.

“W-wait, Lyns, don't go.” His eyes remain squeezed shut. His other hand keeps that vice-like grip on his seat.

Lynette feels truly sorry for him. God, she does. She can see kids from further away in the bus starting to gossip now- after all, she's stood, and her boyfriend is holding her arm like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to this realm while he swallows convulsively.

“I gotta get the driver, sweetheart, but I promise I'll be back.”

She reaches up to briefly swipe her thumb along the jut of his cheekbone; watches him melt, shuddering, into the touch before she reluctantly pulls away and hurries into the aisle. The bus continues thundering along the roads, sending her teetering this way and that while she tries to move forward in a way that makes even her queasy. She dreads to think how Jack’s holding up with the movement.

Eventually, she reaches the front. Durbin is sat talking to Helen, but he trails off when he sees Lynette approaching the driver.

“Ms Hofstadter? What are you doing?”

She ignores him. There isn't time for explanatory remarks.

“Excuse me, driver?”

The guy’s wearing shades and a little earpiece (way too high-end for goddamn Toledo) and at first he doesn't seem to hear her, so she clears her throat and tries again.

“Excuse me? Driver?”

He starts, eyes flitting from the road to her desperate expression.

“Uh, can I help you?”

“I need you to pull over.”

Durbin leans forward to tap her on the shoulder.

“Uh, Miss Hofstadter, I’m afraid we can't just-”

“Ralph, it's important.”

“-stop the bus for every whim, we'll be there soon and-”

“Ralph.” Lynette says brusquely, turning to look at him. “If we don't stop this bus right now, Jack is going to… Ralph… everywhere.”

Durbin frowns, mouthing the words as if to make sense of them. It takes a few seconds, but soon his own eyes are widening with realisation.

“He’s…?”

“Motion sick.” Lynette confirms with a nod. “And he's not looking good back there, Durbs. We have to pull over. Now.”

Thankfully, Durbin sighs. Nods to the driver, who's been listening in to the conversation and looks pretty damn eager to spare his bus from the havoc which could ensue if he doesn't follow Lynette's instructions.

The moment she knows the bus is starting to slow, she speedwalks back up the aisle towards Jack, who’s now hunched over, whole body trembling slightly. He has a fist held to his mouth, the other arm now slung protectively around his stomach.

“Hey, sweetheart?” She crouches down next to him in the aisle, uncaring that everybody’s eyes are now on them. “Jack?”

She rubs him gently on the arm and he rears his head, looking utterly miserable.

“We’re pulling over now.” She soothes, stroking the wispy hair at the back of his neck, damp with sweat. “Just a few more seconds and we can get off this bus, alright, hon?”

He closes his eyes again, groaning softly as at last the movement grinds to a halt.

“Alright, up we get, sweetheart. That’s it. Nice and slow.”

Clearly too sick to give a shit about how he's perceived, Jack lets Lynette half haul him up from his seat, her hand remaining on the small of his back as she walks him down the aisle of the bus towards the door. His steps are wobbly. Everything's still trembling.

By the time their shoes hit the asphalt, Jack’s footsteps grow more urgent, and Lynette follows him into the woods by the roadside. He’s clearly hoping to get far enough in that his unravelling isn't witnessed by the multitude of high schoolers only metres away, many now with their faces pressed against the glass to see what's happening. Unfortunately, though, his body isn't so kind as to let him get out of sight before he doubles over, retching painfully.

Lynette’s brow knits with concern. “Oh, Jack.”

Her hand moves to rub circles into his quivering back, all his muscles taut with anticipation. One of his fists is still held vaguely in front of his mouth, the other hand splayed out on his knee.

“It’s alright, hon. Just relax, okay? You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.”

He shakes his head briefly, wordlessly, but immediately ducks back down again as his body makes another attempt at expelling everything in his stomach. This time it’s pretty successful, and Lynette turns her head away, eyes closing with sympathy at the sound of his breathless heaving.

“There we go. Good job, Jack. You’re doing so good, sweetheart.”

She continues to reassure him for another minute give or take, wincing every so often at how violent and painful everything appears to be, until at last it dissipates into panting and the gentler sound of Jack spitting into the dirt.

Accompanied, at last, by a weak exhalation that sounds more like a sob.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re alright… Feel any better?”

Shakily, he pulls himself upright and swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Turns to her, tears of exertion and defeat running down his cheeks.

Nods.

“D-don’t feel so s-sick, just… just t-tired. And- and e-embarrassed.”

Lynette surreptitiously takes his hand. Squeezes it. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, Jack. These things happen, right?”

“But the kids-”

“The kids have 15 second attention spans- they’ll see a sculpture that looks kinda like a penis at the museum and this’ll be a distant memory.”

Jack swallows, still shaky. “I- I guess.”

“You ready to head back to the bus, hon? Durbs is bound to let us sit near the front now, and you can take some more Dramamine as well. I’m pretty sure you puked up that other stuff.”

The tips of his ears redden slightly as he nods. He still looks mortified, but at least when Lynette gently tugs on his hand, he follows her back to the bus (even if he does avoid looking up at any of the windows).

There's a lively buzz of chatter when they approach, but the moment they ascend the stairs, the whole vehicle sinks into silence. Jack’s grip on Lynette's hand tightens.

“Hey, Jack.” Durbin says, voice soft. Lynette's sure this tone frustrates Jack more than anything. He isn't weak. He isn’t delicate.

Well, maybe he is a little, but that's okay. It doesn't mean he needs to be spoken to like he's about to crumple at any moment.

“I got a few of the kids to move.” Durbin continues. “Hopefully the seats up front’ll be, uh, better for you. Do you…” He looks up tentatively to Lynette now. “Does he need a bag or something? We carry a few for the travel sick kids but-”

Jack pulls away from Lynette and walks quickly to the new seats, ignoring Durbin’s small plea for him to hang on. Lynette watches him slink into the row of two seats that's now free and buckle himself into the one nearest the window, cheeks aflame and eyes fixed on the scenery outside.

She turns back to Durbin. “I’ll take one of the bags just in case.” She says in a low voice, slipping the one she receives into her pocket. “But for the love of God don't compare Jack to a travel sick kid, and don’t speak about him like he isn't there.”

Durbin stammers. “I- I wasn’t trying to-”

Lynette sighs. “I know… I know. He’s just feeling a little sorry for himself, and the last thing he needs is more humiliation- even if it isn't intentional.”

She gives him a small smile to show she isn't really upset (her tone often slips into confrontational when Jack’s wellbeing is concerned) and quickly slips into the seat beside her boyfriend. He’s still looking blankly out the window, Adam's apple bobbing every so often to conceal the rising emotion.

Carefully, she reaches down for his bag (already placed at his feet by a student- probably Heather) and retrieves the little bottle of Dramamine. She measures out a couple of pills and holds them in the palm of her outstretched hand for Jack.

“Hey. Sweetheart. Gonna take some more meds for me?”

He turns slowly towards her, cheeks still stained with tear tracks. Thankfully, he doesn't put up a fuss about the Dramamine- merely tips them back and settles into his seat. It's a clear sign that he's exhausted.

“Here.” She offers him his bottle of water. “You know what I say about dry-swallowing shit. C’mon. Chase it down with something. I think you need the fluids anyway.”

His hands are still trembling when he takes the water bottle (it could be why he was reluctant to get it himself), and he swallows the sips extra cautiously like he's still afraid he’ll hurl at any moment.

“Good job, Jack.” She whispers.

At the front of the bus, Durbin stands up briefly, directing a questioning glance and a thumbs up towards Lynette.

We good to go?

She gives him a reciprocal thumbs up.

Good to go.

In truth, she really isn't sure whether Jack is good to go. She doesn't know how travel sickness works, whether he's going to be fine now that he's got everything out of his system or whether the moment the engine starts back up again, she’ll need to reach for that bag in her pocket. What she does know, however, is that the longer they stay stopped here, the more Jack is going to feel the weight of everybody's eyes on his. The more the shame will grow.

So she sits back as the bus rumbles to life, and reaches out to take his clammy hand in hers.

It doesn't take long for him to drift off- the medication, the stress, and pure physical exhaustion render sleep inevitable. He tries to fight it at first, perhaps still too self-conscious to submit to yet another display of ‘weakness’, but his blinks grow more languid by the second, and his breaths begin to slow of their own accord. The endless Ohio roads melt into one great snaking blob in the steadily misting window pane.

His chin tips forward a few times, then jerks back up, before at last Lynette eases his head against her shoulder, squeezing his hand.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart.” She murmurs into his ear as the kids chatter about nothing important around them.

He sinks fully against her. Clearly, permission was all he needed.

She snakes a hand around his back so she can wrap her arm around him and subtly stroke his hair. Pulls him even closer. Presses a kiss to his forehead.

Half a mile down the road, they’ll arrive at their destination and the kids will file out of the bus. Some will pause in the aisle, curiosity piqued.

“Is Mr Griffin alright?” They’ll whisper, touchingly conscious of keeping their voices down.

Lynette will smile gently. “He hasn’t been feeling very well, that's all. He’ll be alright soon, I promise.”

They’ll nod their heads sympathetically, and soon will file off like the rest. Jack and Lynette will be left alone. Even the bus driver will abandon his post for the time being.

Still, Jack will sleep.

Still, Lynette will stay.

#ap bio #ap bio nbc #jack griffin #sickfic #whump #motion sickness #bad things happen bingo #tw emetophobia

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dcu-rarepair · 1 year

Text

Day 6 Treats

Seven fantastic Treats have been released for Day Six! Head to the Collection to check them out, and view the Release Schedule to see what’s in store!

We also have a handy Commenting Guide to help our Giftees with showing their Giftors some love. And now, here’s today’s works:

How it feels to rest (on your patient lips) by anonymous for byrdsofthenyte

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics Mature | Underage David Isherwood/Joseph Wilson Guilt didn’t prevent David from spending the boy’s heats holed up with him, or from finally being able to listen to his moans and whimpers once Joey could make them, using the device David himself had created specifically to allow him to use his voice again. It didn’t prevent him from lying to people, and from keeping it a secret so that no one could take it away from them.

Who Shot First? by anonymous for coolerdazai

Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics Teen and Up | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Roy Harper/Jason Todd/Slade Wilson “There’s a rumour going ‘round,” the first guy at the table said, lifting his glass of beer to his mouth. “That the Red Hood himself has promised his hand to anyone who will kill the clown.” The rest of the table turned to him in shock. “Is that actually true?” Scars asked. He was a big guy with a dozen or so claw marks across his face and a stiff sneer. “That’s what I’ve heard,” the first man to speak replied. “Whoever kills the clown gets to mate Red Hood.”

You Don't Gotta Go To Work (but you gotta put in the work) by anonymous for boyswonder

Art | Teen and Up | No Archive Warnings Apply Dick Grayson/Kaldur'ahm | Jackson Hyde That feeling when you both really need to get to an important Justice League meeting, but your partner insists on needing help putting his boots on.

In Love With My Best Friend by anonymous for dxncingquxxr

Teen and Up | Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Roslyn/Zatanna Zatara Ros is in love with Zatanna, and now that she's broken up with John, she might have a chance. If only Zatanna wasn't straight…

Kiss, Kiss, Fall in Love by anonymous for meaninglessblah

Art | General Audiences | No Archive Warnings Apply Midnighter/Apollo/Damian Wayne Aged up Damian and Midnighter half-way through a quick kiss for their sun boy.

Don't call me cute and don't call me kid by anonymous for Dathan

Explicit | No Archive Warnings Apply Kon-El | Conner Kent/Kyle Rayner Kyle helps Konner take some provocative photos for his social media at the watcher tower things escalate from there.

Nature Always Wins by anonymous for Nightwang

Sex Pollen | Tentacle Sex Not Rated | Rape/Non-Con Stephanie gets caught with the worst case of wrong place-wrong time.

#dcu rarepair exchange #2023 exchange

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hadesbullshit · 10 months

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hi hades! i have a lot of strong opinions on a couple specific spn episodes, and id love to hear your thoughts!! i will not judge for your answers, because this show fucking sucks but also its the greatest piece of media ever so any opinion is correct objectively. ok anyways

what do you think about: faith (season 1 episode 13) , roadkill (season 2 episode 16) , and playthings (season 2 episode 11)?

I'm gonna rewatch them to ansure this (bc y be normal about media when u can go ferral) but pre rewatch: Roadkill is one of my fav eps ever.

1x12 (faith is 1x12. 1x13 is Route 666 (also a very good ep as a dean charaitor study if u do want my thoughts it)):

i forgot how much i love this ep. I'm really into religious imagery in any media. dean on deaths door in the singlar reazon I'm gay /j. Sam's desperation to save Dean was always hinted at but this ep really does the "show not tell" thing right in a way most of the show doesn't. john not coming to help dean is one of the reasons i fucking hate the guy. Dean refuses to believe there is a God pre s4 because what god would put him though everything he's been though, i love him so much. the parrales between john and god with Dean's faith in an absent father.

Quotes:"i didn't pick you dean, the lord did" "why do you deserve to live more than my daughter" "it must be ruff. to belive in somerthing so much and have it disappoint you"

2x11:

of the 3 eps this is my least favourite I'm going to be honest but i still love it so much. The twist is so good. the sibling devotion, they would rather be dead together then one of them leave (Sam and Dean prrallels). "what do you mean we look the type" is iconic (Dean vs people knowing he's bi before he does). Sam's break down, begging Dean to be the one who kills him is so well done.

2x16 (this will be looooong):

when the audience learns things after Sam and Dean/the narrative isn't chronological but we think it is, it makes the twists better. Sam wanting to ease Molly into the fact she is dead vs Dean wanting to tell her straight up bc in Sam's life knowing about monsters has only ever been a burden wear as Dean (Has not met Mary yet and doesn't know she knew about deamons) thinks, as John thinks, that he would still have his family if more people knew how to protect themselves. (i might be reading to much into that part but i am a lit & media student). then after the half way point Sam wants to tell her because she thinks David is dead and that is the worst thing in the world for her whereas Dean wants to comic to lying because telling someone the truth this far in would be hard and he cant have emotional convocations to save his life (see also; Gadreel arc).

This ep is so good for rewatching it and putting into context the things Dean says. The resolution of her letting go of the loop AAAAAA.

Every motw ep in spn has a little twist in it and using the different graves to fulfil the audience expectations only to pull the rug out from underneath with the "Molly is ALSO a ghost" .

The enphisis on the idea people are not born monsters especially in relation to Sam. "what ever it is, they just hold on too tight. caught in the same loop" (sam talking about the ghost but also him and Jessica (among others)) and "something happened to them. something they couldn't control" (sam with his whole being a deamon & yellow eyes' army in s2) bc Sam in the early seasons is insane and so full of self loathing.

The question of what happens to monsters after they die (and people) being uninsurable, beng afraid of death and the unknown feels like a nod towards s3 with dean waiting to die having no idea what will happen. "hope is kinda the whole point" them pre hell, and pre knowning just how fucked up every is AAAAAA

#i did most this in history class btw #spn #supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #sorry sometimes i have anaylsis and sometimes I'm just insane baout this show #hades bullshit

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our-time-is-now · 7 months

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October 15, 2019: How was it with Patrick? How’s your grandmother doing?

(previous play)

You can find more information about the authors, translators, content warning and additional information about the plays in the pinned post on our blog.

Tuesday, 8:17 pm:

David: ~has met up with Patrick after uni and they went to eat and drink something~ ~they really had a nice conversation and eventually he noticed that he really felt like there never had been a break in contact between them~ ~never would have thought that they would find back to a normal and usual relationship with each other that quickly~ ~of course they also talked about the time in which they had no contact with each other and he told him a lot about his new group of friends and his two holidays~ ~eventually he gets on his way back to the flatshare, after all - not because he doesn’t want to be there anymore, but because he’s been awake since 6:30 am, had a long day at uni and because he can feel that he’s pretty spent - and also because he misses Matteo, who he hasn’t seen since 7:30 this morning and who he hasn’t really talked to all day, because Matteo was still half asleep when he had to leave the house~ ~so he cycles back to Moabit and hurries up the steps to the flatshare~ ~unlocks the apartment door and first sees that everything’s quiet in the kitchen and the living room, therefore takes off his shoes and jacket in the hallway and immediately goes to Matteo’s and his room~ ~sees Matteo on the bed half sitting half lying against the wall at the headboard and has to smile automatically~ Hey… ~finds it incredible that his heart still does a little jump when they haven’t seen each other for a while~ ~throws his backpack in a corner while he closes the door and joins Matteo on the bed~ ~kisses him briefly but tenderly and then immediately puts his head down on his shoulder and wraps his arm around him~ ~buries his face in the crook of Matteo’s neck and takes a deep breath~ ~murmurs quietly~ I have to recharge my batteries…

Matteo: ~arrived back home at a quarter to 7 as always~ ~knew that David wasn’t there but still found it stupid to arrive to an empty flatshare~ ~didn’t feel like cooking and only made himself a sandwich~ ~retreated to his bed with the sandwich and his phone and called his grandmother~ ~has talked to her for a little longer than usual and managed to waste some time doing so~ ~then tried a new game on his phone and waited for David this way~ ~then finally hears the apartment door and can immediately feel this anticipatory tingling when he recognizes his steps~ ~smiles immediately when he comes in~ Hey, na? ~immediately holds his arms out for him~ ~wraps one arm around him straight away when he joins him on the bed~ ~kisses him back and grumbles slightly when the kiss is too short for his tastes~ ~squeezes him a little closer when he hears his words~ Me too…. ~presses a kiss to his head~ How was it with Patrick?

David: ~thinks once again that it really feels like home when he’s back with Matteo when Matteo squeezes close~ ~can feel himself relax and feels content immediately~ ~grumbles quietly at Matteo’s question and murmurs into the crook of his neck~ Nice… ~but then thinks that Matteo wants a little more detail, presses a tender kiss to the skin on his neck and then emerges again~ ~puts his head down comfortably on his shoulder and tells him~ We were in this pub in Charlottenburg… it was quite cozy… and somehow… no idea… it was almost like it used to be. When I think about it then it really is a little scary how quickly we got back to that point considering how long we didn’t have any contact… but somehow it’s also really nice… so familiar somehow… ~slightly shrugs one shoulder and searches for Matteo’s hand to entwine their fingers~

Matteo: ~grumbles contentedly when he kisses him again~ ~but then slowly turns his head a little so that he can look at him~ ~nods slightly when he talks and then smiles~ But that’s nice… that only shows that the connection is still there… that’s great. I’m happy for you. ~squeezes his hand and then presses another kiss to his cheek~ And Patrick really is pretty cool, very easygoing, I can see very well why he was your best friend…

David: ~moves a tiny bit away from him when he realizes that Matteo wants to look at him, and returns his look~ ~also smiles slightly at Matteo’s words and nods~ Yes, that’s really great… ~laughs quietly~ But somehow also weird and creepy… ~shrugs one shoulder again~ Well, but I shouldn’t complain and instead be happy, that’s true… ~then smiles again at Matteo’s next word and nods~ I think to some extent, it’ll stay that way… well, also if now there’s Alex and the rest of the guys… but I’ve just known Patrick for forever… that’s somehow different… ~slightly squeezes Matteo’s hand and adds~ By the way, he told me to say hi… and to ask you if you wanted to test some game that’s supposed to be released next year… I forgot what it’s called… maybe you could just text him over the next few days…

Matteo: ~also laughs slightly~ Yes, that’s true… you weren’t really expecting it anymore… ~smiles slightly~ But therefore it’s even better that you dared to do it and that it was worth it so much. ~then looks surprised when he says that to some extent, Patrick will stay his best friend~ ~somehow wasn’t expecting it~ ~has a weird mix of feelings that he can’t really sort properly~ Oh really? I wouldn’t have thought so… but yes, of course, you’ve known each other the longest… ~then tries to define again why it feels so weird for him~ ~but then gets interrupted when he hears David’s next words~ Really? How cool! Which one? Man, Schreibner, why can’t you remember? ~briefly has the urge to reach for his phone, but would have to let go of David to do so, and doesn’t want that, either~ I’ll text him later…

David: ~briefly frowns when he realizes that Matteo is really surprised at his words, and tries to explain~ Well, it’s somehow… not better or worse than Alex but just different… you can have several best friends, can’t you!? I mean… you’re my best friend, as well… in addition to being my boyfriend… although you count very differently… and with Patrick it’s just a feeling from the past where I don’t yet know if it’ll stay like that in the future… but right now it feels like it… and Alex… well, I think that it’ll stay the way it is between us… but it doesn’t really matter anyway how you define it, right? ~then has to laugh when he sees Matteo’s reaction to the computer game~ Yeah sorry! Next time I’ll immediately text you about such fundamental life-changing things to inform you properly… although, you don’t really have time at the moment to play anyways… for the next few nights and weekends we’ll be busy with searching for an apartment… ~looks at him curiously~ Speaking of: How’s your grandmother? Did you tell her?

Matteo: ~laughs slightly when David explains and justifies himself~ Yes of course you can have several best friends. It wasn’t meant as an attack or anything… I was just surprised. And by the way, you’re also my best /friend/ and my best /boyfriend/. ~grins slightly~ ~was just about to kiss him when he hears him make fun~ Pfff, /when/ I test it, then YOU are not allowed to play if you only make fun of me. ~but then nods when he says that they don’t have time~ Yes, true, by the way, during lunch I called this one apartment that you sent me, but they didn’t answer the phone whenever I tried… ~but then grins when he asks about his grandmother~ She’s doing great, I’m supposed to say hi to you and yes, I told her. She laughed very hard and asked if I’m doing it to prove something to her. I also laughed and said that I actually make some decisions without thinking about her… she was briefly affronted, but then she was too curious, after all. She was a little disappointed that I couldn’t tell her much more… but then I’ll hopefully be able to tell her more next week or the week after that.

David: ~smiles when Matteo admits that he’s also his best friend and squeezes his hand slightly~ ~can’t really define thins thing with Patrick and Alex himself, but then thinks that maybe he doesn’t even have to~ ~then has to laugh when Matteo says that he isn’t allowed to play~ Hopefully I’ll live… ~tenderly brushes the hair off his forehead and gets a little more serious again~ No… I’m happy if you have fun with such stuff… ~hears his words about the apartment and sighs quietly~ Okay, thanks… then I’ll try there again tomorrow… ~listens when he talks about his grandmother and smiles at first~ ~but then has to laugh quietly, after all~ That would be something… if we only did it to prove something to her… definitely tell her hi back from me next Tuesday. I really hope that you can tell her more by then… ~lets go of his hand and instead wraps his arm around him again and scoots closer~ ~murmurs a little sluggishly~ Maybe I’ll also be there next Tuesday and can listen along a little… since I understand more, it's a lot more exciting to listen to you guys… ~grins slightly~

Matteo: ~pffs slightly when he says that he’ll live~ You don’t even appreciate it… ~but then laughs slightly, after all~ ~nods when he tells him to say hi back~ I’ll tell her… ~then also wraps an arm around him again and scoots down a little~ Oh yes, she also asked about that and I proudly told her that you’re very busy with learning Italian and that you already learned quite a lot. She was really happy about that… ~grins~ Maybe next year you can already have a conversation with her.

David: ~grins broadly~ Of course I appreciate it! But I also know that you would let me play if I wouldn’t survive it… ~kisses him and shuts him up this way to finally put a stop to that topic~ ~then smiles when Matteo tells him that his grandmother asked about him and smiles even more when Matteo tells him what he told her so proudly~ ~then laughs quietly~ Well… /a lot/… I somehow get ahead… probably I’d really have to speak it more instead of only reading and studying it… but I don’t know if your grandmother would be the right conversational partner… ~grins~ I mean… considering how fast and much she talks… I surely wouldn’t be able to keep up…

Matteo: ~grins when he gets a kiss and when that obviously ends the topic~ Yeees, you have learnt a lot! ~then laughs~ No, I wouldn’t pick my grandmother as a practice subject, either… maybe better Mama or me… and sometimes you already text me in Italian… ~shrugs one shoulder~ But if you want to, then we can only talk in Italian from now on. ~grins a little, because he does consider this a little awkward, after all~

David: ~laughs~ You have to say that because you’re my boyfriend and so that I’ll stay motivated… ~presses a kiss to his throat because he can’t reach any other spot right now and because he’s too lazy to stretch~ ~murmurs~ Still thanks… ~hummms~ Yes, but texting isn’t the same… I have enough time to think about it… and to look stuff up if I don’t know something… ~then smiles at his suggestion~ ~thinks that this would probably really be a good exercise - at least sometimes every once in a while~ ~but then stretches a little and says~ Meglio domani. Sono troppo stanco oggi… ~cuddles back into Matteo after his stretch~ I think that this would really be of benefit… you’d probably learn everyday words more easily… or idioms… stuff that Duolingo doesn’t teach you…

Matteo: ~laughs~ I don’t /have/ to do anything… ~also humms~ Yes, okay, that’s true… ~then grins when he really speaks Italian~ Ma per essere stanchi, è stato molto bello. ~also wraps his other arm around David when he cuddles close again~ Yes, we could really do that sometime… so just start and then I’ll join in… ~then looks down to him~ Did you eat anything with Patrick?

David: ~smiles when Matteo praises him and murmurs quietly and a little embarrassed~ Grazie… ~then also humms in agreement~ I will… tomorrow or sometime… ~then humms again~ Yes… fries and Currywurst… was quite good… ~tenderly strokes over Matteo’s stomach and then looks up at him~ And you?

Matteo: ~grins slightly~ Prego. ~humms when he mentions fries and Currywurst~ Yeah, I made myself a sandwich… didn’t feel like cooking… ~puts his head down on David’s~ And now? We could put on Friends to chill out? Or do you still have to do work for uni?

David: ~nods when Matteo mentions a sandwich and murmurs sluggishly~ Tomorrow, we’ll cook again properly… ~humms at his words about Friends and then groans quietly and a little agonized~ I still have to read a text… but I can also do that while Friends is on… ~but still doesn’t move for quite a while and instead enjoys being close to Matteo~ ~eventually they start kissing, but then he pulls himself together, after all, when they are finished to get his laptop to put on Friends and his backpack for the uni stuff~ ~luckily, is finished with the text quickly and can then enjoy the rest of the evening together with Matteo~

(next play)

#druck #druck og #matteo florenzi #david schreibner #davenzi #davenzi plays

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