#dusty underline

[caramelcleopatraa]

English: Jealousy: Love Me Like You Say You Do

x: A fictional piece of writing starring Hazel and Roman and an uninvited guest that Hazel’s not a fan of

Parts: Celos: Observación ! Celos: Negación dolorosa ! Celos: Sucia

English: Jealousy : Observation ! Jealousy: Painful Denial ! Jealousy: Dirty

“Welcome back, Hazel,” the security guard says, opening up the door to the venue. Her stilettos clash against the cold concrete floor. She waves at a few familiar faces upon entry after telling the security guard thank you. 

She doesn’t get the chance to come visit much, so when she’s backstage, she tries to say hi to everyone. Being a CEO has its perks. Of course it's a lot of work to get to the stage where she experiences those perks, but she knew it would be worth it. And now that she’s gotten to that milestone she set a long time ago, she was able to leave the confines of her office to visit her man.

Her red silk blouse shimmered beautifully due to the bright overhead lights, matched with the red underlining of her red bottoms. Paired with black pants, a black clutch and a gold choker cuban.

An assistant not too far ahead of her, guided her to the room she requested, although she didn’t need to say that. They knew who she was, and who she belonged to. The assistant knocked on the door, and it opened to reveal a pale dressing room, with black couches and chairs and mirrors lined along the wall. “This is really fancy,” Hazel says, sticking her head in to get a better look at the entire room while the assistant leaves to handle another person. A tall figure blocks her point of view, staring down at her. “The Tribal Chief always receives the best.” Roman flashes his pearly white smile, opening his arms, non verbally asking her for a hug. She laughs, and says, “I know that’s right.” She obliges, wrapping her arms around his torso, trying to get as close to him as possible. 

They soak in the feeling of the hug before disconnecting, finding eachothers eyes. “How was work, love? You got any more CEO shenanigans to tell me abo-” “Roman!” A high pitched voice calls out to him, causing him to turn his head to focus on the source of the loud yell. Tiffany Stratton. She leaned against some dusty stage equipment swiping her long blonde wavy hair out of the way to show her cleavage. He looks at Hazel for confirmation and she nods sweetly, letting him slip from her hands to attend to Tiffany. Normally, she wouldn’t stay outside to watch, but she knew Tiff. And Hazel knew how Tiff got around Roman.

Tiffany had made herself known to the bloodline by talking smack to Naomi. But before then, she would ask Roman for advice on how to excel in the business. Or at least that’s what he had said when Hazel asked. Hazel had always patiently waited for them to finish her conversation, looking up from her phone to see her twirling her hair and looking him up and down. This time wasn’t any different. The same old seductive stare with the scan, with a few extra dead pans at Hazel, because she felt bold. One more quick look at her phone was the mistake she made however, as she saw Tiffany gently trailing her hand down his arm. As much as Hazel tried to hide the shock in her face, her body went completely still. Hazel was frozen in place, and that overjoyed Tiffany, looking at her frozen state before giving him a flirtatious wink and twisting her hips as she left. 

She didn’t even notice him in front of her, calling out her name several times. “Hellooo

?” She shook her head, staring straight at his chest that met her eye level. “What were y’all talking about this time?” He shrugs his shoulders and says, “She had asked me about promos and stuff cause she’s doing one tonight.” ‘Of course. Convenience always works in her favor.’

“So promos had to lead to her touching your arm like that?” She pouted and looked off to the side, avoiding eye contact with him while he smiled to himself, finding her jealousy cute. He grabs her face and turns her head towards him. “I’m not interested in her, my love. Only you. Now where were we before we got interrupted? How was your day?” She smiles slightly, basking in his chocolate eyes before a certain voice from inside the dressing room catches her attention. The TV was turned up, loud. On it, Tiffany Stratton inside the ring, cutting a small promo. The crowd roared as she spoke with arrogant confidence.

“And once I take care of Naomi, I’m gonna take Roman, because he’s mine. And I know he wants all of this,” Tiffany says, doing a slow turn, puffing her chest out to showcase her tits to all of the cameras and giving the main camera another wink.

‘I know this lil raggedy bitch ain't just-’

🏷️ tags :) @reignsboy19 @2-muchsauce @theninthwonder @harmshake @alichesmi @thesamoanqueen @alyyaanna @empressdede @badbitchcentralinc @christinabae @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @cyberdejos2 @murrylove @sassginaswanmills @pixiedust4000 @shes2real

[winloe]

okay, I know every stardew valley character could have a pretty decent argument for being autistic, but I want to say one character that I honestly don’t see being headcanon’d as autistic nearly as much and that’s alex!

before I start, I just want to say that you may disagree and that’s completely ok! you’re entitled to your own opinion and so am I ^^ I am also autistic myself, so this is mostly coming from my own experiences

one quote that sticks out to me is ‘oh wow...your shoes are a little dirty... but that's fine, too! different people have different tastes I guess’. alex is attentive to small changes, something that many autistic individuals are heightened in. he zeroes in on how your shoes look, something he may have noticed while avoiding eye contact and looking down to the floor rather than looking straight at you (an autistic trait is avoiding eye contact)

mentioning your appearance may be alex’s way to try and engage a conversation, but it comes off as blunt and even unintentionally rude when he says how your shoes are dirty, rather than how your hair looks nice or something similar. he seems to have realised his mistake and after a pause follows up with ‘but that's fine, too! different people have different tastes I guess’. to me, this seems like an attempt of smoothing over a mistake he may have only just realised could be seen as insulting, which highlights a struggle of social filters.

another quote which I think exemplifies alex’s difficulty understanding social cues is: ‘hey, you must be getting pretty strong working on that farm all day. maybe you'll reach my level some day. Something to look forward to, huh? why do you have that look on your face?’ (which alex will still say even if you’re 4 years into your farm and probably now jacked)

alex saying you ‘reaching his level some day’ as a goal may come across as egotistical and condescending, but it’s likely not intended that way (because of his later ‘why do you have that look on your face?’). I think this shows his unfiltered confidence (which isn’t always ego! It’s good to be confident!). he seems to just be proud of his physique and seems to be the only reason he’s been complimented before (including his appearance) so that’s what he wishes to show and talk about.

it may seem patronising, yet I think alex sees it as motivational or friendly banter. his ‘why do you have that look on your face?’ underlines his trouble at understanding nonverbal conversation. alex doesn’t immediately understand why his comment could provoke offence.

the player is, in other dialogue from characters, assumed to be reasonably quiet, which may be why alex finds difficulty when it comes to talking to them. 

when alex is insulted after asking if you think he’d ever become pro (and you say that he will fail and become a salesman) he snaps back with ‘that's insane. you're just jealous that I'm talented and popular and you're not. get away from me’. he reacts strongly to negative feedback and interprets it as jealousy, which could stem from how he reckons his dad was jealous of his youth and that’s why he called alex ‘worthless’ and the fear of failure (i.e. wasting his youth). for autistic people, self-worth can be closely tied to one or two abilities, and being questioned on their skill can make it very threatening.

alex also clings onto this idea of being ‘popular’ which may have been his school identity, being a jock and an all-star quarterback, which is a stereotypical popular archetype. this could suggest a difficulty in updating his self-image (and we know he has been outside of school long enough to get married and have kids, so he doesn’t have a reason to call himself ‘popular’ as there’s no context to be called popular anymore)

alex’s insistence on being ‘popular’ could be a form of masking. he shields his emotions from everyone but his dog dusty (and you once hearts are higher). he feels more confident in acting like this macho bravado than he would if he expressed his feelings which also ties into his toxic masculinity, which in turn goes to internalised homophobia. he feels as if he has to act ‘normally’, and being good at a sport and assumingly getting friends in school because he was good at that sport, would probably give him a tunnel vision that talking about gridball is the only chance of having another friend (why he only talks about gridball!)

and I know a lot of people would probably think that gridball is alex’s special subject if we’re going down the autism route, but I don’t actually think so. I could see alex having it as his special subject when he was younger, but as he grows up and as it becomes more of a goal and more of a job, he starts to forget the reason why he started playing gridball in the first place (because it’s a hobby, because his mum played catch with him). 

I can definitely see him struggling with autistic burnout, where he’s tried so hard for so long and still hasn’t seen success. this is why I can 100% understand why he’d like to work at the farm with the player, completely giving up his dream for a change in the current, a turn in decision. change can be frightening for autistic people, which could be why alex hadn't thought of doing anything other than going pro, but as you become his friend, he realises that he doesn’t have to stick to this one made-up persona for eternity and that he can be himself and subvert expectations.

no beta (me) we die like men... this may ramble and one day I'll reread this and cringe at the grammar... hi future me :P

[catboy-autism]

♡♡ Felovestuffed ♡♡

[PT: Felovestuffed /End PT]

A gender under the genderstuffed system (link) made by @whimselle. It is related to a cat plush stuffed with love.

Requested by someone on discord!

[ID 1: A 15-striped flag. From top to bottom the colors are pink, light blue, sky blue, light dusty pink, hot pink, orange, yellow, pale yellow, yellow, orange, hot pink, light dusty pink, sky blue, light blue, and pink. The 2nd, 4th, 7th, 9th, 12th, and 14th stripes are scalloped, with the 2nd and 14th looking more like lace. ID End]

[ID 2: A 15-striped flag. From top to bottom the colors are pink, light blue, sky blue, light dusty pink, hot pink, orange, yellow, pale yellow, yellow, orange, hot pink, light dusty pink, sky blue, light blue, and pink. The 2nd, 4th, 7th, 9th, 12th, and 14th stripes are scalloped, with the 2nd and 14th looking more like lace. In the center is sky blue silhouette of a cat head, within it is a blue heart symbol. ID End]

[ID 3: Same as ID 1. ID End]

tagging: @radiomogai

[ID 4: A thin brown line, in the center of it is an orange tabby maine coon mix laying down, staring to the side of the viewer. ID End]

[ID 5: A rectangular banner. The border of it has a gradient of orange to pink. In each corner are 3 strawberries and 4 strawberry flowers. Within the border is a light tan rectangle with text. From top to bottom the different blocks of text read, in all caps: "Do not involve my flags or labels in discourse", this is colored red and underlined; "Anyone can use my flags and labels", this is also red; "But I do block freely", this is colored pink. There is a line of small cartoonish strawberries, each separated by little leaves. On the center bottom is a pink to orange gradient rounded rectangle. Within it is a red text in all caps that reads "This blog loves mspec gays and lesbians". On the left of the rectangle is the mspec lesbian flag and on the right is the mspec gay flag. On the left and right of the main rectangle are drawings of calico cats stretching. There are muddy paw prints scattered across the banner. ID End]

[abiiors]

Book

So excited to do (write) anything that you want to! week with prompts from @imightgetbetter. Adding all of these to my Series Masterlist

Monday - early matty (pre-notes/bfiafl)

In a small corner of a dusty, second-hand bookstore, two hands reach for the same book at the same time. Fingers brush against each other, electricity zings, all the usual ingredients of a meet-cute, except the boy is on a mission. 

‘I’m going to sound like a twat here,’ he shuts his eyes tightly then opens them with a sigh, ‘but I need that book more than you.’

You feel a bit dumbfounded. At least, he has the decency to look embarrassed but the fact remains that he still hasn’t let go of the book. 

‘Oh?’ you ask, still gathering your bearings, ‘you don’t even know what I need it for?’

‘I knowww,’ he groans, ‘but please! I need it back.’

You look at the boy properly. He truly does look desperate for the book. His face is all pouty and his eyes big, his hair sits like a curly, poofy mop on his head. You wonder if this look is supposed to work on people, if it has worked on people in the past. 

Maybe, maybe not. And as much as you don’t want to admit it, it is working on you a little bit. Okay, maybe a lot!

‘You need it…back?’ you give him a quizzical look. 

‘I need it back,’ he confirms. 

‘You see,’ he continues like he’s about to start a soliloquy, ‘my roommate got really drunk or really high, it doesn’t matter, my roommate got fucked up and decided to sell my books for some extra cash. Yes, yes I know, messed up but now I’m here to try to get as many of them back as possible.’

You open your mouth, about to say something, but he’s not done speaking. 

‘Please, I’ll buy you a new copy of this but not this one. This one has some…annotations.’

His face turns pink. His eyes wander a bit, unable to meet yours. And you have to admit, he has almost won you over. 

‘What’s your name?’ You bite your lip, hold back a smile.

‘Matt,’ he says, clearing his throat, ‘Matty.’

‘I don’t need a new copy, Matty. I just needed to check a few passages, that’s all.’ 

‘Oh.’ It’s a soft sound like he’s contemplating. ‘Well, in that case…’ he trails off and holds the copy in front of you. 

His copy of On The Road by Jack Kerouac is old and a bit wrinkled. The pages are yellowing and the spine is cracked but you have to admit, it looks well read. Well loved, even. 

‘I just need to jot down a few things,’ you tell him and he nods. 

When you settle down on the floor, a notebook and pen in hand, he does the same. You wonder if this is to snatch the book away if you stumble upon any of his annotations. He could wander around the bookstore while you did your thing but he wraps his hands around his knees and rest his chin on them. He’s not exactly subtle when he lets his eyes roam over you with barely concealed interest. 

‘What’s this for?’ he tilts his head to one side, and then as an afterthought, adds, ‘if I may ask.’

‘A paper on road trip novels,’ you answer distractedly as you flip through the page to find what you need. 

There are a few pencil scribblings here and there, quotes that are underlined and circled over and over again. There are doodles—few and far in between—but they make you smile a bit. You so badly want to stop and read the annotations but not when he’s sitting right there, watching you like a hawk. 

While you note down the things you need to, Matty gets restless. He picks up a pen and twirls it between his fingers effortlessly, picks up a second one and bangs them on his shins like drumsticks. The boy truly can’t sit still even when he lets you work in peace…for the most part. 

But you’re surprised that you don’t find it annoying. If anything, his fidgety restlessness is amusing. The way he stops every time you turn pages, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, ready to hide anything embarrassing. You feel tempted to linger on one of his notes just to watch how he’d react but they seem to have petered out as the book slowly comes to an end. 

You want to imagine this boy, in his bedroom or in a cafe or in a park, reading the book. His hands clutching it tightly, his face scrunched in concentration. He would be so absorbed that he forgets to note down any more of his thoughts. But something catches your eye as you turn to the penultimate page. 

Black ink has bled through. Until now, everything was in pencil, smudged, messy script but with a touch of gentleness. But this is much harsher, written in pen. 

His eyes widen, his hands freeze in place. Quicker than expected, he drops the pens and flips the page. 

‘What…’ he grabs the book in confusion and you let him take it away from you. His face changes from confusion to irritation, to gloom, to, finally, curiosity. 

His eyes dart over the dark scribblings. A crease forms between his eyebrows as he tries to make sense of the words. 

‘Wow, these are mental,’ he mumbles to himself. ‘God, these make no sense.’

‘I thought they were yours,’ you raise an eyebrow. 

‘No, someone else must have... Mine are much tamer compared to these.'

The curiosity gets the better of you and you have to ask, ‘can I see?’

‘Mmm, sure.’ He extends the book in your direction still holding onto one half of it. 

So you scoot closer, hold onto the other side. Your thighs touch momentarily, your heads are bent over it as both of you try to decipher the script. 

‘1 June, The 1975,’ you read aloud, trace the words with your fingers. ‘That’s a bit of a weird way of writing it.’

‘It is, isn’t it!’ He taps the space under the words, then tips his head back onto the shelves behind him. 

‘The 1975…’ he repeats and his voice has gone all soft and full of awe. ‘Has a nice ring to it, wouldn’t you say?’

[loveinhawkins]

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 ao3

It’s quiet for the whole day. Eddie wakes up mid-afternoon, sees that a doughnut has been left for him in a paper bag on the coffee table. It takes a few minutes more for him to realise that it’s still just the two of them in the house—that Steve must’ve told everyone not to call, not to come over.

Eddie’s chest almost hurts at the thoughtfulness behind it—but he’s not surprised by it, not now. Not since he saw Steve in the RV keep the volume of the radio down low, even as the clock in his head grew ever closer, just so his friends could sleep a little longer.

And the quiet means Eddie, too, can just… stay. Rest.

He’s glad of it, even though a part of him thinks it’s stupid—that save for that terrible night, this might be the most exhausted he’s ever felt. He’s not even done anything, but his body still aches, like he’s only just finished running from the trailer park.

There’s the ghost of pain at his knee, as if his brain has finally remembered a past hurt. He thinks of Nancy telling him that he fell. “I was so scared you wouldn’t get up again.”

Steve seems to understand implicitly. He does most of the fetching of food and drink, and when Eddie tries to protest, he doesn’t make it a big deal, just says that he wants more practice on the crutches; he phrases it in such a way that it sounds like Eddie is doing him a favour rather than the other way around.

“Hey, check it out,” Steve says, halfway from the couch to the kitchen. “I can really move on these things now.” And he very briefly swivels in place on the crutches, as if he’s leaning on dancing canes instead.

Eddie snorts, feels a rush of fondness. “All right, cool it, Fred Astaire.”

For dinner, they eat defrosted spaghetti bolognese from Joyce. Eddie teases Steve when he notices that he can twirl the pasta perfectly around his fork.

“Sorry, what the hell is that, Harrington? We in a goddamn commercial right now?”

Steve elbows him. “Shut up or I’m stealing your portion.”

It’s kind of unnecessary, for them both to be sharing the one couch. Neither of them bring that up.

-

When clearing away some of the VHS tapes, Steve finds a notepad that doesn’t belong to him. He scans it with interest, then chuckles.

“Oh my god, look at this.”

He beckons Eddie to look at one of the pages.

Eddie leans in. The page is covered in writing, to the point that the white of the paper is almost invisible. The handwriting keeps changing, too, never the same on each line…

And Eddie realises that this has been written by the kids—all of them.

It acts as a log, of sorts: them recording their impressions of each musical watched while staying here. El has drawn a wonky cluster of five stars for The Sound of Music—has signed it with her name and a smiley face.

In the margins, Eddie can see them voting on whatever they want to watch next, laughs as he comes across Dustin and Erica bickering:

Erica picked last time! You’re not allowed an opinion, Dusty-Bun

But there’s more than just talk about the movies. Part of the page has been separated by solid lines in pen, forming a box. What’s written inside is much neater: updates on Steve’s progress in the hospital. At the bottom of the square, Eddie recognises Dustin’s handwriting instantly—cramped and hurried, like when he’s excitedly jotting down details during a campaign.

He can come home!!!

When Eddie glances over at Steve, he’s still looking down at the paper, smiling like it’s some art project he wants to stick on his fridge.

“They’re so stupid,” he says, and so clearly means something else. He carefully sets the notepad aside. “I kinda want to frame it.”

They lie on the couch in comfortable silence for a while. The sight of the kids’ writing reminds Eddie of the pencil marks he saw in Steve’s poetry book, evidence of him underlining particular lines.

“Hey, did you—uh, did you always like poetry?”

Steve gives him a sideways look, smirks slightly. “What’s up, you doubting my credentials? Did your ‘Munson Doctrine’ say I can’t read, either?”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “No, I was just…” He leans on his elbow, turns further towards Steve. His voice quietens in sincerity. “Just curious.”

Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Um…”

And huh, there’s that thing you do, Eddie thinks.

It’s like Steve has to prepare himself for honesty, work up to it. He thinks of that walk through the woods, being startled at the sound of Steve running up to him. “Eddie. Eddie. Hey, man. Uh… Listen, I just, uh… I just want to say thanks.”

Eddie remembers not knowing what to do in the face of an awkwardness that he didn’t expect, not from the likes of Steve Harrington. But more importantly, he was struck by the fact that Steve was so genuine. That once he got past the stops and starts, he meant every word, felt it deeply.

“It was in class, actually. It was… uh, we were looking at a Sylvia Plath poem?” Steve’s voice rises uncertainly at the end even though he’s not asking a question, and Eddie somehow knows then and there that he’s never told anyone this before. “Can’t remember the title, but um. Honestly? It stuck with me, ‘cause… kinda reminded me of my parents. Like, their marriage.”

Eddie opens his mouth. Shuts it. Then says, delicately, “Not the best omen.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, no kidding. Uh, that aside, there was like, a rhythm to it. I like when stuff… repeats, y’know? Hold on, think I can remember the last…” His hand reaches up to bat the top of the couch in time with his words as he recites, a touch reserved, “My boy, it's your last resort. Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.” A tense little shrug. “Guess I’ve got a thing for last lines.”

Eddie thinks of I was much too far out all my life/And not waving but drowning. 

In the ensuing silence, Steve looks like he’s very subtly holding his breath—as if waiting for Eddie to show one hint of discomfort. Like he’s ready to instantly regret speaking.

So Eddie keeps his tone light, says, “That’s… kind of fucked up, man. Very niche though, I approve.” And he feels Steve relax—his good leg touching Eddie’s, thigh to knee. He senses that it’s safe enough to joke a little more, adds, “You should start a support group or something.”

“What?”

Eddie mimes holding a microphone, affects a news reporter’s grave tone. “If you have been affected by poetry, we advise you to call—”

“God, you’re so dumb,” Steve says, grinning. “You know when you did those, like, bits at lunch, y’know, all the voices, I used to think, Who does this asshole think he is?”

Steve’s voice is warm, so Eddie just tries to quip back, “Pretty sure you and half the damn school thought that.” He’s joking, he really is, but he can feel a little wisp of bitterness slip through despite himself.

And Steve must catch it, because he suddenly looks a bit contrite, replies quietly, “Not like that.”

Steve’s eyes flicker down to the left in thought—and there he goes again, Eddie thinks. Working up to something.

“I knew part of your deal with D&D was, like, storytelling, right? And you… I dunno if you remember, but the school used one of your short stories as… an exemplar? It was anonymised, in one of those study packets they’d—”

“Oh, those,” Eddie says. “Never read ‘em.”

Steve chuckles. “Well I could tell it was you. ‘Cause it was freaking nuts, man, all these like, myths and heroes, and it just… God, I kept thinking it came so naturally to you.” He shrugs again, more bashful. “Guess I was jealous.”

Eddie raises an eyebrow. “You were?”

Steve smiles as if to say Well, what can you do? “I applied to college, like, for writing and stuff.” His smile turns self-deprecating as he says, “Didn’t get in, obviously.”

“Huh,” Eddie says thoughtfully. “What did you wanna write about?”

Steve laughs. “Uh, don’t think it was your scene, man. No dragons or… Just kinda. Ordinary stuff? Like, basketball games or—”

“Basketball games,” Eddie echoes with an impish little smile, and Steve elbows him in the ribs.

“Not just basketball, you dick.” But he’s still smiling as he says it. “Or, I s’pose, yeah, basketball but, like, it’s also about something else…? Normal things, but… more, I guess. I don’t know, man, you’re better with words, I just—”

“You know, I don’t think that’s true,” Eddie says quietly, privately recalling, “Whenever I looked at you… all that shit… never touched you. You just stayed… you were so… lovely.”

“When all of The Upside Down stuff started,” Steve continues, as if he’s not even heard Eddie speak, “for a while, it was… it was all I could think about. Y’know, it was like one of your stories, just… like, fantasy. Unreal. And obviously, I couldn’t just… like, can you imagine if I filled my college application with all this shit? Just asking for someone to…”

Steve makes a slashing motion across his neck, and Eddie winces slightly at how his fingers graze the scar there.

There’s a lull, and then Steve gives a little sigh, speaks again.

“I don’t even think I finished my application properly, it was kind of a blur. Just sent it off ‘cause, well, I had to at that point.” He crooks an arm behind his head, blinks pensively. “Guess all of… uh, everything, sorta… stole my words.” He huffs with another one of those self-effacing smiles. “God, that sounds dumb.”

Eddie tilts his head from where he’s resting on the arm of the couch. Looks at Steve, his side-profile, the thoughtful curve of one eyebrow. Thinks that he gets it; that sometimes there are no words for something like this.

“No,” he says honestly. “It doesn’t sound dumb, Steve.”

Steve breathes in and out, relaxed and easy. His chest only stutters a little, a remnant of… before. His knee presses further against Eddie’s, as if in silent gratitude.

“Do you remember…” Steve starts, and there’s already laughter in his voice; he’s still looking up at the ceiling as if whatever memory he’s thinking about is being projected on there, like a private cinema. “Remember when… y’know, that English class, last period. When we had to read, um, a play. Williams something?”

Eddie thinks. “Oh. A Streetcar Named Desire?”

Steve clicks his fingers. “That’s the one. We were made to read it out loud; it took forever. And you—” He laughs up at the ceiling again, joyful creases around his eyes. “You kept talking over the girl that got Blanche’s part, do you—?”

“Didn’t know I made such an impression,” Eddie teases. He vaguely recalls completely overselling a breathy Southern Belle accent—definitely remembers getting sent out of class for being ‘a disruptive influence.’

Steve turns his head to the side, glances at him. Grins. “Hey, I thought you were a riot, man. Least you made it come to life with how you, like, delivered everything. Everyone else made it sound so boring.”

“Well.” Eddie manages an imperious flick of the wrist, feels a sudden heat to his cheeks. “Guess no-one else appreciated my talents, huh?”

And even though Eddie’s being flippant, Steve replies, with all sincerity, “No. They really didn’t.”

-

Eddie doesn’t know what time it is, when it happens. Just knows that it’s growing late, that Steve’s quietly flicking through a magazine next to him—that nothing is happening, but his mind has apparently decided to freak out anyway.

He reluctantly gets it, though; has kind of suspected that perhaps he’s just been staving off the panic from last night, that maybe that’s why he’s felt drained all day.

He grits his teeth against the feeling, tries to keep quiet.

But maybe Steve notices precisely because of his attempt at silence. Suddenly the magazine has been dropped, and Eddie feels a hand around his wrist.

“Hey, are you—? Shit, your heart’s going like crazy.”

Eddie screws his eyes shut. “Yeah, m’fine. It’ll pass. Th-think it’s just—” He shudders out a breath as Steve’s fingers stroke over his pulse point. “Just. Last night, it was—the first time I’d driven… there. Since. Y’know.”

“Oh. I’m—”

“If you apologise one more time, I’m gonna push you off the goddamn couch, Harrington, and then where will we be?”

“Uh. Well, I’d be on the floor?”

Eddie laughs shakily—from the way Steve squeezes his hand, knows that that had been his aim.

-

It does pass, eventually. Eddie manages a deep, proper breath in and out—feels, embarrassingly, a bit like he’s run a marathon.

Steve finally lets go of his hand to pick up a thicker blanket from the floor, drapes it over them both. The warmth gradually makes Eddie sleepy. He loses track of time. Doesn’t know when his eyelids become too heavy to open.

He hazily feels a hand in his hair, Steve’s fingers working in little absent-minded circles, like he’s not even aware that he’s doing it.

“Gonna f’ll ‘sleep,” Eddie mumbles, “if y’keep tha’ up.”

Steve’s hand stills for just a moment. He hears Steve sigh out a soft, “Oh, you’re so tired,” like he’s fretting a bit. He resumes playing with Eddie’s hair, and this time, while it’s still gentle, there’s more of an intentionality to it.

Eddie thinks he turns his head into the touch, but he’s honestly not sure. Feels somehow both weightless and heavy. Wants to lie on this couch forever, so long as Steve’s here. 

“Tell me something,” Eddie says, does his best to enunciate. He wants to linger in this cosy in-between for just a little…

“Hmm? Like what?”

“Um… wha’ kinda…” Eddie yawns. “Wha’s your favourite thing to read?”

Steve is silent for a little while, long enough for Eddie to jolt out of an unintended half-sleep when he does say something.

“What were your stories about?” Steve asks.

Eddie yawns again. There’s so much he could say, but long, rambling sentences feel far out of his reach. So he settles for, “S’bout… coming home, in the end.”

“Oh,” Steve says, then, “I like that.”

“Steeeve,” Eddie sings through another yawn. “Wha’ ‘bout you?”

“Oh, um… I s’pose… I like stories where people are… lost, I guess. And then they’re… not anymore. Or maybe, they’ve been… like, searching for something without realising it.”

Have you found it? Eddie thinks, his thoughts slipping away on a wave of sleepiness. Have you found what you’ve been looking for? 

He drifts off before he can ask.

[vivzzi]

ditto

part one , part two 

It’s 7:30 am. You sit in your empty classroom waiting for your lesson to start and with the absence of your classmates chatter your mind starts to think about what happened at the park two nights ago. since then you haven’t used the camera but you still carry it around with you in your bag as if it still has a need to be with you. 

You sit at the shared desk looking out onto the school yard seeing how the snow is slowly melting away. You wish it could’ve stayed longer. Slowly turning your head towards your bag on the ground near your feet you reach inside and take the camera out. Pressing the ‘on’ button ever so slightly,you look into the view finder. You point the camera towards Shuntaro’s side of the table but instead of seeing him in the view finder you see the same book he was reading last time laying on the desk. No longer human by Osamu Dazai. 

You freeze and shut the camera off again placing it in your bag. The bell hinting the start of the lesson pulls you out of your thoughts along with the students rushing in. 

The day came to an end pretty quickly. You walk towards the exit with the feeling of someone watching you from a distance. You turn around expecting to see someone but youre soon met with relief when no one is seen behind you. Once you reach the exit and walk towards the bike stands you have the same feeling as before but not wanting to turn around this time you ignore it. You reach your bike slowly pulling the heavy backpack away from your back to put inside the basket. Instead you see a bright pink book taking your bags spot. No longer human by Osamu Dazai. 

Looking at the book that lays in your basket you can see several bookmarks sticking out the edge of the book. You place your bag on top of it and ride home. No matter how far you got from the school you can still feel someones eyes on you, You suddenly press the brake on your bike slowly looking back to see no one. The sigh you let out sounds frustrated. You open the zip of your bag and pull out the camera. Once you turn it on you slowly turn it behind you, looking into the view finder as you do so. With the noticeable glitch basically taking over the screen youre able to see what the glitch is trying to hide. Shuntaro standing a couple of feet away from you with this bike by his side. Him look directly at you. 

You feel your heart skip a beat out of pure shock when you see him. 

“Why are you here?"

You manage to let out feeling the tears sitting at the bottom of your eyes. You shut off the camera and place it back in your bag. 

You sit on your bed looking at the book in your hand. It remains closed while you look at the side of it seeing all the bookmarks and notes sticking out. Noticing one note that has your name on it. You slowly open the page the note is stuck too. The one and only underlined quote catches your eye. 

“What uneasiness lies in being loved?” 

The same quote he told you about that one day. 

-

It’s now the end of graduation day and it’s been two years since you’ve used the camcorder. You left it in the past along with Shuntaro. While digging through your locker to empty it you found yourself holding the same book again. The same book from two years ago. The small smile on your face makes you think of all the times you and Shuntaro spent together before he disappeared. 

Once you gathered all your personal items from your locker you made your way home. You placed the box with all your belongings under your bed. While placing it under there you see another box. This time with things from you and Shuntaro’s time together. Photos you mostly took off you and shuntaro at school together, either holding hands or sitting close to each other during class. Random notes you would pass each other in class and a dusty camcorder. 

You slowly pick up the camera and examine it. Pulling out the SD card and going towards your laptop to insert it inside. A folder appears that contains 3 years worth of memories. You click on the first video 

The camera is showing you and Shuntaro walking through your school’s hallway. You took this video during your first year. In the video you and Shuntaro’s connected hands can be seen. 

“Why are you recording?” 

“Im making memories for us” 

“But wont we just remember the memories we made instead of relying on a camera to remind us?”

“No because what if i forget about you one day...or worse. you forget about me.” 

“I would never forget you” 

You continue to watch all the videos you filmed remembering all the times you spent with Shuntaro. But now you needed to move on especially since youre leaving for college for a fresh start. 

Shuntaro will always be remembered as your first love. 

AN: lmaoo last part.anyways i tried to make it sad but idek if its that sad. i rlly hope you guys enjoyed this and bc i finished writing this series i will be taking requests so please send some ( the characters i write for are on my masterlist ). thank you so much for all the support. i love uuu!!

<3 viv

[warmcoals]

ive gotta say, scratching something furiously into a chalkboard, drawing a gash underline beneath it, spinning around with a flourish to stare at the class and punctuating with a loud jab in the general area (leaving a random ass dusty dot) was kind of a slay that we'll never recover. i hope chalkboards stay around

[defire]

Back to the Dregs Part 6

Part 1 Next

Content: noncon slight nudity, caretaking, held for ransom/used as bait, injuries, carewhumper, ptsd, passing mention of suicide

The room had a quiet feel to it, which underlined some anxiety--they'd soundproofed it. Something about the quietness, the fact that there was a blanket, it was a double bed like his own, made him achingly long to sleep. The new pallet board walls were dark in the small gaps and holes. Styrofoam soundproofing, maybe. Maybe it was just too dark to see.

The blanket was a brand-new fleece blanket, which confirmed his thought that they'd only just set this up. He only had to figure out what kind of omissions these people would've been likely to make in haste.

An unsettling chain was attached to a hook in the wall, and the end had a jimmied-up manacle dangling on it.

"Let's get you into bed," Chris said kindly, like he was tucking a child in.

Michael was too tired to do anything but drag himself inside where Jordie pushed him. Jordie shoved him against the wall face-first, and Michael heard the click of a knife behind him. He stiffened and clenched his teeth, willing away the bad memories by focusing on the dusty smell of freshly-cut drywall and pine.

The zip tie dug in harshly, then snapped, and Michael's wrists were free. He pulled them in front of him with a groan as all the straining of his arms from the past forty-five minutes culminated in what felt like a fresh injury. He rubbed his cold hands, and they ached as circulation started coming back.

Jordie's hand came around his shoulder and pushed him toward the bed. Michael's legs hit it and he tumbled down. Jordie grabbed Michael's wrist and yanked it up toward the cuff.

"Ah--" Michael cringed as the metal bit down into the angry bruise around his wrist.

"Behave, Michael, or you won't get a bed." He said, tightening the manacle like a sandwich until Michael grunted

"--please--"

"Jordie, don't torture him." Pete said from the entrance.

"Fuckin hypocrite." Jordie said, but he loosened the cuff by a notch and then let his wrist go. "There, Mikey boy." He poked Michael's cheek.

"It's Michael." Michael winced.

Jordie leaned in and whispered, loud enough for the others to hear--

"Don't cross me, Mike."

"Niext time I do, I'll make sure to win." Michael said. Then he ducked under his right arm to avoid another slap.

"Jordie, he's just tired and cranky," Chris coaxed.

Jordie grumbled and got up.

Michael watched as the others left, leaving just Chris alone with him.

Chris came over holding a tube of neosporin.

"Antibiotic for that torn skin on your cheek." He said.

Michael sighed, figuring he'd better accept it.

"Okay." He whispered, and Chris took a fingerful of it and gently wiped it over the burning wound.

Michael clenched his teeth and dissociated to keep his mind off the additional pain.

"Hey Chris?" He said as Chris moved his torn pj's out of the way of a cut on his knee.

"Yeah?"

"Do you actually… care? Or is this some kind of trick?"

Chris huffed thoughtfully.

"Well, you're one to speak your mind."

"Anything but, actually, but…" Michael licked his lips. "What are you doing, here?"

Chris shrugged, applying the paste onto the other cut.

"I'm just as much of a bastard like you said." He grimaced. "I don't give that much of a fuck. I just… would rather not see you hurting?"

Michael sighed.

"Now rest up." Chris patted his arm. "Big day tomorrow."

Morgan's hands shook as he opened the email on his phone. He rubbed sleep out of his eyes as he watched the video in the email.

A dirty-blonde ponytail, messy from sleeping in it, showed at the start of the video. The guy was wearing pokemon pajamas and when he turned around, Morgan expected to see a terrified civilian. He was, after all, being held at gunpoint by intruders, in his bedroom.

But what he saw was a resolute frown as his eyes went from one to another of his enemies.

There was something familiar about the face. Morgan squinted at his phone while he got over to this desk and opened his laptop, shoving cigarette butts off the edge with his left arm. When he opened the video on his laptop, his eyes widened.

It was Michael.

Michael, who was supposed to be dead to Morgan after ratting out his father. He was watching the camera and probably making those lightning-quick judgements of his.

"Charmander, huh." Morgan muttered as he paused the video and sank his head into his hand, robotically arranging his dark hair in a spiky fringe with his fingers.

His reddened eyes rested on Michael's face. The only reason he'd had a hard time recognizing him was because of that initially somewhat calm expression. The kid had gotten a bit tougher since Morgan had last seen him, apparently.

He cringed as he watched Michael's worried smile turn to something more shaky and panicked.

The kid should've killed himself a long time ago, Morgan thought. He was too sweet for this world.

He winced as the man to the left pushed Michael around and yanked his arms back behind him.

The video cut as Michael was in the middle of explaining how he wasn't that flexible.

"Fuck, Michael." He muttered. "No, fuck that kid."

Michael's body was numb when he woke up.

His swollen eyes wandered over his surroundings. Teal drywall ceiling, teal drywall behind the flaws in the pallet board wall. They'd made this room specifically for him, probably intending to keep him there for awhile. Fuck.

He decided to sit up, and the moment he moved every bruise on his body hurt, and he let out an involuntary cry of pain, crumpling over sideways.

He felt more than heard pounding footsteps immediately, and the door swung open.

"Yeah he's up." Jordie said, coming in fast. Now in the light, Michael noticed his brown hair and the silver chains on his neck and ear just over the mask.

Michael groaned, unable to move without pain, and crumpled over with his manacled left wrist extending a bit backward over his head, close enough to grab if Jordie wanted to. Stupid chain.

"Hey." Jordie said, close enough that Michael jumped.

He felt the hem of his pj top being pulled up to expose his back to Jordie and a couple guys that had followed him. For a moment, he'd had that relaxed gut feeling from being asleep, but that was leaving now for a lurching sensation of terror. Chills ran up his spine as the shirt tightened painfully around his bruised ribs. He grimaced, trying to dissociate. He hoped they wouldn't try to take it off.

"Is that enough?" Someone asked doubtfully.

"Enough what?" Michael croaked.

He felt thick fingers drag over his bruises as Jordie spoke.

"Can't do too much, is what I say." He said.

Michael groaned.

"Too much what?" He repeated.

"Roll over." Jordie grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked, not giving him time to comply.

Fearing another punishing beat-down, Michael rolled with the tug, self-consciously shielding his face with his arm from the light.

"What is that, Charmander?" Someone laughed at his pj's.

"It is," Michael said anxiously.

The others besides Jordie laughed. Jordie just grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up.

"Hey," Michael pushed back. "Why are you looking at my chest?"

Jordie grabbed his hand away, jerking hard enough on the shirt to tear the stitches in the hem.

"Take off your shirt." He said. "Or else,"

Michael swallowed as Jordie's hand finally succeeded in pinning his free wrist on the bed, leaning over him and panting loudly.

"Honestly, what do you guys have against telling me--"

Jordie put his open palm on Michael's stomach, and he gritted his teeth, staring Jordie in the eyes.

"Are you going to make this easy, or hard?"

Michael's stomach rose and fell under the hand of the guy who'd left these bruises all over him.

At that moment a voice in the doorway spoke for him.

"Easy, now, guys. What's poppin'?"

Jordie released him, patting Michael's stomach as he turned to face Chris. Michael sat up slowly, wincing. He met Jordie's glare. Take it off, the man's eyes said.

Michael, instead, pulled a hairband off his wrist--he never remembered to take it off--reached back and ponytailed his hair up, making sure it covered the nape of his neck.

His eyes darted around the room, hoping they'd give up the thing about looking at his chest.

"I told you to take it off," Jordie growled.

"Not much to see, man," Michael shrugged.

He wasn't taking off his shirt.

"Alright," Chris said, "let the man have his breakfast first, will you?"

"I answer to Pete." Jordie growled.

"Is Pete back yet, Gabe?" Chris asked the guy behind Jordie.

Gabe shook his head.

"Said he'd be back before noon."

"Noon?" Jordie repeated scornfully. He stared at Michael like he was about to punch him.

"It's not my fault, man." Michael said with his hands up pacifyingly.

Jordie growled.

"I don't give a fuck, Michael." He turned and stomped out, the others following.

Taglist:

@fleur-a-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @whumped-by-glitter @whumpwritings @mimostic @tildeathiwillwrite

[fuzzyhenry]

Doug being a dog

This is Doug, a mid-50s fellow who lives a life of solitude. He spends his days operating heavy machinery at the local salvage yard and his evenings downing canned beers and shouting at his old boxy television. Tonight, he lounges in his ratty wife-beater and faded boxers, a can of malt beer in one hand, the remote in the other.

I phase through the window, unseen and unfelt. I hover above Doug, admiring the sweaty sheen on his brow, the slight redness in his cheeks from the alcohol, the unkempt beard that hides the double chin quite poorly. It's a picture of middle-aged abandon that calls to me more than any other.

In an instant, I swoop down. A jolt goes through Doug. His beer can slips from his hand, spilling lukewarm beer onto the threadbare carpet. He groans, shuddering as his eyes roll back. For a moment, his body tenses, as if in some unseen struggle. Then his eyes flutter closed, his body goes limp, and the once-rowdy man is quiet. He's asleep now, but his body... oh, his body is wide awake.

Now, I'm Doug, or rather, I'm in Doug. The feeling of physicality, of being bound within human flesh once again, is intoxicating. His heart thrums in my - his - chest, a rhythmic symphony that underlines the grandeur of the human experience.

I stretch Doug's arms, chuckling at the not-so-admirable 'beer belly'. I run my hand through his chest hair, coarse and thick. The sensation is magnificently grounding. I flex his leg, feeling the weight and strength of his muscles.

Turning to a dusty mirror hanging skewed on a wall, I admire my new 'self'. Doug's flushed face, his twinkling eyes hidden under bushy eyebrows, the rough beard. I pull up the grubby wife-beater, revealing a furry belly, and let out a hearty laugh. The sound echoes in the small house, a symbol of my delight. "Alright, Doug, let's have some fun now," I murmur, standing up from the recliner. His body's a bit wobbly, a bit unsteady, but that's part of the charm. "He's Doug, huh? What if Doug were a dog?" I muse.

Hauling off his wife-beater and yanking down his boxers, I'm now fully exposed. His body, heavy and moist with sweat, thrums with the exertion of the possession activity. I turn around on the spot, just like a dog would before settling down, and I lower myself onto my haunches.

Now, sitting on the grimy carpet like a loyal pet awaiting his master's command, I throw my head back and unleash a hearty, "Woof!" The sound reverberates through the quiet house, a perfectly surreal backdrop to the silent night beyond the walls.

I hoist a chubby leg up next, just like a dog would, and I start to pantomime licking it. I drag Doug's broad, coarse tongue along the length of the hairy limb, my laughter punctuating each exaggerated lick. The taste of perspiration, mingled with the faint hint of grease and motor oil, is potent. "Oh, we're not done yet," I say, a devious glint in Doug's eye. The house is my stage, and I'm the sole performer in this bizarre, one-man show. I throw my hefty body down on all fours. Doug's knees and palms press into the worn carpet. His hairy back is level, his rear end slightly hoisted - a perfect imitation of a dog on his daily walk. I begin to move, every motion exaggerated. I crawl on all fours, the creaking floorboards under fat, hairy palms and knees adding a rhythm to my movement. Doug’s naked body shuffles around, with his considerable behind swaying with each forward motion. Down the narrow hallway, past the modest kitchen, around the worn-out dining table, and back into the living room. I cover every possible surface, from the front door to the last nook and cranny of his humble dwelling. I even pause occasionally, sniffing the air dramatically, cocking Doug's head as if hearing some distant, dog-like call. I pant heavily, playfully wagging the imaginary tail, my belly jiggling with laughter at the ridiculous spectacle I make. Feeling the heady rush of the bizarre game, I take it a step further. I stumble towards the closed windows, peering out into the quiet neighborhood. Then, lifting my head, I mimic a series of barks, "Woof, woof, woof!" Each sound echoes through the room, a robust confirmation of my playful antics, a middle-aged man masquerading as a suburban canine. After my performance by the window, I saunter towards the kitchen. Noticing the refrigerator, I smile with a devious intent. I throw open the heavy door and the musty aroma of leftovers wafts out. Half-eaten sandwiches, remnants of cold Chinese takeout, a piece of cake - the fridge is a treasure trove. I dive in, literally. I don't bother with hands; I'm a dog, after all. Lowering my face to the plate, I begin to wolf down the food with a voracious appetite. Mouthfuls of sandwich, slurps of noodles, a big bite of the cake - I devour everything directly with his mouth, my laughter muffled by the food. The crumbs scatter on the fridge's shelves and the floor, falling from Doug's scraggly beard and landing on his protruding belly. Doug's heavy-handed chewing and savage eating style mimic that of a hungry animal, making the scene even more hilariously absurd. (part1)

[zillyeh]

From the Cracks

companion piece to this one

Characters: Zipper Anthem, Castel Baclef

The near open walls of the Serpent’s Hands breezy cathedral let in every sound from the Old North. The repairs that had been done over the sweeps were never structurally sound enough to keep out the elements. It seemed like this time the ON was really putting in some effort, though. They had the funds and manpower for it now. Crumbled walls had real supports jutting out from the top, reaching past where there once may have been stained glass windows to touch the well abused roof.

At the base of the construction, looking far too long and gangly on the floor, squatted a purpleblood. The old drone-brick that still stood strong behind the pulpit interested him, much to the chagrin of the Undertaker.

She thought she was doing enough for him- keeping his uppity little south city bakery from getting Smiles branded bricks through his window- but no. His little bestie twisted her arm with another bribe to let him up here. In her church. 

If money weren't such a problem she never would have entertained this.

"Have you found what you're looking for yet or what?" Undertaker Anthem demanded, her voice rough and annoyed through her mask. Castel flinched at the sound of her voice, but let out a gentle hum in response.

"I may be getting close," he said, leafing through his old, battered book. "It is supposed to be low enough for the damage not to have reached…" The lilt of an Enfaris accent kissed the edges of his words, making Zippie grimace more. Clowns. He lacked the paint, but that didn’t matter. It couldn't. She couldn't afford to not be on edge.

"You could always help," he continued, "It might be-"

"No. I'm staying parked right here." For all her posturing and glares, her voice nearly gave way to the fear underlining her behavior. 

"Relax your shoulders, then." 

"Excuse me?"

"I feel your tension from here," he said with a flippant wave of his hand. "Even if I did bite, my teeth are rather flat, no?"

When she didn't respond, he turned. He flinched once more, struck by one of the daggers she was glaring into his head. He huffed, making some show of not looking away, pretending she wasn't scary. She was. Even seeing past the hardness in her silvery eyes- to her exhaustion- didn't change that.

Castel tilted his head curiously, fixated on her for a moment,  before shaking his head back to the bricks.

“It’s a spiral of names,” he started as if she’d asked. “Small, barely meant to be noticeable. Etched with an errant piece of metal off of one of my ancestors’ companions’ hands.”

Ancestors. The ones that truly existed were nothing but trouble. Bessba’s? Jackass. This guy’s? Forcing him into her church to look for more clues about his silly little existence. Those who could trace their lines like that- who knew that someone specific was responsible for them- were just so…

Annoying.

He traced his long, skinny fingers along the brick, continuing to talk to her (or himself, it was hard to tell) as he scooted further down the wall.

“It's supposed to be at about sitting height, thank goodness. It would be helpful if these walls weren't so dusty, but who am I to- oh!”

Castel's sudden noise and spring to action made Zippie jump. The purple grabbed a brush from his pocket, enthusiastically sweeping at a cracked brick near the middle of the wall. Zippie clenched her teeth, watching him with something beginning to approach curiosity. Some dusty graffiti was that exciting?

“Find what you're looking for, finally?” Zippie asked, tilting her head slightly.

“Shush- I mean yes, sorry, I just don't want the integrity of the brick to be compromised. Oh look at that, that must be all of them…” It sounded like he found what he was looking for. As much as she didn't want to turn her back to him, she had other things to do. He'd be done soon enough. Zippie turned back to her pulpit as he talked to himself, sketching in his notebook.

“Baclef of course, Payark, Sclera, Humera… Goz…. jam or is that silent? H sound maybe, Aarika-”

 Castel’s mumbling suddenly felt like a brick to the back of the head. For a moment she thought she misheard him, but the goosebumps on her arms were too solid for that to be the case.

“What did you just say?” she asked lowly, dangerously. She did not turn to face him.

“...Aarika? Sorry, I know I shouldn't speak that name too loud, but-”

“Before that.”

“Oh! Goz-Gozjam?” The sitting purple adjusted his glasses on his long broad nose. “Am I pronouncing that incorrectly?”

“No, you're not,” Zippie said before she could stop herself.

“Okay!” he said cheerily. He then paused and looked to the Undertaker, who'd turned to face him. The purple's fear of her had been overridden with curiosity. He looked at her, really looked at her and said:

“Your eyes… your pupils are teardrop shaped.” Given his tone, that meant something to him. Zippie hissed lowly behind her mask, straightening her posture further. He flipped through one of the weathered old journals he brought with him, but didn't look like he was reading it as he continued.

“‘It's a funny thing, seeing Gozjam with her eyes uncovered. Rare a sight as it is. So many of us have heavy eyes, it's the nature of our species, but the droop of her lids and the shape of her pupils truly ice the cake of her melancholy. Were she anyone else, I'd only call them droplets- but with her? To refer to them as anything but tear drops would do a poetic disservice to her character.’”

“Stop it,” Zippie ordered as he took in another breath to speak. He stubbornly opened his mouth again.

“‘It's a shame she has to hide them, and the unfortunate rest of her face. She is more lovely than-”

“I said enough,” she snarled this time. She felt something dangerous under her skin. Electric. Defensive. “Are you done over there? Did you get what you wanted? I didn't say you could be here all night.” He paid her bristling no mind, fully facing her on his knees. Examining her from his distance away. Seeing her.

“You don’t even know, do you?” There was something soft to his voice that made her want to punch him. “Anthem, my intention is not to distress you, but-”

“You’re failing, Baclef. I think it’s time for you to go.” It didn’t sound like she’d take arguing well. He sighed, glanced back at the wall, and began to stand. In that same instance, something dawned on her that turned her blood to ice- and her behavior violent. She tugged him up by the collar while he was still knelt down. Her eyes were wide now, showing off the entirety of those teardrops.

“What else does it say about her in those books of yours?” she asked with a panic that didn’t suit her. The rasp in her voice was more prevalent when she raised her voice like that, making her all the more terrifying. Castel stammered. He was unused to being roughhoused, even more so at this angle.

“N-nothing, they were friends that’s-”

“Physically,” she growled, shaking him again. He let out an honest-to-Messiahs eep. 

“He didn’t- tall? Skinny, robot arms-” Another shake interrupted him. He frantically searched his memory for the correct answer. When he looked her in her eyes, damaged red sclera and silvery pupils above a tight leather mask, it clicked.

“Oh, oh- nothing, nothing. I swear on my life he never described her past shape. It was a secret that he kept until they destroyed this place. I always thought it was rather obvious, since- ah!” 

Zipper shoved him back, looking like a snake about to strike. Castel dusted himself off, scrambling back towards the wall as she approached. Unbidden sparks lit up the rivets at the back of her neck, letting off small, ribbon-like bursts of electricity.

“I could be wrong?” he offered, clearly wishing he was less motor mouthed. “I could be way off. It doesn’t matter. Even if I knew I wouldn’t- I couldn’t. For the obvious wrong it would be of course, but-”

“But?” she said through clearly clenched teeth behind that zipper. Her sparking wasn’t getting worse, but it wasn’t stopping.

“...Our ancestors were friends.”

That stopped her in her tracks. The Undertaker swayed on her boots, clenching and unclenching of her fists without taking her eyes off of the heap of giant purpleblood on the ground.

“Get the fuck out of my church,” she said, something almost airy about her tone this time. The shift startled him enough to grab his things in one swift motion.

“Yes ma’am. Sir. I’m- I’m sorry.” Castel scrambled to his feet, still making her wince when he was drawn to his full height. He nearly dropped his books in his haste to leave.

“I’ll have, um, our mutual contact compensate for the trouble,” he called back as he strode towards the doors. “I really am-” He stumbled a bit over a piece of rubble that hadn’t been moved yet, making more of a show of leaving than this already was. 

Zippie stayed unmoving where he left her, staring at that corner of wall. The slam of the church doors woke her back up, and with a shake of her head she said:

“Annoying.”

[ladyhindsight]

Clary is looking for the lost faerie ring which ushers us into the chapter that gets utterly disgusting. Which, I’m sure, it fully intends to be. Yet it doesn’t negate the fact that the writing and approach here is irresponsible.

(Includes sexual assault)

How is Jace’s neat and spotless room dusty? There was this scene before:

“Give me a second to clean up the room. It’s a mess.”  “Yeah, when I was in there before, I think I might actually have seen a fleck of dust on the windowsill. You’d better get on that.”

I can’t believe Jace isn’t as clean as they claim! I am clutching my pearls as we speak.

→ Also, no semicolon. Just period.

Sebastian interrupts Clary’s search and brings her a ceremonial dress for the big night.

The Nephilim are very particular about what parts of the human culture they adopt and which parts they just come up by themselves.

→ Do they wear red in the parabatai ceremony? Or did we forget about that

How is Jocelyn’s character so divorced from the whole concept of the Circle, the supremacist ideas of Valentine and being married to said Valentine, and yet she wore a ceremonial dress to the Circle ceremonies and attended them.

→ Also now it’s “our mother” when Sebastian was so adamant before that Jocelyn was only Clary’s mother when Clary dared to call her “our mother”?

Sebastian leaves Clary to get dressed, but instead Clary infiltrates Sebastian’s room to look for the ring. Which she finds. Dun dun dunnn.

Cut to Simon sitting in the car with the rest of the Team Good. Clary then contacts Simon via the rings, like finally.

Completely unnecessary?

Clary spills the beans about Sebastian’s plan, but is then cut off. Simon orders the truck to be pulled over because the Team Good needs an action plan. We cut back to Clary which leads us to the most disgusting scene in the entire book, and what only feeds into the incest fetish going on in the series.

This scene that suddenly takes a sexual tone, excluding the cuts to Simon, includes Sebastian forcing himself on Clary by kissing her and then trying to strip her jeans.

Inclusion of dark themes, exploration of those themes, is not the issue. Uncomfortable themes and scenes are not the issue. Bad and awful things happening to the characters is not the issue. It needs to be considered how responsibly the theme is handled in the book, the level of detail gone into, and also whether in which case is it geared towards adolescents or adults. It is critical to understand how the writing actually addresses these.

Sebastian’s villainy is used often to explain his sexual approach to Clary, his sister, and his disregard of human morals and taboos. It is also used to justify this type of content in the series. Because Sebastian is demon-like, corrupted by demonic blood—which ever shit excuse Clare manages any given time—it’s only natural for him to behave like this, to be so morally corrupted that he would do this.

While there is literature, fiction and nonfiction, that is/might be helpful dealing and coming to terms with SA and related trauma, especially considering still adolescent readers, Clare’s most definitely is not. What is the benefit here—narrative or otherwise—of having Clary being assaulted? By her brother no less? Its primary target is to underline and over-pronounce villainy of a character that we already know is evil. Child murder and the need to commit multiple genocides apparently were not enough build a convincing narrative of a villain. No, what we clearly needed was more incest and sexual depravity.

Inclusion of dark and difficult things should be in order to cultivate empathy towards the victim and understanding of what is actual lived human experience, not have your villain use SA as a literary prop to show the reader how bad and twisted he is and make another character go through horrible trauma just for the sake of it. Considering also that Clary has no reaction to it at all. Additionally, when looking at the tone of the writing, it is almost like intended as borderline sexy, but just enough to toe the line and then back away if needed in face of backlash.

TMI—nor the whole of TSC—does not deal with sexual assault (it doesn’t deal with incest truly either). If we go back to City of Glass, how was Aline or her experience considered at all? In similar vein, the writing here uses SA as dramatic effect. Almost shock value. Clary fighting Sebastian after this is probably intended as empowering, but does it make it less so even if the act of SA was not included? No. This was completely useless, disgusting, and negligent.

Should have kicked him in the dick.

We cut back to Team Good at their Team Talk Time.

Unintentionally hilarious mental image.

What a useless piece of a conversation.

Conveniently. Is there a habit of sending prank messages? What is the point of fire-messages—a form of quick and effective communication—if people don’t trust the contents? Plot convenience, that’s what. (While I get that delivering the information face-to-face is more effective, but maybe a heads-up?)

Cut back to Sebastian and Clary. Sebastian reveals Clary that he knew all along Clary would be a traitor to their cause.

I am so tired. I don’t know how many of these you’re like me, no I am not, you’re like your mother, sajdkahsdkjsad conversations I can take. It has become so repetitive that I‘m going to barf.

“The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.” ― L.P. Hartley, The Go-Between

A quote Jace and Sebastian cite themselves in this book. Should ponder more on that. Also, what the hell do the Nephilim even know about their DNA or how it behaves.

→ Strengthens the risk of genetic disorders, really.

My soul needs scrubbing after this.

There’s no winning with this. The narrative around the whole incest bullshit twists in on itself that sometimes it’s hard to even understand where it stands or what it wants to even say. There must be something broken in me that I cannot kiss anyone but Jace who I believe to be my brother by the same parents. Not that there was something wrong with her that she wanted to kiss just someone who she thought was her brother.

The series makes this point several times: family is not defined by blood relations. But also these characters are related by blood (or think they are) and are in love with each other, because it’s kinky for the author.

→ Unnecessary pauses take away the urgency of the action.

→ Clary just punched him, no need to reiterate that point. You can let go of my hand, thank you. “She whirled and kicked him hard in the stomach, hoping it was still sore.”

→ Thank you for telling me right after showing me.

→ I wish Clary (or any character for that matter) stopped remembering things whenever Clare needs to call back on a scene. “Time slowed like during the fight in the junk shop in Prague, where she had disappeared into her own world…” Or something.

*The Hebrew Bible.

Googled a bit about the Song of Songs/The Song of Solomon, and many have pondered on the incestuous aspect of it (4:1-5:1). Mostly the answer seems to be no, it’s not about incest but sublimity of love, the use of ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ is not literal and used differently in ancient Israel… I am not well versed in any of the Bible talk, but my quick research gives me an impression that Sebastian is interpreting the Song of Songs whatever way fits him and his feelings for Clary the best. Which, considering, would not be out of character for him.

→ Let’s not do the “It’s in the Bible” arguments or justifications ever again.

IS THAT YOUR ONLY DEFENSE ON THIS MATTER?

In the end of the chapter Clary manages to outweigh Sebastian, and the chapter ends with a stupid cliffhanger Clary bringing a shard of glass down at Sebastian. (Spoiler: she strikes the floor inches from Sebastian’s throat because she can’t kill Jace as well. ...Yet :^D)

[ofmermaidstories]

Merms!! I have been sitting on this bc I was so wishy-washy with my pride. But I've come to the stunning conclusion that I did something okay and thats okay.

BUT here's The Widening Sky that I bound myself. It's messy, ramshackled together, and got flaws. It's the first one I made after all. But I adore it. I went camping with my family and read it twice over a week. And had the same soft, gentle kind of heartbreak and mending this story all puts me through TWICE!! But I fell in love with mer!Bakugou and your writing all over again TWICE!!

I doodle in the book when I have time to read it again. I just recently learned I can underline and highlight things in books I own as well!! I'm gonna highlight every life-changing sentence you wrote!!

burg, i think this is the most wonderful thing that has ever been shared with me. 🥺 the cover!!! it makes me think of a loud shirt!!!! YOUR DOODLES 😭 the receipts and memos held up by washi tape!!! the hippocampus!!! THE TITLE PAGE DOODLE OF U AND MER!BAKUGOU 😭😭😭

you made a physical thing; you sewed and glued it together and now it’s real!!! it’s out there in the world with you, with your drawings—all your hardwork bound up into an actual object that can now like, idk, feel warm from being left in the sun or get grass stains on it or get dusty. 🥺 i think im gonna cry LMAO. burg, this is beautiful and i think you’re incredible and you should be so, so proud of yourself. 🥺😭🌷 thank-you for sharing this. 🥺 you’ve made my whole week!!! i’ve been coming back to this ask and just STARING ever since you sent it. 🥺 it’s so, so wonderful—and it’s such an honour that all your hardwork into binding for the first time went to this. 📖🌷💕 i hope you realise how creative you are!!! 🥺 may you always make things with love and enthusiasm and know that they’re so perfect, because of that. 😌💕

[alex-the-bard]

uh

pictures are too hard (it's eighteen pages long)

so here

anything underlined has a direct link to the original post (so click on those for drawings hehe)

Dreamscape Nexus ~

All Entries

Recovered sketchbook entry

The following document was recovered from an Ascario mining compound following a raid conducted by the SAS in cooperation with Seal Team 6. It was found lying on a desk by [REDACTED] on [REDACTED] among other scattered papers. The document was sent to Site [REDACTED] in [REDACTED] on [REDACTED] for further study. The document seems to depict a door, with some sort of slogan underneath it. Surrounding the door are windows shaped similarly to shards of broken glass, depicting several different words, images, and languages (Russian, Latvian, German, and Swedish), and connected by threads, almost like red string on an evidence corkboard. There are also several flyers and missing posters floating around the door. [REDacTeD] has taken note of this discovery and has expressed great interest in the document. Research is still ongoing.

ENTRY 00000000000000000000000000000000000oO0: Why Can’t I Remember?

Why can’t I remember? My brain feels fuzzy. This sword is heavy. I could just lie down here. Close my eyes… and rest…

ENTRY 1: A Door to Another World

Where am I? I stepped through the door and now I’m standing in a void? What is this place…?

ENTRY 8: Where Am I?

This place is strange. These islands float in what seems to be an endless void, and the laws of gravity do not apply in the way I know them to, if at all. And the beings that inhabit this strange realm... I must find a way to escape this place.

-OS

ENTRY 27

There is, SOMETHING out there, looking for me, i don't know what it is.

I can't get this damn mask off, and my arm isn't mending. Fuck, my shirt is covered in blood. What I wouldn't give for a warm bath right now... I fear for my safety, this place is strange, the laws of my world don't seem to apply here. and I can't seem to shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

There's some sort of obelisk a couple islands down, I'll start out for it in the morning, not that one can keep track of time in this cursed place…

-OS

enTRY 27-B: Recovered Sketchbook

The following pages from OS’s sketchbook were recovered by [REDACTED] on [REDACTED] in [REDACTED], we have yet to identify any of the things depicted in the drawings.

Entry 30: Home Sweet Home

I found some sort of house at the foot of the obelisk, I'm sitting inside of it as I write this. Well, at least I have some shelter. My face feels weird, some kind of pressure behind my eyes, and my arm is getting worse. There're some sort of veins spreading up my bicep, and it hurts like a fucking bitch. What the fuck was in that spine?

Entry 34: Bells?

I hear chimes ringing, first non-natural sound I've heard in weeks. This building is fucking huge, gives me steampunk vibes.

Ugh, my head hurts, my arm is chalky, black and dusty. It feels like coal. I can barely write.

-OS

Entry 51: Bodies

Oh my gods, I'm gonna throw up.

They- they're- they're BODIES. Rancid, decaying, maggot infested corpses. They just showed up overnight, and they're standing there. Fucking empty eye sockets and rotted grins. It's disgusting. And the smell, I'm gonna be sick.

Entry 54: Ashes to Ashes

My arm is... Chalky, crumbly. It feels like sand.

The bodies are still there. They haven't moved. Why did I ever open that damn door…

Entry 68: Whispers in the WInd

The bodies are gone. They just disappeared. I looked away for 2 seconds and they were gone. Freaky.

This place isn't safe anymore. That- That THING is here. It knows where I am. I'm leaving. There's some sort of airship at the top of the mountain, I'll depart at glimmer's fade.

There are voices, too. Almost inaudible whispers, drifting on the wind.

When you see it, it sees you too.

When you hear it, it hears you too.

When you feel it, it touches you.

When it calls you, it has you.

When you feed it.

IT CLAIMS YOU.

Entry 78: Watcher

It followed me. I thought- I thought I got away but I didn't. It was just playing with me.

This damn mask.

My arm is doing weird things. Shifting and changing forms. It almost looks like charcoal sculpting. I don't know what's happening to me.

I know it's there. It always has been. You're there too, aren't you? I know you are. Don't lie to me. I see you. I always have seen you.

ENTRY 79: It Found Me

*unlike most of the recovered documentation, this entry is recorded on an old camcorder, the tape and camcorder are splattered in blood and a thick, inky substance*

It found me. It fucking found me. The long pale arms, it reached out and it- *makes strangling gesture* It was some sort of fucking demon. Fucking hell. It cut me, it fucking cut me!

*unintelligible mutterings, before subject shows themselves on camera. they are covered in blood and the same inky substance as before, a bright red overcoat covers their body, and a shield-shaped mask covers their face. their arm shows the decay described in previous entries.*

This place is hell. I've died and now I'm in fucking hell! Monsters, upside down bridges, and now a fucking cryptid chasing me around!?!?! What the fuck!?!?!

I need to get out of here.

*subject steps towards the camcorder, reaching out to turn it off, the last frames of video show the subject drawing a hunting knife from their overcoat*

ENTRY 92: Fuck That Box

Fuck that box.

There was fucking teeth. HUMAN TEETH. And a heart. Beating. Fucking pulsing and throbbing. There were HUNDREDS of them. The whole floor. Fuck. I should never have come here.

Where's the fucking booze.

ENTRY 97: City of Ghosts

I found... SOMETHING. I don't know what it is. Some sort of city? And there was some sort of church or something in the center. Floor was covered in stones, and they seem to be hollow. Boxes? I'll take one back and try to open it.

ENTRY 117: Memories

Why can’t I remember? There- there was a door and- and some kind of hit. That’s it, that’s all I remember! Next thing I know I’m waking up face down in the dirt here! What happened to me?

-OS

Documentarian’s letters 

ENRY 01010100 01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01101110 01101111 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110111 01110010 01101111 01101110 01100111 00101110: Documentarian

Hello there, how are you? No, this isn't OS. This is the Documentarian, I'm the one who's been investigating the Nexus and the Unconscious. I look forward to our future work together.

Are the stars still there?

ENTRY -|NULL|-

I know what you did. My garden is dying. Will you help me?

Life is not binary.

There is a space in-between. Maybe look into the code of our world, who knows what you'll find?

[CONTINGENCY 32R/TE-27 (ARCHIVAL RECOVERY) INITIATED]

What the hell Dawn?

[THEY ARE ASKING TOO MANY QUESTIONS. THE CYCLE MUST NOT BE BROKEN]

They’re just kids, you can’t blame them for being inquisitive!

[THE CYCLE MUST NOT BE BROKEN]

OS’s Rambles (ok alex)

Fuck Ascario

They pulled me out of that fucking hospital and made me go through that door. They promised me salvation, then handed me damnation. Fuck Ascario. I’m sorry Evelyn…

How is this happening?

It’s like I’m looking forward in time. Hello? HELLO? IS ANYONE OUT THERE, CAN YOU HEAR ME? PLEASE. Someone. Anyone… please…

Ascario documents

After-Action Report: Incident at the Nexus Entry Point

Date: [REDACTED]

Prepared by: Imogen Vladistov, Team Leader

Objective: Investigate the Nexus

Team Members:

Team Leader: Imogen Vladistov

Tactical Specialist: Graham Oreta

Tech Specialist: [REDACTED]

Medical Officer: Dr. Karina Solvea

Communications Expert: [REDACTED]

Overview: On [REDACTED], at 3:05 PM stable time, the team was dispatched to breach the Veil through the [REDACTED] at [REDACTED], near [REDACTED]. [OMITTED DUE TO IRRELEVANCE].

Chronology of Events:

Entry Point Approach:

The team approached the portal cautiously, noting its otherworldly appearance. Preliminary scans revealed unusual energy readings but lacked any concerning anomalies.

Door Transition:

Upon entering the portal, the team experienced a sudden disorientation. The transition was without incident.

Initial Nexus Exploration:

[REDACTED]

Monster Encounter:

As the team proceeded deeper into the Nexus, a hostile entity emerged from the shadows. The creature displayed unpredictable behavior and exhibited physical capabilities beyond human comprehension.

Evasive Maneuvers:

The team immediately engaged in evasive maneuvers, attempting to avoid direct confrontation with the monster. Tactical strategies were employed to create distance and formulate a plan for escape.

Escape Attempt:

Despite the team's coordinated efforts, the monster proved relentless. An emergency extraction point was identified, and the team attempted to retreat. However, the rapidly shifting nature of the Nexus made navigation challenging.

Nexus Entrapment:

As the team approached the extraction point, the Nexus environment underwent a sudden transformation, trapping the team in an isolated area. Attempts to retrace steps were unsuccessful, and the team found themselves confined within the Nexus.

Lessons Learned:

Unpredictability of Nexus Environment:

The Nexus displayed an inherent unpredictability, making navigation and escape challenging. Future missions in similar environments require enhanced adaptability and contingency planning.

Monster Behavior Analysis:

The hostile entity exhibited an unpredictable nature and formidable capabilities. Further research and analysis are essential to understand the monster's behavior and develop effective countermeasures.

Communication Protocols:

Communications within the Nexus experienced intermittent disruptions. Improved communication protocols and specialized equipment may be necessary for missions in such unconventional environments.

Recommendations:

Research and Analysis:

Conduct in-depth research on the Nexus to better understand its properties, transitions, and potential threats.

Specialized Training:

Implement specialized training for team members to enhance adaptability in unpredictable environments.

Equipment Enhancement:

Invest in advanced communication and navigational equipment designed for otherworldly environments to minimize disruptions.

Collaborative Research:

Collaborate with scientific and paranormal experts to gain insights into the Nexus and its inhabitants.

Conclusion: The incident at the Nexus entry point highlights the need for comprehensive preparation when dealing with unidentified portals and otherworldly dimensions. The team remains committed to resolving the situation and awaits further directives for potential rescue or extraction protocols.

Imogen Vladistov, Team Leader, 2nd Epoch of Ascario.

7 suns.

7 rings.

7 thrones for the Ebon KIng.

Let the cycle repeat.

Ouroboros Project

Ouroboros

Gods above, what is this stuff? Hold on, what is tha-

[WELCOME, OUROBOROS]

Uhm… hello?

[THE END OF THE CYCLE DRAWS NEAR, REALITY ITSELF WILL SOON BE PULLED APART AT THE SEAMS]

Oh. That’s… Less than convenient…

[LET THE CYCLE BEGIN ANEW]

I mean… if you say so…

[THANK YOU]

gib pictures

[catboy-autism]

♡♡ Mooshroomthing ♡♡

[PT: Mooshroomthing /PT End]

Term coined here by @feralist !

A thing gender connected to Mooshrooms, being a Mooshroom (or Mooshroom hybrid), & being a thing.

[ID 1: A 7-striped flag. From top to bottom the colors are dark red, crimson, red, dark grey, tan, light brown, and dusty brown. In the center there is an image of a red Mooshroom from Minecraft. ID End]

[ID 2: A 7-striped flag. From top to bottom the colors are dark red, crimson, red, dark grey, tan, light brown, and dusty brown. ID End]

[ID 3: A 7-striped flag. From top to bottom the colors are dark red, crimson, red, dark grey, tan, light brown, and dusty brown. In the center there is an image of a brown Mooshroom from Minecraft. ID End]

tagging: @radiomogai

[ID 4: A thin brown line, in the center of it is an orange tabby maine coon mix laying down, staring to the side of the viewer. ID End]

[ID 5: A rectangular banner. The border of it has a gradient of orange to pink. In each corner are 3 strawberries and 4 strawberry flowers. Within the border is a light tan rectangle with text. From top to bottom the different blocks of text read, in all caps: "Do not involve my flags or labels in discourse", this is colored red and underlined; "Anyone can use my flags and labels", this is also red; "But I do block freely", this is colored pink. There is a line of small cartoonish strawberries, each separated by little leaves. On the center bottom is a pink to orange gradient rounded rectangle. Within it is a red text in all caps that reads "This blog loves mspec gays and lesbians". On the left of the rectangle is the mspec lesbian flag and on the right is the mspec gay flag. On the left and right of the main rectangle are drawings of calico cats stretching. There are muddy paw prints scattered across the banner. ID End]

[loungemermaid]

Posting the newest chapter of The Loneliest Time because of the whole ao3 thing

Chapter Five: Fade Into You

Word count 3k, rated teen for dumb Katniss pining

Katniss pov

We are living together. There is (slightly) more touching. There is no sex. Nothing even really close to it, not since our deep kissing in the woods the other day. He keeps me quite literally at arms length. I may be wrapped in his arms or sprawled across his chest when we settle down for bed but by the time morning, lilac bright, streams in, he’s halfway across this absolute ocean of bed. Laying on his stomach, or back to me.

Maybe I’ve misunderstood, misinterpreted him. Maybe he’s less um, physical, that way. Maybe we will never have sex. Which is fine. It’s just unexpected. Kisses he takes and gives freely. His arms are never too far away, if I need to be tangled up in them. He sweeps me up and sets me on his lap often, but if my hands start to roam or linger, he catches them and holds them to his chest. His own (big, strong, delicate) hands are never not firmly on my arms or my waist, as far away from my breasts or my hips as he can get. Maybe he’s just as uneasy with all these things as I am. I appreciate the space but I. I notice other couples. I notice other mens’ hands, caresses, shrieked giggles from other women. I remember things my parents did. I want that. And I might be very sad if it isn’t ever like that.

I take to writing all my desires in a notebook. When he asks I tell him it’s journaling. Private. Things about the Games, things that haunt me in dreams. Which is not altogether untrue. His chest, the tiny flashes of hip, his thighs do haunt my dreams. They too send a thrill down my spine. Just for entirely different reasons. Mmm. The broad expanse of his back.

There are other things I imagine. Things I have to create out of wholecloth, because I’ve never seen them. Peeta’s coloring is all in one theme; dawn. He is all white puffy clouds, golden beams of light, dusty pink, lilac. I wonder if the theme continues. If he’s rosy anywhere else other than his lips. If his heavy golden curls, bright as breaking light, blanket him anywhere else. The hair so thin on his arms and legs, and he’s never not wearing a shirt. I wonder how much is on his chest, if any. I don’t remember any in the Arena, but that’s been months. And Peeta’s grown since then.

He is impossibly more broad. The line of his jaw is sharper, his arms wider, his shoulders more square. I say impossible for two reasons. One: we have not been doing any exercise. Our walk the other day, our failed attempt at a picnic, has been the closest we’ve gotten. Unless he’s leaving the house and hauling bags of flour without telling me. Since he still needs his cane sometimes to balance, I doubt it. Not that he wouldn’t have the strength to, just not the footing.

The other reason is he’s still only sixteen. I don’t know when his birthday is (when I asked he only replied in summer, so I suppose I missed it this year) but it’s a young sixteen. I’m wracking my brain to remember if Rye or Soren were this big at his age, but I wasn’t particularly interested in the other Mellarks, so I don’t have either one of them memorized the way I have Peeta. Gale is still taller, but much thinner built. Up and down, as they say. Straight up and down. Peeta is shorter but he already looks like a man. Like the pen and watercolor illustrations of lumberjacks or blacksmiths you’d find in those types of books, the ones passed around the housewives of the Seam, with dogeared pages and underlined passages and plain covers. Prim always wanted to read them, she didn’t understand why she never could. Hazelle read them plenty, why didn’t we? My mother made some excuse when the question came up, which helped because it always left me stammering. I didn’t read them either, but I’d seen them left open a few times, felt my face burn clear to the next day at the lurid words inside. As I chew on my pen, waiting for Peeta to get out of the shower, I realize I might as well be writing my own plaincover novel. Not that anyone but me will ever see these words.

We’re preparing for Soren’s birthday party, and we’re avoiding family. Avoiding isn’t really right. Just…not inviting conflict. Soren is only a little less than a year older than Peeta, so this party won’t be very big, I’m told. Nothing like a nineteenth birthday party.

No matter which side of the tracks you’re on, that’s the one birthday everyone celebrates. Your birthday of aging out, of freedom, of cheating death. They can have a sort of dark theme to them. Lots of images of skulls and bones. Peeta tells me in Town there’s flowers that symbolize death and life, usually weaved together into a crown. Not unlike a Victor’s crown. When I was younger, I must have planned my Nineteenth half a dozen times. After my father died, I didn’t have the taste for it. And now I’ll never have one. Not really. Oh I’m sure I might have a get together, maybe even a cake or something, but it won’t be a Nineteenth. Neither will Peeta. We’ll have to plan something extra special for the others, then, for Soren’s and Prim’s.

Gale’s is, of course, sooner. But I don’t know where to go with that, how to navigate it. Today is Saturday. If things were normal, I’d be seeing him tomorrow. But I don’t know if he wants to see me after last week. I don’t know if I want to see him. I file it all in my brain to chew over later. Worrying about it right now won’t do, so I’ll just worry about it later. I tuck my diary under my pillow, set about redoing my hair. This braid didn’t quite turn out right.

Peeta opens the door, hair curling up, robe slightly damp at the collar, steam swirling all around him. He’s sighing deeply, nearly panting, and the sound is absolutely delicious, sending shivers down my spine. Sympathetic vibrations; sometimes when you sing at a glass, you can break it with just your voice. Peeta’s sighs can break me. His skin is flushed sunset pink, and he heaves another sigh(my heart vibrating along with it) as he collapses on the bed, fluttering his eyes closed and just breathing. “I’ll never get tired of havin’ unlimited hot water.” He pants out as he scrubs at his face again.

I am absolutely transfixed, frozen as if caught in hovercraft beam, just staring shamelessly. He’s completely covered, but just by that thin flannel. Flannel that’s sticking to his thighs and chest because of the water. The water that was so hot Peeta’s skin is still steaming from the contact, minutes later. He rolls his eyes over at me. “Um, Katniss.”

“Yeah?” My voice catches in my throat.

“I need to get dressed.”

“Uh huh.” I’m chewing my pen again.

“Katniss.”

“What?”

“Please leave the room so I can get dressed.”

“Oh!” I scramble for my journal and pen, which both fall out of my hands approximately five times. “Sorry!” I call as I run down the stairs. What had come over me?

The walk down to the party is, well. Excruciating. My skin feels like static, everywhere, and I can’t look at Peeta. I can’t look at him because he’s wearing a navy blue shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves cuffed up. He’s using the cane today, sleek polished dark wood with a gold handle. The Capitol wouldn’t want anything less than pure elegance, even when it came to basic necessities like a mobility aid. His hair is perfectly touseled, having wriggled free of the gel from our walk. He tries once or twice to smooth it back but gives up shortly. “I need to cut it. It’s getting long.” He says with a chuckle, and it’s only then that I realize that I’ve not only been staring down the road, I’ve been doing it in pure silence.

“I like it. Long. But I also like it shorter. It’s your hair and you should do what you like with it. But I like it longer.”

That rambling, stuttering mess earns me another one of the increasingly common looks of absolute confusion he’s been giving me as of late. “Okay.”

I wince all the way to my toes and I have to shake it out of my fingertips, shake out that feeling. “Sorry. I. Sorry.” Another shudder hits me and I have to shake it out again, shake my head to clear it. I have to stare at my shoes to calm down, have to shove my hands in my pockets. It’s a pretty dress, what I’m wearing. Orange and brown plaid, down to my knees with a full enough skirt to dance in. For once I’m also wearing enough underskirts with it, so it flows from my hips. The top is sleeveless, and quite revealing, so I’ve paired it with a thin cream turtleneck, along with stockings, of course. I think Cinna would be pretty proud, though he’d hate that I’m still wearing my boots with them. I can’t help it, I can’t walk in those pretty shoes he sent, not all the way to town and then go dancing after. These are about to give up the ghost. I’ll have to talk to Delly about some new ones. Again, I could have some top of the line, machine stitched boots from the Capitol, but these are my hunting boots. To hunt in boots from the Capitol would be like hunting in a sequin dress. Besides, it’s good to spend my money in town.

We walk near silently the rest of the way, and I can’t help but wonder what I did wrong.

The party is in some little patio, from some restaurant that went under before I was born. There ain’t many in town; there’s no need. No one has any money. Mostly they’re for the very few Capitol tourists that scurry around come Reaping Day. Not exactly enough to sustain a business. Every once in a while, someone might go to one to celebrate something, but even then, that’s Townie kids. So, when this one went under, apparently no one rushed to take its place, and it has, according to Peeta, become the official unofficial place for teenagers to get drunk and dance. Shortly after we arrived, a glass was placed into my hand, a glass I’m still nursing. I’ve been holding up this little corner of the brick wall for a while, watching as everyone flits about, the conversations overlapping and rushing like a waterfall, Rhett Galbraith’s fiddle barely able to keep up. My eyes keep flitting around, because surely this isn’t legal. In fact, I can think of about three reasons why it ain’t, but then again, if I can manage to pay off Cray with a few turkeys, I’m certain a few kids could scrounge up something to make the peacekeepers look the other way for a birthday party. I should relax, but I’ve never quite known how to do that, especially in a crowd, especially when I’m the only non blonde. Well, except for Rhett and the band, but they were probably hired to be here. I take another sip of my drink and wrinkle my nose. It is, by only the most generous of definitions, a fruit and honey wine, made by Pepper Brookshire from the fruit that doesn’t sell at the grocery. It tastes awful, but she’ll get there, probably. It’s only her third batch, and she is only seventeen after all. She might make a decent outlaw yet, once she learns to balance her spices. I’m just about to go up, talk to her, offer to forage for her when Peeta catches me again. “There you are. Been looking all over for you.”

I stuff my free hand in my pocket again, rock back and forth on my heels, resolutely staring at a spare bit of straw on the ground. “I’ve been here.” I say, and it sounds meaner than I meant. I try and soften. “Did you get to catch up with some of your friends?”

“Mm.” He takes a sip from the jam jar serving as his wine glass, tries to hide his distaste of it, and I can just about pick out his real thoughts then. That the distaste isn’t just Pepper’s melomel. It’s that none of these people have been by a single day since we got home. Not to chat, not to ask if Peeta wanted to hang out. I’ve occasionally been over to Madge’s, but not a soul has come over to visit Peeta. “A little. Been wanting to talk with Delly but she looks…busy tonight, so.” He flicks his eyes over to Delly and Soren, who are caught up in the most awkward kissing I’ve ever seen, and that’s counting the replays of my own kissing.

I bite back a laugh. “That’s. An interesting development.”

Peeta smiles. “Mmm-hmm. They uh, signed their contract earlier today, apparently. A two year engagement. They’ll be married the July Fifth after their Nineteenths. Guess they’re getting used to each other.”

“I always thought that-” and I stop myself from following that line of thinking, because the look Peeta tells me both confirms it anyway and tells me it’s best not spoken about. I take another sip. Right. I can’t help it though, so I try and ask discreetly. “So, they both are?” I whisper, and Peeta only nods, and only once. “Better that way, right?”

“Oh, yeah. Definitely.” He whispers. “It. No. It’s much better this way.”

Technically, legally, no one is supposed to mind who marries who. We all have the freedom to marry who we choose, or not at all. But that doesn’t mean everyone is going to like your choices here. Whether that’s intermarriage between Town and Seam or same sex marriage. Delly might be alright, not a ton of Town families mind their daughters being lesbians. Saves on dowries, I suppose, and it’s built in childcare. A lot of townspeople send their children to stay with their lesbian aunts or neighbors before school(that’s actually how Peeta and Delly met. Peeta’s aunt Rooba married Sutton, a family friend of the Cartwrights, and they babysat them both for years). With boys it’s different. Maybe because they’re expected to carry on the family business, maybe because it’s seen as unmanly, whatever the reasons, it always causes a stir. Another reason I’m becoming more grateful I grew up in the Seam. You might get some old people saying it ain’t right, or that it’s a waste, but honestly it usually works well for gay couples in the Seam. It’s not uncommon for a gay couple and a lesbian couple to share households, pitch in everything together, save up money for their nieces and nephews, and not have to work nearly as hard as other young couples just starting out do. It’s something I’ve considered once or twice before, but I couldn’t do it. I don’t have the heart for it.

But the reason Peeta told me to hush wasn’t because of society at large, it was because of his mother. If she found out that her favorite son was gay…well. It wouldn’t end well. I wonder if she’d actually kill him. That’s happened before, once rumors started to spread about someone, next thing you know a “wild dog” had gotten out, or they’d died of “fever” or some other equally thinly veiled excuse that no one believes. For the Mellarks it’d be almost too easy. They have pigs. All it’d take is one good push while Soren was out feeding and that would be that. A tragic accident that no peacekeeper would ever think twice over. I shudder into my drink, look into Peeta’s eyes. Yeah. A lavender marriage would be best. I set my drink down, not really wanting to pretend to drink it, and maybe it’s because of the music, or the way the kerosene lamps make Peeta’s hair shine like gold, or maybe it’s the slight chill in the air, or the tree frogs and mockingjays singing in the distance, or maybe it’s just because I can’t stop thinking of how he looked out of the shower, but I stick my hand out. “I know it ain’t proper, me being the one to ask, but do you wanna dance?”

He blushes like sunrise, like the first gentle rays that peak out and burn the sky bright pink. “I think I can let that go, just this once. Yes, I’d love to dance.”

And we do. It’s not perfect. It’s probably not even very good. I only know fast dances and Peeta is still a little unsure of himself, a little unsteady. But it feels good. It feels like the parts that have been missing, it feels intimate and close, like more of our hearts are stitching together. I’m humming under my breath before I know it, this song I haven’t heard in years. It’s more Town than Seam; they prefer older songs usually. Classical music, songs before the Dark Days, before the Fall. It’s slow, repetitive, and I think it’s supposed to be a woman that sings it, but Rhett’s brother is doing a good enough job at it. I know people are looking, and I don’t care. I want so desperately to be closer to Peeta, for him to quit this pulling away, to stop all these chaste kisses and put his hands on me. To touch me. To stop holding back. I nuzzle my nose in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent and feel the warmth enrobe me in fondness. “Fade into you” I sing, my voice crackling like fireplace embers, because I want this moment to just be for us, but it’s not, because there’s people around. Always someone around, always people watching. But I can’t help it. If I don’t say(or sing, in this case) it I’ll go mad. “Strange you never knew.” And I’m begging. I’m begging he gets what I mean by that. I’m pleading with the universe that he feels what I’m trying to say, the things I don’t have words for. That I could just press all this emotion from my chest into his and he’d just know.

But he doesn’t. He drops my hands and runs off, and I don’t follow him. He leaves and I don’t follow him because I can’t stop the tears running down my face. He leaves and I run the other direction because I love him and for some reason, we can’t ever talk about that.

[poetryforthem]

The Things Left Over

Did you keep the book that i spent hours manticiuously underlining and highlighting every line that made me think of you.

Do you still read the notes that i left in the margins. Little loves notes, each one swims before my vision. I don’t need physical pages to remember how much I loved you.

You never finished the book. Fiction is not your thing, you say. You never liked to compromise. But it was okay, because for you, I was as flexible as a weeping willow.

Perhaps the book will find another home. Left in a dusty bin, in the back of a goodwill store. Someone else can read the mark left on my heart. I hope it makes them happy.