#erika's plain text

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

Spilled Ink

Pairing: Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike x f!reader

Word Count: 7.5k

Summary: Uhhh Marcus Pike as the world's softest tattoo artist that's it that's the fic.

Warnings: Lots of tattoo talk, obviously, which includes needles, tattoo guns, pain, mention of bleeding, etc.; reader is explicitly coded as neurodivergent because I said so; yearning; lots of kissing; Marcus Pike being a goddamn menace and he fucking knows it

A/N: @kedsandtubesocks made a post about Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike (original post HERE) and then I wrote 7.5k words in 12 hours, as one does. All credit for the idea goes to the amazing Erika who entrusted me with this idea and THANK GOD SHE DID because I don't think I could have gotten it out of my stupid brain otherwise. Header pics credit go to Erin @perotovar, who made these with Tattoo Artist Marcus Pike in mind and I'm just WOOFWOOFBARKBARKBARKBARKHOWL. Thanks also to @littlebirdsbookshelf who suffers through HOURS of me sending screenshots every time I write anything. Love you <3

Additional Note on Canon: I am pretending that we never got to see Marcus Pike in short sleeves in the show despite it happening twice. He has full sleeves on both his arms in this fic that he covered up during his time working at the FBI. Because sleeves are hot and I said so.

Masterlist

It’s not unusual, these days, to wander down the sidewalk staring at your phone. Some people are texting. Some people are reading the news–because hey, this is D.C. Others, like you on this brisk morning, are watching the little blue dot on a tiny representation of the city streets, trying to find the address you had typed into the search bar.

A text box pops up, informing you of your arrival, and you finally look up.

No wonder it took you so long to find the place–it’s hardly what you expected at all. You always picture tacky neon signs, bars on the windows, undesirables milling about on the street, smoking cigarettes.

Okay, so you admittedly don’t actually know much about tattoos.

All you know is that you want one–a fact you confessed to a friend over lunch the other week: a conversation that led you here.

“Okay, so get one,” she had said bluntly.

“It’s not all that simple,” you had protested. 

“Why?”

“It’s just… it seems like a lot. Mentally. Physically. I’m not sure I have what it takes.”

“They don’t hurt that bad,” your friend had insisted.

“I’m not just talking about that, I’m talking about… y’know, just everything. The noise. New people. Strangers touching me. It just doesn’t seem like something I’ll be able to do.”

“Oh. Ohhh. Because of the… yep. Actually I might have something for you,” she said, taking out her phone and scrolling through that app that drives you crazy–it’s overstimulation in a convenient package–full of noise, chaos, and flashing lights. 

She must have seen you pull a face, because she held out her hand placatingly. 

“Just finding the name of the place, hang on. It’s a shop right here in DC that went ‘viral’ for this video of a guy with autism who wanted a tattoo to commemorate his dad, but he was only comfortable lying on the floor–so the tattoo artist just… got on the floor with him! It was really cute, and anyway I guess he caters to all sorts of people, so… I dunno. Check it out.”

And here you are. Checking it out.

The words “Government-Issued Ink” are spelled out on large windows, and the punny name–apt for its location not far from the Capitol–makes you snort. 

The shop is bright, warm, and inviting–tearing down your outdated preconceptions that tattoo places must always be run-down, dark, and dingy. It’s also empty this early in the morning, save for a lone figure in the back, seated at a well-worn desk, his head pitched forward over his work.

He’s so enveloped in whatever he’s sketching that he must not have heard the light ringing of the bell as you had entered. You watch him for a few moments–taking in the graceful movements of his hand and the way his fingers grasp the pen. He’s dressed in a plain blue button-down dress shirt, which also doesn’t fit your assumed archetype of ‘Tattoo Artist.’ You can’t see his face; his head is leaning forward too much and a few short locks of dark brown hair obscure your view.

Suddenly wondering if you’re being incredibly rude, staring at someone without announcing your presence, you open your mouth to introduce yourself.

“Um.”

While not exactly eloquent, it serves its purpose. The man startles and looks up in surprise.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, jumping to his feet and letting the pen clatter carelessly to the desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s okay,” you shake your head rapidly. “I was, um…” You blink a few times, your nerves getting the better of you as the man comes around his desk to approach the front of the store.

“Interested in a walk-in consultation?” he offers, holding out his hands in a gesture that could either be an open invitation or a shrug.

“I don’t know,” you confess quietly. “I was thinking about getting, uh, a tattoo, and I was told this shop was… good. With tattoos. And other stuff.”

“Other stuff?” he chuckles, smiling warmly. 

“You know… with people who… might not be good at getting tattoos.”

“What makes you think you aren’t ‘good at getting tattoos?’”

“A hunch,” you shrug, expelling a little huff of laughter through your nose. “I was told to ask for a Marcus Pike?”

The man’s smile widens. “You’re looking at him.”

Oh. You aren’t sure what you expected, but it wasn’t this. Marcus Pike is well-dressed and clean-cut, almost startlingly so. You scan up and down, looking for any sign that this man could possibly be a tattoo artist, but the only evidence you can find is a small black target inked between his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. Don’t… tattoo artists usually have more ink? Of course, with him almost completely covered from head to toe, you obviously can’t create a full picture of Marcus’s skin, but the fact that he wouldn’t look out of place in one of the nearby government buildings still takes you by surprise.

You realize you haven’t said anything in response, but Marcus doesn’t seem to be bothered by your deer-in-headlights stare. Instead, he grins again and steps sideways, extending his arm in a silent invitation to come deeper into the shop.

“Come on in. If you’d like, go ahead and sit wherever you want, and we can talk about it. No pressure,” he promises. “I’m not here to push ink on you like a used car salesman; I’m here to collaborate with you. Figure out what you really want. And, if what you want ends up being ‘nothing,’ I totally support that, too.”

There’s something innate and intrinsic about Marcus Pike that sets you completely at-ease. You cast your eyes around, taking in the eclectic seating in the shop–all mismatched, all different colors, styles, and shapes, but all looking incredibly comfortable and inviting. You settle on a giant turquoise beanbag that seems to swallow you whole when you sink down into it, and Marcus grins and sits down in the bright yellow saucer chair beside it. 

“So at the very least, you’re thinking about a tattoo,” Marcus leads. “Can you tell me about that?”

You nod, feeling encouraged by his openness. “Yeah, so… my mom, she passed away a couple of years ago, and it just seemed like I should… memorialize her in some way. Like, in a way that leaves its mark on me like she left a mark on me, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about the idea of getting some kind of permanent art that commemorates her.”

“That’s a great idea,” Marcus says softly. “Lots of people choose to do that after losing a loved one.”

“Yeah, the only problem is that I’m not good with um… noise, or people touching me, or… pain, really,” you confess. “I’m like, the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.”

Marcus chuckles softly and shakes his head. “Personally, I don’t believe that. I think anyone can get a tattoo done if they want it, provided they get it done in a way that feels safe and comfortable.”

“My friend, she uh, recommended your shop because apparently you’ve done some stuff for people with autism and it went viral on TikTok…” you ramble, “and I thought maybe that meant you’d be a good fit for… for me.”

Understanding flickers in Marcus’s expression, and he nods, a small smile spreading across his face. “I hope so,” he says with quiet earnesty. 

A beat passes–just a few seconds of silence–but something small and soft and warm settles down between the two of you, and the comforting feeling sinks down into the pit of your stomach and stays there, latent and waiting.

“So, let’s talk design,” Marcus announces. “Do you have anything in mind? Any images or ideas, however vague? I can do anything from replicating designs to building something completely from scratch for you.”

“I like the idea of it being a unique piece,” you tell him.

“I prefer original designs too,” he says. “Not to sound incredibly cheesy, but there’s no one like you, you know? In–In the general sense, of course.” He chuckles sheepishly, looking down at his hands. “I like knowing each person that comes in here leaves with something unique. Something all their own—I’m rambling,” he says quickly, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink. “One thing about me is that I talk too much. Anyway–did you have any ideas you can share with me about what you’d like?”

“I don’t have a good image in my mind,” you confess anxiously. After all, how can he build a design based on the swirling, disjointed images in your brain? “I think I want it to be colorful, like she was. And… I keep getting thoughts about, I dunno, the cyclical nature of life, something corny like that.”

Marcus laughs. “Sometimes the corny stuff is what sticks with us. So, colorful and commenting on the cyclical nature of life,” he lists off on his fingers, still grinning. “Anything else?”

“I’ve looked through your galleries online,” you tell him. “You have a few that look like watercolor paintings, and I really love how they look.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m gonna throw out an idea—Feel free to tell me ‘no,’ because I’m just brainstorming here, but I keep thinking about a tree of life. The leaves could easily be done in watercolor and could be any combination of colors you want.” His right hand twitches–as if reaching for a phantom pen–as he speaks, and his gaze seems to be fixed on a spot on the wall, his eyes glimmering with enthusiasm as he starts to speak faster.

“You could have the leaves and the roots connecting on the sides, making a circle, maybe even having her birth date and death date embedded in the roots…” He blinks rapidly a few times, as if dispelling the image from his head. “Anyway. That’s a possibility.”

“I think that’s amazing,” you say softly, watching Marcus with something like amazement in your expression. “Actually… I really like that idea. It sounds… perfect.”

“Oh,” he intones softly, looking at you in surprise as a bright, toothy smile breaks across his face. “Oh. Well then, let’s do it, huh? One final question: where do you envision getting it?”

“I was thinking on my shoulder. Here,” you indicate, pressing your hand to the skin of your upper arm. “That way it’s visible when I want it to be, but easily hidden if for some reason it needs to be.”

“That’s perfect,” Marcus says. “Plus, the circular design will go really well there. Okay. Great. Um, some things to know about the process. We’ll exchange emails, and you can contact me at any time with any questions, concerns, ideas, changes, anything. In the meantime, I’ll get started on a design for you, and I’ll share initial sketches that you can give feedback on before I move to the final stages of the design. It’ll take a couple of weeks, maximum, depending on any changes you ask for. My only request is that you’re always honest with your feedback–don’t tell me you like something when you don’t. I promise, it won’t hurt my feelings.” He grins widely. “After that, you book an appointment on a day that works best for you. I almost always book the whole day for the appointment to factor in time for copious breaks and making sure you feel comfortable. Does that work for you?”

You nod eagerly.

“Last question,” Marcus says. “Is it okay if I get a close-up picture of your upper arm? That way I can make sure it fits the curvature of your arm, it’s the right size, stuff like that.”

“Mhmm,” you nod again, pressing your lips together and trying not to look nervous. Thank god you wore a sleeveless top under your sweater.

“Only if you’re comfortable,” he insists.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, removing just the one arm from your outer layer and pulling it aside. 

You watch as Marcus grabs a little ‘point-and-shoot’ digital camera from his desk and comes back to your side.

“This is just used for design purposes,” he promises. “I delete them after the design is done.”

“I trust you.”

His resulting expression could light an entire room. “Thank you,” he answers quietly. “Okay. Super close-up, just your arm. Cool?”

“Cool,” you confirm, and you hear the camera click several times.

“Actually,” Marcus says, still staring thoughtfully at your bare shoulder. “Would it be okay if I made a couple of little marks–washable marker, of course–to make sure the dimensions are how you want them?”

Oh. You normally don’t like it when people touch you. You knew it was going to happen eventually, obviously, because how else was he going to get the design onto your skin? But it was something you had planned on working yourself up to, not something you had to do today. On the other hand, something about Marcus’s entire bearing makes you inexplicably ache to be touched by him. 

“‘No’ is an acceptable response,” he interrupts your dithering with a quiet reassurance.

And actually, that works to seal the deal for you, and your decision is made in an instant. 

“Yes. You can. That’s fine.” And, to your surprise, you mean it.

Marcus seems just as surprised at your answer–his eyebrows shoot upward almost comically at your response.

“Okay,” he says softly. “That’s perfect. Hang on.” He jumps up again to retrieve a black marker–from what was clearly a children’s set of washable markers. He meets your eyes, and again you take in that sincere, earnest, patient look that endeared you to this man from the moment you entered the little shop.

“Is it okay if I touch your arm?” he asks quietly, still watching you carefully as you nod.

“Tell me if that changes,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze to your shoulder again. His touch, when you feel it, is just as warm as you’d imagined. He’s gentle, cautious, and when he speaks again, his voice remains at that same, soft volume and tone. “I’m envisioning being from about here–” he makes a little black dot, “–to here. What do you think?” 

You nod. It’s the perfect size–large enough to cover your shoulder but stopping just above the point where the sleeve of a regular t-shirt would hit.

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay, so that’s–” he tsks softly, measuring the distance with his finger, “–about four inches, so that same distance across, and–” he makes two more marks on either side of your shoulder. “About like that. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” you answer, smiling with enthusiasm. 

“Great! Let me just…” Marcus draws a few short lines denoting the proposed boundary of your design, and you can’t help the soft giggle that escapes you at the cool tip of the marker on your skin. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles. “One more picture?”

At your nod, the camera clicks one last time. 

“Like I said, that’ll wash off with soap, no problem,” he promises with a smile. “Thanks for that, makes it easier to scale.” He grabs two business cards off his desk and hands them to you. “Can you write your email on this one for me? And you can keep the other one. Like I said, anything you need, just email me. And uh, barring that, you’ll be hearing from me in a week or so with a rough sketch. Okay?”

You scribble down your email and hand the card back to Marcus before pulling your sweater back over your bare arm. You slip the other card into your purse and rise to your feet. “Thanks,” you say, nodding to him.

“Hey, no–thank you,” Marcus returns. “Thanks for entrusting me with this. I mean it.”

Surprising yourself, you extend your hand toward him, and, when he takes it, you feel enveloped with warmth again.

“Thanks,” repeat, a little bit more breathlessly this time, before turning and hurrying out of the shop before you can embarrass yourself any further.

Your shoulder still tingles from his touch hours later.

Rather than it being a week before you hear from him, you receive an email from Marcus Pike just three days later.

Subject: Initial Sketch

Hello,

Please see attached. It’s just pencil for now, but I made a note of the general blocks of color I was thinking for the leaves. You’ll see what I mean when you open the file. Sorry, I know it’s a pretty rough sketch, I was just excited to get this to you. I look forward to your feedback!

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Eagerly, you open the attachment. First of all, there’s nothing “rough” about the sketch other than the fact that it’s just penciled in. The details are already so intricate, and you find yourself smiling in amazement as you take in the design.

It’s beautiful.

Brackets, each labeled with a different color in Marcus’s neat, tidy handwriting, surround the top of the tree. Red. Orange. Yellow. Green. Blue. Violet. 

At the bottom of the image is another handwritten note: *All the colors will blend together and the result should look like a rainbow.

Tears spring, unbidden, to your eyes, as you feverishly type out your response.

Subject: Re: Initial Sketch

Marcus,

I really don’t know what to say other than it’s perfect. It’s absolutely perfect. Made me tear up. Look forward to seeing it in color.

Thanks again!

Not even five minutes go by before your phone vibrates with another email.

Subject: Re: Re: Initial Sketch

I’m sorry if I made you cry! Obviously wasn’t my intention but I’m glad the design evokes emotion :) I’ll move forward with the design as-is and you should hear from me soon with a full-color image.

Marcus :) 

You can’t wait. The next week and a half stretches out excruciatingly, but finally, on a Wednesday evening, you receive another email. 

Subject: Final Design

Hey there!

Hope you’ve been doing well. Thought you might like to see the final design of your tattoo ;) See attached and let me know if anything needs to be changed. Be critical! Don’t hold anything back! Once we agree on a final piece, we’ll get you on the calendar.

Best regards,

Marcus :) 

Your mind skims over the fact that Marcus used a winking-face emoji in your email, because you honestly aren’t equipped to process that right now, and open the attachment instead. This time, you start crying in earnest. It’s perfect. The colors are so vibrant, and they make the tree look as though it’s in a constant state of movement. Your mom’s birth and death dates are entwined seamlessly into the roots themselves, in a way that makes them not readily apparent at first glance, but seeming to just appear out of nowhere upon further inspection. 

Subject: Re: Final Design

Marcus,

If I had any critical feedback, I would share it, I promise. But I have nothing. This is everything I’d imagined and more, and it means the world to me.

Thank you so much.

After a few more messages back and forth, you settle on a date one month out. 

You can’t wait.

As excited as you’ve been for the past month, when you step foot back into Marcus’s little tattoo parlor, the air of finality makes your body thrum with anxiety.

You’re really doing this.

Marcus is at the back of the shop, busying himself with setting up his workspace when you enter. Today, he’s wearing a dark green henley that looks just as soft as he is, and seems to complement his features even more. As soon as he hears the chimes, his head snaps up, and he grins widely. 

“Hey!” he calls out excitedly. “Just getting everything ready. Do you want something to drink before we get started? I’ve got water, juice, soda…” he trails off, waving his hand in the direction of a mini-fridge in the corner. 

“I’m okay for now.”

“Sounds good, but when we take a break, you should have some juice or something else with a bit of sugar in it, okay?” You nod, and he continues. “Okay! Where do you want to sit?”

“Don’t I have to sit in the chair over there?” you ask, gesturing to the traditional chair and bench near Marcus’s work table. 

“Not at all,” he protests. “The table is mobile, I bring it to wherever you feel comfortable.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. “I’ll go ahead and sit in the chair, though.” Of all the options, it looks like the easiest–you aren’t entirely sure how Marcus would be able to comfortably tattoo you whilst sitting on a bean bag chair. 

“Your choice,” he insists, spreading his hands out in an open and unguarded stance.

You settle in the chair and he sits down on a rolling stool beside you. 

“Okay, so I’ve got a stencil of your design here,” Marcus says, holding up a paper with an outline of the tree for you to see. “It’ll transfer onto your skin exactly how you want it to go, and I’ll just trace it. Make sense?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Before I do that, though, I have to make sure nothing interferes with the design, including tiny little hairs.” He holds up a pink safety razor. “Are you comfortable with me doing this for you?”

At your tentative nod of consent, Marcus leans forward and gently swipes the razor up and down your shoulder until he’s satisfied. His eyes dart between your skin and your face the entire time–making sure you’re still with him. After he’s done, he talks you through the stencil–confirming its location, gently applying it to your shoulder, and then holding up a mirror for you to approve. 

“It’s great,” you whisper excitedly.

Marcus returns your smile and begins to absentmindedly roll up his sleeves in preparation to start working–-and the question about tattoos that you’d asked yourself upon first seeing the man is suddenly and unexpectedly answered.

You can’t help the soft sound of surprise that escapes from you when you catch the colorful patchwork of designs on both of his forearms, disappearing under the pushed-up henley and suggesting that they go all the way up. 

Marcus catches you staring and grins, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“I didn’t know,” you say softly. “You keep them covered up.”

“Force of habit,” Marcus shrugs. “I had a desk job for a long time.”

“Doing what?” you ask, curiously. You can’t see the man doing anything but this.

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” he jokes, winking in your direction. 

Ignoring how the wink makes your heart stutter in your chest, you bark out a laugh at his answer. “What? Were you like a secret agent or something?” you tease.

“Special Agent,” he corrects, grinning. 

“Get out,” you deadpan. “I can’t imagine you as a Fed.”

Marcus shrugs, giving you another one of his boyish, crooked smiles. “Would’ve been fifteen years this year had I not finally seen the writing on the wall and run for the hills a couple of years ago.”

“What made you leave?” 

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “That’s a long story. How sensitive are you to noise?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject.

“Uh, I dunno. Kind of depends on the day and the situation,” you shrug.

“Fair. Well, I usually let newcomers listen to what the gun actually sounds like, so there are no surprises. If it’s too loud, I do have noise canceling headphones.”

And miss out on hearing Marcus’s soft-spoken reassurances? No matter how loud the tattoo gun is, you’d rather endure it just to be able to hear him talk. 

Marcus turns the instrument on, and the room is filled with a mild buzzing sound. On your worst days, admittedly, it would probably grate upon your nerves, but you’re feeling relaxed, comfortable, and excited about your new tattoo.

“It’s not bad,” you tell him truthfully. 

“Perfect,” he grins. “Are you all set to get started?”

Heart rate increasing with pleasant anticipation, you nod giddily. 

“I’m obviously gonna be touching your arm a lot,” Marcus says, “so let me know if you need a break from that, the noise, the needle, anything.” Seeing your solemn nod, he continues. “I’m gonna do a little dot right here to let you see how it feels, okay?” He gently touches his index finger to your skin to indicate where. 

“Okay.”

The gun turns on again, and Marcus presses it lightly against your skin for just a second before pulling back.

“...That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“I thought it would hurt more,” you confess.

Marcus laughs. “Well, the same feeling over and over again in a small area can start to be pretty uncomfortable. I’ll check in regularly to make sure you’re still doing fine. Good?”

You smile widely. “I’m really excited.”

His smile softens, his gaze becoming warmer and more tender. “I’m glad.”

His other hand gently cradles your arm as Marcus leans in, a look of intense concentration settling over his features as he begins the design. Engrossed in his work, you take the time to study his forearms. They’re a hodgepodge of designs, clearly done at different times and by different artists, but you can see themes throughout. He likes classic styles, you can tell, and in between some of the more traditional works you can see beautiful references to an assortment of famous paintings. A Dali melting clock here. A sunflower clearly inspired by Van Gogh there. On his opposite bicep, you can just barely make out the side of one design that looks like it might be of a Greek statue. Tilting your head, you realize it’s Nike alighting on the bow of a warship, and you inhale sharply. That’s one of your favorite sculptures.

“Still okay?” Marcus asks, glancing up at you with concern in his eyes.

“Sorry.” You shake your head quickly. 

“Just checking,” he says softly. “Try to be just a little more still, okay?”

“Sorry,” you repeat, laughing sheepishly. 

“Don’t be, you’re doing great.”

You try to fight the way your entire body seems to grow warm at Marcus’s praise, but you can’t stop the way the feeling stampedes through you. You’re being ridiculous, you chastise yourself. He’s doing his job, and you’re getting all moony-eyed.

In order to distract yourself, you continue playing ‘Spot the Famous Artwork’ on Marcus’s sleeves–although, as distractions go, it’s not your best work. You can’t help but focus in on the way his forearm cords with muscle as he holds the tattoo gun, controlling each movement so delicately and precisely, creating a beautiful, intricate design on your shoulder.

After finding a bit of yellow patchwork that's clearly a reference to Gustav Klimt's The Kiss near his right elbow, you break your silence.

“You like art, huh?”

It seems like a stupid thing to say to a fucking tattoo artist of all people, and you immediately kick yourself internally for saying something so obvious. 

Marcus glances up, and, seeing how your eyes are focused on his own ink, smiles. “Always have,” he murmurs, returning his gaze to your shoulder. “Some of those are years-old.”

“Is that how you got into being a tattoo artist?” you ask.

“Sort of,” he answers, brow pinched in concentration as he continues working. “I uh, apprenticed for a shop in college to pay the bills before going to Quantico for training.”

“You’re really talented,” you tell him. “I was surprised to find out you haven’t been doing this your whole life.”

Marcus hums his appreciation as he carefully fills in a root. 

“Can I ask what made you join the FBI instead of opening your own place after college?”

He huffs a little laugh through his nose. “Parents would have killed me, going to college and then doing nothing with it.”

“Running a small business isn’t exactly doing nothing,” you point out.

“Well, public opinion on tattoos wasn’t what it is now,” Marcus says. “They were scandalized by my apprenticeship, but it paid the bills, so they couldn’t complain too loudly.”

“Was it them who wanted you to join the FBI?”

“Mm, not so much,” he murmurs. “It was more like ‘whatever you want to do, so long as you can make a lucrative career out of it.’ Being an artist wasn’t one of those things, so in lieu of becoming one myself, I decided I wanted to protect them instead.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Protect them how?”

Marcus grins up at you and waggles his eyebrows playfully. “Art crimes,” he answers. “Being an art detective was kind of in the limelight in the early ‘nineties after the famous Gardner Museum theft, and I got swept up in the craze.”

“So you spent the last fifteen-ish years recovering stolen art,” you fill in for him.

“Stolen, forged, looted, illegally traded or smuggled…” Marcus offers, not breaking his concentration again. He wasn’t wrong–the repeated drag of the needle across what felt like the same square centimeter of your skin was starting to wear on you. 

“Uh-huh,” you say, forcing the discomfort out of your tone.

Noticing the tightness in your voice immediately, Marcus’s movements stop. “Feeling okay?”

You shrug.

The gun switches off.

“You gotta be honest about how you’re feeling,” he reminds you. “I might be able to create designs based off of customers’ vague descriptions, but that doesn’t make me a mind-reader.”

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but I can endure it,” you insist.

“There’s no need to endure something that’s painful,” Marcus argues with an amused smile. “Even if it involves choosing to repeatedly jamming a needle into your skin.”

You can’t help but laugh, and your heart swells when he joins you.

“C’mere,” he says. “Let me show you something.”

You let him lead you to the other side of the shop, where he stops in front of a large storage cabinet that you'd assumed held various supplies. When he opens it, however, you find that isn’t the case at all.

No, the entire cabinet is filled to the brim with a collection of stuffed animals just as eclectic and varied as the furniture. There's also a couple of shoeboxes filled with every manner of fidget toy you could ever imagine. 

"You can grab one, if you want. I know it might feel kind of goofy, but I promise they help with the pain."

"Okay," you breathe. Your gaze lingers first on the IKEA shark, then on a very soft-looking cactus with an adorable grumpy expression, but when your gaze lands on the largest and arguably oddest toy in the collection, your hands can't help but move toward it. 

"The big guy, huh?" Marcus laughs, taking the giant squid off of the shelf and placing it in your arms. You have to laugh at how large and ungainly it is; its massive black eyes stare vacantly back at you, but the effect is dopey, rather than menacing. 

"Where do you get all of these?" you ask in amazement. 

"Most of them are gifts from past clients, including that one," Marcus says, indicating the squid. "But I think he originally came from the Smithsonian. I was told his name is 'Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.'"

"Thank you," you say in a small, appreciative voice.

"'S'fine," Marcus shrugs. "Feel up to continuing?"

You nod, looking down at your partially-inked shoulder. "Guess you didn't get very far before I had to stop," you remark, somewhat self-deprecatingly. 

"It's not a race," your artist says earnestly. "We've got the whole day, and we go at your pace. You're paying me, after all." Another wink in your direction.

"Yeah," you nod, confidence growing again. "Yeah, okay." You plop down in your seat, with Cthulhu in your lap, and Marcus takes his place beside you. 

“Gonna turn this back on again,” he announces as the now-familiar buzz fills the room, “and I’m gonna touch your arm–” his fingers wrap warmly and gently around your skin, “–annnd here we go.” 

The needle scratches insistently against your skin, but it isn’t so bad–not really, not with the hilarious giant squid on your lap and Marcus’s gentle, soothing voice in your ear. He talks while he works, sometimes asking you questions about your own life–to which he listens intently and always seems to have follow-up questions–and sometimes telling you stories of his own. You discuss art, obviously, but also music, books, movies, and baseball of all things.

You find yourself wondering if he has this type of easy rapport with everyone who comes in, but you assume he must. He might be the most disarming person you’ve ever met, and it’s hardly a stretch to believe he’s like this with everyone. Still, there’s an ugly, jealous part of you that wishes the connection between you was unique, special. That he’s only this warm with you. 

Marcus was right–squeezing the stuffed toy on your lap is a perfect distraction from the discomfort of the needle, and before long, the sensation fades into the background. As the time drags on, though, the persistent drone of the tattoo gun causes an ache to creep in and settle between your eyes. You take in a deep breath through your nose, count to three, and exhale slowly through your mouth.

Marcus glances up, watching you for a split-second before cutting power to the gun and stretching his back with a satisfied sigh. 

“Break time,” he announces. “Hand’s getting a bit sore.” He shoots you a knowing glance and another one of those crooked smiles. “And you should probably have a little something to drink, maybe a snack.”

“Yeah, thanks,” you say gratefully as he walks over to the little fridge.

“Apple juice?” he asks, holding up a little juice box that looks slightly comical in his large hands. When you nod enthusiastically, he hands it to you.

His fingers brush yours.

If it were anyone else, you’d recoil, but it’s him. It might just be the forced proximity, but…

You’re developing quite the crush on Marcus Pike.

Shoving the thought aside for the moment, you stab the straw into the little hole and take a long sip. Marcus settles down beside you with his own choice–a little can of vegetable juice–and holds it up in a silent ‘cheers.’

Feeling emboldened, you ask the question that’s been burning in your mind since you started.

“So what made you leave the whole ‘helping other artists’ thing behind and start a tattoo business instead?”

Marcus presses his lips together, and for a moment, you fear you’ve crossed a boundary. Just before you’re about to apologize profusely, though, he speaks.

“Have you ever just… woken up one morning, and realized that everything you were working toward, everything you thought you wanted in life… was a lie?”

“I… I don’t know,” you confess quietly, surprised at the emotion behind his words.

“Happened to me,” he laughs softly. “I had moved to DC for what I thought was my dream job, with who I thought was–” he shakes his head, as though dispelling an unpleasant thought. “I had spent my entire life checking boxes: College degree? Check. Well-paying job? Check. House? Check. Check, check check. I spent so much time trying to get ahead, like life was some kind of game to be won. If I said all the right things, did all the right things, if I did everything right… I’d have the life I wanted.”

“What was the life you wanted?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“It was bullshit, is what it was. Saw one too many rom-coms as a kid, I suppose. I thought I was after the picket fence, the dog, the wife and two-point-five kids, that sort of thing. And one morning I woke up, realized that… that relentless pursuit of something I couldn’t even hold–it was all bullshit.”

“So you just… quit?”

“I quit. I wanted to create things again. I wanted to feel inspired. After a bit of uh… frantic soul-searching before I ran out of money entirely, I sold my stupid, too-big condo that I hated and bought this shop instead.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, I’m not bankrupt yet,” Marcus says dryly.

“No, I mean… did you feel inspired again?”

“I did. I do. So very much so,” he says, his voice soft and gentle. His eyes flick up to meet yours, and that comfortable warmth that had settled in between you the first time you had met him… grows. Mutates. Until the warm, tingling feeling feels a lot more like electricity.

An unspoken moment seems to pass through you, but then Marcus clears his throat roughly, setting the empty can aside and standing again, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Wanna keep going?”

Breathlessly, you nod. 

In no time at all, you’re settled back in the chair with one of Marcus’s warm, strong, large hands cradling your arm as the other gently wields the tattoo gun. As he starts to fill in and blend the colors, the pain starts to increase, and you worry one of the fuzzy tentacles back and forth in your hand as you grit your teeth.

“I know, I know,” Marcus soothes quietly. “The color’s the worst part, but you’re being so good for me.”

It helps you to watch him work, so you do. He’s blending in the colors now, and you watch with interest as it starts to take shape. It’s so mesmerizing that you hardly even notice the buzz of the gun or the light sting of the needle anymore.

“And you said you ‘weren’t good at tattoos,’” he teases gently, noticing your obvious interest. 

“Did I say that?” you laugh, teasing back.

“I believe your words were, ‘I’m like the worst candidate for getting a tattoo that exists.’” he reminds you. “And look at you now, huh?”

You duck your head at his praise, unable to withstand the intensity and honesty in his gaze.

“Doing okay after all, I guess,” you say with a sheepish smile.

“You’re doing amazing,” Marcus corrects, smiling warmly. “The type of client any artist dreams of.”

You don’t know how to respond to the things this man says to you. Stunned and at a loss for words, you stare awkwardly at your hand where it still wraps around Cthulhu, Lord of the Deep.

“I’m sorry.” The words are soft, concerned. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just meant that your enthusiasm and your curiosity is the stuff that makes me want to be an artist in the first place.”

“Are you saying I inspire you?” you try to tease, but it falls flat.

Just audibly, over the hum of the tattoo gun, you hear his whispered response. 

“Yes.” 

As Marcus wipes away the last of the stray ink on the purple bit of tree, the tattoo gun suddenly switches off. The silence is almost shocking, and you blink rapidly in confusion.

“Break time?” you ask.

Marcus chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “It’s all done.”

“It is?” you ask, although you can see the answer for yourself in the large mirrored wall to your right. 

“How’s it feel?” he asks.

“My arm kind of aches,” you confess, “but oh my God, Marcus… it’s beautiful.”

It’s his turn to preen under your praise, the tips of his ears blushing pink as he grins back at you.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Here, let me give you a little something for the pain.” 

He squeezes a glob of light-green cooling gel and coats the angry skin with the barest of touches. “Still okay?” he asks, glancing up at you for confirmation.

After the harshness of the needle, the soft press of his fingers is more soothing than ever, and you have to resist the urge to sigh and melt into his touch. 

“Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re going to want to keep this covered for a couple of hours, up to overnight,” Marcus says as he carefully applies a dressing to your shoulder–still softly, but more businesslike than before as he walks you through all of the instructions for care. “Once you take this off tomorrow, you’ll probably see some fluid leaking from it–that’s totally normal. It’s blood, plasma, and extra ink, and it should stop after a few days before it starts to scab over.

 “You’ll want to keep it from drying out; I’d recommend scent-free, dye-free lotion if you don’t already have some,” he continues. “Wash it twice a day and put lotion on after. When it starts to scab, I can’t stress this enough: don’t pick the scabs.” He gives you a serious look. “Repeat that back to me.”

“Don’t pick the scabs.”

“If you do, you could cause it to scar, or even pull out the ink. One more time for me,” he prompts, and you get the feeling that this is always the sticking point in his speech.

“Don’t pick the scabs,” you repeat.

“It’ll take three to four months for the lower layers of skin to completely heal,” Marcus tells you. “During that time, keep it out of the sun, keep it hydrated, and you’re in the clear.”

“And don’t pick the scabs,” you say teasingly. 

Marcus winks at you. “Exactly. Any other questions for me?”

“No, just… thank you. It’s amazing,” you tell him. “You did such an incredible job.”

“Hard not to, when I have such a beautiful canvas.”

Your eyes dart up, expecting to see a teasing glint in his eyes, but all you can see is heartfelt sincerity. You swallow thickly, and he tracks the movement, his eyes dropping down, then back up to meet your eyes. Is it… not just you? Does he feel it, too? Realization slams through you and threatens to overload all of your systems. Marcus’s lips are parted slightly, and the look in his eyes… it’s desire.

“Marcus…”

“Wait,” he says urgently. “Hang on. Come… come over here for a minute, let me–” he dashes awkwardly over to the till on the counter and gives you your total. Frowning in confusion–he wants to do this now? Interrupting that electric moment that had passed between you?–you dutifully swipe your card and numbly take the receipt.

“Now you’re no longer my client,” Marcus explains softly. “I–sorry–I was about to throw caution to the wind and kiss you, and I didn’t… I didn’t want to be unethical, I–”

“Yes,” you say simply, giving your response to his un-asked question.

It’s all he needs to stride forward, gently take your face in his warm palms, and, seeing no hesitation in your eyes even as he searches your face desperately—presses his lips to yours.

The kiss is as soft and as tender as the man himself, which hardly surprises you. Your eyes slip closed as his lips move against you with aching caution. He’s careful in all things, including this–taking your cues, giving you the lead, letting you feel everything he’s giving you.

All too quickly, he pulls back–but his eyes only sweep your face again, a growing smile on his lips as he sees nothing but want reflected back at him. 

When he lowers his lips to yours again, he’s less gentle. One large hand leaves your face too hook around your waist, pulling you closer, closer–and when the proximity causes you to gasp softly, Marcus is ready. His tongue gently slips between your parted lips and you practically melt into him. When your knees buckle, his strong arms are what keep you standing upright, and still–

He can’t seem to stop kissing you. 

You break before he does–pulling back to suck in a few shaky, heaving breaths, and he smiles through his own labored breathing.

“I wanted–I–” he begins, before hastily pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth as if he can’t help but do so. 

“I’ve thought of you,” he tries again. “I thought of you like this for the last month,” the confession finally spills out. “I wanted to–wanted to kiss you so badly all day, but I couldn’t. Couldn’t let myself.” He kisses you again. “But now,” he promises, whispering the words against your mouth. “Now I’m gonna get my fill.”

To punctuate his statement with one of your own, you slant your head and deepen the kiss, wrapping one hand around Marcus’s neck and pulling him closer still. He makes a soft noise in his throat, and the grip on your waist tightens. You lose yourself completely to the feel of his tongue sliding slowly against yours, until he suddenly pulls back.

“I’m doing this all wrong,” he whispers–although he’s still smiling. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner, first.”

“So ask me,” you say with a giggle.

“Come have dinner with me,” Marcus murmurs, shaking his head in quiet amusement as he steals another gentle kiss. “Right now. Tonight.”

“You might have to open all the doors,” you tease. “My arm hurts.”

Another kiss.

“I’m wounded that you think I wouldn’t open every door regardless.”

“Are you always such a gentleman?” you remark with a wry smile.

Another. 

“Well,” Marcus grins wolfishly. He places on last, lingering kiss on your lips and then makes a show of offering his arm. “Not always.”

[nexusofdomains]

Folly and Friendship

I lay my scene in the lower floor of the Jungenburg Athenaeum. Sunlight streamed down from the many tall windows with pointed arches, illuminating the white walls in glorious amber. Before me, in the center of the lower of two floors, stood rows and rows of widely spaced bookshelves. This palace of knowledge was one of the Central Federation’s premier archives. Its walls contained centuries upon centuries of historical documents, legal documents, and a myriad of treatises about almost any imaginable subject. A wave of joy swept over me as faint rustling serenaded me. As did the occasional scratchy sounds of writing, and the melodic chimes of cast spells. I stood near my favorite subject, history. Especially the histories of the nation states which comprise the Central Federation, the homeland for which I have fought.

A maroon and black tunic hugged my torso, complementing my blue-gray leggings, and my secondary covert feathers, which I had dyed so that they were black with red stripes, rather than black with cream stripes. This was easier than usual because the coloration of my feathers had far greater contrast after my ascension than it was before. A crimson eternal iron ring adorned my left hand. The head of the ring featured a stylized canid skull with unusually large canine teeth, which projected far beyond the ring’s tang. On either side of the skull, sat infinity symbols graven deeply into the ring’s surface. Omen, a tiger gentlecat-soldier, had commissioned a smith to make a set of three matching rings for myself, himself, and our mutual friend, Aira, who ascended with me. The rings were tokens of comradery, but as of late, the rings’ natural regenerative properties have come to represent our friendship.

A small staircase connected the upper and lower floors together. I was not inclined to ascend to the higher floor. Its contents lay outside of my fields of study. If I were going to ascend it, I would walk up the stairs. It was common to fly up there, but I would not. That would be a waste of time and energy. Some consider me to be an excellent aviator, and while I would be remiss to disagree in totality, my wings grant me less maneuverability than the wings of others of my kind grant them. I would crash against a wall.

At a nearby desk, a fellow rainforest eagle perched, entranced by the aged tome they held in their hands. A weathered steel helmet obscured their head from my view, tilted such that I could only see its back and part of one side. Helmet turned a page and their wings fluttered, their down drafts scattering nearby stack of looseleaf texts. What had surprised Helmet, or if they had even been surprised, I could not ascertain. As I turned away, I caught a flash of bronzy-brown. I surmised that I might have seen my friend, Erika, who is a golden eagle. I could not, however, be certain one way or another. Erika has a plain appearance; I often lose her in crowds.

A door in the wall to my left caught my attention. I had seen it often enough, but I had never seen anyone open it. The door was likely closed for a reason, but I itched to know what lay beyond it. I grabbed the door’s bronze handle. I turned it. The door opened with much effort. As the door squeaked open, time crawled to a standstill, and my knees began to buckle, as I felt icy stares on my back. I needed to enter the room, so I channeled my inner flame and let a torrent of courage vaporize the ice.

I am not sure what I had expected. A dagger lay propped up against a corner. Pristine orange columns stood, spaced out around the chamber. A tome and a tarnished plate of metal, its color a muddy green, lay together atop a half column which stood next to a massive urn. Symbols that I could barely recognize—let alone read—graced the plate’s surface. A jagged symbol lay gauged into the stones of the chamber floor beside the dagger. The urn, centered on the floor, sparkled faintly, its rust brown glaze gracing my vision. I registered the symbol as unfamiliar. A similar symbol lay graved in the floor, flipped in comparison to its counterpart, next to the other rusted dagger.

My feathers rose as a chill fought its way through my body. This chamber struck me as odd. Something was wrong with it. My core turned, becoming a sucking void. The glint of gilding caught my eye. A wave of desire swept over me, dissolving my apprehension. The embossed lettering on the cover seemed to call out to me. The title of the book read: Codex Borealis. It was a stately Vesian codex, bound in supple green leather, its pages crisp but aged. My urge to read its contents lay in its topic, not its rarity. I have been meaning to ask Aira about her culture for some time now. This book could help bridge that knowledge gap. I rushed toward the volume.

By the time I registered the other eagle—whose appearance matched mine—running toward me, it was too late. Sweet, searing pain blazed across my face, chest, and arms as I slammed against the well-polished metal plate. I crumpled to the floor before the mirror, my wings stinging as they thrashed against the floor. I lay curled up on the floor, wings splayed beneath me.

My ears registered the sound of footsteps, and I turned my head. “You always find the oddest places to roost, Otto,” Erika teased, offering me a hand.

I took her hand, and I hauled myself to my feet. Erika’s tunic embraced her frame more loosely than mine fitted me. Her leggings and tunic were a sensible, blue-tinged black. “How was your expedition?”

Erika stared blankly at me. “Oh, that.” She chortled after a moment. “My uncle needed help. He's flying on his own wings now.”

I nodded in acknowledgement. I looked at myself in the mirror. My appearance was rather silly. My feathers were all ruffled. My tunic, likewise, lay rippled and disheveled on my torso. I laughed a cacophonous, bellowing laugh. Erika glared at me—until she followed my gaze. Then she also laughed. When she finished laughing, she asked, “Is there a warcat in here that I can’t see?”

I chuckled and smoothed my facial disk with my hands. “That council meeting you were required to attend, what was that about? it seemed stressful.”

Erica handed me my staff. I had not realized that I had left it at the door. Sunlight turned Erika’a brown eyes and feathers golden as we walked out of the mirrored room. “It wasn’t a council meeting. One of the smiths in my hometown finally accepted my application to become her apprentice.”

I leaned against my staff. “Wonderful!” Dropping my staff, I stepped toward Erika, embracing her with my arms. “Have you received any news about Omen or Aira?”

Erika leaned into my embrace, wrapping her arms tightly around my chest. “Omen sent me a letter stating that he retires today. He has also sent you a letter. He mentioned in the letter he sent me that wants to convene at your family’s stronghold with you, Otenvall Dumont, Aira, and a human warrior called Miles Laukkanen.”

After a moment, we withdrew from each other’s embrace. I chuckled, and I said, “I shall prepare a meeting place. You will meet us there, correct?” I knelt and picked my staff off the floor. As I stood, Erika nodded. I studied my ring. I looked forward to speaking with my friends, and perhaps making a new one.

[early20sfailingplenty]

So how do you think Bo would react to your ex suddenly showing up to Ambrose? Mind you, the ex makes petty and mean comments towards you, acting like you’re below him and making you cry. I need Bo content 😭

Bo protecting you from your verbally abusive ex in Ambrose.

Went with headcanons for this one because I wanted to switch things up a bit.✨💗

TW; toxic/borderline verbally abusive ex (gender neutral pronouns used when referring to them), Bo is his own warning, crying (reader), mentions & discussions of trauma & abuse (reader), implications of past gaslighting/manipulation from reader's ex, emotional flashbacks, swearing, READER IS AS BAD AS THE SINCLAIRS (you gotta be if you're staying in Ambrose), physical violence (Bo and Vincent against the ex) and canon typical darkness.

PLEASE NOTE - I drew on my own past experiences with abuse to write this piece. I've done my best to be respectful and to not romanticise the after effects of such trauma, but this is a COMFORT PIECE first and foremost so any romanticism you may spot is fully unintentional. I can't think of anything worse than my abusers finding me, so this piece was a bit challenging to write, but it was also quite cathartic, too.

AS ALWAYS, GENDER NEUTRAL READER, NO CODED LANGUAGE, "YOU" AND Y/N USED.

Word count: 3, 0781.

(That sarcastic smile omg we love😍 but also😰)

None of the Sinclairs knew what you had been through before you had found yourself in Ambrose, but they knew well the signs of abuse and trauma, and it hadn't taken long for any of them to put the pieces together.

The way you would flinch and take a step back if any of the brothers stood too close to you, before you would take a deep breath and visibly will yourself to relax. The way raised voices would make your breath hitch and full out shouting had you sobbing. The way you took several steps back if someone approached you too quickly or with a certain Look on their face. The way you sometimes jolted awake next to Bo in a cold sweat, the sheets drenched and sticking to you. The way you walked around with your shoulders curved inwards, as if you were trying to take up as little space as possible.

There were many other puzzle pieces, and the Sinclairs had soaked them all up within weeks of you being in Ambrose.

It only made them more protective of you, especially Bo.

You had fully settled into Ambrose and your life in the quaint town and the signs of trauma and abuse which had become so normal to the brothers that they accommodated you, supported you, without even having to think about it, had just began to improve.

You could stand close to the brothers after a few seconds of careful shuffle, millimetre by millimetre, and you would always be gifted with a radiant smile from whichever brother was closest. Vincent's smile was felt by you more than it was seen, but Lester's, oh... it was like the sun shining down upon your face whenever he smiled, so beautiful was he. Bo, for his part, would always reward you with a sincere smile and a, "that's it, darlin', I ain't gonna' hurt'cha," murmured so gently and with such genuine pride that it made you want to cry. Sometimes you did, and Bo would shake his head in mock sympathy and wrap an arm around your shoulders, moving at the pace he knew you could handle without being startled, and hug you into his side. "I got'cha, Y/N. Bo's got'cha. Ain't no one ever gonna' hurt'cha again. Not on my fuckin' watch." It was a solemn oath and it fell deep into the pit of your stomach like a stone, leaving the warm seeds of compassion in its wake.

You were slowly improving, slowly healing, slowly getting better and learning to trust yourself and your surroundings again, learning to not question your thoughts and who you had always known you were, no matter what your ex said, and the Sinclairs were so very proud of you. They told you in different ways, showed you with different methods, and you were thriving under their care and your own efforts now that you weren't with your abusive ex anymore. It was a slow journey to healing, but day by day did you take it, and some days were better, easier than others. Some days were terrible and you would relieve some of what happened to you, your ex's voice reverberating in your head, and one of the brothers would find you in the bedroom you shared with Bo, your hands over your ears as you shook in the corner furthest from the door, your face soaked in tears as you pled out loud to no one for it to stop, to just stop.

It worried them sick, you worried them so much they thought they could die from the ache in their chests, but they used that to help you, but more than that, oh, they used it to help you to help yourself, too. You weren't sure which one was more important or if they were on equal grounds, and you didn't know how the brothers were so good at being what you needed, but you had seen the scars on Bo's wrists, seen Vincent's hands shake as he signed stories to you when you felt brave enough to ask a question about something cryptic one of the brothers had previously said, felt Lester's tears drip down onto your shirt like rain, and just as they had done for you, you put their puzzle pieces together.

In the Sinclairs had you found a second chance, healing, personal growth, compassion, love, warmth, and the escape you had been craving.

In you did the Sinclairs find true love, genuine connection, trust and respect, compassion and so much more than they knew how to put into words.

You had each been promised heaven by those who had said they loved you, but you had only been put through hell by those same people. Into the fires had you found one another's hands, and you had stepped out of the heat and done your best to nurse your wounds, to put yourselves back together after the world had torn you each asunder. You had each been taught that love could hurt, that those who loved you were more than capable of harming you, but you were your own people and, oh, how you would protect each other as fiercely as they would protect you.

Months ago, oh, and yet what felt like only yesterday (for your time perception had been distorted since you had come to Ambrose and the brothers had taken to leaving clocks in almost every room just to help you to ground yourself, so lost could you get in your own mind), you had run for your life, you had taken your bags and fled from your ex, and daily, nightly, did you fear more than anything else that they would find you, that they would somehow end up in Ambrose, that they would finish off what they had started. Those thoughts kept you up at night, it woke you up at three or four in the morning with a sharp gasp and a scream in your throat, and you had never been able to shake it off.

The brothers had always promised to protect you, that they would do anything to keep you safe. You were an unofficial-official Sinclair and as a citizen of Ambrose, you were under their roof and therefore their care and protection. You had come to mean as much to them as they meant to each other. You knew this, you knew it, but you were unable to fully appreciate the true extent of such until the day your absolute worst fear came true.

Your ex had, by some horrific stroke of bad luck, come to Ambrose... and they found you.

Bo was in the garage luring your ex up to the house so that Vincent could incapacitate them, and he had no idea that this person was your ex. It wasn't until he stepped behind the counter to grab a knife from underneath the fake till that your hand shot out and grabbed his ankle. Bo jumped and brushed it off with a chuckle, playing up the act as he 'dropped' his keys and ducked down, his blue eyes alight with concern and worry as he shrugged lightly, asking you soundlessly what the fuck you were doing underneath the counter.

Your face was soaked in tears, your body trembling like a fucking leaf, and you pointed up, making Bo's eyes trail in the same direction before he looked you over with a critical eye. He took in your body language, the way you had clearly dived under the counter, the abject fear in your eye, and when his eye caught yours, you formed an 'x' with your fingers and the air left his body in a rush. You could see the 'fuck' written all over his beautiful, beautiful face.

Bo raised his hand, palm up, telling you to remember you were safe. He shifted his weight, grabbed his phone out of his pocket, and handed it to you. You knew what that meant - Vincent. Bo leaned forward, pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, and whispered, "tell m'brother to come get'cha. Wait for 'im and don't'cha fuckin' move from here 'til he does. Y'got it? I'll kill 'em. I'll fuckin' kill 'em." Bo stood then. It took everything he had to ignore the way your hand shot out to clutch at his ankle. The act was back in full flow, the charm amped up, and Bo already pissed off beyond the point of being able to calm down. He was a live wire, now.

"Sorry 'bout that," He chuckled. You could hear the barely suppressed rage in the way his voice shook just slightly, "M'clumsy and had ta' tie m'shoe while I was down there."

Your ex said something and you felt bile in your throat at the sound of their voice. Bo led them away from the garage and you turned his phone over in your hands before you flipped it open and typed a message to Vincent:

Vinny. My ex is here. M'under Bo's counter. Can you please come get me?

Your hands shook and it took you six attempts to say everything you felt to be most important. You knew Vincent wouldn't deny you - you and the brothers had a system. If you were given Bo's phone, if you were given certain hand gestures and told certain things, they were all codes for what you had to do and say. It was to protect you, but it was also to make sure that everything went off without a hitch when the family business was actively happening.

The way you called him 'Vinny' was deliberate, too - you only ever called him that when you needed comfort, when you needed softness. It was yet another code word and one you knew would be understood so completely that there wouldn't be any misinterpretation.

You kept Bo's phone tightly gripped in your hand and allowed yourself to pretend that it was his actual hand, the cool metal warmed now with your body heat, and you pulled your knees up to your chest and rested your forehead against them, your arms wrapped tightly around you as you tried desperately to sink into the counter, to never resurface. Oh, but your ex could come back in at any minute and if they found you... your breath hitched and you whimpered. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, but everything was coming flooding back, everything was...

Too much.

Everything was far too much.

You heard footsteps, quiet and evenly paced, and your entire body tensed. You didn't look up and you could only think 'please please please', though you knew not what you were asking for, nor to whom. You had learned the hardest way that there was no one to save you, no one to rescue you... you had to do it yourself. It never failed to hurt you all over again, but what was done was done and you were with the Sinclairs now.

Bo's phone dinged and you glanced at the screen, barely having to move from your position as you did so.

Look up.

You glanced up but did not move, and you saw Vincent crouched before you, balanced on the balls of his feet. He was a little distance from you so that he didn't box you in, conscious was he of what upset you and what didn't. Vincent's masked face was all that you could see, and you gasped, more tears spilling down your cheeks. Vincent placed a hand on one of your knees and leaned in, his other hand coming to rest on one of your cheeks. He shifted again so he could wipe your tears away with both hands, and he made a show of checking the garage for anyone around. He knew there wasn't, but you had been under there for who knew how long, and he wanted you to know that you were safe.

Vincent used his hands to sign 'safe' and then 'come with me' and you hesitated, but you slowly, slowly, slid your hands into his and let him pull you out carefully so that you didn't hit your head on the edge of the counter.

He was angry, too, but you had no way of knowing it other than what you could feel radiating off him. He would be extra careful with you until such a time as you were away, safely in your room, and then, and only then, would he allow himself to fully vent and show his anger. His rage, his brutality, his ruthlessness, had served him well over the years and today wouldn't be any different.

"Where are they, Vin?"

Vincent shook his head and signed, 'not here. Away. Focus only on me.'

You kept one hand tightly held in Vincent's as he led you to his bright yellow truck, parked just outside the garage, and only let go of you once you were seated and belted and comfortable.

He drove you up to the house of wax and together did you both move through it, your hand once again secured in his, but he didn't let you go down to the basement. No, he sent you up the roped off stairs to the wax bedroom, and there would you stay until one of the Sinclairs came to fetch you - this was yet another coded exchange, but, oh, you just wanted Bo.

You were just about to relax, gingerly sat on the bed, but the door flew open and your ex stopped dead in the doorway, the smirk you had learned to fear spread across their face.

"Jesus, fucking - look at the state of you," Venom dripped off their lips and you shuddered, feeling a panic response overcome your entire body. You whined and shrunk back into the bed until you were pressed into the headboard, trying to make yourself as small as you could. This was everything you had feared for months and you could feel yourself sliding back into who you were when you were in a relationship with your ex, "of course you would end up in this shithole of a town. I was the best fuckin' thing to ever happen to you, you absolute waste of space and - "

A sob ripped from your throat as all those familiar insults flooded into your mind just as the door behind your ex flew open and hit the wall with a muted thud. You curled into yourself, crying, shaking, and beginning to feel yourself emotionally shut down, and you heard a roar of outrage as Bo shoved your ex against the nearest wall, denting the wax with the force of the impact. "The only fuckin' waste a' space 'round here is you!"

Your ex slumped to the floor and Vincent stepped over him, his twin blades already in his hands. Your ex was caught between the Sinclair twins but you couldn't find it in yourself to feel sorry for them. They deserved what the Sinclairs were going to do to them, which would be so much more brutal than anything they usually did to their victims.

Vincent paused and glanced back at Bo. His single eye looked at you, the twin blades and then back down to your ex.

Bo chuckled. "Yeah, tha's - real nice, Vince." There was genuine appreciation in his voice as he translated for you what Vincent had just said, "He's askin' if ya' wanna watch, darlin'." Despite this and the sick grin on his face, Bo was aware of what was actually going on within you, frozen were you on the bed, unblinking and quickly losing your grip on reality, and responded for you, "They don't wanna see that. Look at 'em, Vin. Even for me, it don't seem right ta' make 'em watch. I gotta get 'em away," Bo sighed and began to walk over to you, totally ignoring your ex sprawled on the floor. Vincent was poised above your ex, waiting for his brother and you to leave so that he could rip them to shreds. Literally.

Bo put a knee on the bed next to you, and put his hands on your shoulders. "S'all right, darlin', I got'cha," He murmured. He waited until you wrapped your arms around him before he looked over his shoulder at his brother and said, "Deal wit' the bastard y'reself, Vincent. This piece a' shit ain't goin' in our town. No fuckin' way. Not deserving of it. Chuck 'em in the' pit when y're done. M'takin' Y/N outta' here."

Bo slid his arm underneath your knee and you tightened your admittedly shaky grip around his shoulders, "C'mon, Y/N, y're safe now. M'gonna' take ya' away." You tucked your face into the warm crook of his neck and Bo shushed you, "Tha's right, don't look, darlin'. Don't you look." He took you out of the room in just a few strides, and when you heard the whistle of a blade moving swiftly through the air, you whimpered and curled tightly into Bo. He shushed you again, pressed a kiss to your temple, and walked a little faster.

For the rest of the day, Bo didn't leave your side. He stayed outside the door when you used the bathroom, he was at the table when you did the dishes keeping an eye on you, he quickly put his hands over your eyes when Vincent came home covered in blood as he headed up to the bathroom to shower before he came to check on you. Bo protected you in a way which was almost overbearing, but all day did he tell you, again and again, "y're safe, darlin'," and "it's over now, Y/N", "y're all righ', Bo's got'cha", and other such things.

At bedtime, you handed Bo his phone back, and he inhaled sharply as he took it from you. "I never wanna see you that fuckin' scared again, Y/N. Ya' hear?"

All you could say was, "Thank you, Bo." Your bottom lip trembled. You had so much more to say, but no words left you. It was too much and yet nothing all at once. Bo sighed. He understood, more than even he was able to say, and he pulled you back into his arms, he brought you home.

"For you, darlin'? Anythin', any time."

Sinclairs protected Sinclairs. It was the Ambrose way, and it would never be any different. Bo was dark, dangerous, deadly, but to you? He was home. That, too, would never be any different.

[yumefuwa]

Cure Marine / Erika icons 💙

Requested by anon

Plain text: [Cure Marine / Erika icons 💙] end of description

[id-pack-archive]

Plain Text

1980s ID Pack

Names | aaron. adam. adding addison. adrian. alex. alexis. ali. alyssa. amanda. amber. andie. andrea. andrews. andy. anne. annie. anthony. april. ashley. aubrey. audrey. babysitters: belinda. bill. billie. billy. blair. bobbie. bobby. bonnie. brad. brandi. brandy. bret. brett. brian. brianna. brittany. caitlin. carey. carla. carly. carol. cary. casey. charlie. chris. christie. christina. christine. christopher. cindy. clare. clarissa. claudia. cody. corey. cory. courtney. crystal. dan. dana. daniel. darrell. david. dawn. devon. drew. dustin. elliott. emily. emmett. eric. erica. erik. erika. fran. francis. frankie. georgie. gloria. greer. greg. harriet. harry. heather. hollis. holly. jackie. jamie. jason. jayme. jeffery. jennifer. jeremy. jessica. jessie. jody. joe. john. zach. jory. joseph. josh. joy. jules. justin. kelly. kevin. kim. kimberly. kit. kristen. kristy. kyle. landry. larissa. laura. lauren. lee. linden. lisa. loren. lou. lucas. lynn. mallory. maria. marie. mark. marlowe. mary matt. matthew. meaghan. megan. melanie. melissa. melody. merit. michael. michelle. mickey. mike. mikey. mindy. misty. mo. morgan. natalie. neil. nick. nicky. nicole. ollie. other ozzie. parker. patrick. paul. paula. paulie. polly. quinn. rachel. randall. randell. randy. rebecca. rees. reese. richard. rob. robbie. robert. rory. royce. ryan. sabrina. sam. sarah. scott. sean. seth. shannon. shea. shelby. skyler. stacey. stacy. stephanie. stephen. stevie. taylor. the tiffany. tim. todd. tonya. tracy. tyler. valerie. victoria. will. wyatt. xavier. zack.

Pronouns | arc/arcade. arcade/arcade. arcade/arcem. beam/beam. beep/beep. bling/bling. bo/booth. boom/box. bop/bop. bou/boutique. bright/bright. buzz/buzz. ca/car. cartoon/cartoon. cass/cassette. cassette/cassette. class/classic. color/color. cor/vette. dated/dated. dazzle/dazzle. dine/diner. disc/disc. disco/disco. elec/electric. flash/flash. gae/game. gli/glitch. glitter/glitter. glow/glow. jazz/jazz. juke/box. light/light. loud/loud. neon/neon. nostal/nostal. pac/man. par/parlor. pattern/pattern. phone/phone. pin/ball. po/pop. polybi/polybius. pop/pop. rain/rainbow. ret/retro. retro/retro. rock/roll. salon/salon. ska/skate. star/star. synth/wave. text/text. vin/vintage. vintage/vintage. vivid/vivid. walk/walkman. 🌈. 🍭. 👾. 💥. 🕹. 🧩.

1980's ID PACK

NAMES ⌇ aaron. adam. adding addison. adrian. alex. alexis. ali. alyssa. amanda. amber. andie. andrea. andrews. andy. anne. annie. anthony. april. ashley. aubrey. audrey. babysitters: belinda. bill. billie. billy. blair. bobbie. bobby. bonnie. brad. brandi. brandy. bret. brett. brian. brianna. brittany. caitlin. carey. carla. carly. carol. cary. casey. charlie. chris. christie. christina. christine. christopher. cindy. clare. clarissa. claudia. cody. corey. cory. courtney. crystal. dan. dana. daniel. darrell. david. dawn. devon. drew. dustin. elliott. emily. emmett. eric. erica. erik. erika. fran. francis. frankie. georgie. gloria. greer. greg. harriet. harry. heather. hollis. holly. jackie. jamie. jason. jayme. jeffery. jennifer. jeremy. jessica. jessie. jody. joe. john.zach. jory. joseph. josh. joy. jules. justin. kelly. kevin. kim. kimberly. kit. kristen. kristy. kyle. landry. larissa. laura. lauren. lee. linden. lisa. loren. lou. lucas. lynn. mallory. maria. marie. mark. marlowe. mary matt. matthew. meaghan. megan. melanie. melissa. melody. merit. michael. michelle. mickey. mike. mikey. mindy. misty. mo. morgan. natalie. neil. nick. nicky. nicole. ollie. other ozzie. parker. patrick. paul. paula. paulie. polly. quinn. rachel. randall. randell. randy. rebecca. rees. reese. richard. rob. robbie. robert. rory. royce. ryan. sabrina. sam. sarah. scott. sean. seth. shannon. shea. shelby. skyler. stacey. stacy. stephanie. stephen. stevie. taylor. the tiffany. tim. todd. tonya. tracy. tyler. valerie. victoria. will. wyatt. xavier. zack.

PRONOUNS ⌇ arc/arcade. arcade/arcade. arcade/arcem. beam/beam. beep/beep. bling/bling. bo/booth. boom/box. bop/bop. bou/boutique. bright/bright. buzz/buzz. ca/car. cartoon/cartoon. cass/cassette. cassette/cassette. class/classic. color/color. cor/vette. dated/dated. dazzle/dazzle. dine/diner. disc/disc. disco/disco. elec/electric. flash/flash. gae/game. gli/glitch. glitter/glitter. glow/glow. jazz/jazz. juke/box. light/light. loud/loud. neon/neon. nostal/nostal. pac/man. par/parlor. pattern/pattern. phone/phone. pin/ball. po/pop. polybi/polybius. pop/pop. rain/rainbow. ret/retro. retro/retro. rock/roll. salon/salon. ska/skate. star/star. synth/wave. text/text. vin/vintage. vintage/vintage. vivid/vivid. walk/walkman. 🌈 . 🍭 . 👾 . 💥 . 🕹 . 🧩 .

[honestsycrets]

Say Your Piece II: Heart Breaker

❛ pairing | hvitserk x reader, hvitserk x ?

❛ type | double triple? shot, mistakes were made au

❛ chp summary | after the reader says she doesn’t want hvitserk; he makes a bad decision. it gets worse from there.

❛  tags | plus size reader, verbal arguments, extreme social anxiety, extreme body insecurity, drinking, hateful words, illustrator hvitserk x writer reader, mention of infidelity, shame, OCs, sexual frustration, blackmail, cheating mentioned, verbal abuse, sexual blackmail, poor communication? it’s more likely than you think. tags to be added.

❛ request | So Hvitserk request (you a asked for it 😂) Remember the Little Lovers event and the self-conscient plus size reader who didn’t want to have sex ?Well I didn’t get the sex lol. I want my Hvitserk to show a woman how her body is enjoyable. Thank you 😊 for @alicedopey

❛ sy’s note | i’ll eventually get you your sex scene, DAMN IT.

He wakes with a blaring headache caused by a stream of fresh morning light against his soft cheek. He pulls his arms around you-- or, what he thought was you, as the moment he does so, he knows it’s wrong. Where soft folds and overflowing breasts were, he finds thin limbs and small breasts.

It’s not your body-- he realizes all at once. The high rise apartment that overlooked the city wasn’t, either. It was the fruit of an accomplished older woman, whose many books hovered on a white shelf beside a white bed. Everything in the room holds the same pure standard. He flings himself from the bed, his naked ass colliding with a nightstand. The items ripple over the surface and settle into new positions. The woman pushes up, dragging the painfully monochrome white fluffy sheet to cover her flat chest. 

“Hvitserk?” 

Erika, in all her sharp-eyed glory, stares right back at him. Vomit spins up his throat, incited by the affection by with her eyes considered him. Hvitserk scrambles over the perfectly plain hardwood floors, upchucking up what’s left of his agitated stomach after his pathetic night out on the town. 

“Hvitserk!” 

Her spindly hand is at his back. Ordinarily, she was a comfort in your absence. That despite her pushing, and pushing, and pushing to get your name off “his” book, she would always be there for him in ways that a lover could not. Author-illustrators make so much more than being an illustrator alone, she reminded him. Her considerate words now feel like measured steps against his relationship. Her touch rips his skin into gooseflesh. Hvitserk works his shoulder away, his knuckles becoming white around the bowl.

“You drank too much last night.” it’s a non-question. Obviously, if he were here, he had. He groans his miserable response into the toilet bowl, wishing he could smother himself in the water, as it would be a better punishment than anything his girlfriend could do to him. “I’ll make you some coffee.” 

Her steps become distant echoes. When he finishes and cleans after himself, he starts his search for his clothes. He picks them from a singular pile, draws them back on, and reaches for his phone. It bleats a miserable eight percent battery life.

“She didn’t call if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ericka stands in a silvery slip; although he’s not sure when she put on some clothes. She hands him his cup of coffee and takes a seat on her “divorce couch”, a plain grey chair that she scammed her ex-husband out of. As she sits there, all long limbs, and purposefully sultry clothes-- the guilt strikes him.

Hvitserk takes a sip of bitter, burnt black coffee. She’s never been a great coffee maker but her heart is in the right place. It wouldn’t feel right to snuff her. After all, he probably spent the night before buried in her cunt. 

“You called me to pick you up at the bar last night. You were so drunk all you wanted to do was lay on my chest,” Ericka pulls a sheer black kimono over her thin collarbones. His eyes fall on her hands. “I told you she’d break your heart. Women like that-- once they get over a certain weight-- they aren’t emotionally available to do anything but eat. It consumes them.” 

“She ain’t like that.”

“If she’s not like that, then why did you have sex with me? Be honest with yourself, Hvitserk. Your needs aren’t met with her. That’s why you needed me.” 

His mouth runs dry. Like he’s been chewing on his regret as if it were paper. He couldn’t remember the night before. It was like a bad memory he never wanted to recover. Hvitserk glances down to his cup as he sinks onto her bed. 

“It was an accident,” he glares at the surface. “I- You know I can’t be with you, right? You’re--” 

“Old?” she asks. He’s never cared about something as simple as that. Twelve years his senior or not, it wasn’t an issue.

“It’s not that. C’mon Erika, you know I don’t give a shit about age. She’s my baby girl.” 

“You’re going to stay with her? A woman like that?” 

“Like what?” Hvitserk sets the coffee on the nightstand as he snaps at her before he could bite it back. He knew what she meant. Erika’s long ranging sigh reminds him of Aslaug. How tenderly her hands would wrap around him even though they were truly tainted with alcohol perfuming off her breath. 

“I’ve been your agent for years Hvitserk. We go through this every time you find a girl. This oen is by far the worst. She doesn’t care about you. Look at all that work you did for her yesterday. The pendant you bought her. The work you’ve put into her books! You even pick up all the food she eats. She won’t go outside of her house and you still expect that she’ll suddenly become this fat trophy wife on your arm.” 

“Just because she’s fat don’t--” 

“It isn’t about the fat, Hvitserk.  How many times does she have to show you, or tell you for you to get the picture through your stupid head, huh? She doesn’t want you! And you have the balls to call me a fucking accident.” 

“Erika--” 

She leaps up from her chair. Hvitserk sucks in a hard breath and tries to find sense through the nonsense, looking through his phone. Erika was right. You hadn’t sent a message. Not in his texts, not on his social media. More egregiously, he spots a new post. Ericka’s hands fold over his, pushing him back to sit on the bed. She slides over his thin hips and takes a seat on his empty lap. It was painfully simple, painfully domestic, and painfully wrong.

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned in forty years,” Erika whispered in his ear. Her thin lips move, gliding like butter in his ear. “If someone doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to change that.” Her fingers comb through his hair, like slimy tendrils. “But I’m here.” 

Hvitserk tips his head nack, gazing at the ceiling. Her palm caresses his scruffy jawline to drag his attention from the ceiling to her soft blue eyes, a painless depth, if only he would listen to her words. Hvitserk shifts her back on the bed, loitering around her waist with a supportive hand on the base of her back.

“I know you care ‘bout me. I just-- need some time, okay?” 

It doesn’t slip him that she’s scowling as he walks out of her home. There was someone he could count upon, when things were difficult, his phone buzzing in his palm reminded him of that. 

“Hey, Ivar.” 

Or, maybe not.

“You fucked her?” Ivar stopped chewing his pastry, ambling his head one way then another, laughing against himself. He took his mug of properly brewed coffee to his lips. Hvitserk regrets agreeing to meet him at the cafe. “What were you thinking sleeping with your agent?”

“I wasn’t thinking! I was drunk--” Hvitserk set his hand to his forehead. He has no appetite as he cycled through what he had done, searching out the moment that he called Erika. He fails to locate anything but quiet sobbing behind the neck of a beer bottle and a distant, squeamish feeling of fingers down his nape. “I think she took advantage of me.” 

Ivar sets down his cup of coffee, picking up a fork and knife as he leaned over the table, lips punctuating each word. 

“Yes, well, I am sure that will go over with your girlfriend well. I’m sorry, I slept with my skinny, well-established agent who has been wanting me to get rid of you. That bitch has been after you for years. What do you think she will do now? She won’t let you go.”

“She understands,” he reflects at the monochrome crowd. His plate is full but has gone cold with his lack of appetite. Normally, this was the place he came with his brother to binge breakfast and muse about women. Ubbe wouldn’t care about his issues: he never had time for anyone but himself. Not really. Ivar scoffed, gazing into the foot traffic flitting by their cafe. 

“Tch, I’m sure she does. She will probably break up with you.” 

He bobbed his head.

“I think she already has.” 

A normal man would come to beg. 

But Hvitserk draws in the deep quiet of the park. With only the barks of dogs, the giggles of children, and the occasional frequency from couples watching movies in the park, it’s a place of solace by the small pond. 

He starts with an outline of Xiao’s small face. It’s a rough outline, budding and ready to be kissed with by watercolours. Soft pinks like petals of peonies droop in his photo. He must have blended this shade wrong. Line after line that he sweeps, he weeps. His phone jingles in his pocket and his heart tightens around his chest like a straight jacket to someone in an insane asylum. He must be going crazy-- if he too can no longer paint.

“Where are you?!” you boom on the other end of the line. Hvitserk fumbles his phone, suckling in a breath. Had Ivar told you? No, his brother wouldn’t. Not Ivar. He was never a gossiper. 

“In-- in the park?” 

“What has gotten into you? You could have at least texted me to tell me you were okay. I was worried sick!” 

You? Worried sick? This wasn’t the you from yesterday. The one that pelted out how selfish he was for craving intimacy. The one that told him that all he wanted was to sexualize you. As if he were some sixty year old pervert with a camera in hand to click a picture of under your beautiful pastel skirts. Hvitserk sets the brushes into his cup of water and sets aside Xiao’s painting to dry.

“Hvitserk!” 

“I’m here,” he blurts out. “I didn’t think you’d care. You didn’t call.” 

“Like I didn’t I call you all night.” 

Something cracks, deep in his belly. With all the days of work he’d done for you and you alone, he forgot himself in the mix. He jerked his phone back, frantically looking at his phone app. No recent calls meant what they meant. When he finds nothing, it only thrusts him into a further rage. 

“Bullshit,” he belts out. “You didn’t. You didn’t care about me last night. You never fuckin’ do.” 

“Hvit--” he turns off his phone. There was a sliver of a moment in which he regrets that on the basis of last night. Maybe you rejected him, but he wasn’t an idiot. A man simply didn’t cheat on his girlfriend because she said no. 

He packs up his bag and heads toward the football field. It’s time to play football.

He smashes Ubbe on the field. If he wasn’t at peace with being an illustrator, maybe he could have been a ballplayer. Flipping the ball from foot to foot with Ubbe on his trailing his tail was fun, but watching him try and miss as he thwacked the ball on its net was even better. Unlike Ubbe’s well-proportioned body, he’s all long limbs and quick feet. Just the right combination to slip out of Ubbe’s grasp. Well, that was, until Ubbe tackled his ass onto the blades of grass, sending the both of them rolling through the grasp.

“Bro, really?!” Hvitserk laughs, dropping back onto the grass. The skid marks on his clothes would be unreal. 

“If I can’t catch you,” Ubbe heaves, digging his hand into his pocket. He finds his phone there, vibrating with messages from Torvi: probably. Hvitserk shoves his arms behind his neck, drawing out breath after ragged breath. 

“Wanna go eat?” 

“Na,” Ubbe shoves himself onto your feet. “Your girl is here.”

His what? Ubbe rushes off. A sinking feeling came over his clammy hands. He opens his mouth to beg him not to go, to take him along with like he used to as a child. He’s terrible at making up and hours ago, he’d hung up on you. His lips press together, soothing himself with the false pretense that-- no, it would be fine. If you didn’t apologize, perhaps neither would he. 

He finds you on the other side of the soccer field, fashioning his favorite sundress. There’s something glamorous about its corset bodice and its draped sleeves that left him breathless. He wills down his terrible arousal, drawn to the pendant he bought you nestled between your large breasts. You wait for him by his things, pulling the rim of a broad pale hat and looking down at beautiful chunky nude heels. 

You’re beautiful and terrifying all in one. He regains himself enough to make his legs solidify from the liquidy mass they were seconds ago. He might feel much like a newborn calf falling over himself to get his things, but perhaps he looked better than he felt. Women like sweaty, stupid men, right?

“What are you doing here?” he picks up his things. “I thought you didn’t like to be seen in public.”

“You hung up on me,” you hold his tablet flush against your dress and offer it out to him. He takes it and secures it back in his bag. “I had to come to find you.” 

“Yeah? I’ll bet.” Hvitserk wills down the painful throbbing behind his joggers, pulling his bag to obscure the pain he was in. The sooner he went home, the sooner he could jerk himself off without the overwhelming guilt of being, as he was, a whore. Why couldn’t he stay mad? He wanted to stay mad! “You look... nice. Never seen you looking so nice. What’s the occasion?” 

“You like it?” You pull out the skirt and stop to do a twirl that he curses himself for stopping for. Normally, his girl wouldn’t even go outside. Who was this? He’s aware of others watching-- the fat girl in a flashy dress. “I wore it for you.”

“Yeah, I do.” He moistens his lips, his voice raspy and thick. “Looks like an angel.” 

“Does that mean you’ll come back home?” You reach out for him. Your soft hands winding around his well-corded arm. He realizes then, the confidence in which you carried yourself masked the desperation in your hands. They trembled over his bicep. “I’ll be good, I promise I won’t yell at you again like that. I wouldn’t even be mad if you-- you found someone else to fuck. I know you-- I know you need it. If you can’t get it from me, I can wait on the side. As long as you’re not in love.”

“Hey,” he softened, settling his hand atop of yours. He stops midstep, turning on his high tops on the sidewalk. He takes your hands and listens waits for your outpouring of emotion. Traffic passes by him. They speak in hushed whispers. “Hey, hey, hey. Baby girl wait-- that’s not -- what are you talking about?”

“I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell at you like that but you were pushing and pushing and wouldn’t stop! I didn’t know what to do. I want to have sex with you,” you squeeze his fingertips. “But you don’t know what it’s like to be fat, old virgin.” 

He was trying to listen. He really was. The moment you spoke that word: that v-word, his mind went blank and numb. You’re still talking long after he’s stopped listening. Hvitserk sucks in a breath: it sends him into a flurry, pursuing the bone of your virginity long after you’ve stopped talking.

“What do you--” his lips twitch, drawing in a smile. “--mean a virgin?” 

“I haven’t had sex-- I… I wanted to--” 

His girl-- a virgin. He wants to smile, if not for the knowledge of the other night, waking up in Erika’s itchy sheets. Hvitserk knows that he has to tell you, he only doesn’t know how. You’re talking again. 

“What did you say?” he asks. 

“I want you to do it,” you answer. “Right now. Just forgive me.” 

He about drops, a moistness coming over his mouth that he can’t-- exactly-- help. His palms feel just as hot, sweating as he pulls them free from yours. Clearing his throat, he slips his hand against the small of your back. 

“Na, let’s… let’s take it easy. We’ll talk ‘bout it later.” 

He wants that virginity. 

But logically, oh woe is he, he knows it’s not really right to take someone’s virginity if they’re not all there. You’re not all there because you don’t know of that night. It’s like, consent, right? Bad consent was just jerking your ankle like some Viking and dragging you into bed with him. If he was going to do it, he told himself, you had to know what he’d done. 

It was a slip-up. 

Hvitserk finished another drawing for his new book independent of your input. It was a children’s book about good bodies-- because as he looked at your good body, he was reminded of Ericka’s cruel words. He wanted to do better for lil kids.

“Hvitserk, your phone is ringing,” you said pointedly from across the room where you sat like a madwoman. Your frantic papers sat nestled around a basket of shared chicken he made for lunch. 

“Huh?” Tapping over, he recognizes Erika’s photo, planting a kiss on his cheek on his first big break. She had been the first one to really believe in him. It was a long time ago now, he reminds himself to change that to something more… suitable after last night. He gestures his fingers at you. “Thanks, baby girl.”

He answers the phone. The moment he does, he hears Erika’s flat voice snaking into a hiss. It’s a noise that he hasn’t heard. Not in all his years of having her as his patient agent. 

“You’re with her, aren’t you?” 

“No, I’m uh-- with Ubbe.” He throws you a glance. You tilt your head, he shakes his, and that’s the terrible loneliness of holding a secret. “Erika--” Hvitserk sighs, parting his lips to talk. She shushes him with such severity that he thinks she’s trying to lop his head off, too. 

“Break it off.” 

“What?”

He steps outside and leans against the cold metal door separating the high-rise apartments from, well, the outside world. He expects to see her standing out there. All he finds are the many cars parked on the street and the stillness of movement. It’s too quiet. The whistle of the wind through the street chills him. 

“I know you’re with her. I can tell her for you if you’d like.” 

“No. Don’t--” Hvitserk sighs, searching for the words in the silence. “I don’t think you understand. We worked through it.�� 

She laughs something from deep in her belly at him.

“I wasn’t asking. Either you do it— or I’ll make you do it. You obviously don’t know what’s best for yourself. Why else are you fucking around with some--” He collapses on the stairs, cradling the phone to his ear as she goes on. “Don’t think I won’t expose her for what she is. A thief.”

“She’s never-- Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“You told me you would take care of it. Something you’ve failed to do-- I should have known you couldn’t do it. ”

“If this shit is about yesterday--” 

“I’ll give you one more chance to break it off if you come over tonight.” 

“Are you blackmailing me?” There’s a pause on the other line. Then a chuckle. A long winded, painful chuckle. He should have known better. That night-- calling it an accident wasn’t exactly tolerable for a woman like Erika. She wasn’t the kind of woman who could be easily ignored.

“If that’s what I have to do.” 

 He chokes out a sob. Ivar was right. She wasn’t going to let him go.

“Fuckin’-- fuckin’ fine.” 

@punkrocknpearls​ @flowers-in-your-hayr @tephi101 @alicedopey​ @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys  @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie

[averinna]

I can't get out of my mind this post about the OP saying that they didn't trust people who hate characters for being "useless"

Reading more Shojo, playing otome game and ultimately reading shikimori San get me to think about these characters who's most remarkable traits are their kindness

They're most often the one called useless. And this OP said that because they were referring to disabled people. The one who always been seen as useless in society, even now. Like even now we are celebrated only if we "outdo" a abled bodied person. We can't just be without being pitied for our issues

It get me to think a lot about how I saw myself since I even exist. I never thought, even once, that my situation was the norm. From the get go I knew I was sick, diminished, that in this hospital we all were. Not normal.

We are nowhere to be seen outside of hospitals. That's how it was for me.

And then when I came out it was the other middle schoolers who didn't know about my illness who made me feel bad about it. I remember one criticizing me for being lazy at sport while I genuinely couldn't run as long as everyone else.

I always been reminded that I wasn't "normal" by comparing myself to others and feeling useless.

Useless.

While right now I even wonder what is good about me if I can't be a great writer someday.

Maybe I take my own disability as a flaw and my way to counterbalance and justify to exist with it is writing.

But. About useless characters.

I think I like Izumi Yuu this much too because of that. Because he's so diminished by his bad luck that it feel like almost a disability. He does get hurt a lot! Remember his scar?

And people wonder why Shikimori bother with him since he's so plain and unlucky and she's obviously out of her league

Shikimori don't care and don't have to justify her feelings

And... It's another case where I find myself recognizing myself in the male character. Like how I often think "I wish I knew someone like Chiyuki who would embrace me despite me hurting them".

I always give my characters a talent too. Ayane and Sakura is one of the rare one where I didn't give them special talent that would make them lovable to the audience in a typical way.

Ayane most remarkable traits is how kind she is and is able to see a good side of Osomatsu even though he shown that to her either. But she noticed that.

When Izumi noticed that Saruogi was behind and came back to him. Or when Tohru said she wanted to be friend with Yuki again even after she forget him.

These are characters who actually aren't boring because they are kind. It's just that the story don't allow them to defend themselves.

What I want to get at it...

"useless" characters like this are so kind.

But irl you can be "useless" and bitter too.

Usually when you reduce them so much in their abilities they should at least be kind. They should have something

But what this OP talked about is how these characters, and actually people are still valuable no matter how "useful" they are

It's funny because when it come to romance I never really think "why" do they like them. I think you can like someone and just not follow these feelings.

Erika from wolf girl and black prince like a piece of shit but she doesn't have to obey to these feelings. That's what stupid about so many romance

I never wondered this much why Shikimori like Izumi

But maybe it's also due to me having a particular experience when it come to love

So that's a lot of text but I just wanted to say

That characters who's most remarkable traits is kindness are still good actually. Even if they are useless.

But I think you really get that when you've felt "useless" yourself and still been loved

But that's something you get only when you've been in that hole. I forget that most people don't know about that.

We are a minority for a reason, after all

[heathert456]

Character designers that I like.

(*Text underneath for readability)

Jeff Merghart

I like this designer because they seem to follow a similar process to what we have been doing in class, sketching and linework first, then tone/values, and then colour. I also like their style, it is illustrative and portrays not only humans but also, animals with human like attributes. Another thing I like is how they have kept their outlines on the finished drawings, similar to what I have done. The characters seem to have a strong silhouette and personality, which I think is important to have.

Samuel Suarez

I like this designer because they also seem to follow a similar process. The main thing that I like about their work is how they have used blending and shading; this is something I might try in the future. I like how all of the colours and shades blend together. Their style is cartoony, but it is also realistic in the way that they have executed their designs. I like this because it is a good combination of cartoon and realistic style. Another thing that I like is how they have added shadows underneath their characters, this could also be good to try.

Erika Worthylake

I like this artist because they have a wide variety of variations of equine drawings. There is a lot of diversity in their work, the characters range in sizes and styles. I used this artist as a reference when I was creating my horse/mule character. I also think that this artist captures the character’s expressions and emotions well. I especially like the broad range of shapes and their linework. The way they have drawn the colours and shading two dimensional is similar to what my characters have been like so far.

Guille Rancel

I like this artist because they have a unique style, and their characters are people, but they are accompanied by other creatures. This is something I would like to try, so that I can design both people and animals together. I also like how colourful their work is and I like how they’ve used backgrounds. Some of their backgrounds are very detailed and some are plain colour backgrounds, but not white. The background on the third image is my favourite, I would like to try something like that in some of my work.

Carlos Luzzi

I like this designer because they capture feelings and expressions well. I like how they use shapes to inform what the character’s personalities are. I also like how detailed their work is, and they use colour in a very effective way, the variation in line weight is also used very well. I like how they have done their shading as well, it’s like a mixture of colour blocking and blending. Another thing I like is the way they have added clothing and accessories to exaggerate the character’s personalities.

James Woods

I like this designer because they have a wide variety of shapes that depict the character’s persona. I also like the way they have added clothing, it adds to the silhouette and is very detailed. I also like their linework, it has good variations in weight. They have also seemed to have added textures by using colour, I think this is something that I would like to try as well. I also like how they have characters paired together, they complement each other, I especially like the range of height and volume within these characters.

[peculiar-reblogs]

[Plain text:

I don't know who needs to hear this but in this day and time, if you're still making jokes about someone's appearance you're the joke, not them.

- Erika, The Clumsy Witch]

I don't know who needs to hear this but in this day and time, if you're still making jokes about someone's appearance you're the joke, not them.

- Erika, The Clumsy Witch

[realhousewives-fan]

Fear and Loathing in Lake Tahoe

With the bad start Crystal Kung Minkoff and Sutton Stracke got, it’s no wonder that Crystal is on guard with her.

It’s absolutely understandable that she thinks that Sutton is completely crazy and unreasonable.

However, it’s plain to see that Sutton is trying to repair this and befriend her. It’s just not going very well.

I actually feel bad for the both of them. 

Sutton wasn’t in the right mindset on this trip and Crystal has gotten the worst possible first impression of her.

Sutton realized that she was emotionally exhausted with moving out of her dreamhouse and wanted to apologize to all of the women at the dinner.

But the one person that needed to hear the apology wasn’t there. Crystal didn’t join them for dinner.

She later showed up and told Kyle Richards that Sutton had walked in on her naked the other day and she felt that her boundaries was violated by it.

Kyle thought that Crystal should have addressed it right away, as Sutton had apologized to everyone for her behavior on the trip.

Besides, Sutton didn’t mean any harm. It was an awkward moment and it sadly didn’t help her impression of Sutton.

But that dinner though… 

Lisa Rinna and Garcelle Beauvais rehash the situation with Denise Richards from last season yet again and Lisa gave the worst comparison ever.

She told the story about a friend of her husband who raped a girl, and he couldn’t blindly support his friend.

Like, wow! That was one of the darkest comparison I’ve ever heard about.

But, it took her a unnecessary long time before she understood that she should have stayed out of the gang up on Denise.

It was completely unnecessary for her to become the ringleader against Denise.

The women travel back home after the intense trip to Lake Tahoe and 4 days later Dorit, Kyle and Lisa gets a short text from Erika Girardi.

She informs them that she’s filing for a divorce from Tom Girardi and they’re all shocked! Even her bestie, Lisa, was clueless.

What do we really know about Erika?

[castellankurze]

FSF: Someone (or multiple someones?) takes a bubble bath.

fanfic for Completely Normal RPG, run by @lordcaliginous.  Also tagging @mystictheurge and @tamsynspeaks as per what is now standard procedure.

Takes place sometime in the month of December.

A Completely Normal Week

Monday

The motorcycle’s engine throbbed as its rider took the final turn into the driveway and slowed to a stop.  Shouko dismounted and unlocked the carport before walking the bike inside, pulling her helmet and hanging it off one of the handlebars.  The interior of the carport was a disaster, with her mom’s car tucked snugly up against the left side where it had accumulated a fine layer of dust while the rest of the available area was full of tools and spare parts.  Some had been left behind by her father, and Shouko had added to the motley collection over the years until the back wall of the carport was hardly accessible, but it wasn’t like they ever used the decorations stored back there.

“Hi mom, I’m home,” she announced as she stepped through the front door, tossing her keys into the nearby basket with a jingle.  The Kogawa household was a snug, two-story place with a pair of bedrooms and a bathroom on the upper level with everything else downstairs, and the only response to the girl’s voice was the slow churning of the ceiling fan she’d left on last night.

Once she’d stripped off her riding leathers, Shouko settled down at the table in the family room to do her homework.  This consisted of a block of time lasting no more than one solid hour, subjects broken up by use of an egg timer.  Over the years she’d gotten pretty good at judging how to mostly finish any given piece of homework in the time allotted, and if she was off, well, partial credit was better than none.  She answered questions as fast as she drove her bike, though with considerably more guesswork.  'You could be an A-rank student if you wanted it,’ more than one of her teachers had groused at her.  Shouko had come up with any number of excuses over time, but by and large as long as she maintained a D most had learned to live and let live.

At the conclusion of her hour, Shouko packed away her school stuff and left it by the door, there to be grabbed tomorrow morning.  That done, she ran upstairs to change her clothes into a set of gym shorts and a plain white shirt, stuffing her earbuds in her ears before heading off to the treadmill.

Most of Shouko’s teachers had guessed at her athletic ability, but those who dismissed the girl as a slacker would have been shocked to see the utter concentration on her face as she sprinted at top speed on her mother’s treadmill, a dumbbell clutched in each hand, stopping only for the occasional drink of water.  There once was a time when she would have been soaked with sweat at the end of the workout, but an hour’s run nowadays was little more than maintenance.

When all was said and done Shouko retired to her bedroom, a cavern of rebellious rock music and video game posters from both Japan and America and a battlestation that looked like something that might have been ripped from a NASA installation.  Shouko spent her stipends on two things: her bike, and her computer.  Lately Saika had been a third, but both longstanding habits were things that that she’d dove into headfirst until she could take apart either and put them both back together blindfolded.

“Oh great, a Genji,” someone complained almost as soon as she’d locked her Overwatch character in.  "Nice match everyone, better luck next time.“  Thirty-nine kills and two deaths later Shouko wished everyone a nice day.  Quickplay was so damn stupid, and on the next match she chose Roadhog just to mix it up.  Someone else whined about multiple tanks and Shouko rolled her eyes.  60% of team damage taken.  It wasn’t her fault nobody else could find the point.

"I’m going back to TF2,” she growled aloud, grabbing for her pack of cigs.  Of late she’d taped a warning to the front in black capital letters: TWO A DAY.  Miyumi always got squirrely when she lit up and Saika always winced.  Since she couldn’t avoid the former and felt bad about the latter she’d been cutting down.  Given her life lately, it wasn’t like she was gonna live long enough to die of cancer.

She showered and collapsed in bed, lit by the soft red glow of her electronics.

Tuesday

The motorcycle thrummed and growled as she cut the engine and stowed it.

“Hi mom, I’m home.”  The keys jingled as they landed in the basket.

An hour for homework.  She finished all of it this time.

Today was arm day, and Shouko spent her workout hour doing curls and lifts while Netflix ran some anime she barely payed attention to.

“Hey Eowyn,” someone said as soon as she logged into FFXIV.  "Can you craft me a thing?“

"Sure.”

Ten mintues later.  "hey are you up for a Castrum Abania run"

“Patch is in like three weeks,” she said with a bit of a sigh in meatspace.

“ya but I really want that sword for glamour plate its ok if you dont wanna go”

“It’s fine I can blow it up with you.”

“thx youre the best blm”

“Hey, Eowyn.”  She blinked.  That last one had been a whisper instead of guild chat.

“What’s up?”

“I just wanted to say, you don’t seem yourself lately,” her guildmaster said.  "Just wanted to check and make sure you’re alright.“

"Yeah I’m good.  Just been super busy with all the schoolwork lately.”

“I know the feeling.  Are you gonna be full-time again in January?”

Shouko frowned.  "I’ll try.“

"Just take care of yourself.  Game comes after real life.”

“:) I will.”

She showered and slept a little fitfully that night.

Wednesday

A series of whispers alerted her to the attention of several classmates glancing her way.  "Hey, Shouko, can you…“ one of them asked with a blush, curling one arm.

With a grin, she pulled up her sleeve and flexed, to a flutter of giggles.  Shouko was never gonna be as strong as Erika, but her daily regimen was having noticeable effects, like leaving her look cut as hell.  She was probably down to 15% body fat by now, looking lean and mean.

"Hey, Shouko?” Saika asked at the end of the day.  "Would you like to do something Saturday?“

"Sure,” she said, hefting her bike helmet and making sure Saika clipped the spare’s chinstrap in place.  "What did you have in mind?“

"Nothing much, just…dinner somewhere?”

Shouko turned the ignition and revved the throttle.  "Sounds great.“

After she dropped Saika off she made for the gym, where she could get the type of workout that wasn’t so easy at home.  Balance beam, rings, parallel bars - it all came back as easily as breathing.  Shouko could spin rings around any of the other girls there.  When she wanted to, she could sprint down the balance beam and leap to the vault and from there catch herself on the rings in a split-second one-two-three move that sometimes provoked gasps from newbies.

As little as three years ago, Shouko had been doing this kind of thing pretty much daily.  She wondered, sometimes, what her old teammates were up to these days.  She didn’t wonder enough to come in on any day but Wednesday, thought sometimes it was extremely tempting to show up jsut to show the lot of them what she could pull off nowadays.  She’d never been a Simone Biles, and probably never would be - in fact now that it crossed her mind she wondered if Simone had had an awakening of her own? - but she could have thrashed the regionals nowadays.  Funny how things worked out.

She swam a few laps in the pool to cool down and showered before heading home.

"Hi mom.”  Jingle.

An hour for homework.

She played a little Mortal Kombat and crushed some jackass who made fun of her tag.

Thursday

The Honda thrummed as she pulled into the drive.

“Hi mom.”  Jingle.

Her phone buzzed while she was doing her homework and she didn’t bother looking up until she was done.

“Hi Shouko, they asked me to visit our office in Melbourne while I’m down here, so I’ll be hopping a plane tomorrow.  I’ll be a few more days.  Have my phone if you need me.  Love you!” read her mom’s text.

Shouko stared at it for a minute and texted back “k lu2

Her feet slapped hard against the treadmill.  She needed to replace the damn thing when nobody was looking.  She was getting to the point where she really needed a higher top speed.

Her Star Wars RPG group canceled again, so instead of playing her Jedi she just spent some more time in CoD blowing holes in people while Fullmetal Alchemist played in the background.

“How are you even watching that,” someone complained in voice chat at one point.

“Listen,” she growled around a cigarette, “don’t hate because Olivier Mira Armstrong has my back.”

He responded with an insinuation that technically wasn’t wrong, but still got him blown to smithereens several times before he finally ragequit.

Shouko stayed up until almost three in the morning before she slumped into bed.

Friday

“A 99.  Excellent as always, Ms. Aratani,” the teacher said as she handed out papers.  Shouko could see the way Miyumi’s lip trembled as she took the proffered test like it was about to bite her hand off.

“87.  Good step up, Shouko,” the teacher said when she reached her.

“Thanks,” she said as she took the paper.

“I mean it,” the woman said, leaning closer.  "When you put your mind to a subject you really show your potential.“

Shouko was silent as the teacher moved on.  "Thanks,” she grumbled under her breath.  The paper crinkled as her hand crushed it.

“Um…excuse me, Kogawa?” the voice caught her as she was walking to her bike.

“Yo?” she said, turning with a blink of her eyes to see a semi-familiar face.  One of the girls who’d been looking at her the other day.

“Do you mind if I ask you for a piece of advice?”

Shouko blinked again.  "Uh?“

"It’s just…you and Saika…”  The girl was blushing hard.  "How did you.  Um?“

Shouko couldn’t help a chuckle, and she pulled out her customary after-school cig and lit it with a snap of flame from her dagger.  The girl didn’t even double-take.  Normal people saw what they expected to see.  Shouko didn’t even bother carrying her lighter anymore.  "Look.  You want my advice?  Just go talk to her,” she said as she straddled her bike and pulled out her favorite wraparound shades.  "Life’s too fucking short and we gotta make time with the people we got before we get left in the dust, you know what I mean?“

"Um…I guess?” the other girl said, rubbing her cheek.

“Trust me.  Jump on it,” she said before she revved the throttle.

“Hi mom.”  Jingle.

She did her homework so fast her handwriting looked like the fevered sprinting of a deranged chicken.

Her fingertips ached with so many push-ups.

She ended up mostly just browsing the net that night and went to bed.

Saturday

She came out of the bathroom that morning to the sound of her phone buzzing insistently.

“Saika?!” she asked sharply, heart racing.

In the little mirror on the opposite wall, she could see the way her own face dropped.

“Oh.  Hi dad.”

She did the math.  It was eight in Hitachinaka, which meant it was ten in Ontario.  PM.

“It’s super late.  You should get some sleep.  The plant won’t want their engineer showing up super tired.  No, not her, I haven’t seen her in months.  Saika’s nice.  Yeah, bike’s running great.  School’s fine.  Mom’s in Australia now, they called her down from Jakarta.  I’m fine.  Dad, I dropped gymnastics like two years ago.  Yeah, tell Karen I said hi.  Maybe in a year.  Yeah.  Bye.  …love you too.”She threw the phone against the pillow and did her daily run outdoors.  It was cold as hell and overcast besides, but sweatpants and a sweatshirt were all she needed with the way her heart was pumping.

She was gone two hours.  When she got back she had a missed call and another text.  Saika.

“Hi Shouko, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can go out tonight.   I think I must have eaten something bad. x.X  I feel like crap.  Call me when you can.”

“Want me to bring over some soup?” she asked when the phone picked up.

“No,” said a mewling voice.  "I just want to curl up under ten blankets.“

"I’m sorry,” Shouko said.

“No, I’m sorry.  I don’t want to leave you hanging.  Promise we’ll make it up, k?”

“You know it.  Get some rest.  L-  …later.”

She looked at herself in the mirror.

The flame daggers hissed as they glanced off Shizuka’s katana.  Shouko was fast, but the Eventide rep was more experienced and fast as hell for her own part.  The open field was about the only place where the pair of them - any of the girls - could really throw down and get a workout in the most important manner.  Dojo masters tended to take it bad if you blew up a wall.

“Your concentration is bad today,” Shizuka observed when they finally broke in the late afternoon.

“Yeah.  Hey, Shizuka, got a question for you,” she said around the butt of a cigarette.  Typical for her, Shizuka didn’t reply verbally, but only raised an eyebrow.  “You ever heard of anyone who stayed friends if one went Eventide and one went Radiant?”

Shizuka glowered.

“Didn’t think so." 

The Honda chugged as she parked it in one of the narrow bike-only, and she didn’t bother taking off her leathers since it wasn’t like she was going mallratting.  She stopped off at the pharmacy and bought some soda, some beer, some chocolate, and some soap.

"Rough day?” the attendant asked in a sympathetic tone.  She barely even glanced at Shouko’s ID.

“Uh huh,” she confirmed.  In the parking lot, she slid the candy bar she’d palmed out of her jacket sleeve and munched it.

Once home, she dumped the soap in the tub and ran hot water until the foam threatened to spill over.  Then she lit a cigarette and slipped in, groaning slightly as it almost scalded her.  She let her phone play American synthwave until the battery ran low and the water was cold and she was prune-fingered.

She looked at the battlestation and threw herself into bed, wrapped around her spare pillow.  The wind blew hard that night.

Sunday

Two hours for homework instead of one.  Weekends.

There was no meeting of the study group this week and so the day was uneventful, except for one instant when she was flipping channels and there was a news report on the ongoing decommissioning of Fukushima which caused her to mash the power button.  Natural disasters were not something she wanted to think about right now.

She ordered pizza and spent the evening playing Brutal Doom and listening to Rage Against the Machine.

Tomorrow was a brand new week.

[cornley-amateur-drama-society]

I'm gnawing upon this like that video of the tiny dog with that bigass stick

Under the cut because we know how I am a;ldksfja;ld

Post-writing edit: Jesus I really went in with this one, aye? Hope you enjoy it anyway 😅😅😅

---《||》---

So I'm picturing this as a situation where it's just him and Nessa at A&E still. Everyone else was cleared to sleep off the tranquillizers, but due to her past with being knocked about on the head, the doctor wanted to keep her overnight for observation. Trevor had to act as the rest of the cast's personal cabbie, driving them home. Chris doesn't know how the rest of the night went, back at the Theatre, and his phone had been on silent the entire time until now because he was backstage, and then he was talking with the doctors and nurses, and trying to coordinate with Trev about everyone else. He is not wearing the Prince of Wales getup, having managed at least get his trou back on and toss off the elaborate coat, leaving him in a pair of navy slacks and a plain white T-shirt.

Also, because this is me we're talking about, there's also some ChrisNessa in here, in part because of my personal headcanons about both of their parents.

“She's fine,” Doctor Samander “Sam” Aarons reassured him. ���Like Erika said, we're jus' keeping her overnight for observation.”

“Right, right,” Chris agreed weakly, trying to keep his eyes from darting over to Vanessa again and again and again. “Because of her history with head injuries.”

Doctor Sam smiled sympathetically at him. Zyr brown eyes were understanding as ze said, “She'll be righ' as rain, Chris. We both know how resilient she is.” Doctor Sam joked lightly. Zyrself, Nurse Erika Rodgers, and the Nurse at Reception Nerys Bogman were the three of the five members of staff at Cornley A&E who regularly saw to the Cast when they came in.

Zyr pager beeped, and Doctor Sam pat Chris on the shoulder—his good one—a few times before ze reminded him, “Nerys'll come check up on you and Ness in a bit. You know where to find her or Erika if something happens.”

“Thanks, Sam,” he said, a wan smile somehow making it to his face. Ze gave him one last glance as they left the room, the shadows from the dimmed lights making zyr expression difficult to read. Zyr pager beeped once more, and like a ghost, ze vanished.

Chris let out a deep sigh, going to the chairs next to the bed where Vanessa was unconscious, hooked up to a few machines. He ought to see how Trevor was doing, or maybe see how the end of the filming went with Jonathan's ensemble piece. What he really wanted to do was collapse into bed with his weighted blanket, Vanessa curled up next to him, and her fluffy cat Othello at their knees.

He collapsed into one of the chairs and, after staring at Vanessa for some unknown to him amount of time, he pulled out his phone. He didn't even bother to look at any notifications at first, his phone unlocking to show the text message chain he had with Trevor. The arrow to the main screen—that is, the screen which shows all of his text messages—was highlighted, letting him know that he had more unopened and unseen texts to look through. He hoped that they would just be messages from the techies or some of his and Vanessa's friends, perhaps even Mrs. Bennett or Mrs. Twilloil checking in on them. But he knew, even before looking, who the messages were probably from.

He'd barely managed to hit send on a text asking Trevor if everyone got home safe before his screen was lighting up with “INCOMING CALL FROM Mum”.

He swallowed, standing up and moving away to the far corner of the room before answering the call.

“Hello?” He greeted quietly, not wanting to disturb Vanessa.

“Hello? Hello? That's how you greet me after two hours of ignoring my worried calls and messages?” The voice of his Mum immediately kicks off in his ear.

“I'm at hospital, Mum,” Chris tried to explain, “and the rest of the Cast were incapacitated. Only Trevor and I were able to coordinate with the staff.”

“I am aware you are at A&E,” she said, her tone even and measured. “I watched tonight's, tonight's disaster.”

The slight joy he felt at hearing that his Mum had watched the show was immediately cut by her summation of it.

“How could you be so reckless,” she asked, and for the briefest of moments, he thought that she was talking about the mix-up with the tranquillizers. But she continued, “wearing the outfit of the Prince of Wales and prancing around like that! Violet watches your plays, you know, and now Raymond—your father—will have to answer to her husband Mark why you were in your pants on national television. And with the Union Jack printed on them, no less.”

Chris clenches his jaw, trying to remember what Sandra had told him about letting his Mum's criticisms get to him. But this time… This time, she'd watched their performances! It was different, right now, to what Sandra had said to him about their other showings. It was!

“It was a farce, Mum,” he said quietly, “from nineteen seventy-nine. It was supposed to be a comical, sort of, play.”

“And laughing at, making fun of the Royal Family? Is that what passes for comedy nowadays? Is that what your Father and I raised you to do? Spit on our National Heritage?”

“I,” he tried, “I'm sorry, Mum. Annie picked the show, the roles. It wasn't my choice.” He hated that he could feel tears start to build under his skin.

“At least the radio play you did didn't involve anyone getting hurt,” Mum said after a few moments of silence, her voice softer now. More like the Mum he distantly remembered from his early childhood.

But what she said was wrong. Wasn't it? Sure, Trevor didn't get himself while drumming with hammers or throwing bricks around or shooting a gun into the air. But Sandra got hurt. Granted, it wasn't as serious as some Cornley injuries could be, but she must've got hurt by breathing in Dennis' deodorant spray. Right?

“But wouldn't Sandra have got hurt by the wrong spray?” He couldn't stop himself from asking his Mum. He bit at the inside of his lower lip.

“… She seemed to be speaking perfectly fine during the farce,” Mum replied, the chill in her voice rising some.

“Right, of course,” he said quickly, wanting to appease her in any way he could.

Silence fell on the line again, and Chris started digging his nails into the palm of his free hand. He daren't look back at Vanessa, sure that seeing her looking so unnaturally calm would make an already poor moment turn worse.

“I just,” Mum started, then stopped, unusually hesitant. Chris tilted his head in concerned confusion, though he was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it wouldn't matter. She wasn't here to see him.

“Mum?” He prompted when she didn't continue speaking after a few seconds. He was tempted to pull his phone away from his ear to see if the call had dropped, when she started speaking again.

“I just wonder why you keep that man in black on the payroll,” she finally said, “he doesn't seem to do all that well at his job. Just look at poor Vanessa,” she sighed loud enough on her end of the line that he could hear it.

“What,” he stopped himself when his voice cracked. Swallowing, he tried to ask again, “What about Vanessa?”

“Well, if you would've been stronger in talking to the cast after their shoddy attempt to take the role of Director from you like your Father had said,” Mum's voice was kind, her words wrapping around him the way her arms rarely did. “This wouldn't have happened.”

Chris felt more ice in his veins start to appear. He could barely muster out a questioning hum, his mind was so focused on what she was telling him.

“Vanessa getting shot with a tranquillizer gun, her not having any actual role in that radio drama,” Mum listed off seemingly carelessly, “Vanessa wouldn't be in hospital if you had put your foot down like Raymond's been telling you to all these years.” Her voice had grown stiff and harsh again, and Chris wasn't sure where the anger in her voice was directed: at himself for not being strong enough, or at the perceived failings of the Cast.

“It's not your fault, of course, Chris, dear,” Mum said, her voice back to being the sweet and gentle sound he always strived to hear from her, “but… No. No, I shouldn't say anything more.”

“No, Mum, it's alright,” he said, part of him screaming at himself that he should've hung up the phone on her ages ago. “What were you going to say?”

“Oh, dear,” she laughed—the way he'd heard her laugh at gatherings in the evenings growing up with the other women in her sewing circle. It had always sounded slightly off to him, and he could never quite figure out why. “I, well, I was just going to say that it wasn't your fault that this happened to Vanessa, but… It also was, a little bit, don't you agree?”

His breath caught at her words, and his doubts and insecurities about everything that had happened over that night, over the past several months after the coup, took her words as Truth. It was his fault that Nessa is hurt, wasn't it? If he had done better at getting on Trevor about stage safety, making sure that the window box from Summer, Once Again and the Royal Crest from The Most Lamentable were secured to the walls of the set properly, maybe Vanessa wouldn't have to be here right now. Maybe the two of them could be back at her flat—a place that's nearly become synonymous with home to him—curled up under the covers, a cat purring away happily on the bed with them. Maybe he really did get Vanessa hurt. He didn't pull the trigger of the tranquillizer gun, not physically, but in a way, he did. Didn't he?

He felt fingers carefully grasping his hand and wrist, pulling the phone away from his ear. Glazed eyes lighted upon someone familiar—Nerys, his mind makes the connection a few beats later, as if he was thinking in sludge—puts the phone up to her face.

“Sorry,” Nerys' gentle voice said after she took the phone away from his frozen self, “Chris has sustained a concussion, and it is the Doctor's order that he not be on any sort of electronic device for the next few days as he heals.”

Chris can see, in a vague sort of sense, how the corners of Nerys' eyes tighten, how her smile becomes even more plastered on than before.

“Thank you for understanding that no one, not even the Director of the Cornley Drama Society, can disobey Doctor's orders. Have a good night.” She said, evidently bowling right over whatever it was Mum was saying to her.

After she hung up, the tension on Nerys' face seemed to melt away, and she turned to face Chris more fully. “Sam said that you are not to use any electronic devices until tomorrow afternoon at the earliest. Ze've already told Trev, and he knows to text me any updates about the rest of the Cast if anything happens overnight.”

Chris blinks several times, mind still working overtime to catch up to the current proceedings. His physical awareness starts to come back in pieces, the feeling of the floor solidly under his feet, the chill in his limbs as the numbness begins to leave them. The way he felt clammy all over, yet still too warm.

Nerys set his phone down on top of the cabinet next to Vanessa's bed before helping him to the chairs next to her. She was awake now, eyes still slightly hazy from the ketamine—which, honestly, could only be expected—and those hazy eyes were watching him, a frown on Vanessa's face accompanying the look.

His own brow wrinkled in return, though his look was one of confusion. Did he miss her waking up? When did it happen? Another thought struck. How much did she see? Did she hear?

Nerys rubbed his shoulder gently as he took Vanessa's free hand, the one without the IV or blood pressure moniter attached. The nurse puttered about the couple in silence, only the steady beeps from the moniters interrupting. She finished her check-up, wrote the results on the clipboard at the end of Nessa's bed, and left them with a small, polite smile.

As her footsteps faded away, Chris allowed himself to fully collapse against the bed, against Vanessa. His head leaned heavily into her thigh, near where it met her hip, and her grip on his hand tightened. Her other hand comes to rest on his head, her thumb stroking back and forth through his hair. He knew that once he was feeling better—once he'd slept some, gotten out of the costume, and washed his face—that they'd talk about this. He was starting to put the pieces together in his mind for how, exactly, Nerys had known to come to the room.

He knew that tomorrow would be filled with soft words, murmured reassurances, and the sound of a cat meowing behind the door to a flat. He knew the day after would be full of talks with Sandra and Max and Jonathan, even, about boundaries again. How to tell his parents when to stop, how to tell himself not to pick up their calls.

But for now, Chris falls into the sleep one only gets when they're emotionally and physically drained, the sounds of steady beeping and fingers brushing through hair accompanying him to the Land of Nod.

*shakes you by the shoulders* HOW DO YOU THINK CHRIS' PARENTS REACTED TO SEEING HIM WEARING THE UNION JACK ON HIS PANTS AND FLOUNCING AROUND WITH A "WEH HEH HEUH" LAUGH IN A UNIFORM AT THE END OF ANNIE'S PLAY FOR THIRTY SECONDS???

HOW LONG WAS IT THAT THE SHOW WAS AIRED THAT CELIA AND RAYMOND WERE ON THE PHONE TO TALK TO HIM ABOUT HOW NOT ONLY DID HE DISGRACE THEM BY DOING THAT, BUT HE DISGRACED THE COUNTRY AS WELL?

HOW MANY TIMES DID THEY USE NESSA'S GETTING KNOCKED OUT AND CARRIED OUT AS ANOTHER PART TO THEIR GUILT TRIPS AAAAUUUUGGGHHHH

[haroldssfedora]

Don’t Force It (Harry Styles Imagine Part 2)

The first part really got a lot of notes and a lot of you have been messaging me to continue it, so here ya go! Tell me if I should still continue.

For those who have not read Part 1, here you go!! Part 1

Also! Send me songs that you think can fit Harry and Y/N’s situation! Request and send feedbacks HERE

MASTERLIST

ENJOY!!!!

~~

Y/N’s POV

The interview and performance finally ended. I was exhausted beyond doubt and was all ready to just lie around the house and catch up on sleep.

“That was a great performance, Y/N!” My manager, Erika, said. “We don’t have anything more scheduled for today besides this, so you can go home and get some rest. Remember, James Corden carpool karaoke shoot tomorrow morning, Apple Music commercial shoot in the late afternoon.” 

I nodded and thanked her for today. I went to my dressing room to freshen up, but to be met by my phone lighting up from notifications from various social networking platforms. I quickly went to the app to be met with hundreds of tweets about the performance.

@fanacc1

@Y/NOfficial SLAYED that performance #Y/NonEllen

@fanacc2 

@Y/NOfficial im so gay for you #Y/NonEllen

@fanacc3

Ok... what just happened... @Y/NOfficial tried to kill me with her sexiness THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED... I still love you tho #Y/NonEllen

Reactions like these always make me smile. I took the time to like and reply to a few of them when I noticed a certain tweet that got my attention.

@Harryfanacc1

@Y/NOfficial... On behalf of @Harry_Styles, we sincerely apologize for not being treated well @Y/NOfficial #Y/Ndeservesbetter #Y/NonEllen

I then noticed that #Y/Ndeservesbetter was trending worldwide. 

It was about what I said about the songs. 

I saw a few tweets that were directed towards Harry. Some were words of kindness but most of them were just plain downgrading.

@Y/Nfanacc1

WTH @Harry_Styles you wrote a song about Taylor Swift but you can’t write songs about your girlfriend of three years? #Y/Ndeservesbetter

@1Dfanacc12

@Harry_Styles wrote a song about Townes in Carolina but not @Y/NOfficial… weird #Y/Ndeservesbetter

Oh, no.

Harry!

I exited the Twitter app to be met with 12 missed calls all from Harry. A few text messages of ‘Call me back’s’ were also left unread in my inbox. Thinking of the worst, I quickly dialed his number but was led to his voicemail.

Panicking, I dialed his number once more but was met with a text that said ‘In the studio, might take a while so don’t wait up. I love you. x’

Sighing in relief, I quickly cleaned up and packed up with the rest of the crew. My driver loaded up the van and brought me home. I was too tired to even unload the dirty clothes in my bag and was out like the light in mere seconds, enjoying the comfort of the bed that I love so much.

Harry’s POV

WHY IS THIS SO DAMN HARD?!

“Harry, relax. You don’t have to finish this by tonight. I’m sure Y/N would understand.” Jeff said, rubbing his face to rid of any sign of hopelessness.

“She would, but that will make me more of a dick,” I said, slumping on the office chair inside the studio beside the equipment. “She wrote what, eight songs about me. And what did I give her? Nothing. Zero. Absolutely nothing. I never wrote a song about her, not even a song that didn’t make it in the album. What does that make me look like?”

“It’s not your fault-”

“But it is! Why is it so damn hard to write a f***ing song about her?!” I said, starting to pull on my growing hair. 

“Alright, this is not just about a song. Speak up.” Jeff said, rolling his seat towards mine and patting me on my back. “C’mon. What’s pushing you to write a song about her?”

“It’s just... what the people are saying is true. Y/N deserves better. She deserves someone who can write billions of songs all about her.” I said, wiping a few stray tears that started forming. “She’s... she’s the person who would change your life. You know what I mean?” Jeff nodded in understanding and let me continue.

“She has made everything worth it for me. If touring and being away from her will lead us to an easy life together, where she wouldn’t need to lift another finger ever again, in the future, I’m willing to do it. She is it for me, mate. I... I can’t explain what I’m feeling but I just want to spend the rest of my life with her. And writing about my other relationships besides ours? It makes it look like she doesn’t mean anything, but that’s not the case. I don’t want her thinking that way.”

“I can’t lose her. She’s home for me.”   

Y/N’s POV

My nap took longer than expected. I checked the time and saw that it was almost seven in the evening. Looking for any signs of Harry’s presence, I was surprised to see none. I got ahold of my phone and sent him a message.

Y/N: Haven’t seen you all day... I’ve missed you xx

H: Taking a little longer here at the studio. I miss you too x

Y/N: Are you gonna eat dinner there?

H: Probably, yeah.

Y/N: oh, ok. Love you xx

H: Love you too x

This then gave me the idea of bringing food for Harry at the studio. I made my way to the kitchen to prepare all the ingredients needed for his favorite pasta and immediately got cooking.

**

Arriving at the studio’s building, I was met with the secretary smiling at me.

“Ms. Y/N! Mr. Styles is using Studio 3 as of the moment. Want me to tell them you’re here?” Jodie said.

“No thanks Jodie, I’ll just enter. Brought some dinner for them as well.” I said. raising the blue bag that contained the pasta, as well as a few cans of beer to help them relax. “Oh, here. Have some.” I said, reaching for a separate pack which I specifically made for her.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Y/N. You’re so thoughtful.” I reciprocated the greeting and made my way to the studio.

As I was about to knock, I heard a triumphant scream from the inside.

“Knock, knock!” I said, peeking my head inside to see Harry, Jeff, and the band all surrounding the equipment. A chorus of hellos and heys welcomed me in. I showed them the dinner I made and they all said their gratitudes and dug in. Harry, on the other hand, was still busy by the booth.

“Love, eat some dinner first. It’ll help.” I said.

“No, I have to finish this by tonight.” He said, pulling on his hair. He only does this when he’s frustrated.

“Why are you in a rush? You just released an album that is now number one in over 84 countries. Give yourself some time to relax.” I said, tugging on his jumper sleeves.

“No, I have to finish this for you.” He said, almost too soft for me to hear. But I heard it.

The interview.

“H, if this is about the interview, it’s nothing really. I never thought that it will blow up like that.” I said.

“But it deserved to blow up like that. I’m a dick of a boyfriend to have written songs about other women and not write songs about you.” 

“Some things just can’t be forced, H. Don’t force it. Ok?” I said, giving a small peck on his cheek. 

“I don’t want you to leave me because of this.” He said, finally looking at me.

“I won’t,” I replied, caressing his cheek to calm him down.

“You wrote eight songs about me, Y/N. Eight! And I wrote none. That has to change.” He said, removing my hand and going back to work.

“Harry, I said don’t force it.”

“But I have to.”

“BUT YOU CAN’T!” I shouted, finally losing my temper. “You can’t rush a song in a day if the inspiration is not there.”

“It is there! It’s just-”

“Harry! It’s not! Can’t you take the hint?!” I said, tears now forming. “I’m sorry that I haven’t made such an impact that writing a song is such a problem.” 

“Y/N-”

“Songwriting is such a beautiful process that you have to trust on. You can’t force it like what you’re doing now.” I said, standing up. “I don’t need a song written for me to believe that you love me.” 

And with that, I walked away.

[mugionthewater]

Ranking the V3 dub cast against their original DR roles!

Erika Harlacher (Kaede Akamatsu - Kyoko Kirigiri)

I’m not a huge fan of Erika Harlacher’s outing as Kirigiri- she sounds vaguely congested and doesn’t come close to conveying the iciness that should seem the obvious fit for a character like her. Kaede, on the other hand, is earnest and soulful and it comes across well in the dub. It’s a role that plays much more to her strengths, I think, and I’m happy she came back for a more flattering performance!

Kaede > Kirigiri

 Grant George (Shuichi Saihara – Leon Kuwata)

I’ve seen Grant George’s turn as Shuichi Saihara compared unfavorably to someone’s voiceover in a car commercial, which is honestly fair. It sticks out in the emotional monologues in the class trials, but a year later it’s that horrible generic “ah, um” voice clip that gets used approximately 5,000 times in the dub that keeps me up at night. It’s almost enough to forget he did a pretty solid job as Leon in 2014. Leon’s probably the least challenging role in the franchise, admittedly, but he played a solid douchey teenager with an entertaining breakdown.

Leon > Saihara

 Lucien Dodge (Kiibo – Hifumi Yamada)

A tossup here. Both roles are perfectly competent at what they are. The nasally voice for Hifumi was probably more demanding, but the Kiibo voice does a good job combining the Shounen protagonist with the robophobia conscious rigidity.

Kiibo > Hifumi, if only because casting recasting Lucien Dodge as the real Justice Robo was brilliant

 Kyle Herbert (Kaito Momota – Kazuichi Soda)

Kyle Herbert as Kazuichi is pathetic, emasculated, and screechy, so it’s pretty much perfect. It’s all the weirder he plays Kaito as a middle-aged smoker dad. It doesn’t come close to matching the energy of Kaito’s Japanese voice. Another pretty clear winner.

Kazuichi > Kaito

 Erica Mendez (Maki Harukawa – Nagisa Momoe)

An anomalous recast considering Nagisa isn’t in V3 but they invited her back with the other recast voices anyways. Maybe Erica Mendez is just a really cool person and NISA wanted to hang out with her more? In any case, she’s good as Maki and I don’t have much to say here.

Maki > Nagisa

 Johnny Yong Bosch (Rantaro Amami - Hajime Hinata)

Not an interpretation for Rantaro Amami I was expecting; I don’t associate JYB with deeper bad boy voices and he’s a character type I’d expect a softer and lighter brand of mysteriousness for. But I liked dub Amami quite a bit. I’m still going to give the edge to his role as Hinata, since he fits him perfectly and is easily the best protagonist dub voice NISA has given us.

Hinata > Amami

 Kira Buckland (Kirumi Tojo – Hiyoko Saionji)

Of all the recast voices in this game, Kira Buckland showed off the most range with her roles. Hiyoko’s original Japanese voice and the English dub version are both pretty stock voices for that character type, but Buckland as Kirumi gets to show off maturity, warmth, and distance that I never would have expected from someone who voiced Hiyoko. If I had to cast one VA from this game, I’d want her since I’m pretty sure she could do anything.

Kirumi > Hiyoko

 Chris Tergliafera (Ryoma Hoshi – Gundam Tanaka)

So this guy is perfect in both roles and I don’t understand why his behindthevoiceactors.com profile isn’t bigger. Tergliafera can do deep very well and he was a good hire for NISA. I’m going to give the edge to his take as Gundam since that voice role is much hammier and much more memorable for it, showing off comic chops along with the sexiness, but he nails the somber moments with Hoshi and it could go either way.

Gundam > Hoshi

 Wendee Lee (Miu Iruma – Akane Owari)

Akane and Iruma are two character types who could have ended up with very similar voice performances, but Wendee Lee as Akane sounds oddly flat while Lee as Iruma is the exact level of hammy, vulgar, and cartoonish that I could hope for. It’s not hard to guess which role she probably had more fun with.

Iruma > Akane

Kaiji Tang (Gonta Gokuhara – Yasuhiro Hagakure)

Now this one is just disappointing. Kaiji Tang is great and one of my favorite dub voices in the first game, but compared to his natural comic lightness as Hagakure his Gonta sounds like he’s reading from a script the whole time. Reading the dumb Tarzan text was probably as awkward for him as it was for all of us, but it’s still disappointing.

Hagakure > Gonta

 Dorothy Elias-Fahn (Tsumugi Shirogane – Sayaka Maizono – Chihiro Fujisaki)

Our only triple cast! I kind of wish it was a more exciting vocal trio than this one. She’s fine but forgettable as Chihiro (it’s just kind of stuffy), perfectly competent at delivering an American approximation of the Kirby voice as Sayaka, and totally baffling as Tsumugi for a bunch of reasons. First of all, Tsumugi’s whole schtick is being plain; she didn’t need any kind of affect, especially not one as suspicious as the sugary helium voice. Secondly, it was probably more of a strain on the vocal cords to keep that up for six whole class trials. And thirdly, it’s just kind of obnoxious to listen to. What gives, NISA?

Sayaka > Chihiro > Tsumugi

 Derek Stephen Prince (Kokichi Oma – Fuyuhiko Kuzuryu)

(remember when English speakers saw the dub tease and got outraged hearing Oma’s voice saying “Kayayday” thinking they had recast Bryce Papenbrook? That poor man)

Another case where the voice actor is very good at both roles. DSP as Oma is probably more nuanced, since he has to be playful and trollish but also bring a hard edge when he needs to, and the angry rasp he gives Kuzuryu fits perfectly and adds a lot to the SDR2 dub. I’m going to give it to his role in as Kuzuryu just because Oma’s “neeheehee!” voice clip in V3 is horrible.

Kuzuryu > Oma

 Todd Haberkorn (Korekiyo Shinguji – Teruteru Hanamura)

So I think Todd Haberkorn’s voice is incredibly distinctive and I have very particular associations with him as a VA (I mostly know him as the lead in Rosario + Vampire, because I am the worst). Him playing a gag character like Hanamura was entirely within my expectations and is something he’s generally very good at doing. Korekiyo is the exact opposite character type and I busted a gut as soon as I heard it. Korekiyo is a better character when you don’t take him too seriously, and Haberkorn is good with the lines. I’m still more of a fan of him as Hanamura, since the garbled southern accent at the class trial breakdown is much more fun than the sister class trial breakdown, which no VA can probably save.

Hanamura > Korekiyo

 Julie Ann Taylor (Tenko Chabashira - Ibuki Mioda)

Julie Ann Taylor gives basically the same performance for both characters, but it’s a choice that makes sense considering Ibuki and Tenko have a very similar energy. Ibuki is slightly zingier and gets more memorable voice quips, but it’s another one that could go either way.

Ibuki > Tenko

 Marieve Herington (Angie Yonaga – Celestia Ludenberg)

Celes’s wacky French accent? Perfect, amazing, a hilarious and entirely appropriate addition to her character and possibly the best adaptational decision NISA made. Angie’s extremely similar wacky accent? Kind of lazy and highlights the racist parts of her character. Granted, it was probably hard to win with that one, but still. Boo.

Celestia > Angie

 Christine Marie Cabanos (Himiko Yumeno - Chiaki Nanami)

Christine Marie Cabanos as Himiko is my favorite dub voice in V3. She captures the laziness of the Japanese VA so well, nailing the gag of it but also nailing the emotional moments when it counts. What makes it great is knowing about Cabanos’s other work and how ultra-feminine magical girl types like Chiaki and Madoka Kaname are in her usual wheelhouse. Playing a character like Himiko must have been refreshing and it shows.

Himiko > Chiaki

[early20sfailingplenty]

All alone I break // upset!reader x Sinclairs // choose your own dynamic (platonic or romantic).

Summary: you're having a really bad day and none of the Sinclairs are around to comfort you. You wander the town, lonely and upset and tired, and just as you break, all alone in the middle of the main street, you're found and brought home emotionally and physically.

Got pissed off at my parents again for multiple reasons so wrote this to calm myself down. Hopefully it provides someone some comfort! I wrote this as a 'you're dating/are very close to all the Sinclairs' dynamic, but it could also be read as platonic; I've left it up to individual interpretation. Take what you need from this fic.🥺

AS ALWAYS, GENDER NEUTRAL READER, NO CODED LANGUAGE, Y/N AND "YOU" USED.

TW; canon typical darkness, murder, crying (reader), fic's built around being and feeling alone (you're having a bad day and want some cuddles/comfort but no one's around🥺😭💔), reader is morally just as bad as the Sinclairs (I can't see you being in Ambrose permanently and NOT having at least a grey morality), possessive language ("your Sinclairs"), irresponsible driving (Lester is on the phone with you while he drives) but nothing bad happens, swearing, mentions of alcohol, this could be read as containing toxic relationship elements, but just like always, I wrote this to be a genuine love and connection between you and the brothers so if it does come across to contain toxic elements, please know it was unintentional!!! It just occurred to me that it could come across that way so I'm mentioning it here.

Word count: 4, 097 (why can I never write a short thing, I😩)

The town was quiet and you knew not where anyone was. The last you had heard, Bo was in the garage working on his truck after some fucker had thrown a beer bottle at the headlight and subsequently broken it (and, oh, how Bo had ripped the man to shreds in retaliation), Vincent was in the basement turning said man into one of his latest art works (the location of which was to be in some barely used, dusty room because Vincent was a petty man when he wanted to be), and Lester was, well... you never really knew where Lester was.

That was the last you had heard.

But that had been hours ago.

The garage lights weren't on and there was no music blaring out from the main room which was used to maintain the illusion of a quaint, bustling town. There were no sounds to alert you of Bo's presence, and the metal grate just off the often walked curb only emitted darkness and silence. Bo wasn't there. You took comfort in the sight of his truck, thinking that that meant he was still in Ambrose, until you remembered that there were many other vehicles on the roads (to give the illusion of others living in the town) which he could have used as his transport.

The basement had been filled with nothing but thunderous silence; the engines switched off because the main part of Vincent's work (the wax application which always turned your stomach just a little) was done. The statue was there in the middle of the room, almost finished, but Vincent was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Jonesy for that matter, which led you to believe that Vincent, too, had left Ambrose. Both human and dog being absent typically meant a trip out.

And Lester was presumably safe and well somewhere else, far from Ambrose. His house was on the outskirts of the neighbouring town; too far a distance for you to walk by yourself at this time of night... if the others had left Ambrose, then you were better off staying. Ambrose could never be left unattended, lest its many many secrets be discovered by someone it shouldn't be.

As for you, you were walking the street which led into Ambrose off the curve from the washed out road which shielded the town from people who didn't know where to look through the foliage to find the path. The church was up ahead of you, its lights on but nobody home, the garage station was dark and silent, and behind you was the pet shop, but that was quiet, too. Nobody was around. It was just you.

Just you...

You had previously been searching quietly, checking every building which was unlocked (of which there weren't many; just enough to maintain the illusion even with the lack of visitors to the town this night) and carrying out your searches with curiosity and a need which was climbing quickly from the pit of your stomach, up, up your oesophagus to get lodged in your chest. It had wrapped around your heart and with each empty room and with each Sinclair nowhere to be seen, it constricted and made you feel breathless. You knew not where your Sinclairs were, and it only made your emotional needs all the heavier, the lump in your throat increasingly apparent.

With everywhere checked and none of the Sinclairs found, you resorted to phoning Lester as you stood between the church and the gas station, having completed a full circuit of the town just by following the roads.The twins hadn't been in the house, where you had started the search, so you were well and truly out of options. Where the hell were they? You were beginning to not only miss them with such a strong need to know where they were, if only to know that they were safe and okay and alive, but you were also beginning to worry. Had something happened to them? Lester picked up after the fifth ring. It wasn't terribly late in the evening but you wondered if perhaps you had disturbed him in something somehow.

"Hey, Y/N!"

Oh, his voice... it sounded heavenly to you, especially after the rough day you had had prior to this, and you gripped your phone tighter. You wanted to climb inside Lester's voice, to be safe within him. It was the first bit of company you had had for hours. His voice caused the lump in your throat and the need wrapped around your heart to tighten and you felt the telltale sting of tears in the backs of your eyes and in the back of your nose. You swallowed thickly, "Hi, Lester." You took the phone away from your ear so you could compose yourself, but it was too late. Lester knew you far too well, and he heard your tears in your voice.

"S'matter, sweetpea? Bo bein' mean t'ya again?" Lester's voice hardened somewhat as he realised that something was wrong, but his tone was soft. It was a duality only the Sinclairs could manage, to be cold yet so feeling at the same time.

You huffed a watery laugh, your eyes wet and your tear ducts heavy with that which hadn't fallen yet. "No... at least if Bo was being mean to me, I'd know where he was... I don't know where Vinny is, either. They weren't in the house when I was so I thought they were in the garage and basement respectively, but... they're not there and neither are you and I don't know where you all are and I'm alone and - " Talking to Lester had tipped you over the edge from which you had been clinging to all day. You had woken up not feeling good, and the day's inconveniences on top of your responsibilities, duties and your already bad mood had collectively gotten the best of you. Not having the Sinclairs with you had made everything that much worse - you had only wanted to know where they were because the knowledge of their existences alone comforted you - and a sob ripped from your throat so strongly that your body gave out and you dropped to your knees. Right there, alone in the middle of the dark street, did you begin to cry in earnest, your anguish and distress so loud that it almost drowned out the low, soothing shushing which Lester was doing as he tried to comfort you as best as he could from miles away.

"Y're all right', darlin'. We'll find 'em," Lester was startled by your tears and confused; why had you phoned him and not one of his brothers? But he was also touched to realise that he had been your first thought when you hadn't known what else to do. You needed him as much as you needed his brothers, and it only made Lester love you more than he already did. "S'okay, Y/N, y're okay." He continued to murmur sweet nothings to you, his tone soft. You missed the tinkling of metal on metal as Lester grabbed his truck keys, the noise of boots crunching on gravel. "Did ya' check the sugar mill, darlin'?"

Everything stopped for just a moment as your weary mind raced to catch up. "... The where?"

Lester chuckled quietly, though there was little funny about the situation. You wondered if it was a stress or a panic response, or even just an awkward way to fill the silence, but the thought left your mind as quickly as it occurred to you. You were just too tired to think; the world had pushed you too far today and you just wanted the Sinclairs. "M'brothers keep cars there from folks needin' fan-belts so they c'n strip 'em for parts." There was a muffled thud as Lester shut the truck door with the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, but you weren't paying much attention to anything other than Lester's voice, so you barely put the pieces together. He was coming for you.

"Is it in Ambrose?" Hope bloomed in your chest, as did the feeling of having overreacted and feeling silly, but you were in such a bad mood and so needy for the brothers that you barely cared. Bo would probably grumble, but even he couldn't find it in him to turn you down when you were in tears. If you were crying, it was somethin' serious and the brothers would walk through hell just to make you smile again. You would do the same for them in a heartbeat, so close were the three of you.

Lester didn't answer you directly. Truthfully, he wasn't sure if it was in Ambrose or just outside of the town, and he didn't much care, either. He had as little as possible to do with what went on in the family business and that was the way that it was going to stay. You were so much more important to him. "Where y'at, darlin'?"

You sniffled, your tears beginning to slow now, and on shaky legs did you stand. You didn't bother wiping them away, your eyes red-rimmed and sore but the tears continued to crash around you. "M' on the road where the church is. Gas station to my left and pet store just behind me. I checked everywhere but the sugar mill because I didn't even know - " Tears poured hot and heavy down your cheeks, but you were too worn down to do anything about it. You let them fall and your body once more followed until you found yourself on your knees again. You were physically and emotionally exhausted and you wanted the Sinclairs more than anything. You loved Lester, you did, but his voice just wasn't enough.

You needed more.

"Stay right there, sweetpea, don't you move." Lester's tone was reassuring but you knew that there was also a demand. He was a lot like his brothers and he didn't even bother to phrase it as a question. Lester was telling you to stay rooted to the spot, where you had told him you were. You normally did things out of spite, you did things you were told not to do... but when it was an emergency or when one of the brothers adopted a very specific tone - the one Lester had just used on you - it was a code which they had taught you. It told you to not defy them, to listen, and it was the one time, when there were no other options, you would do as you were told. It wasn't used often, only when it had to be, and it only made your worry for the brothers increase because Lester had never used it on you before. The twins had (Vincent's hand gestures had a particular feel, or vibe, to them when he was using it on you), but never Lester. It was times like this that you were forced to remember just how dark all of the brothers were. None of them were gentler than the others; they were all dark, dangerous, but you only loved them more for it. "I gotta hang up, darlin'. Jus' sit tight for me."

"No, Lester, please - "

The dial tone sounded before you could finish your sentence and you bowed your head, the phone tightly held in your grasp. You were so done with the day and your exhausting and emotional upheaval only made it even more so. It was obvious that Lester was on his way to you, for there was no other reason he would have told you to stay put, but what about the twins? Where were they? You looked up and around at the town, naming the 'shops' and places as you did as a way of distracting yourself and giving your mind something to do other than rip itself to shreds. You weren't to move from the spot, but even if Lester hadn't used that tone on you, you weren't sure that you would have moved. You only wanted to be picked up and cradled into someone's chest, so tired were you that you didn't even want to move. Gravel was biting into your skin and the sting of it kept you grounded in the moment, even as you cried all over again. Oh, but today had hurt you so much and you just wanted the world to go away so that you could spend time with the Sinclairs and just forget about everyone and everything except for them.

You didn't know how long you had been sat on the ground talking to Lester, but the sky had darkened from a bruised collection of purples and reds into a pitch black, punctuated only by stars long since dead. It was a quiet, tranquil evening, perfectly juxtaposed by the torment and anguish which had physically brought you to your knees, your shoulders bowed inwards as they shook with the weight of all that had been placed upon them. The Sinclairs were your reprieve from such cruelty in the world, but there was little they could do about the demons within.

Your phone rang and you jumped. A hand flew to your throat as you fumbled to pick up the call, your voice breathless and your need stronger than ever. "Hello?"

"M'sorry I had ta' hang up, sweetpea," You could almost picture Lester's mouth turning downwards as he shook his head, "Had ta' sort sumthin' out." He was being deliberately vague about something and a suspicion pinged in your mind but you didn't say anything about it. The only thing in your mind right now was getting what you wanted - the brothers. You just wanted the Sinclairs and, help you, but it only made you want to cry anew with every passing moment marked only by their absences. "M' comin', darlin', ain't far now."

You could hear his voice in the distance and you could just detect the rapid crunch on gravel and you smiled. You smiled for the first time all day and it made the ache in your chest and in Lester's ease somewhat to hear it in your voice as you said, "I hear you." You cut the call and looked around to see which direction he was coming from - a pointless endeavour because there was only one road which curved into Ambrose, but it kept you occupied for the few seconds it took Lester to stalk up the road to you.

When he spotted you illuminated by the street lights, he quickened his pace until he was almost at a jog and raised a hand by way of greeting. His happy smile dropped like a stone when he took in your tear-stained cheeks, your obviously sore eyes, your body language. "Oh, darlin'," Lester sighed, "That bad, huh?" Oh, but the sound of his voice... you stood on shaky, dead legs (numb were they from a lack of circulation due to your position on the floor) and threw yourself at Lester. He caught you, he caught you, and he held you tightly as his hands rubbed up and down your back in fluid, strong motions. "I got'cha, darlin', s'all righ'." You melted into him and Lester shifted his weight to accommodate you. "Y'seen 'em?"

"No," you sniffled and Lester pulled away to wipe your tears away with calloused, slightly dirty hands. He had washed up in the time since you had seen him last, but his truck was never cleaned and so it always rubbed off on him. "Only you. I checked everywhere apart from the mill. I didn't even think..." The rest of your sentence was drowned out by tyres screeching around a corner, gravel going flying and leaving a dust cloud as a bright yellow vehicle - Vincent's truck - came screaming up the road towards you and Lester. It barely came to a stop before both driver and passenger doors flew open and like a synchronised dance did Bo and Vincent climb out, slamming their doors shut in near perfect harmony - Vincent pausing to make sure Jonesy was secured in the backseat - as they rushed over to you and Lester.

"What the fuck happened, Y/N?" Bo got to you first as he grabbed you and pulled you into his body. Oh, but your tears fell anew for the third or fourth time - you had lost count of how many crying sessions you had had during the shittiest day you had had in a long time - and you clung to Bo, sobbing into his black shirt. He shushed you and you felt Vincent's grip on your waist, his wax mouth rested on the back of your head. You picked up a muffled 'mmf' noise from behind you as it vibrated against your body and your tried and tired mind registered it as a sound of worry and concern. You knew that his eye would be checking you over clinically to make sure that you weren't hurt, but when he ascertained that you were physically all right, his eye turned to Lester, demanding an explanation for your state. None of them had ever seen you this upset, this needy for them, and it was as confusing for them as it was for you. Clearly, this had been building within you for a long time and you had broken, first alone and worried, but now surrounded by love and protected. Safe.

"I - " You couldn't speak, your throat closed up with all the tears left to shed and just as many soaked into Bo's clothes, and Lester's dark eyes met your own, a look on his face so tender that it made your tears fall faster, and he understood what you were asking him to do. You couldn't speak, and you were asking him to do it for you. You trusted him with your words and emotions, you had come to him first so many times this night, and Lester only felt his heart break for you. He longed to take it away from you, to make it all better, but he couldn't, and neither could his brothers. They could only be there for you to help you ride it out, just as you did for the three of them when times called for it.

Vincent made another noise, this time one of impatience, and Bo sighed as he stepped back just enough for Vincent to come in, wrapping his arms around you and holding you tight. You melted into Vincent like the art medium he so favoured, your fingers in his hair (the tips crunchy with wax and the roots greasy, but that was a problem for tomorrow) and your face burrowed in his chest, and Bo stayed at your back, his chin resting on your shoulder with his head turned slightly as his beautiful blues eyed up Lester, still waiting. He would only ever ask once and if you couldn't give him and Vincent what they wanted, awkwardly sandwiched were you between the twins (and, oh, it was right where you had wanted to be ever since you had left the house this evening), then Lester would.

"I ain't never seen 'em like this. Phoned me up cryin' and sayin' they couldn't find ya', and it got worse the more I was speakin' to 'em. Di'nt know what ta' do 'cept come up here and ya' know I phoned ya' up after I finished on the phone with Y/N. Bad day, I s'pose. Real fuckin' bad day." Bo and Vincent both seemed to physically deflate with worry (neither of them had said it, but they had clearly broken more than a few traffic laws to get to you and Lester so their actions spoke louder than verbal words ever could) and they gripped you tighter. You looked up from Vincent's chest, trying to find Lester, and he smiled and stepped forward some more so that his upper arm was brushing against Bo's. "M'here, darlin'. We ain't leavin' ya'."

"Like hell," Bo growled, agreeing with Lester, "Get 'em in the truck, Vincent. An' you," He nodded at his youngest brother. "Goin' up to th' house. Can't stand out here all night." To you, Bo then said, "M'sorry, darlin'. We only stepped out to get some supplies an' I needed Vincent to help me load it up and carry shit in to the house. Didn't mean to scare ya'." Within that last sentence did you hear a promise to not do that to you again, to leave a note for you next time so that you didn't have to worry. They were more than capable of looking after themselves, you knew it well, but one stray bullet, one flick of a blade, and they could be lost to you forever. It was enough to make you want to cry even when you were in a good mood, this the brothers knew well. They worried for you as much as you worried for them, such was the immeasurable depths of emotion between the four of you.

Bo's apology made you freeze but you swiped a hand over your face. "No, I'm sorry, it's... been a horrible day and I've just had enough." You wanted to ask if they had gotten everything they need, but you knew that there was nothing in the world to stop the twins when they wanted something, truly so ruthless were they. They would have hurried through their supply run, but they wouldn't have stopped. You gestured vaguely towards the truck and went to walk off, but Vincent's grip became reminiscent of a boa constrictor and he shook his head at you. You understood and stayed still so that he could scoop you up effortlessly. He brought you into his chest and you wrapped your arms around his neck as he nuzzled his masked face into the side of your head as he carried you to the truck. Bo got into the driver's side and Lester climbed into the passenger seat, which meant that you and Vincent could sit quite comfortably tangled up together in the backseat.

It was a short journey, with the house only being two blocks away, but between Bo and Lester talking in the front seats, Vincent's lap being your wax throne upon, your general exhaustion, Jonesy's head under your hands as you found comfort in her soft fur and the safety and protection which had descended upon you like a thick, warm blanket with the arrival of the twins, you were quickly lulled to your threshold consciousness. You wanted to curl up on the sofa with your family and watch some crappy television and just forget the world and now, after a day in which everything could have gone wrong did go wrong, that was exactly what you were going to get.

When the truck pulled to a slow stop, you reluctantly slid off Vincent's lap, your back and lower body cold with the ghost of his touch (and how you ached to get back to where you wanted to be) and helped Bo to get everything in; between the four of you, the supplies were quickly off loaded and put away. You were jittery now, on edge and getting ready for bed was a process you rushed just so you could get what you wanted faster. Despite your anticipation, your body felt heavy and sluggish, but you were too tired to cry anymore and everything hurt. Bo had everything ready for you when you finally joined the brothers downstairs; there were beers on the table if you wanted to imbibe, snacks scattered around as if Bo had just grabbed them from the cupboards and thrown them over his shoulder into the living room (he had), blankets in a neat pile on one of the sofa arms, and all three brothers sat on the sofa, so closely that their shoulders were touching and Jonesy spread down at their feet.

You lowered yourself down onto the sofa with them, with your head in Bo's lap and your body stretched across Vincent's and Lester's, too, and your body took a naturally deep, deep breath. Finally, finally, you were home. You were all home, safe and sound and protected, and that was all that mattered. You had broken alone, but you would be supported and surrounded with love until you felt better. But even when you did, the Sinclairs would be there. They would always be, for Ambrose was your home and so were they.

None of you were goin' nowhere, and that was just how you all wanted it.

[cilantroodon]

[text ID:

Six Months after Contemplating Suicide by Erika L. Sánchez

Admit it- you wanted the end

with a serpentine greed. How to negotiate

that strangling mist, the fibrous

whisper?

To cease to exist and to die

are two different things entirely.

But you knew this, didn't you?

Some days you knelt on coins in those yellow hours.

You lit a flame

to your shadow and ate

scorpions with your naked fingers.

So touched by the sadness of hair in a dirty sink.

The malevolent smell of soap.

When instead of swallowing a fistful of white pills,

you decided to shower,

the palm trees nodded in agreement,

a choir of crickets singing

behind your swollen eyes.

The masked bird turned to you

with a shred of paper hanging from its beak.

At dusk, hair wet and fragrant,

you cupped a goat's face

and kissed his trembling horns.

The ghost?

It fell prostrate, passed through you

like a swift and generous storm.

End ID.]

[Plain text: six months after contemplating suicide by Erika L. Sanchez /end plain text.]

six months after contemplating suicide by Erika L. Sanchez